The journey begins Part 2. I meet the refugees.

Everyone who volunteers is told the experience will 'change your life'. But what does that mean? Really, I didn't think much about it. Perhaps I should have. Because that year of working with refugees has changed my whole life. It's been so much more than just a trip to Greece.

Despite what it says on my birth certificate, I don't consider myself old; but then again I'm not exactly young either. For the past couple of years, I'd become aware of nasty little aches and pains; I heard myself make those 'oof' noises when getting up from a deep chair; and the lattice of wrinkles - my 'face lace' I call it-  the mirror was depressing. There's not much to be done about those things. But the thing I really feared was what I called 'hardening of the mental arteries'.  I didn't want to start thinking 'old'. My reactions to the refugee in Verona had shown me what was happening- I was becoming an old fart.

And it wasn't just that. I was increasingly reluctant to move out of my comfort zone. Travel held special terrors for me and crippling panic attacks had actually prevented me from going on two long haul trips and many, many local ones. I'd tried everything to overcome the sweating, trembling, heart-thudding panic- CBT(cognitive behaviour therapy), deep breathing and drugs- but nothing worked. If you've experienced something similar, you will know how debilitating and thoroughly unpleasant it is. I felt trapped.

And yet once the idea of helping in Greece had taken root, I knew I had to go. It was a deeper and more insistent pull than anything I have ever known.

The panicked side of my mind watched in stunned amazement while the other side calmly booked tickets.

 I nervously blew the dust off my suitcase, terrified and wondering what on earth I was doing; and then methodically packed.

Two days before I was due to leave I took a bad tumble that resulted in a permanently scarred knee Even that didn't stop me. I had to go.

And in the end-  helped and encouraged by lovely friends, I overcame that awful travel anxiety. I was hot and shaky and horribly scared when I arrived at Gatwick airport- but I went. I was on my way. I didn't know it then, but the change had begun.

So, having said all that, lets get back to those wet refugees on Kos.

In all the rain that first day I didn't meet anyone properly. When water is sluicing down your neck and off your nose, and your hair dripping in your eyes, a friendly chat is not really a priority. The deluge continued the next day and my landlady, feeling sorry for me, kindly offered me an umbrella. I had found another store which stocked garbage bags and I returned to the waterfront hopeful that maybe this time I wouldn't get quite as wet.

The bags were highly desirable and I was mobbed.  As the crowd jostled me it became a struggle to control the umbrella while tearing the bags off the roll. When a brown hand reached out and seized the umbrella, I was indignant.  Here I was trying to help people and this man wanted to steal the only thing that was keeping me dry.

But as I turned to yell at him, I found myself looking into a warm smile. He did that head waggle thing that East Indians do, and said in broken English 'No no, I not stealing. I hold for you'. And so he did. He patiently held the umbrella over me until the last roll was finished. Then he handed me back the umbrella, said Thank you, kissed my hand and disappeared into the rain.

He was the first refugee I really met in Kos and he was from Pakistan.

Not everyone pitching up on the Greek shores were Syrians, and as I gradually found out, there were also Iraqis, Kurds, Iranians, Pakistanis, a few Africans- even some poor lost souls from Tibet; they all washed up on those rocky beaches.

At the end of that second day, as a group of us stood waving good bye to people leaving on the night ferry to Athens, the question of the midnight shift came up. The midnight shift was when volunteers would go to the shore with dry clothing and food and stay until dawn to meet boats coming from Turkey. But the stormy weather continued. A screaming wind whipped up huge waves and tossed everything on it like toys. Even the departure of the huge ferry was in doubt. So that nights shore patrol was cancelled.  We all went home while the storm screamed and snarled around Kos, because surely it was unthinkable that any of the rubber boats would leave Bodrum on a night like this. It would be lethal.

But we were wrong.

Unbelievably, two boats were mercilessly pushed out into that dark and furious night. One boat was never seen again. It just disappeared. The other boat carrying 26 young men also sank but closer to Kos. Those brave lads swam nearly a mile to save their lives. They were literally half dead when they crawled out of the water.

I heard about it when I arrived at the shore the next day. The rain had finally stopped and I was out delivering hot meals along the front. I found six of the new arrivals, passed out behind the ruins of a tent, their faces were literally grey with exhaustion. I couldn't wake them. I wanted to leave food for them, but how to do it? I couldn't reach where they were unless I stepped over their sleeping bodies, but I was reluctant to try; I mean, what if I tripped and fell on them? As I stood dithering, another young man, also a refugee, understood my dilemma. More agile than me, he easily managed to leave the meals in their foil containers where  they would find them when they finally awoke. Then I got another surprise. He wouldn't take anything for himself. He just wanted to help them. And through all my dealings with refugees, over and over again, I have seen people in desperate need themselves, selflessly help someone worse off than them without expecting anything in return.

