READERS TALES
Photo of a
Ghost?
I was vacationing on a
Greek island called Corfu for about a month in August of 1992. During the
tourist season, Greece is kind of a crossroads of the world. It was a lot of fun
being surrounded by such a wild variety of people from every corner of the earth
but because of the crowds, there were times when I needed to clear my mind and
seek solitude. On such occasions, I would usually rent a motorcycle and head
into the interior of the island in search of isolated trails and sleepy
villages. The inhabitants of these villages were usually more friendly than the
locals working in the popular areas, who were often burned out and overworked by
the constant flow of tourists.
I rode for hours along dirt
trails flanked by bright yellow wildflowers, over steep and rugged hills, and
past wide fields where farmers struggled to grow anything that would take root
in the barren, rocky soil. I had to keep a close watch on the gas tank because
there were no gas stations anywhere except at the village where I had rented the
motorcycle. At half a tank, I had no choice but to turn back.
The needle had just hit
halfway and I was turning around to head back when I noticed an old cemetery in
the distance, far away from any village or other sign of habitation. I decided
to stretch my legs before beginning the long trip home. I rode to the gate,
killed the engine and laid the bike down.
As I passed through the
creaky, wrought iron gate, I couldn't help but notice how silent the place was.
I had to whistle to reassure myself that I hadn't gone deaf. There were only a
few hours of daylight left and a strong wind was blowing, stirring the overgrown
grass which partially obscured the scattered tombstones.
In Greece, people aren't
always buried. The bodies of the deceased are usually laid to rest inside marble
tombs above ground with lids that can be easily lifted or slid aside. Several
times, I walked by tombs where the lids had been removed and skeletal remains
were clearly visible. There is also a practice in Greece of exhuming the
skeleton and placing it in pieces on top of the lid. I was never given a decent
answer as to what function this served. Needless to say, it was very
disconcerting to someone from America who was not used to seeing such things.
Where I come from, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world (Los Angeles,
California), youth and beauty are pursued to the point of mental illness, and
death is sanitized and brushed away quickly so as not to make anyone
uncomfortable. Suffice to say I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
There are some parts of the
world where it is customary to keep the skulls of dead relatives on the mantle
in the living room. Ironically, rather than being more afraid of death, people
in these places have no fear of death at all. For them, keeping the skulls of
their loved ones around serves several purposes - to honor the memory of their
ancestors, to keep their dearly departed close to them (though in a somewhat
macabre way), and to take away some of death's power.
Wreaths, bouquets and
small, homemade crosses dot the landscape of all the Greek islands, marking the
exact spots where someone died. Widows wear black for many years after their
husbands pass away. It is a country immersed in the spirit world. This may be
one reason the Greek people are so well known for their passion and exuberance
for living.
In Greek cemeteries, there are small cabinets with sliding glass doors at the
head of the tombs where candles and incense are burned, and which usually
contain a photograph of the deceased. This tugged at my heart more than
anything else - to see the faces of the people buried there as they were in
life; their warm smiles and the kindness in their eyes. I spent a long time
wandering around, kneeling in the grass next to the graves, talking to the
people lying there and wondering how their lives had been.
At the rear edge of the cemetery, an unusual sight caught my eye - a tomb that
was twice as large as any of the others. When I looked inside the cabinet, I
found out why. There was a photograph of a young couple with their arms around
each other, laughing. The date of their deaths, etched in the stone, were
identical. Apparently, they were married and had died together in some kind of
an accident. They had been laid in each other's arms inside the tomb. I can't
begin to relate all the feelings I had while looking at that picture of them
together, bursting with youthful energy, their eager smiles full of excitement
and anticipation of their lives together.
A line from a poem by Andrew Marvell crossed my mind -
"The grave is a fine and private place
but none, I think, do there embrace."
I hoped it wasn't true.
A white marble cross that marked their graves had been broken off at the base,
perhaps by vandals or a lightning bolt, and had fallen on the ground at the head
of the tomb. Small, orange wildflowers were growing up around it. This might
not have been so unusual except for the fact that they were the only flowers
growing anywhere in the cemetery. The contrast of these symbols of life and
springtime next to a symbol of death was so striking, I decided to take a
photograph of it.
I took my camera out of my backpack and started looking for a good angle for the
photograph but couldn't find one. I decided that the best angle would be from
the top of the tomb looking straight down at the cross, but I felt that standing
on it would be disrespectful so I took a few shots from other angles.
Unsatisfied, I said to the young couple buried there, "Excuse me. I don't mean
any disrespect but I'd just like to stand on your tomb for a second to take a
picture of your flowers. I hope you don't mind."
Hoping I had won their approval, I stood on the lid and took the photo from the
angle I wanted. I can't recall feeling any cold sensations or chills other than
the ones I was already riddled with due to my overactive imagination. I stepped
down from the tomb and said thank you. Before I left, I picked up their cross
and put it back in place on their tomb. The break was clean so it fit like a
puzzle piece.
The sun was setting quickly and I was worried about finding my way back in the
dark, so I decided to head home. I walked through the creaky, old gate again
and kick-started the motorcycle. After being immersed in such profound silence
for so long, the noise of the engine seemed louder than ever.
As I rode home in the gathering darkness, I thought about all the faces I had
seen in the curled and yellowed photographs of the people buried in the lonely,
abandoned cemetery, about the dreams they might have had, and where they were
now. I had found the solitude I was seeking, but it was tainted with sadness,
particularly because of the young couple. There was peace in the old cemetery
but it was a dark peace and I was eager to get back to the resort, and to
living.
I left Greece a few days later and traveled elsewhere for several more months.
I didn't develop the film until after I returned to California. I took three
to four hundred photographs on that trip, and only about ten at that cemetery.
But of all the photos I took, only one has an abnormality - the one I took
while standing on the tomb of the young couple. A white mist swirls upward from
the bottom right to the upper left corners. The mist has defined edges in
several areas, which eliminates the possibility of a lens flare or light
refraction. It appears to be something, or someone, rushing upward very
quickly.
By standing on the lid of
their tomb, I had apparently awoken their spirits. Perhaps they had died so
young and with so much life left to live, they had not yet accepted death and
were eager to rejoin the living. That might also be the reason that the only
flowers in the entire cemetery were growing by their grave. Whether they were
happy to have company or disturbed by the intrusion, I will never know.
- Mark Rickerby.
