On Crete

If it had been the year 1204, things might have been different.

We’d still have traveled from Italy to the Greek island of Crete, but not via Pisa, where we caught an inexpensive but horribly frustrating Ryan Air flight. No, we would not have flown at all, I suppose. We would have hitched a ride on a Venetian galley embarking on the Fourth Crusade, its crew and captain determined to shore up La Serenissima’s Mediterranean outposts and tame Constantinople. This, the Aegean’s largest island, was so valuable strategically that the Venetians would stop at nothing to secure it.

And so, for about 450 years, the floating city on the lagoon controlled Crete — well, its northern shore anyway. Inland, native Greeks tended to rebel against Venetian domination, usually at great cost.

But along the relatively accessible northern edge of this 250-kilometer long island, turned up in the eastern sea by the African tectonic plate, Venice operated its sea ports, fortresses and trading posts in its effort to monopolize world commerce.

The Republic’s ubiquitous influence in the Middle Ages still can be observed in centrally located Candia (modern day Herakleion), Retimo (Rethymnon) and Cania (Chania) in the west. The Venetians held other parts of the shoreline, their fortresses strategically perched atop rocky protrusions with clear views of the shipping channels.

We were able to imagine Medieval Mediterranean life when we visited the crumbling hilltop fortress of Gramvousa, overlooking a pristine, sandy bay on one side and the open sea on the other. And we marveled at the well-preserved castle that sits at the mouth of Herakleion harbor, what was once the main center of Venetian life on the island.

To visit Crete, therefore, was very much like stepping back in time — or completely out of time, depending on whether we were afloat in the cool waters, trekking through the gorgeous Samarian Gorge or gorging on delicious foods so traditional their dates of origin are hard to pinpoint.

It helped that my vacation reading included Roger Crowley’s terrific history of Venice called “City of Fortune.” As I read about pitched sea battles, early Western colonialism and economic imperialism, intensely violent rivalries with the maritime republics of Pisa and Genoa, costly run-ins with pirates, confrontation (alternately productive and horrific) with Ottoman rulers and the slow but steady accumulation of wealth by Venetian nobles, I was traipsing across a landscape that had once been pillaged and exploited by these very same men.

* * *

I guess I expected something different: an arid landscape populated by goats and sheep and olive trees, an open expanse of wild thyme and caper plants, tumbleweed here and there, a smattering of small villages, a languid population whose main concern was finding shade.

Not quite.

Instead we found warm people eager to engage in conversation and share their unique bounties, yet careful to avoid overselling themselves. We found goats, to be sure, and plenty of olive trees, but little open expanse, and no tumbleweed whatsoever. Just wind, sometimes a lot of it.

Crete is a rugged, mountainous terrain that plunges hard into the sea along its southern edge while poking at it with extended land-fingers on the northern side. The earth turned up so quickly from the water all those epochs ago that it cracked in the process, leaving behind numerous deep canyons, gigantic peeks — the White Mountains — that can reach as high as 8,000 feet and receive snowfall despite the southern clime, and gracious verdant valleys hidden between the coasts.

Its botanical population is unusual, due to the diverse topography, ranging from wild herbs, prickly shrubs and desert flowers to more water-dependent tall pine, mosses and wetlands flora.

Have I mentioned the rocks? There were lots of rocks. Dark rocks and light rocks. Big rocks and small rocks. We saw large trees that, amazingly, grew from the sides of rocky cliffs, their roots somehow curling into crevices to form a strong grip, for there was no soil to speak of.

On our first full day, we traced the northwest coastline in our rental car, from Chania to Kissamos, where we joined a large boatload of tourists headed for the tip of the Korikos peninsula, one of those fingers extending into the sea. Our destination was a barren, sandy lagoon called Balos Bay, one of the best swimming sites of the island, and the ruins of the 16^th century Venetian fort that overlooks the sheltered cove from the top of Gramvousa island.

The crystal waters were too shallow to allow the ferry to dock, so it stopped some distance from shore, its crew transporting clusters of passengers to the beach in small dinghies.

