Absorbing the Greek

It may well be, in fact, that when Schäuble first asked Papandreou, “Do you think there is any chance of paying this debt back?” four years ago, George replied “Of course”.
The Slog: I’ve started learning Greek. I’m using ‘started’ and ‘learning’ there in a fairly informal literary licence way, because various obstacles keep on getting in the way of progress on this mammoth project. They include terror, confusion, sleep, beer, dementia, sunbathing, and – above all – actual experience on the ground.
I’ll give you an example of the last of these, and just to bamboozle you completely (why should I be alone?) it involves Greek use of English. You can ask a Greek the following in English:

“Is it possible to hire a car from you?”

and the person will reply →         →        →               →                                  “Of course”.

Now, what the Greek person means by that answer is “Possibly”. But as it is deemed impolite to sound obstructive, “Of course” is the standard answer. I was trying to explain to my interpreter here a few weeks back that there is something almost defensively insulted by the way in which Greeks answer a question about ability to deliver with “Of course”. “Can you speak Urdu?” “Of course”. “Can you swim to Crete from here with a lead-lined elephant on your back?” “Of course”. And so on.

The problems start when it becomes obvious to the foreigner that “Of course” is a profoundly inaccurate predictor of what might happen next. It may well be, in fact, that when Schäuble first asked Papandreou, “Do you think there is any chance of paying this debt back?” four years ago, George replied “Of course”.

There is also an outside possibility of course (sorry) that there is a Greek word ‘Οφκως’ which sounds the same, but means something like “Search me squire, I ‘aven’t got a clue”, but you know what? I’ve checked, and while there is indeed the word in ancient Greek ‘Ofkos’ which then passed into Hindi, it means ‘Fresh air’. Sorry about this, but as an answer to “Do you speak English?”, the response “Fresh air” doesn’t really cut it. However, should you find yourself in a Bombay sewage recycling centre and get asked “What do you want?”, Ofkos is the word you need.

Please don’t construe from all this, by the way, that Greek as a textbook language is easier than speaking it. A few pages of “basic” grammar are more than enough to disabuse you of any such overconfident notion. Practically every language in the West and near East is either descended from Greek or has been hugely influenced by it, but the alphabet (unless you’re Russian) is not so much a challenge as a three-dimensional maze. A look at the basic rules might serve to enlighten the wannabe Greek scholar.

I got these ‘basics’, by the way, from a slim volume I purchased from our local village bookshop here. The book’s called Quick Greek for Tourists, and let me assert right at the outset that there is no such thing as quick Greek. Grasping the sound values of the alphabet is a process worthy of many a descriptor, but ‘quick’ isn’t among them. Understanding the declensions alone is, in turn, a learning curve I would happily describe as steep, knackering or impossible, but definitely not quick. (It is a telling comment on our local bookstore proprietor’s quintessential Greekness that when I asked, “Have you got something less basic for people who aren’t tourists?” he replied “Of course” and showed me a 700 page hardback entitled The Ancient Mani Peoples.)
But I digress: let’s get with the programme here. If you’re looking for an opening encapsulation of the alphabetic similarities to Roman script, then here goes.
A is for alpha. It looks and sounds like a. But from from then on, things get very queer very quickly. The letter Beta sounds like a V, the sound ‘G’ looks like an upper case R and a lower-case y, Delta does sound like D but looks like a triangle in capitals and a coiled snake in lower case, eeta sounds like a e alright but looks like an H – or an n trying to be an elephant, theta looks like a capsule format medication, lamhda is an L sound but looks like an inverted y going all out for soixante-neuf, ksee is, well, Ξ or ξ (make of it what you will) and after that it’s a form of linguistic surrealism that goes Φ φ, Ψ ψ, and even Ω ω. Years of seeing watch advertisements will have told you that Ω is Omega and sounds like ‘O’; but then, so does the lower case ‘ω’.
In just the one alphabet, the Greeks manage to have sounds for two i’s, a zi, a pi, a phi, a psi and a chi. But there is no single letter that sounds like a B: for this you have to use m and p together. And although you will see signs in Roman script saying TABEPNA, that’s because a B shape sounds like a v and a P sounds like an R. Thus, the Soufflaki are to be found at the TABEPNA, except that they look like σουβλάκι in the menu when you get there. And don’t be surprised if mpangers and μash also make an appearance in there for those holidaymakers who want a mpash at wot me muvva used to make.
If you bear in mind that all of this emerges in just the first three pages of Quick Greek for Tourists (and there are 186 pages in all) then you might empathise with my anxieties. When British people say, “Oh for Heaven’s sake – that’s page one” they mean it’s very simple. This rule does not apply in any way, shape or form to the written Greek language.
But I am moving forward. Tentative steps have been taken. Progress has been made, and experts have been consulted. I can now say, with some fluency, good morning, good evening, yes, no, thank you, don’t mention it, hello, goodbye, taxi, Heineken, my little Angel, paracetamol, Retsina, Ouzo, and I don’t speak Greek. In fact, one phrase I have perfected is “Do you speak English?” except that I say it in English which (I know) is a bit of a cheat, but my God does it work wonders. You see, a shaming percentage of Greeks have conquered my learning Everest the other way round, and speak very good English indeed. And I will now give you an example of this as well.
I was talking to a mechanic at the Peugeot dealership yesterday. This is an ordinary working class bloke we’re talking about, and he was pointing at various things underneath my 308 Station Wagon which was up on stilts. He explained:
“Your fan belt collided with something – probably an animal – and got chewed up. So you’re battery’s been slowly discharging and that’s why your windscreen wiper phasing isn’t working properly. But don’t worry, we can fix it in about half an hour”. And he was as good as his word.
Were I able to say just those three sentences in Greek with such fluency, I would be a proud man indeed. And I’d be willing to bet that most Germans would feel the same way. It makes you think.

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Art by WB7