Have you ever wondered why a snake entwined around a stick has become a standard symbol of the medical professions? No, I thought not. But I’ll relate, in any case, what I told the flotilla guests at the briefing on the morning before the yachts arrived at the old port of Epidavros.
Now, most people know of Epidavros because of its ancient sanctuary of the same name, which has probably the finest preserved theatre in Greece. That is what most people want to see. And why not. But the following is what I told our guests (based on sources in our old, trusty Cadogan guide of course):
Ancient - and usually ill - Greeks sailed from afar and arrived at the port, before walking (the 10km) from the port to the sanctuary. This was not to listen to music nor to watch a comedy or tragedy. They wanted to consult Asclepios who was their god of healing. They carried with them votive offerings, such as clay ears if they were deaf.
The sanctuary had been founded in Mycenaean times and dedicated to chthonic gods. ‘Chthonic’ means ‘earth’ and these gods were supposedly responsible for the annual cycle of planting, growing, and reaping. The rituals involved water and ash, both required for vegetative renewal. Sacrifices involved ‘holocaust’, i.e., the burning of entire animals, which created lots of ash. These gods were associated with healing and resurrection. And they were always associated with snakes, because snakes emerge from underground during the spring, and they rejuvenate visibly (by shedding their old skin). What an apt association.
In the 6th century BC, the sanctuary grew under the Greeks and shifted to the worship of the god Asclepios. He was a chthonic healing deity and was accompanied by a snake, wrapped around his rod or staff.
So, there you have the reason why the rod of Asclepios became the symbol of the medical professions.
At the museum, you will see glass cabinets filled with ancient surgical instruments. But it was probably rest and good sanitation that was the most beneficial aspect of our pilgrims’ visits.
Whether the guests found that interesting I do not know; they just wanted to see the theatre.
Alix and I made sure they were up early the following morning and had taxis booked for 07:30 to beat the coach tourists. I suggested (joked?) that the guests wear togas (i.e., their charter-boat bed sheets) so that they would look the part when reciting poetry from the centre of the orchestra. This would be for the entertainment of their fellow sailors who would be seated on the top row of the auditorium.
Some actually did wear the sheets, including our engineer Andrew on one occasion. It’s amazing what you can get people to do from a position of relative authority.
The joy of an early start is that you can have the theatre to yourselves, while the coach tourists are still in their hotels eating breakfast. There is no background cacophony of chattering voices nor shrill instructions from the tour guides to interrupt the piece nor interfere with the perfect acoustics of this beautiful, semi-circular edifice.
On one occasion, we had completed our flotilla’s recitals and were all now sitting on the upper row simply quietly soaking in the panorama across the orchestra (54 rows below) to the mountains beyond.
And then the silence was broken as we heard it - Italian coach party number one. The female Italian guide was clucking at her quests like a mother hen and instructing them in quick fire Italian to sit close to where we were already gathered. She was going to do the famous party-piece, that we sailors had already performed perfectly.
She stood on the well-worn circular stone that is located in the exact centre of the 20m-diameter orchestra. She then talked quietly (quite a feat) and presumably asked her guests if they could hear her. I assume that was an affirmative as lots of hands were raised. She then took a 2 Euro coin from her purse (yes, Greece had joined the Euro by 2004) and she held it out above the stone, still jabbering away. The jabbering stopped momentarily as she released the coin. As it struck the stone, we could hear a clear ‘chink’ of metal on stone. Lots of Italian hands were raised, and impressed comments were shared, no doubt.
Now, as the guide went to her purse to retrieve a smaller and lighter 1 Euro coin, I noticed a scrawny, stray-looking dog appear from stage left. It walked lazily (it was already hot), yet directly towards her. Just as she started her speech to accompany the raising of her arm, the dog stopped and sat at her feet.
Then came the most awful racket, which drowned out our guide and ruined her moment of glory. It transpired that the dog had an empty crisp packet in its mouth, and now it was centre-stage it decided to chew heavily on this scrunchy plastic bag. The magnified sound of the gnawed metalled-plastic was all anyone could hear.
Our Italian leader, looked down to her right in disbelief, which clearly turned to annoyance. Without losing her poise, she tried to kick the canine away with her right leg. The dog was unmoved and continued to chew away. A firmer Italian designer-shoe poke had no effect either.
The Setsail flotilla guests had now realised what was happening and we were all creased-up in tears of mirth on the upper row. To be honest, I can’t even remember if the Italian woman or the dog won in this war of acoustic attrition.
But if I were a Greek, I would have wagered that a god had arrived in canine form, just to amuse his fellow deities giggling atop Mount Olympus.
[Alix: perhaps the dog was called Zeufus?]