We assumed our place at a waiting umbrella and immediately waded into the rippling waters of this warm corner of the Mediterranean Sea. A couple hours later we were climbing in our flip-flops the loose rocks to the fortress above, a long, steep ascent that quickly opened our pores.

But it was worth it. Up top we traversed what little was left of a fortress city, marveling at the physical strength it must have taken to build and maintain it. The view was spectacular, but I was left wondering about the long-ago residents who, looking from their windows, longed for a swim in the sea below. The knowledge of the sheer effort required to get from there to the shore, then back again, must have dissuaded many.

“Sure would be nice to take a quick dip on this hot day,” Bruno Contarini thinks as he wipes the sweat from his brow, glancing at the hot sun on this summer day in 1585. Then he recalls the pirate ship that’s been lurking in the shadows of Gramvousa, and he considers the uncountable steps he must walk. Longing gives way to complacency. “Nah,” he says, turning from the stone window.

* * *

The next day we resolved to drive across the mountains to the southern village of Chora Sphakion where we would eat a nice waterside lunch before catching another boat to Aghia Roumeli at the mouth of the Samarian Gorge.

We wanted to hike the gorge (now a national park). Well, not the whole gorge. That would have required a rugged, full-day, 18-kilometer (11-mile) trek. We did it “the lazy way,” starting at the sea and walking several kilometers into the canyon along the burbling brook, to the Sideroportes or “Iron Gates” — the narrowest part of the vertiginous gorge where the two sides are just 3.5 meters apart and 600 meters high — then back again for a quick swim in the sea and the 6:30 p.m. ferry.

By late afternoon, portions of the gorge were shaded, and a pleasant breeze fluttered through. From our perspective we were able to admire not only the land’s physical grandeur but its effect on mankind, for numerous hikers crossed our path in a daze, leaning hard on their dusty walking staffs and clutching empty bottles of water.

Later that night, in downtown Chania, we ate excellent grilled fish and strolled along the harbor and Kanevaro Street, the old Venetian Corso, where Italian traders once conducted their business, warding off raiders and Greek bandits unhappy with the Republic’s ferocious defense of its hegemony.

But the days of hanging enemies in the public square or roasting them alive for all to see as a deterrent against treason are long past, thank goodness. Now there’s a Starbucks, a solitary roasted corn vendor, souvenir stores, restaurants galore and, on nearly every ancient street, a fish spa where locals and tourists alike swarm to dip their bare feet in tanks populated with dozens of little hungry, undiscerning critters who eat away dead flesh and sundry foreign substances nestled in the crevices of the skin.

It was hard to pass one of these spas without making a face.

* * *

The next day it was back to the beach, this time at the spectacular Elafonisi islet, which sits at the southwest corner of Crete, nearly connected to the mainland by an accumulation of sand that wants to form a bridge but can’t quite manage it because of the constant current.

It required an hour’s drive from Chania, our base of operation, along a very winding two-lane road on which inexperienced drivers tended to go too slowly in their sub-compact rental cars.

Here we splashed first in the mostly enclosed shallow lagoon, then on the far side of the sandbar. It was idyllic, the best beach I’ve experienced, and we stayed the whole afternoon. On shore were two food stands and a corn roaster, changing boxes, showers and bathrooms — all the basics. But it was impossible to resist the water’s lure.

By now you have figured out that, despite the fascinating Medieval Venetian legacy on the island, and a remarkable history even more ancient than that — Byzantine, Arab, Greek, Minoan, dating all the way to the Bronze Age — we didn’t spent a lot of time visiting the archeological sites (though we managed a morning stroll through Minoan Knossos, made mythical thanks to the conquering of its labyrinth-ensconced Minotaur by Theseus; and we alighted at the last minute at Ancient Thera atop Messavouno mountain during a three-day side trip to the volcanic island of Santorini). Rather, we were attracted by the havens and haunts that provided those hedonistic pleasures. Swimming, for example. Eating. Gazing at beautiful scenery. That sort of thing.

