Sitting in a small Greek country town having coffee on the day of the local farmer’s market we were struck by the number of trucks who drove half way across the cross roads and then stopped. In some cases the driver got out and went shopping, in others they stayed in the vehicle and chatted to their neighbours and friends with no regard whatsoever for the large tail back of traffic which was rapidly accumulating. From one truck filled with water melons, which came screeching to a halt outside the kafenion, emerged the village priest who came to sit and sip a frappe along-side us.
The local builders were there too and were buying large terracotta pots or pithoi from a ten year old boy. The child staggered across the square carrying pots almost as tall as him no less then four times. Eventually a bargain was struck but the boy also tried to get the builders to buy him a can of Epsa, the local lemonade, for his trouble. The builders ignored his pleas and were treated to a stream of indignant Greek and the threat of his Mother speaking to them!
All hell was let loose when another flatbed truck appeared carrying a Friesian dairy cow and her minder who was frantically holding the cow’s rope lest she should choose to jump out when the truck stopped. Several children ran alongside and were laughing and shouting to the poor chap who looked decidedly travel sick.
Another highlight of the market was the fresh green garlic which had been strung in chains and was selling for a few euros a bundle. Nothing remarkable about that other than the stallholder who was a girl aged about six. When no other customers appeared to be forthcoming, she pulled her little truck of garlic up through the village and into the central plateia to see if she had more luck there.
Gradually as the market thinned out, the traffic jams calmed much to the relief of the local policeman who had been reduced to leaving his table and his coffee, and trying in vain to sort out the ensuing chaos by much blowing of his whistle and gesticulating. Eventually his patience snapped and he was on the verge of issuing parking tickets to two drivers who had parked across the square whilst one rushed into the bakery and the other shouted to his friend the café owner. Luckily the threat was enough and they both drove off only to be replaced two minutes later by an Ape 3-wheeler towing a trailer of courgettes and a fisherman driving a small digger, nets and lines carefully laid in the shovel on the front.
Our coffee finished, we sat watching the later arrivals, elderly men on sticks with a bag of bread or oranges and grandmothers pushing children in prams and pushchairs over laden with bags of sardines and potatoes swinging from the handles. The next phase of the market was about to begin: the communal coffee and gossip time. The noise level rose to deafening. We left the locals to their chat and escaped to the quiet of the nearest beach.
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