My road trips seldom fare to Northern Greece and even when they do, they mostly involve Epirus and not Macedonia or Thrace. So when a month ago I found myself driving alongside D, through the rolling hills and ploughed fields of Serres, on our way to an obscure village near the Greek Bulgarian border, I was in for quite a few surprises.
Northern Greece differs from the rest of the country. It differs not only in the lay of the land but also in its rich and seemingly unique cultural identity. Typically I am half a Macedonian, since my mother was born and grew up in a small village on the hills of Paggaio next to ancient Amfipoli. In reality, apart from the summer family ventures “to the village” I have little actual knowledge of this part of Greece. Environmentally and ecologically, Macedonia adheres more to the Balkan stereotype than to the Mediterranean one. The dry summers and mild winders of the southern lands are as rare here as they are further north beyond the Greek borders. The landscape is different too. Mountains are less jaggy and more forested. Canyons and limestone crags are scarce and spaced apart.
People appear different too. Keeping in mind how sensitive the subject of ethnic identity is (especially for this area of Greece) I ‘d rather not venture into such waters. I simply wish we would be more free to explore the full extend of cultural diversity within the borders of modern Greece unburdened by political hindrances. Sadly, this feels hardly a plausible scenario under the current state of affairs in the region. Anyhow, despite the political and historical difficulties, I find the ecological and cultural diversity of Greece extremely interesting to observe. This it is one of the most precious characteristics of our country. Our road trip to the lands of Northern Greece intensified this feeling. More on that later.
Day 1
The first stop of our trip was lake Kerkini, quite unknown to southerners but apparently popular to the people of Serres. Kerkini is an important bird sanctuary and as it seems it has made a name for itself amongst the worldwide birdwatching community. I had not realised that until I laid eyes on the lake for the first time. The silver water with the characteristic backdrop of the Belles’ snowcapped peaks brought back a memory of a photograph I have seen many years ago on the BBC Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition.
I follow this competition for a long time. This is one of the few images I can recall having being taken in Greece (interestingly the other two I can recall were also taken in lakes of Northern Greece and also involved birds). Birdwatchers seem to appreciate this place.
Kerkini had the all the gloomy atmosphere of a Balkan landscape, dominated by ominous grey/blue tones and an ever present promise of upcoming rain. Muted colours seemed to soak into everything and infuse the atmosphere with an airy silence. At the same time, human presence seemed to have left an unwanting scar all around the lake area. In many places, human structures felt deserted and derelict. Maybe it was the wrong time of the year, the equivalent of visiting a Cyclades’ island in January, but anyhow it seemed there was not much love or effort put in those man-made facilities. A sort of overall decadence prevailed. Broken structures, garbage everywhere alongside the shores, abandoned puppies by the roadside and a public toilet straight out of the infamous Trainspotting movie scene. If you don’t know what I mean by the last sentence, don’t Google it.
We left Kerkini with a bag of local grown peanuts (seriously addictive) and a small bunch of birdlife photos in my memory card. Turning towards Serres, we drove alongside the Belles foothills. On a closer look Belles seemed like a handsome mountain and although we had no time for a proper walk what we saw left us wishing to come back for a full hike on some future time. Belles (officially and politically correctly Mt Kerkini), lies on the border between Greece, Bulgaria and FYROM and as such it has been the theatre of bitter military conflict in modern history. During World War II, the heavy fortifications of the Metaxas line built along a depression on the eastern side of Belles provided a resilient (but as it proved futile) resistance against the advancing Nazis. Most Greeks are familiar with the successful struggle of our armies against the Italian-Axis forces in the Greek-Albanian border during the first years of World War II but fewer know about the final dramatic days of the Axis invasion in Greece which unfolded in the lands we were now crossing. All in all, the story goes that the fortification network of the Belles mountain and specifically the infamous Rupel fort, located a few kilometres from where we were standing, kept fighting against all odds and did not fall during the Nazi invasion. Instead Rupel was bypassed by the Nazis and was later ordered to surrender when they reached the headquarters in Thessaloniki. Rupel therefore holds a special place in Greek military history as a symbol of stubborn resistance and fighting against all odds.
Some random wandering landed us on such a cluster of WWII fortifications next to an abandoned Strymonas bridge. Following the train lines we ended up on a forgotten memorial. It has been a mere 70 years since the events that took place here and the place has already passed from memory to obscurity. Looking back in time I could not help but wonder what the participants of that struggle were feeling during their ordeal. Military history seldom occupies itself with individual perspectives and when it does so it is usually to serve its own purposes. Most of the times the human element is inadvertently omitted. I recalled my grandfather fighting in such a place. What would it be like for him, born and bred a farmer from Chios to be standing in these unfamiliar lands inside one of those claustrophobic stone fortifications wielding a automatic rifle against invisible opponents and hearing the sirens of the Luftwaffe’s Junkers Ju 87’s screaming over his head? He was not a warrior, he was a farmer. He was not driven, inspired or crazed by ideology, he was brought here to fight for some obscure(?) purpose. Was this really his fight or not? I dare not to say. But standing alongside these crumbling weed-infested structures I cannot help wondering if all this would seem to him as nonsense as it seems to me today. Or if instead our moral compass is so drastically changed that we cannot understand the valour and idealism of those past days and the necessity of those sacrifices. Are there real heroes at war or are there only trapped men without (much of) a choice? Did those who died here choose to fall as they did, or did they simply got stuck on the wrong place at the wrong moment? If we purge ourselves from ideology, I don’t believe we can hope for a definite answer. We cannot hope for an absolute interpretation of history unless we are actively looking for one in the first place.
