Singing, dancing and the smell of gunpowder

Theresa Stoker

This week’s winning entry: finds partying in Greece is a full-on affair

‘We’ll just go back to the old ways, said the young man giving us a lift, talking about the financial crisis. “Here in the Mani we’ve always been bandits and pirates. I have guns at my house, I’ll defend what’s mine. I’ve got a Kalashnikov.”

I remembered the restored war tower we visited on this part of mainland Greece a few days ago. With its polished wood floors, safety banisters and no furniture, it lacked atmosphere. I tried hard to imagine what it must have been like when five or six families crammed in, besieged and at war with their neighbours. “Luckily, we don’t fight so much these days,” our guide said. “Because now we all have Kalashnikovs.”

I am glad to be out of the car. A huge moon is rising and there is a smell of wood smoke beckoning. In the kafeneio (café), the stove is glowing. A TV game show competes with loud voices. We drink the large tumblers of wine known locally as “grandads”. A teenage girl is playing cards with some older men. She is giving them hell. My Greek is not good enough to know if she thinks they’ve been cheating but, whatever it is, she’s not putting up with it. At the

next table, a more serious game of backgammon is being played. Outside, boys of all ages throw bangers at the ground and jeer at anyone who jumps. Some children in Father Christmas hats come in to sing. Everyone pays attention. The biggest boy carries an olive branch taller than himself, which keeps straying into his three-yearold sister’s face. She gamely continues dinging her triangle and shouting the words. Everyone applauds and gives them money.

By nine o’clock, the older men are getting up, leaving behind their contribution to the smoky atmosphere. The TV is off and Greek party music is being played through a laptop. By 11, it’s a younger, livelier crowd. At 12, we all stand outside to watch the fireworks going off in the churchyard. Someone fires a shotgun. It is passed around the men, and boys as young as 12, are given instruction and allowed to shoot it. Then I hear rapid fire beside me. Time to go inside.

We kiss and exchange wishes for a good year. The partying moves into top gear. Young women in high-heeled boots dance the hasapiko with virtuosity and increasing speed in the tiny space between the tables. The shots of raki keep coming, and everyone must take their turn on the dance floor. When not dancing, those who know the words sing along and everyone claps in time.

By three o’clock, I am defeated. Music and laughter trail behind us as we stumble down the little alley, kicking through shotgun cartridges and dead fireworks, the smell of gunpowder haunting our footsteps.