Greek Travels of a Different Kind – Volunteering With a Refugee Charity in Patras – Part 1

In the spring of 2017, I had returned from a memorable 3-week holiday in the Peloponnese. This had been no ordinary trip. I’d been deeply unhappy in my job for a while, and I knew something had to change. This trip had been an opportunity to assess my options, which at the time felt very limited. The reality was that the situation at work had led to depression. I would often sit at my desk crying, sometimes from a feeling of sheer helplessness and other times from a deep, dark sense of gloom. Something had to give. Travelling around the Peloponnese gave me the distance I needed to look at it objectively and to try to put things into perspective. I’d been seeing a counsellor about the depression. After several sessions, she said to me, “Why don’t you just leave?” Of course, leaving was the logical option, but it wasn’t an easy decision to make after working for a local authority for 15 years. I wasn’t a ‘lifer’ which was an advantage. I had worked out in the big, wide world before joining the public sector. I’d spent many years as a lone parent, but struggling to pay the bills was a deep-rooted trauma I still carried with me. I’d have to weigh up the risk of giving up relatively stable employment with good pension benefits. Thankfully, I had paid off my mortgage, which would make any potential changes easier to manage.

Anyway, I returned home with a plan. I went back to work with my letter of resignation ready to hand in. The feeling of elation was immeasurable. To this day, I have never looked back. Life is much too short.

I served my notice, and after a period of much-needed recovery and adjustment, I began to make plans for the next steps. I wanted to do something useful and had been thinking about undertaking some voluntary work.

Who could fail to be moved by the heartbreaking images of little Aylan Kurdi, whose body was found washed up on the Turkish coast nearly 2 years ago.  I’d been following several charities and NGO’s based in Europe that were providing support for displaced people.  Being able to do something positive for those worse off than myself was a driver for taking the leap. I’d offset the fear of the unknown against the familiarity of travelling in Greece to limit anxiety.

To cut a long story short, I applied to 3 charities that were providing support for displaced people in Greece through https://greecevol.info/.  All 3 responded quickly, and this progressed to a Skype chat with 2 of them – both very interesting opportunities.  I decided to volunteer with FoodKind, a small charity that provided 2 meals a day to up to 200 displaced people living out of two abandoned factories in Patras, a large port in the Peloponnese. 

I was told that FoodKind worked alongside another charity called Doc Mobile, which provides free medical care to people who’d sustained injuries or were sick. I thought this would be a good experience for my daughter, who was an Emergency Medical Technician with the ambulance service. Dates were agreed and we made the arrangements to travel to Patras. I was really excited to be sharing this experience with Sorrell.

Here is a summary of my experience, which turned out to be a Greek trip of a very different kind.

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Sorrell and I arrived in Athens – my daughter’s first time in the city. It would be just an overnight stay before we left for Patras the following morning. I’d love to have had more time to show her this amazing city, but that would have to wait for another time. I did, however, manage to squeeze in a whistle-stop tour of Monastiraki Square and Plaka. Of course, we went to see the Evzones in Syntagma Square, followed by a stroll through the National Gardens. We ended the day with a meal in Plaka and a drink at the roof terrace bar of the Attalos Hotel.

The following morning, after a buffet breakfast at the hotel, we began our journey to Patras. We checked out and made our way to the bus stop. Here, we caught the 501 bus to Kiffisos bus station. Inside the large ticket hall, we found the correct counter to purchase our tickets to Patras. The tickets were 24 euros per person, and the journey would take 3 hours.  

The bus took us through the suburbs of Athens and along the coastal road through Perama. Further along, I gave Sorrell a nudge to keep her eye out for the Corinth Canal. However, as we were on the express bus, that thing flew over the canal so quickly we barely saw it!  

The bus followed the coastline along the northern edge of the Peloponnese with the Corinthian Gulf in view for most of the journey.  We knew Patras was on the approach as soon as we passed the Rio-Antirrio bridge.

