The perils of driving in the Greek Islands

Hell hath no fury like the winds of Paros, one of the Cyclades islands southeast of mainland Greece. That’s why, as I’m being buffeted by 70km/h gusts on a rural road in the island’s hills, I’m seriously regretting my decision to rent a vehicle without a windscreen.

You see, I’m not driving a regular car – I’m driving a tiny, gutless, glorified golf buggy with a maximum speed of about 40km/h, a high potential for sunburn and a total of five frustrated Greek drivers in my rear view.

My partner and I decided we needed more than just our two legs to get around pretty much the second we arrived on Paros. One of the less popular islands, it’s not as developed or overrun by tourists, and offers a lengthy coastline taken up by a picturesque national park and plenty of tiny, sun-drenched beaches.

Our chosen buggy will set you back around 55 euro, or $85, a day. You can rent it with very little fuss – just one driver’s license required and no real paper work to speak of. Easy, breezy, Greece-y.

Known only as a ‘Summer Car’, it boasts 250cc which, for the uninitiated like myself, means 250 cubic centimetres, a measurement of the volume of the cylinders in an engine. In layman’s terms, it also means “not very much”.

We learn this pretty quickly on the first day of driving when we set out to visit a village in the mountains called Lefkes. Twenty minutes into the drive and the Summer Car is seriously struggling up a rugged hillside, and strong winds are not making it any easier. My skin feels as though it’s been chemically resurfaced (which I think is a procedure people actually pay money for).

One brief, unassuming glance at the fuel gauge reveals we’re in the red in a fairly major way. On a hillside. In Greece. With no petrol station nearby. And no one to call. Great. Trying to swallow our terror, we proceed to push onward up mountains, hoping a friendly local can rescue us if need be.

We make it to the town unscathed (it’s really very pretty), where we’re informed by a local shop owner that there’s a petrol station four minutes drive away. Phew. We reward ourselves with orange juice before jumping back into the Summer Car (we’re both pretty tall so picture our knees up at our chests) and heading to the petrol station.

There, the amount of fuel the buggy takes is measured by the cost. Our buggy guru set us off on our way saying, “It only takes 15 euro of fuel!”. I wish all car dealerships told you that when you were buying: “It only takes $150 of fuel twice weekly!” Then you would know the true meaning of “poor fuel economy” straight off the bat.

The return drive home is the most violently windy experience I’ve ever encountered. When we pull into the town of Naoussa for a souvlaki, my eyes are streaming, my nose is burnt red and I’ve got specks of dust embedded into my skin.

Parking our little buggy once back to our destination is a bizarre sensation. There’s no point locking it because, really, what’s that going to do? So you just remove the key, shut the door and walk away, hoping no one with hot-wiring skills stumbles upon it.

Reversing out of the parking spot the next morning also proves difficult when the buggy simply refuses to be put into reverse. Moving the gearstick requires the kind of yank only Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson could pull off and even then he’d struggle.

Its pint-sized frame is the buggy’s true perk. When we decide to take it over to Antiparos via ferry, I reverse it onto the boat with ease, while much larger vehicles struggle to fit, or stall on the loading ramp. There’s always a parking spot because all you really need is about one metre’s room.

After a quick visit to Europe’s oldest cave on Antiparos, we return to the buggy to find an elderly local bus driver inspecting it.

“Is it safe?” he asks.

“Probably not,” we respond.

“Eh,” he shrugs. The ultimate holiday mentality. We embrace his nonchalance wholeheartedly.

While our little buggy has plenty of imperfections, we find ourselves quite emotional dropping it back. It was our noble chariot for three days and proved itself to be a loyal, durable sidekick.

Sure, it takes some getting used to but once you’re moving, Greek roads are quite the thrill. You never know what you’ll encounter around the corner – a farmer who’s spilled his apricots all over the rod, a stray mountain goat, or some of your fellow tourists pulled over to snap an arrestingly picturesque beach.

But, much like Greece, what the buggy represents more than anything else is a sense of freedom and flexibility you simply don’t get on Aussie roads. And even though it was windy, hot, tiny, gutless and not entirely safe, sometimes when I’m stuck in traffic on a nondescript suburban Sydney street, I like to imagine I’m back in our little Summer Car, driving along the rocky Greek coastline, shouting over the sound of the wind and smiling through the whiplash.

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