Speaking of eating, Crete offers excellent rustic fare, such as Graviera cheese made from sheep’s milk, luscious stuffed vine leaves, lamb chops and fresh fish. At a local taverna in Herakleion recommended by our hotel, we ate particularly well, feasting on small fried fish (eaten whole), excellent saganaki (a baked square of cheese), lentil salad and more. When eating out in Greece, look for nondescript restaurants full of locals, ignore the cigarette smoke and don’t worry about the language barrier.

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So I have probably got you thinking: Crete sound fun! Nice people. Good food. Pretty sites. Yes, sure, but let’s not forget that those people have inherited something hard won. It wasn’t very long ago — 1908 to be exact — that Crete became part of Greece. Before that it endured Ottoman rule (1669-1898), Venetian domination (1212-1669), repeated uprisings and severe repression.

For Venice, protecting the Stato da Mar (Territory of the Sea) was paramount and often required great shows of force against local populations. But it was probably the Ottomans who were the most brutal.

During the Cretan revolt of 1866, a large Turkish force bore down on the Arkadi Monastery in Rethymnon province where nearly 1,000 Greeks, mostly women and children, sought refuge. Three days of battle ensued. Rather than face the wrath of the Ottoman soldiers, the Cretans exploded barrels of gunpowder stored in the building, choosing martyrdom over surrender.

Or consider the bliss of Elafonisi beach, where we floated and splashed as if all cares had abandoned us. There, Turks slaughtered perhaps 600 people, again mostly women and children, and enslaved a couple hundred more. The Cretans were hiding from Ottoman soldiers camped on the beaches. They thought the far side of the small island would be safe, but a mule in search of its rider discovered the shallow water path, attracting the attention of the soldiers.

The history of Crete is very much a series of rebellions and massacres. It is a testament to their sense of identity that Cretans have managed to sustain over the centuries, despite constant attempts to quash it or make it subservient to more powerful forces.

That independence can be felt today. The Cretans are free at last and ready to share their beautiful island with the world.

Their worst enemy now is a failed economy and the incompetence of politicians. After 450 years, Venice was forced to abandon the place. The Ottomans also would lose it after their empire collapsed. No matter what happens now — whether fiscal austerity measures continue to wreak havoc, whether Greece gives up the Euro, whether another rebellion flares — the Cretans will go on surviving.

They will grow their olive trees, make their cheese and shepherd their goats. They will watch the rain dampen the White Mountains and trickle through the gorges to the sea. They will sell their honey and fish and roasted corn on the cob. They will transport tourists to pristine beaches on big ferry boats.

The world will thrash and burn, but Crete will remain in place, with a clear view of three continents, anchoring the Aegean Sea.

* * *

On the way back to Chania from the port in Herakleion (where we caught the fast boat to Santorini), we had a full day and most of the evening at our disposal since the flight back to Pisa didn’t leave until 10 p.m. So we stopped at Bali, a tiny fishing village that’s become a family-oriented beach town. No wonder: it offers a luxurious bay with sparkling waters and a sandy bottom that makes for perfect swimming and sunning. With the diver’s mask we brought, we spotted a well-camouflaged sole fish skirting the sea floor and a host of colorful sea life perched above a large cluster of seaweed dancing in the tideflow.

Later, back in the historic center of Chania, we ate our last Greek meal of fresh fish, cheese and salad, rambled along the waterfront, then bought two small containers of the country’s famous honey (the secret to its superiority is thyme, by the way; that’s what the bees are pollinating) that airport security forbid us from taking on board the plane.

They said it was liquid. I argued that it was clearly food, not liquid, but failed to convince them. I was not about to give our sweet bounty away as a gift to stubborn airport personnel who took it for granted that sealed honey was explosive or otherwise dangerous, so I smashed the containers in the bathroom and watched as the precious golden contents oozed like the viscous foodstuff it was across the bottom of the canister.