Before arriving in Patras, I didn’t quite know what to expect.  Volunteers had the opportunity to stay in a shared flat at a reduced rate – 5€ per night for those volunteering for less than a month and 3€ per night for those staying for longer. I wasn’t adverse to the idea of a flat share, but at 57 years of age, I felt that I’d gone beyond the point of communal living. As it happened, there wasn’t any room for us, so I began to look for a cheap Airbnb. Availability was limited and some of the Airbnb hosts seemed unreliable. In the end, I booked a budget hotel called the Delfini close to the port. The hotel was perfectly adequate and was mainly used as an overnight stop for people travelling to Italy by ferry.  At 45 euros per night including breakfast, it was well located for the volunteer flat, which also served as the volunteer base. A big bonus was that it had air conditioning. As Greece was in the midst of one of the most treacherous heatwaves for 10 years, it was an absolute necessity.  

The journey, the hotel and the beach across the road were all very nice but incongruous to what we were about to experience.

Once we’d unpacked, I sent a WhatsApp message to the volunteer coordinator to let her know we were here. In return, she sent one back with the address of the flat, inviting us over to meet the rest of the team. The flat was just a ten-minute walk away, along the coastal path and then into a residential area. 

We were introduced to an eclectic group of people that included an English GP and a French Nurse who were both volunteering on the medical side of things with Doc Mobile. The rest were mainly students from Switzerland, Germany, Canada and Norway. It seemed that the cohort changed quite regularly, with the only constant being the coordinator, who was there for 6 months. Several of them had volunteered with Foodkind before or with similar refugee charities.

We knew before arriving in Greece that 200 people were living in one of two factories, and out of these, several were unaccompanied minors. That was as much as we were told about the cohort we would be working with.

In terms of the work, we were all required to work every day, but once a week, volunteers would get an afternoon/evening off in rotation. We’d also get a few hours of downtime in the afternoon once all duties had been completed.

We had been added to the rota and allocated certain tasks that were rotated by job and location. The coordinator told me that she had additional duties that included shopping at the wholesalers and supermarkets for supplies. There was also a Kurdish family (husband, wife and baby) that lived in a flat on the edge of the town and a Sudanese family living in a tent close by – both completely reliant on the food donations. Usually, the coordinator would drop supplies with them after her shop.

All the preparation work was done at the flat, and then ‘distribution’ as it was known, consisted of delivering breakfast in the morning and a hot evening meal in the evening. The following day, we were to report to the flat at 0830 for our first introduction to the people we’d be supporting.

Later that evening, Sorrell and I went out to eat, and over a drink, we contemplated what the following day would have in store for us. Meeting the team and listening to their experiences had given us a better understanding of what to expect, but in all honesty, nothing could prepare us for what we would encounter.

At 0830, we arrived at the flat. Our first job was to pack stacks of Nutella sandwiches and piles of loose oranges into plastic tubs. This was all loaded into the boot of the volunteer car. One of the volunteers was to drive me and the medical team (the GP, the nurse and Sorrell) to the ‘big factory’. They would then drive back to the flat to take the rest of the volunteers to the ‘little factory’. Although I was trying to make sense of what felt like complicated logistics, it all seemed to work like a well-oiled machine. Also to mention that Greece was also in the middle of a national strike by the refuse collectors. That and the heat did not a good combination make!

I won’t lie, as we approached the factory, I was very apprehensive.  I’d conjured up all kinds of scenarios in my head about how to take on board the myriad of different cultures and the psychological effects and traumas these men must carry. Illogically, one of the things that concerned me most was being perceived as a ‘do-gooder’. I still don’t know why this bothered me so much.

I pushed those thoughts to one side and convinced myself that our task was one of pragmatism – we were there to dish out food, so dish out food we will! We parked on the roadside outside the factory. As we began to unload the containers, several men from the factory came out to help us. They expect us at the same time every day. Two trestle tables had already been set up in the corner of the vast space of the factory. It was virtually al fresco as only a slither of the roof was intact.

