Lipsi is just across the way, a stone’s throw from Patmos (and also from Akri): 250 inhabitants, many times that number of tourists in summer, quiet but not sleepy, authentic but not folkloric, no “good” beaches but inviting bathing bays, space for 80 boats in the harbour and huge sailing and motor yachts anchoring in the spacious bay … An island positioned between Akri and Patmos that combines authenticity with modernity. And offers its inhabitants a good livelihood.
I moor and am sent “to the back” – they’d rather see the proper yachts at the front… That’s fine by me, I think, then I’m out of the hustle and bustle and can have some peace and quiet.
Until I notice the preparations for a big party starting right next to me. And indeed, that night sees the most impressive festivities I could ever have imagined in my wildest dreams: as darkness falls, the whole village comes out, all the islanders gather together and celebrate the night away.
The women of all ages are beautifully dressed, the men at least in white shirts; the band plays, Sirtaki, a barbecue is lit, wine is poured… Hardly any tourists, and I’m right in the middle of it!
What begins innocently enough quickly escalates – a dance begins slowly, with people standing in a circle, forming spirals, linking arms, swinging their legs, stepping forwards and sideways, pausing, turning slightly and swinging their legs… The music plays faster and faster, and after a few minutes this dance carousel becomes wilder and more ecstatic. For 10, 15, 20 minutes. Not everyone keeps up, some drop out – the young and beautiful remain… and a few older gentlemen who know how it works. Wow!
At two in the morning, I have to take a break. I go to the ArgoFram and fall straight into a deep sleep. At five, I wake up again – the music is still playing, the people are still dancing, so I go out and join them again. Where do these people get the breath for this; the night of nights!
When the sun rises again and peeks out from behind the mountains, the people leave – the last meat spits are served, the last cups are drunk. It’s almost eight o’clock, the band plays its last song. Older people move the chairs together, tidy up, and soon this place looks like it did before, somewhat remote and deserted. It has become quiet. I also go back to the cabin and take a nap. Then it’s time to fill up – the petrol station attendant’s son, Tom, explains to me what happened last night. He grew up here but moved to Milan, yet he comes back every year to visit family, friends and to celebrate.