AKA Reminiscing about Molyvos (a somewhat disjointed post with previous stuff from elsewhere not re-written into coherence and missing photos)
So I'm doing this cruise back across the Atlantic. The opulence of it is almost offensive. I embark shortly after noon and intend to wait to supper - which I know from past experience will be a 6 course sit down meal complete with waiters in white gloves - before eating, but I browse the lunch buffet just out of curiosity and before I know it I have a plate covered with totally irresistible perfectly prepared hors d'oeuvres; smoked salmon on brown bread, bite sized asparagus quiche, crudite with amazing dip...
The 15 day cruise was listed at $399. That's in US, of course, and I paid a 40% single supplement and $59 tax so the actual price in CAD was, well, way over $399 but still incredibly cheap for 15 days of all inclusive 5 star living where your washroom is cleaned multiple times a day, your bed remade if you sit on it and wrinkle the covers, the food endless and splendidly cooked and presented, and the evening entertainment Vegas quality.
Sitting in a comfortable chair, eating my smoked salmon bites, with spotless floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Italian riviera, seven waiters hovering waiting to jump into service should I look even the tiniest bit thirsty or whatever, and anticipating several stops not only in the Eastern Mediterranean but also the Eastern Caribbean before disembarking, all I could think of was the refugees I'd met in Molyvos.
I volunteered for 10 days at Oxy, which might look like a refugee camp but isn't, it's merely a bus stop, a place from which refugees who land on the north end of the island can wait to take a free bus south to the actual refugee camps. (Last summer they didn't have this option and were obliged to walk, 75 km, in what was sometimes 40 degree heat, and, as good samaritans who might consider offering families with toddlers a ride in the back of their pickup, for example, ran the risk of being charged with human trafficking, they didn't, so everyone walked.) Refugees are not allowed to spend money until they get their paperwork done, they can't take a taxi or even buy a can of coke. Oxy has free food, water, washrooms, tents, and blankets for a few hundred people, theoretically for those who arrive after the busses, which run 7 am to 7 pm, have stopped for the day. But some days the busses don't run, or, even if they do, they can't keep up with the incoming flow of people, so occasionally, if the weather has been good, there can be several thousand people spending a night or even two at Oxy waiting for a bus. It's named Oxy btw because it's on the land owned by a (closed) nightclub of that name, located in no man's land halfway between two tourist towns, presumably so it call pull the young from both and play loud music all night without upsetting the old. I trekked up to check it out one day, it has an awesome view out over the bay, 2 restaurants, 3 bars, an infinity pool, and a huge infinity dance floor. The night club structure, and its implication of opulence, contrasts so strongly with the conditions below, where many have no choice but to sleep outside with only a blanket to cover them, even in the rain, where the line up for the outhouses can be 30 minutes and the line up for breakfast - a cold cheese sandwich on white, no mustard or mayo, a banana, and a bottle of water - 3 hours long, as to be, again, offensive.
As I wrote on facebook I don't know if I will ever be able to summarize the many personal tragedies and traumas I see on a daily basis - the kid who had all his family's money and passports sown into his shirt but lost them when he changed into something dry upon arriving on the island - the man who jumped, fell, and broke both his ankles when the coast guard was trying to off load survivors at the dock quickly after a boat of 300 capsized offshore after dark because their rescue boat has an absolute maximum capacity of 65 and they have to make several trips to pick up the swimming refugees - the desperation on the face of a teen volunteer who is assigned the job of walking the beaches looking for bloated bodies washing ashore a few days later... I try to make the journey for the refugees I am in contact with just a little less stressful than it would otherwise be and become, each day, more and more thankful that I was lucky enough to be born with a Canadian passport..
7 am. I'm on Harbour shift. I pull myself out of bed to arrive at the harbour at 7 am as designated but am the first one there, by which I mean the first volunteer. It's light out but the sun isn't up yet. A group of about 3 dozen refugees, still mostly lying bundled in sleeping bags on tent mattresses, are scattered about on the cold uneven stones of the inner wharf. A couple of the kids are up dressed incongruously with ill fitting (but dry) clothes, blankets draped over their shoulders, playing with a puppy, their mother is up and looking through the boxes of dry clothes presumably for something more appropriate for them to wear. At the end of the dock a couple workmen are mixing cement. The day starts slowly with a few fishermen heading out in their boats and the refugees slowly rousing. No other volunteers show up and after hanging up all the wet clothes lying about and reorganizing the boxes of dry ones I remember that harbour shift starts at 9 am not 7. Then a team of coast guards in full gear jog by heading to their boat. Shortly afterwards two 'paparazzi' with huge cameras and microphones arrive. "Have you heard about a big boat coming in?" they ask, almost salivating, and start snapping photos of the sleeping refugees - something I just can't bring myself to do - and I can tell that it's going to be a regular day at work.
I first arrived on Lesbos on October 28, a date that was a disaster by any standards, and fear my original post was more negative than necessary. The migrants, be they individuals or large extended families, old or young, educated or not, are all in the process of making an epic journey with the attempt to better their lives and those of their loved ones. And yes there are huge inherent stresses involved in such a decision: many of these stresses are political such as the conditions in their country of origin that made them choose to leave, the laws of the countries they pass through on their way, and the constantly shifting rules, bureaucracy, and temperament of the countries they are heading to, some stresses are financial, others come from the daily uncertainty of both their immediate and long term prospects - will they find something to eat and some shelter tonight, a place to eventually settle and call home - other stresses are those inherent with daily living, perhaps magnified a few times. But there is also a huge amount of hope involved in the decision to pick up and go as well as many small moments of joy along the way. Yesterday I was on 'bus duty' helping the - sometimes thousands - of incoming travellers lineup in groups 50, in the order they arrived, to be transported to the refugee camps where they can start the lengthy paperwork process of applying for recognized status. Bus duty includes a lot of hurry up and wait so I get to interact with whomever is at the end of the line: this might involve chatting with a pair of 16 year old Afghan cousins who have been sent ahead by their family to scout out Scandinavian countries and look for somewhere the whole family can relocate to or dancing with 5 preschool siblings so their mother, travelling alone with them, can have a moment's peace to nurse her youngest... And meeting many of these people has reinforced for me two things that we all already know: first, live in the moment, smile, enjoy the meal and the company you have before you, be grateful for what you do have right now, and second, live life with optimism, plan for the worst, maybe, but hope for the best, definitely.
So here I am on this wonderful cruise ship - it has a spa, a gym, tennis court, 6 hot tubs and a 4 story water slide, it has six restaurants, countless bars, and organized activities for all ages... and for 15 days of this I paid well under 1000 Euros. 1000 Euros is, you see, the going price that refugees pay for a 2 hour trip by dinghy from Turkey to Greece. Well the regular price. One of the 16 year old Afghans I was chatting to only had to pay $950 because he was the designated driver. The designated driver gets a 30 minute lesson on how to use and repair an outboard motor - remember these are people have lived most of their lives in the desert - and then is responsible for successfully driving a boatload of non-swimmers across the ocean passage in the dark and landing on some unknown shore on the other side. Some refugees pay 3000 Euros to get taken on a slightly larger safer boat. (I complained, earlier in this blog, that my clean safe ferry from Turkey to Greece was 17 Euros. It seemed extortionately expensive to me at the time. Little did I know.) A new cemetery has been started on Lesvos because the existing ones were completely full, primarily with unidentified bodies that washed ashore. The graves are marked "three year old girl" or "man, mid 30s, likely Syrian".
And they pay, for this short night time trip, more than I am paying for a 15 day cruise?
How is this possible?
The world makes no sense at all.
(Photos to be added later.)