The GP and nurse showed me how to set up. The plastic tubs of Nutella sandwiches were placed on the tables, and the boxes of oranges were placed on the floor behind – simple. They told us to watch for people coming back for seconds, as there was only enough food for 200 people. How on earth I’d know this lord only knows. I felt like the proverbial rabbit staring into the headlights

By the time the other volunteer returned, food service was well under way – just a simple act of passing a sandwich and an orange over a table with a smile. This was easy.

Now, it was time for the medical team to set up their treatment space in another part of the factory where a queue had already begun to form. I learned that the medical team always attended the big factory first, as there wasn’t a power supply here, so treatment needed to be carried out during daylight hours. There were also more people here, so it was best to start early in the morning.

The queue in front of us didn’t seem to relent, though there was no rush. Each person was given time to be served, along with a brief exchange. Many of them asked my name and where I was from. My fellow volunteer introduced me to some of the regulars. She also gently challenged the ones she noticed ‘chancing their arm’ for seconds. That’s an acquired skill with so many people here.

The morning went by quickly. The volunteers who’d been at the small factory now joined us to finish the distribution here. I shouldn’t have worried so much. The guys were pleasant and curious and full of gratitude for what seemed such a meagre offering.

At the end of food service, some small groups left to go outside the factory, though I didn’t know where. That wasn’t our business. Many settled into groups on different parts of the factory floor, either determined by language or age. Some stayed close to us, I thought maybe waiting for any leftover food, but I soon realised that they wanted an interaction – a different type of exchange they would have every day with the people they lived with. Despite the language differences, the conversations with the help of gesticulation came easily. They were quite intrigued to know that Sorrell was my daughter, or rather that I was Sorrell’s mum! And that is what my new name became, and one that I embraced.

By midday, everyone had finished, and we made our way back to the flat to begin preparations for the evening meal in a space lovingly known as the Room of Bondage. Food prep had all hands to the deck with one person in the yard washing vegetables under the outdoor tap whilst the others chopped vegetables and peeled garlic. God knows we tried a million and one ways to speed up the garlic peeling process, but unfortunately, there were no shortcuts. Once the chopped vegetables were ready, 2 people started to cook. The hot meal consisted of a one-pot vegetarian meal with an onion, garlic and tomato base, which was flavoured with spices and then bulked up with pasta or rice. There would also be a salad made from cabbage, cucumber and tomatoes. If the coordinator managed to find any discounted food, that would be incorporated into the meals accordingly, too.

I was daunted by the prospect of cooking for the first time, as the most I’d ever catered for was my family, but it wasn’t that difficult. A large pot was placed over a gas burner on the floor, and foodstuffs were added according to the ‘house’ recipe (make it up as you go along!) Water was added via a shower hose from the room next door – the rubber ones you attach to the tap. The flat wasn’t designed for mass catering, so everything was rather makeshift. Even the bedrooms had been commandeered for food storage.

Once the hot meal was simmering, the next task was to make the Nutella sandwiches for the following day – hundreds of them! This was quite therapeutic and an opportunity for everyone, including the medical team, to get together. Everyone took a seat around a large table, where we slathered the spread on one slice and slammed it shut with another. Once we’d completed a loaf, the bread bag was pulled over the top of the pile and fastened to keep it fresh for the following morning. It worked as well as any production line.

Next came the clean-up. All the plastic containers were scrubbed clean in the yard with a hose. The work surfaces were wiped and disinfected, and the floor was swept and mopped until everywhere was immaculately clean. The afternoons brought a couple of hours of free time before we needed to meet again for the evening distribution.

Back at the flat, the cooked food was ladled into large plastic tubs and closed with a lid to retain some of the heat. The same with the salad. Again, the boxes of food were loaded into the cars. This time, the medical team headed to the little factory with 2 food volunteers, and everyone else went to the big factory.

Evening distribution was quite an eye-opener. There seemed to be far more people queuing for the hot food, yet the numbers living in the factory hadn’t changed that much. There was more of an urgency for a hot meal-or so it seemed. Some of the guys would have a plate or a receptacle that they would share with their group.  Others would bring old carrier bags or empty plastic containers that we’d ladle hot stew into.  Some would borrow the lid of one of the food containers before washing it and bringing it back. The fact that many of these men didn’t even possess a plate on which to eat their food began to put things into context, and it was upsetting to see. Why would they? This place isn’t home. It isn’t a place where anyone wants to linger for too long. It’s a temporary shelter until an opportunity to move on arises.

