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‘The Greeks are depression-proof’

από | 24 Αυγ, 2015 | ENGLISH | 0 Σχόλια

In a land in deep crisis, tourism keeps hopes alive.

By David Patrikarakos, Politico

The village of Ysternia, carved deep into the side of Mount Meroviglio, lies languorous in the midday sun. Steep stone and marble steps connect houses jutting out of the mountainside in shelf-like lines that roll unevenly down its almost 45-degree slope. Ysternia is one of the largest villages on the Greek island of Tinos, which, though not as famous as global tourist destinations like nearby Mykonos or Corfu, is well-known for its marble work and beautiful churches. Only a four-and-a-half-hour boat ride from Athens, it has long been a popular destination for the more discerning Greek and foreign tourist.

I am relaxing here myself, but I also want to find out if Greece’s financial crisis has affected life in this idyllic place, which, like almost all the Greek islands, is heavily dependent on holidaymakers from all parts of the world.

* * *

Tourism is the lifeblood of the Greek economy. According to a February 2015 study by the Greek Tourism Confederation’s research department, STE Intelligence, tourism directly contributed €17 billion to the Greek economy — around 9 percent of GDP — in 2014. Taken together with indirect contribution (revenue received from associated industries like food and beverage), the study found that tourism accounted for somewhere between €37-45 billion or 20-25 percent of GDP. It also found that during the summer months — peak season — tourism accounted for around 30 percent of all employment in Greece’s private sector.

Near the bottom of the village sits the Taverna Ysternia. Just before lunch, I meet with its owner, Nikos Rigos. Wearing a white T-shirt and green shorts, he shakes my hand with a vice-like grip. As well as owning the Taverna, Nikos works as a builder and stone mason. His hands are calloused from years in the building trade. Thickset running to fat, his body tapers to a large head, bald save for a laurel wreath of hair curling around the sides.

Looking out over the Aegean Sea he tells me how Crisis Greece has come to the island. Niko has had the Taverna for 20 years. Like all of Greece the building trade has suffered hugely. Niko’s work has gone down by 50 percent and he faces problems collecting outstanding money because people simply don’t have enough cash these days. All of this, he explains, has made him far more reliant on his restaurant to survive.

“I decided to open the restaurant because 20 years ago I was elected head of the village committee,” he says. “At the time I was working just as a stone mason, so I opened a taverna because my wife is a very good cook and it provided a meeting place for everyone. Now it has become my main business.”

“I am fortunate. The Taverna has not suffered because there is an upturn in the number of tourists coming to Ysternia, especially French people. Word about the village has gone around the Greek embassy in Paris… A member of the Greek foreign office has a summer house here and he told me. Many French people are buying houses here. The village is on the up so I am feeling the benefits,” he says. “Greeks also eat here but they have cash problems.”

“The tourist season is only 40 to 50 days long, and it is going well,” says Nikos. “But the increases in expenses — electricity bills etc. — have to be paid throughout the year. I used to keep the Taverna open all year round but now I am thinking of opening only in the summer to keep my bills down.”

And these sorts of problems will only get worse given the measures contained in the third bailout package recently passed by the Greek Parliament. Especially egregious is the abolition of the 30 percent tax break that the islands had previously enjoyed. “This is terrible, because on top of my already large outflow I now have to pay 100 percent tax in advance for the following year,” Nikos says. “With all this to pay, I don’t know what will be left over at the end of the day!”

He continues: “I am an optimistic person, but I have a big question mark over what is going to happen in the country. Many businesses are definitely going to close. I work hard and I am good so I remain hopeful, but it will be very difficult. I have a family business so I don’t employ people. I also grow my own vegetables and these are big savings so I think I’ll survive, but it won’t be anywhere near as good as the old days. Also this is a formula that can’t be replicated by most people. There’s going to be big problems ahead.”

Nikos is lucky. Since the village is seeing an influx of French people in search of holiday homes, he is, to a degree, insulated from the worst of the suffering. Some 50 percent of his client base is now foreign — unusual for a sleepy village on an island not known as a tourist hotspot. But as with almost all the Greeks I have spoken to throughout my road trip through Crisis Greece, his distaste for the political class is clear: “This is not a government,” he says, in reference to the country’s governing party Syriza. “They don’t know what they’re doing. They are demanding more and more money but creating an environment that makes this impossible. They are increasing taxes so much that they are just creating even more tax evasion.”

