IT'S GREEK TO ME

OUT THE back, a rooster was strutting his stuff among the hens. In the lean-to attached to the side of the cafe, a woman was slicing tomatoes, cucumber, goat's cheese and potatoes and a man was using a hair-dryer to redden the charcoal. Out the front, the rest of us sat at tin tables under mulberry trees, directing our attention variously to the sunset, the fishermen sailing home with our dinner, and a bearded fellow who was trying to erect a banner in shifting sand.

Two great issues preoccupied us. Would he get it stabilised before the former minister in Papandreou's government arrived to canvass our votes? And would the starlings in the branches above us ever shut up? While we waited, the mostly male audience played backgammon, smoked their heads off at one pound per foreign packet of twenty (Greek cigarettes are even cheaper), sipped ouzo and ate platefuls of delicious appetizers - spiced sausage, olives, calamares, and bread.

The bearded man succeeded just as a motorized cavalcade of suits swept along the sea-front of Stoupa, in the south of the Pelopponese. "Pasok", the name of the Pan Hellenic Socialist Organisation, was emblazoned on the banner. He just had time to pin hand-lettered paper notices along its length before the cars came to a halt.

As the suits emerged, a shotgun was produced and a round fired off at the birds above. The former Minister came among us to the sound of absolute stunned silence. He was a slight, dapper wee man in short shirt sleeves and necktie.

AFFRONTED BIRD-SHIT

The suits settled themselves at a table to the side while their boss made the rounds, shaking hands, saying nothing much more than hello. Then he sat down at a central table, enduring with the rest of us a rain of affronted bird-shit. A waiter took orders. Nobody stood anybody a round. There were no more than forty people present in all.

The locals seated with the boss said nothing. A man came up to him and proceeded to bend his ear. He bent it for so long that the starlings judged it safe to start quietly gossiping about what had happened to them. The bearded man moved around like a Bishop, wielding a huge crook to which were affixed yet more hand-written notices. He stopped at tables, exchanged jokes, gave away the hands of cards which is friends were playing close to their chests.

The red ball of sun sank swiftly below the mountains across the bay and a lovely twilight, pearly grey, embalmed the scene. The fellow who bends ears straightened, saluted and went back to his drink. The bearded man cleared his throat, placed himself opposite the former Minister and began a speech, reading steadily from the sheets of paper attached to his crook. He flipped them up and over, spun the crook round, and started reading down the other side. Then he walked across the road and started reading aloud the notices attached to his banner. Then he came back and spoke impromptu.

Sometimes the former Minister laughed. The bearded man enjoyed himself enormously, regaling us all with the joys of socialism, anticipating the return of Pasok under Papandreou. After a good fifteen minutes, and him still in full flight, the starlings joined in. The suits gazed out to sea.

FRESH WATER STAND PIPE

The bearded man finally stopped, there was polite applause and the former Minister rose to his feet. He bowed to right, left and centre, waved goodbye and walked over to his car. Within seconds he was gone. He had not spoken a single word aloud. His suits hadn't finished their drinks. It is impossible to imagine such a scene in Ireland. I was sorry I hadn't lobbied him for a fresh-water stand-pipe on the beach, so that us tourists could have a shower after a swim.

The bearded man put away his crook, dismantled his banner, and ordered his dinner. While the fresh fish was being grilled he walked among the tables, high as a kite, discussing the aftermath of the affair.

Next night they all gathered again in the cafe, sitting inside this time, before the television screen. Papandreou and the former Minister were on a flood-lit platform in Thessaloniki, on the sea, away up in the north near Turkey. In front of them, stretching as far as the eye could see, all along the road that lined the shore, were hundreds of thousands of people. They carried torches and candles and the bright green banners of Pasok, wave after wave shining and rippling under the streetlamps. The former Minister spoke into a bank of microphones. It was all Greek to me. The elections take place on October 10th.