Come 9 O’clock, the medical team and volunteers from the small factory had joined us, and we wrapped everything up and returned to the flat to wash out the containers. What’s left of the evening is ours, though the emotional effort alone was enough to leave us drained at the end of the day.

Over the coming days, faces became more familiar, and I was able to put names to many of them. There were several of the ‘residents’ who helped to provide translation services for us, particularly useful for the medical team when faced with non-English speaking patients. One of the translators was a man called ‘S’, a larger-than-life, gregarious character. He seemed to bring a lot of positive energy and humour to the group. He’d seemed to have self-appointed himself as a group leader, though who called the shots around here was hard to discern. ‘S’ had lived in England for a few years. How he came to be staying here was hard to fathom. I think we mostly assumed he’d left the UK after getting on the wrong side of the law. 

Although ‘S’ was from Pakistan, he associated with a group of Dari speakers from Afghanistan that we came to know as the ‘Family of ten’. It was easy to gravitate towards them because amongst them were several English speakers, and the others knew limited amounts of the language. Various groups seemed to adopt the unaccompanied minors so they weren’t left to fend for themselves, which was reassuring.

‘A’, a 23-year-old man from Afghanistan, was another translator. He was always one of the first people to help us carry the food boxes from the car and back again at the end. I think we all had a soft spot for him. He was quite a reserved young man whose manners were impeccable. He was like a sponge, always asking questions and eager to learn about things from the medical equipment the doctors used to general things about life in Europe.  ‘A’s parents were from Afghanistan, but they fled to a refugee camp in Pakistan where he was born.  His place of birth didn’t, however, impact his identity, which was 100% Afghan. His dream was to get to France to continue his studies and eventually be able to send money home to his family.

‘M’ was a young man we nicknamed Christian Ronaldo.  His passion was football, and he would always be seen wearing one of his two football shirts.  His other passion was computers and anything IT related, as this had been his subject at university.  ‘M’ also provided translation services, and he was always keen to practice his English.  He, like the others, had endured a very arduous journey to Greece.  He showed me photographs of the time he spent in a Serbian refugee camp during winter. The weather was brutal, and the living conditions were nothing less than gruesome. He described it as ‘very bad’.  The Serbian police were even more cruel than the weather conditions. He told me he’d rather go back to Afghanistan than return to Serbia.

Another member of the family of ten was a kind and gentle man called ‘B’, also from Afghanistan.  He talked to me about his beautiful hometown of Paghman, located in the foothills of the mountains and on the outskirts of Kabul.  He showed me photographs of Paghman in winter when the snow was thick on the ground. He looked melancholic as he reflected on the place he loved, now subject to death and destruction.  Everyone in this group spoke with such pride about their homeland, and all hoped one day they would be able to return.   ‘B’ has family in Ireland, and his hope in the short term is to make it there.  He told me that his 83-year-old mother had lived in Ireland for a while with the same family, but she found it very hard to adapt and was severely homesick. She eventually returned home despite the risks.

In the small factory, I met a young man called ‘I’ from Iran who offered translation services here. He was one of the few I’d spoken to who’d set their sights on the UK.  He had a friend in England who was a barber and was famous for offering his barbering services to the homeless free of charge. He showed me his friend’s Instagram page with such pride. 

Over time, I became aware of the men who didn’t seem to associate with any of the groups. They lurked alone on the periphery, watching over everything. These, I discovered, were the smugglers. The smugglers, I was told, made the decisions about who came to Patras and which factory the men would stay in. They dictated almost everything. The smuggler element hadn’t been mentioned at the beginning, I suppose, not to put us off. It was dropped into conversation during food distribution one evening, and we were warned that these were dangerous men. Again, I reminded myself that I was here just to serve food.