The voice of the people: Gospel music and the church

BY ADAM PARKER

The discussion, taped last week for the TV show “Bounce Around Charleston,” included two prominent black pastors and a College of Charleston historian. Host Randolph Miller, an ordained minister himself and pastor of Emanuel AME Church in West Ashley, wanted to know whether the black church was “on life support.”

Miller had seen discouraging membership numbers recently, and he had spoken with a pessimist or two about the condition of African-American churches and their declining ability to influence young people. So he broached the subject with his guests, the Rev. Dr. William Swinton Jr. of Ebenezer AME Church downtown, the Rev. Nelson Rivers III of Charity Missionary Baptist Church in North Charleston and historian Bernard Powers.

Accompanying them to the TV studio were the Lucas Sisters, a trio of experienced gospel singers affiliated with Charity Church. When the debate — with its handwringing, vociferous defense of institutional faith and wide-eyed admissions of what needs fixing — concluded, the Lucas Sisters positioned themselves before the cameras and sang two songs, “I know It Was the Blood” and “Marvelous,” accompanied by a very swinging Charles Miller on electric keyboard.

Confronted by this performance in the quiet and cold of the studio, something intangible happened, something emotional, something hard to explain. It was a moment that negated all the intellectual discussion and reported data. It utterly transfixed the listeners.

This was not about membership numbers or social activism or even evangelism in the strict sense. This was about life itself and the force that propels it forward. This was about faith, yes, but also the ways in which human beings bond and express themselves. It was about much more than the church and what it does or fails to do.

The experts in the room understood this. They had finished their talking and now sat silent, listening. They had, for this moment, shed their well-known identities as community leaders. They were the ones being led. And they were glad for it.

This is what gospel music can do. It can transform its listeners into followers — of God, of big ideas, of human potential, of the great mysteries we will never understand.

And in Charleston, several gospel groups have been active for decades, operating inside churches and on small stages, little known except to their few followers or active churchgoers.

Gospel reverberations

Perhaps the oldest continuously functioning group is the Traveling Echoes. Formed in 1946 on Johns Island, Echoes members have been amazingly dedicated, often singing in the group until death intervenes.

Today, the elder member and manager is 76-year-old Harold Wynn, who’s been with the group 47 years. Nathaniel Ricks, also 76, has been an Echo for about 44 years. William Blue, 71, has been part of the ensemble for a quarter century. Viola Mack, 65, and the only woman (she sings tenor), has been in the group for about 24 years. Herbert Brown, 60, is a 15-year veteran. Herbert Beard, 48, has been an active Echo for 26 years. And Curtis Mosley is the youngest and newest member at 31; he’s a 2-year rookie.

Three different denominations are represented, AME, United Methodist and Baptist, according to Beard, who is the pastor’s assistant at Royal Missionary Baptist Church in North Charleston. One of the members, Ricks, is a member at Calvary AME Church, whose pastor, the Rev. Ed McClain, is an Echo alumnus. He sang with the group for more than 10 years until church duties pulled him away.

The septet will be the featured performers at Calvary’s Sept. 29 anniversary concert.

The Traveling Echoes brand of gospel includes instrumental accompaniment — provided by group members. Wynn plays guitar; Brown thumps the bass, Mosley hits the drum kit.

The Echoes is one of many gospel ensembles formed in the Lowcountry over the decades. These groups are well-known to many in the black community, but otherwise little noticed. All have ties to the church.

Who can remember the Friendly Four or Southern Gates? Recall the Dixie Airs, Bright Cloud or the Swans? How about the Celestial Four, The Brotherhood or The Five Gospels of Charleston? The Joshua Singers, Sensational Jubilees and Ashley Gospel Singers are still active today. Heard of them?

McClain said all this music is proof that the black church is in many ways thriving.

“You can’t have a dying church (when) the people are spiritual and free,” he said. “The music would be dying, too.”

And the music surely is not dying.

Beard said it’s the way African Americans have communicated their problems since the days of slavery, and music contains a spiritual component that enables big ideas to be expressed through song.

“It’s a form of communication about how the individual feels” — about God and love and life and death, he said. It proves the church is alive.