Day 2
The second day of our trip brought us to the small village of Vamvakofyto in search of what the internet vaguely hinted to be a local festival with influences dating back to ancient Bacchic/ Chtonian rituals. This was the last Sunday of Apokries, officially a festivity of the Orthodox church which however (and much to the horror of conservative priesthood) is traditionally interloped with the biggest pre-Christian pagan ceremonies all over Greece. Despite centuries of persecution many such traditions are still upheld (and often revived) throughout the countryside. Northern Greece is especially famous for its events and (unknown to me prior to this trip) Serres is an epicentre of activity. Numerous villages hold unique events to celebrate the passing of winter and the arrival of spring.
Many of these customs have survived for centuries only to be eroded by the modern surge of alien cultural influences. Thus, as we were heading to Vamvakofyto we were wondering if we would be seeing another vulgar parade of semi traditional / semi modern folklore with Venetian masks and dancing to a mix of samba, traditional music and loud Greek pop/folk hits. To our joy, our fears did not materialise in Vamvakofyto. The alien influences were hardly there and in its heart the festival turned out to be an authentic local affair (but yet very open to foreigners as ourselves). Locals seemed fiercely proud about it and very conscious of its significance. Everyone seemed to be enjoying it immensely but also taking it seriously and anticipating it with excitement and pride.
What was really engaging and interesting to see was the ceremonial formality and adherence to protocol evident throughout the event. The festival followed the common wedding parody narrative as many of them do. There was a bride, a groom (which naturally were impersonated by members of the opposite sex) and all the supporting cast of characters i.e. the best man, the mother in law, even the gypsy and the bear and the sweet seller. However, the undisputed stars of the event and heart of the celebration were the formidable Babougeroi (or Babougera). These spirits (evidently Pan’s bros) impersonate the man-goat servants of Dionysus. Their role is mischievous and protective at the same time. They are here to “protect the bride” but also to spread havoc to all human affairs. They are fertility symbols representing the raw force of nature and unleashed upon the world with the mission to awakening the land from is winter slumber. For that reason they wield a special weapon, a sort of club with a roped end and a ball (something like a flail) which they swing around vigorously hitting the earth in order “to awaken it”.
Interestingly I observed a strong cultural heredity and hierarchy built in the roles of the Babougeroi. Their costumes were elaborate, fully home made and with intent to show craftsmanship and status. The Babougeroi were impersonated by young males usually equally vigorous and mischievous as the spirits they impersonate. The senior goat men bear impressive horns and fanciful belts with big bronze bells. These are the mightiest of the lot. Then come teenagers and younger boys Babougeroi holding obviously less stature. Their horns are smaller, their costumes less elaborate, their bells fewer (need I to further explain the symbolism of bells here?) This hierarchy goes all the way down to the youngest boys which parade fully dressed in goat furs but without horns or clubs. The status of the senior Babougeroi seems to inspires the younger ones. I am pretty sure they eagerly await their turn in the following years. Interestingly all this hierarchy serves practical purposes as well since the whole affair of club swinging and the running around with pointed horned heads and little actual visibility can get a bit tricky in terms of safety when practised among a dense crowd. It seems that full status is granted only to those old enough to wield its power. Older men, who are past the Babougera age also take part in the event either by gearing up /coaching the Babougeroi during the preparations but also by actively participating in the parade as mischievous externals who try to steal the bride and humiliate the Babougeroi. This interaction continues throughout the parade and stirs lots of laughter as everyone is trying to catch the Babougeroi unprepared (and sometimes they even succeed).
My personal favourite moment of the whole event was definitely the kick-off of the procession where I found myself in an unexpected situation. It started at the yard of an old building, where the masked Babougeroi were preparing and where the procession would eventually start. It was really interesting to see how the actors were getting dressed and how everyone was anticipating the beginning of the event. There was electricity in the atmosphere as if something big was about to happen. I tried to merge with the crowd and started to take photos. This build up continued for some time until it came to a temporary stalemate when everyone seemed ready but nothing was actually happening. Upon instruction from the older organisers everyone but the Babougeroi was asked to leave the yard and the big metallic doors closed behind them. Everyone but me that is. For some reason when you wield an SLR camera you no longer count as audience. So, suddenly and unexpectedly I was “trapped” on the wrong side of the door among the wild beasts. It was a weird and somewhat metaphysical feeling to be among beastmen jumping around, hitting clubs to the ground and butt heading each other. I hid behind my viewfinder and continue to take photos for some long precious moments.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the maddening cry of the zournas exploded followed by the hypnotic daouli beat. This seemed to be the missing mark everyone has been expecting. The doors of Hades opened and the procession exploded outside passing furiously in front of me. Following the intoxicating orchestra, the Babougeroi and the wedding procession poured out of the gates. Followed by the crowd they marched for two hours passing all around the houses of Vamvakofyto.
This journey of the Babougera ended appropriately in the village square (a triangular piece of road really) where all the villagers gathered. The important ceremony of unmasking followed where all the procession participants removed their masks and were named one by one. A nice final touch was the appearance of an ultra-kitsch Bacchus with a bit of a heavy metal attitude (ox sculls, magic staff and all) who gratuitously blessed everyone and gave the signal for the celebration to commence.
As we left Vamvakofyto, the first drops of rain finally began to fall. Behind us the party was still raging with traditional sausage and cheap red wine flowing abundant. Old grumpy winter was giving the Babougeroi a final hard time for this season. But that was it. The land had inadvertently awoken.
