Alex King September 26, 2017
In the midst of one of the worst financial crises the European Union has ever seen, young Greeks are finding freedom on the storied island of Ikaria. Athens-based journalist Alex King visits this new ‘hippie’ haven in search of the young people refusing the hand they’ve been dealt.
Time takes on an altogether different meaning on the Greek island of Ikaria. You can be three hours late to meet a complete stranger and arrive in the dead of night—you’ll still be greeted like an old friend, presented with a bottle of ouzo, and held in rapturous conversation into the early hours.
Or, so it goes when we trek up into the mountains in search of Angelos Kalokairinos—a man who’s perhaps the greatest authority on the rich history of this rugged and fiercely independent island in the Aegean Sea. “[People] search for freedom and dream of a different world, somewhere things can be different,” says Angelos when we finally find him. “And here, they are different.”
The roots of free culture were planted in 1971, explains Angelo, when a group of German Navy Scouts unloaded their amphibious camper vans in the dead of night and landed on Livadi Beach on Ikaria’s north coast. The locals, who preferred to swim and dive from the rocks, ignored the beaches and this strange camp of foreigners. But when the Germans returned home, word reached a group of anti-fascists in Frankfurt, who were determined not to let these ‘Nazi scouts’ make the beach their annual getaway spot.
The following summer, the secluded beach witnessed an intense power struggle, with the victorious Leftists establishing Livadi as a hippie haven—smoking weed, swimming naked in the crystal blue waters, and introducing a laidback, beach culture to Ikaria.
Angelos was one of the first Greeks to join the scruffy foreigners on the beach and indulge in their hedonistic delights. These were years of military dictatorship, when wearing long hair on the street was enough to get you hauled in by the secret police. But Ikaria has always danced to its own tune: Strong winds, rough seas and a lack of natural harbors have isolated the island, forcing residents to be self-sufficient. It was Ikaria’s distance from political power that provided the cover for Greece’s embryonic hippie trail to emerge.
The call of the wild seduces those with an adventurous spirit to return year after year, like 25-year-old Athens-based photographer Elena. The mass tourism that flourishes on the neighbouring island of Samos, just 15 kilometers (nine miles) away, holds no attraction for her; instead, she lives as a ‘princess of free culture’ for three months of the year, funded by working at a beach bar in Livadi. “Life in Athens is tough,” she says. “It’s a real struggle, but you can come here and feel totally free. For a short time, at least.”
Around midnight, the grouvaloi—as the locals call Peter and Elena’s penniless tribe— emerge from their tents, scattered across the island, to make a pilgrimage to the panigiria. Each coastal town or tiny village high in the mountains organises its own feast and dance. They’re free to attend, but volunteers sell alcohol and locally-prepared food, with profits going towards community improvements. Taking place in far-flung corners of the island, the only way is to hitchhike—and each journey is an opportunity to make new friends.
Tonight’s panigiri is in the port of Evdilos, where hundreds of people have joined hands and are swaying back and forth as one, moving in ever-tighter concentric circles. Before long, all the children and elders have gone home, leaving a bubbling throng of people united by the rhythms of centuries-old traditional music.
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For someone raised in London, on a diet of pre-recorded electronic music, it seems surreal to see my contemporaries dancing their hearts out to folk drums, violins and Greek lutes—but soon I’m hypnotised too, locking arms with the crowd and swept along by the music.
Later, Peter dips a piece of bread into a long-abandoned bowl of oily tomato salad. He speaks with a knowledge beyond his years and an occasional Scottish twang, acquired while studying in Glasgow. “Maybe previous generations did the same things we’re doing, but not because they had to,” he says. “If I don’t eat here, I’m going to starve until my boat home, because I literally have no money left. Now, it’s not just a lifestyle, it’s actually a way of living. Eating for free at the panigiri is one way to extend my summer, which is what it’s all about.”