* * *

Driving through the hilly Tinos countryside it quickly becomes apparent how millennia-old farming practices have shaped the landscape. The island’s steep slopes have been transformed into flat strips of farmable land through the use of stone walls (called ladders in the local dialect) that succeed each other downwards, turning hillsides into series of steps on which fig trees and vineyards can be planted. Many now lie empty but their effect remains marked.

The island’s traditions, intermingled, as always, with religion, are equally visible. In the distance I see a dove-cote, an example of the pigeon house for which Tinos is famous. It is a relic of ancient Christian times, when the dove was seen to represent the holy spirit and owning a dove-cote was a mark of high social status. This one is built from stone. It is square, with a turret on each side. Ledges and grilles have been carved into the walls in decorative patterns, and give the pigeons spaces in which to sit and nest. It has a wooden door through which the owner can enter, the space inside usually used for storage.

I arrive at Rochari beach in search of tourist life. I am not disappointed: The beach is packed. Everywhere you look, holidaymakers — mostly Greek — are sitting on sun loungers, sheltering under umbrellas or splayed out across towels on the sand. A group of men play volleyball at a large net, their backs caked in sand. The whole beach is awash with swimwear in a dizzying variety of colors. In the sea a boy gingerly balances on a tall man’s shoulders, wobbling while he finds his balance until, with a hoot of triumph, he dives into the water.

I make my way over to the beach bar, set back about 10 meters from the water’s edge. The sound system blares Modjo’s “Lady (Hear Me Tonight).” A large bamboo roof creates a seating (and dancing) area protected from the sun. At the bar, a man in swimming trunks is pouring out drinks amidst bottles of Havana Club Rum, Stolichnaya vodka and Jose Cuervo tequila.

The man’s name is Manos, and he owns the bar with a friend. Business, he tells me, is a mixed bag. “Tourism is down as far as Greek customers go,” he says, “but it’s up in terms of Scandinavians, Italians and lots of French who are coming to the island.”

“July was a very bad month for tourism,” he continues. “Because of the capital controls many Greeks couldn’t access their money or were too scared to go on holiday. Business was down 40 percent. Overall things are down 20 percent from last year. But August is up 10 percent — I guess many of the Greeks who didn’t come in July are coming now.”

This is perhaps one of the most startling aspects of the crisis, and one that has struck me throughout my time in Greece: For a country on the brink of economic Armageddon, many Greeks seem to be continuing on as usual. As 6 p.m. hits, the music gets more intense. The bar’s customers start to dance and sway. Greek women in designer bikinis and Ray-Bans dance alongside muscular young men with elaborate tattoos and manicured beards. The crisis seems a million miles away.

* * *

Chora, the harbor-city capital of Tinos, is the heart of the island’s nightlife and the center of its tourist industry. Cobbled backstreets boast innumerable shops selling the painted religious icons for which the island is famous, and the various types of knickknacks seen in tourist towns the world over. Those seeking to spend their evenings drinking gather in one of the many bars and restaurants that line the town’s main street, just across the road from the harbor itself, where the moored yachts of rich Greeks and Eastern Europeans float gently in the water.

I enter Bar Koursaros where I meet Margarita, a young woman in her twenties with chipped purple nail varnish and a tattoo of a leaf and flying birds just above her wrist. The bar is decorated with record album covers. Elvis Presley hangs with Serge Gainsbourg. “Never mind the Bollocks,” shout the Sex Pistols. Margarita is serving beer to a lone customer who sits slumped on a stool. His name is Dimitris; his family owns a local hotel and are feeling the effects of a poor tourist season.