Aside from preaching, music always has been the main means of expression in church, a way to convey the tenets of faith, to celebrate a collective identity, to share individual testimony, Beard said.

“And everybody has a voice,” added McClain. Even those sitting in the pews. For they can sing, too.

The role of the church has changed over the years, especially since the civil rights victories of the 1960s, noted Bounce panelist Swinton. But it still has an important role to play in correcting social problems and nourishing members of the community.

Music, he said, always has been an integral part of the black church and the social activism it has engaged in.

“Take the music out of the civil rights movement and all you have is a protest,” Swinton said. “But when you add music to it, it takes on a deeper, higher (meaning).”

Always sisters

The Lucas Sisters — Rossilind, Mary and Trudy, three of nine siblings — got their start 35 years ago, but really were singing seriously as children.

Their parents, Henry and Ruth, also were singers, and Henry Lucas saw the potential in his daughters early on. Initially a duo was formed: Rossilind and Mary. Henry Lucas taught the girls harmony and style. A few years later Trudy joined the group, at first reluctantly (she was the young rebel in the family), then joyfully. Years later, she would appear in musicals — “Dreamgirls” produced by Art Forms & Theatre Concepts, “Ain’t Nothin’ But the Blues” and “God’s Trombone.”

The sisters opened concerts for the Traveling Echoes and Five Gospel Singers of Charleston (groups to which their father belonged at the time). Soon they were headliners themselves, eventually performing in the MOJA and Piccolo Spoleto festivals, and at various venues around town.

But church always has been central to their experience, the sisters said. Rossilind is the minister of music at Charity Baptist; Mary is an administrative assistant; and Trudy is public relations officer. Their biggest fan is the Rev. Nelson Rivers, whose national profile and affiliations help him open doors for the trio.

“Even as teenagers we wanted to go to church,” Rossilind said. There was never any inclination to rebel. Church was where the action was. Church was where the spirit resided. Church provided the opportunities to express one’s faith and nurture relationships.

The girls were regularly exposed to live gospel music; their father hosted the rehearsals for the groups he belonged to.

“Daddy knew voices well, he knew harmony and he knew what would work,” Rossilind said.

The Lucas Sisters perform often, at anniversaries and other celebrations, in gospel music concerts and on demand, they said. They are typically accompanied by Charles Miller on keyboards, Renaldo Griffin and Trevelle Simmons on drums and John Griffin (Renaldo’s dad) on bass.

When they first started out, it was “just singing,” Rossilind said. “But later is became a sermon, life, ministry. Before that it was just words to us.” As life experiences have accumulated, their interpretations are informed by disappointment, loss, joy, hard-won successes, all of which are applied to their art. “Now we can sing with conviction,” she said.

It’s not always a picnic. Trudy relieves stress by joking. Mary complains about songs that are too wordy. Both sisters sometimes get on Rossilind’s nerves. But then they remember the words of their mother:

“You might not always agree or get along, but you will always be sisters, remember that.”

On August 24, the sisters will sing at the 99^th anniversary celebration of Charity Church.

Voice of the people

Perhaps gospel singing is so joyous and open-hearted because it is an expression of a truly liberated spirit, observed the Rev. Ed McClain.

“The church and its music, anywhere, remind black people of their common heritage,” that time when the church was at the center of a difficult rural, southern life, he said. “The church was our center of ease.” It was a place where life’s toils and troubles could be set aside and briefly forgotten.

For a long time in the south, the church provided an outlet not only for spiritual praise and worship, but also for social engagement of all kinds. It was the crucible of community, the place where relationships were formed and strengthened and sustained, McClain said.

As the years passed, and as blacks migrated north to find work and to escape the claws of Jim Crow, “we took with us that burning spiritual ember inside us, and shared it,” McClain added.

The role of the church may have changed as other viable social and religious institutions have become available to blacks, but its main purpose remains threefold: to foster faith, to bring people together in communion and to engage important issues of the day.

And it's the music that gives the people their voice.