Excerpts from
"Rhubarbs From a Rock—(Escaping the Rat Race)"
by David Fagan

            —A runner was sent with a message for Pan at his bar. He promised to come by after work. Pan a Vietnam veteran, looked like a slightly stunted, hairy, biker from the hard rock era. He upheld the reputation of being the island’s “Rambo”. No-nonsense-Pan was hailed whenever there was trouble.
            “Pan, I’ll be forever in your debt,” said The Bank, squinting at the disappearing mop.
            “There’s fuggin’ a lot of shit down here,”—some splashing and grunting. A cobweb-beard emerged, glasses clenched in his teeth.
            “Efharisto para poli Pan,” from the grateful Bank holding out his hand.
            “5,000 Drachmas,” a palm went out.
            “But a new pair only costs 2,000,” blurted Wall Street, when confronted with a price tag for the service. Financial negotiations and basic economics were second nature to the bloke.
            “Then go to Athens to buy some, you know whaddimean,” said Pan, not budging an inch—

            —Before the Berlin wall came down huge chunks of EU financial support would flow into Greece and some of it trickled down as far as the Rock.
            It was decided that Kamini merited a bigger harbour.
            With the increase in yacht traffic, the main port was becoming too crowded in high season. It was reasoned that if another dock were constructed, some fishing ciaquis could then moor in the suburb, alleviating main harbour congestion.
            The single Kamini pier offered no protected anchorage and had been used for summer inflatables and embarking only, nothing permanent bobbed.
            A second convex wall about 30 meters out, sounded modest enough but at 30 meters the gulf dropped into dark fathoms. So a sea wall of some multi-story depth was required, a big job.
            The proposal was approved and tenders applied.
            It was decided to blow up Palametha for the raw material—

           —According to island legend, and in the absence of a national banking system, inhabitants of the time were prone to hiding their wealth in the cisternas (fresh water tanks) of their houses.
            The Orthodox Church in Greece enjoyed vast prosperity and one local, Hydriot, priest, Baba Jannis, was said to have hoarded several hundred, Louis XVI gold sovereigns. In current value it would exceed a million Sterling.
            When the “old beard” passed on his fortune never surfaced. It was rumoured that the treasure was still buried, somewhere in the grounds of his vestry. Today a grand manor occupies this site, owned by a retired English diplomat and his wife. The original church still stands adjacent to it.
            They had reached a point in life where they were contemplating selling their home and moving back to England. The house being situated near the top of the town’s steep hill, the climb had become less endearing as time passed. Convinced that the lost gold should be investigated before they sold off—they had consulted the Ouija board.
            There was, according to the departed spirits, a fortune lying buried underneath the back courtyard. Backed up by a definite downward thrust of a divining rod, there appeared to be a lot of supernatural evidence supporting the theory of hidden treasure—

            —The donkey looked as though it had been shot gunned in the flank.
            “Po-po-poe, look my donkeys.” The muleteer’s right hand flicked up and down as he gazed upon his animals.
            Indeed all six beasts looked like abattoir survivors. I knew from experience that this could be the opening for renegotiation in our transportation costs. The cleaning of half a dozen donkeys covered in red oil stain had not been factored into the deal.
            Imagine dozens of traditional Greek dishes, metal oven pans loosely covered in foil, strapped on planks like stacked bricks, tied to the side of mules, wobbling up steep inclines aboard a wooden saddle—a recipe for disaster.
            “Po-po-poe,” I retaliated by gesticulating at the red splashes all over the carefully whitewashed entrance, where eager hands had helped to carry the still dripping trays up stairs. My carefully manicured sweeping steps and arches, in preparation for what was supposed to be the island’s party of the season, looked like carnage.
            This gesture of solidarity put the moustache and myself in the same boat and we gave each other a tea-nah-khan-amay (whose silly idea was this anyway) shrug.
            “Joan would like to have traditional Greek food for her birthday party,” the Sixth Beatle had announced a week earlier. Presumably Miss Collins was trying to be accommodating, when in Greece and all that.
            “It’s her 55th,” he had added conspiratorially.
            The guest list for her birthday bash was to include anybody who was somebody on the island’s social roster. Joan accumulated a hundred new friends in no time and invitations had been sent—