I ask the two of them how the summer has been so far. “It sucks,” replies Dimitris glumly. Why? “Because of the economic crisis and the [July] referendum — after the referendum everything went south. It scared the people and they also didn’t have enough money to spend because of the capital controls. My family owns a small hotel and after the referendum July was basically cancelled. It was f—-d up. Things got better after the banks reopened, but they still aren’t as good as they could be. August is as per normal. So our season has been one month shorter. We are getting more foreigners coming than in previous years but it’s still not enough to make up for the lack of Greeks coming.”

I ask Margarita if the bar’s survival could be at stake. “It’s difficult,” she admits. “In winter we don’t have very much work; we wait for the summer to make money for the whole year. The other months are just about paying our salaries and our bills. Business is about 50 percent down. Things started really well but once the referendum and capital controls came in things collapsed. This bar has been here for 30 years so I hope it will survive.”

Dimitris remains the less positive of the two. “We are trying to expand our season,” he explains. “We are advertising to try to make it an all-round vacation destination — but it’s not going so well.” He puts his head in his hand and slumps further on his stool. “Tinos isn’t like Mykonos or Santorini but we have all these pretty villages, so the potential is there to expand. I don’t know why it’s not happening.”

“And the taxes!” He takes another swig of his beer. “The taxes are too much! Every year more and more come. Less income and more taxes — that’s the story! Let’s drink to that,” he says, swigging again from his small glass of beer. “And to Greek politicians of course,” he concludes bitterly.

* * *

Dimitris’ words about expanding the island’s tourism season have piqued my interest. I want to find out what plans, if any, the authorities have to enhance the influx of visitors to Tinos. A couple of days later, I meet with Anoustasia Deligiammi, the Deputy Mayor of Tinos, responsible for tourism, health, education and culture, at a sparse office in Chora. Deligiammi is a notary by profession. She wears a red t-shirt and gold chains. Her hair sprouts outwards in tight, black curls. On the wall behind her is an icon of the Virgin Mary.

Deligiammi took office in September 2014 with a plan to reinvigorate the island’s tourist industry. “We drew up a plan to create a shift from domestic foreign tourism: to open up the island to more foreign tourists,” she says. “We designed a Facebook page and got a Twitter account and went to various tourism fairs abroad. We organized trips for foreign tour operators to the island, and events in various European capitals. We also set up a press office for tourism here.”

These measures, she says, were much needed. “We needed more foreign tourism because Greek tourism was suffering as a result of the crisis. Greek tourism is not only down in numbers but also in spending. But tourism remains the island’s main income. Agriculture is minor and even people working in the fields have rooms to rent. We can’t rely on Greek tourism anymore. We were getting a lot of pressure from the restaurant and hotel industry and this played a part in setting up the department.”

She, too, points to July’s events as a major cause of the current situation. “There were a huge number of cancellations both from foreigners and from Greeks due to capital controls and general uncertainty,” she says. “But it has been one of the best months of August ever. A number of Greeks who cancelled in July probably shifted to August and there is now too much demand — but hoteliers are too scared to invest in extra capacity.”

I ask her about Greek tourism, which, though clearly down from previous years, still seems very much alive. How is this possible in such a time of crisis? “The Greek mentality is that even if people can afford only five days of vacation they will still go for five days. So, for example, this year there has been a definite increase in Greek people staying with friends on the island, which has meant a huge upsurge in supermarket spending. Greeks don’t want to give up what they consider to be life’s necessities, and holidays are considered a necessity. It will take years for this attitude to change, if it ever does.”

Her words linger on well after our interview ends, as evening sets in and the bars and restaurants once again fill with the sounds of laughter, eating and drinking. I am reminded of my father’s words to me over dinner on the island a few days earlier. “The Greeks,” he told me, “are almost depression-proof. We will always have the sun and the sea.”

Dinner that night was abundant. Two whole chickens, two large salads, a dish of stuffed peppers, plates of sausages, cheeses, and baskets of bread crowded the large stone table.

“Ah, Schäuble’s worst nightmare,” said my father with a satisfied sigh, as he carved himself a piece of chicken.

David Patrikarakos is the author of “Nuclear Iran: The Birth of an Atomic State,” a Poynter fellow in journalism at Yale University and associate fellow, School of Iranian Studies, at the University of St. Andrews. You can follow him on Twitter at @dpatrikarakos.

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