I went back to meet those young men - boys, really- the next day. They had lost everything except their lives in that terrible storm. Some of them had friends on the other boat that was never seen again. One of them spoke enough English to tell me his story. He was from Pakistan. He was just 17 years old. His father had been killed and his sister was his only living relative. All told me with no trace of self pity. Another thing I learned about refugees. Not a lot of whining.

I went to see him and his two friends every day until they left for Athens and was always greeted with huge, warm smiles. They seemed so young and alone. Thanks to the generosity of friends who had given me money for this trip, I made sure that they had coats, a change of clothes, socks and underwear,  a back pack each- and some Euros in their pockets for the next stage of their journey.

Meanwhile the rest of Kos was a mess of destroyed tents and bedraggled people. The tents weren't made for two days of torrential rain; they were designed for festivals and most of them had collapsed in the storm and people were struggling to erect the them again. Every surface was festooned with steaming clothes and blankets.

I spent the rest of that week helping out wherever I could. I joined Kos Solidarity, a local organisation of people who had banded together, committed to helping refugees. Their warehouse was a disused, crumbling warehouse, with trailing electrical cords, jerry rigged lighting and a seemingly endless supply of broken boxes and bags full of donated clothing that had been sent from all over Europe. I helped sort some of the clothing - amazed by what some people thought was suitable for refugees walking hundreds of miles- 4" heeled diamante encrusted boots, anyone?- and after washing my hands most thoroughly, started making sandwiches. Hundreds of sandwiches.

Every day after that followed the same pattern. I was there as an independent volunteer so I could help wherever I liked. Sometimes I went to Kos Solidarity and other times I visited the hotel Oscar where the owners had kindly given Oscar (no relation to the hotel) and sorted more donations.

 Several nights I went down to the shore for the midnight shift. A group of volunteers gathered bags of dry clothing, blankets and food, to hand to newly landed refugees as they made their way to the police station to register in the middle of the night.  Most of the arrivals had wet shoes and many had lost everything they owned in the world, washed away into the sea. All of them were hungry and thirsty. I found out afterwards that they weren't allowed any refreshments for hours before the boats left Turkey. Most of them, including children, had nothing- no food or water- for over 24 hours.

I didn't last very long on the midnight shift; I think 3 a.m. was the best I did, and I only went three times. The others managed go every night and stay until the dawn. I have no idea how. There wasn't enough coffee on the island for me! But I was pleased I tried. At home, I'd be yawning at the tv by 11p.m.

 Almost every night I went to the port to see the ferry leave for Athens.  Once their paperwork was complete, every refugee had to leave for Athens for the next leg of their journey. Most of the volunteers would go to the port, to hand out clothing and shoes to the people leaving that night, but perhaps even more importantly, to wave good bye. It was inevitable that you would get to know some of the refugees a little bit better and in those circumstances, a bond formed very quickly. So when they left, at least they would leave knowing somebody cared about them.

 By now I had realised the enormity of the journey they were on, the courage they needed and the nightmare they faced.

I didn't sleep properly at all that week. My brain buzzed like it had a short circuit; adrenalin I suppose.  But also I was surprised by how much I had been able to do, physically. I had a lot more energy than I'd had for years.

 I met some incredible people, both refugees and other volunteers, like Ian, who had changed his life around from being a drug addicted criminal to running a successful business,  his life  devoted to helping others (you can read about this in his book 'The Biggest Issue' by Ian Rayner, available on Amazon I believe).

 Then there was Autumn, who eventually took early retirement and returned to the islands to set up essential services for pregnant women and babies.

And Oscar, who was so moved by the plight of the refugees that he had given up his job in London and come to Kos convinced that somehow he would survive. He was right, and after a long period where his only support was his savings and the generosity of others like the hotel Oscar, he went on to work for Mercy Corps, one of the very few big organisations who came to Kos to help.

These people, and others, amazed me. I was left wondering what had happened to the woman I used to be, who was once a free spirit who believed all things were possible. Where had she gone? And could I find her again? Did I even want to? It would be a long time until I got the answers to those questions.

 By the end of that week, I was sorry to leave and was already plotting my return. The journey would continue.

After the storm.

The donations at Kos Solidarity warehouse.

Last night dinner for fellow volunteers, paid for with a generous contribution . 

The first family I met, from Iraq. The wife is a Doctor of Tropical diseases and the husband a teacher.

The lad on the left is the 17 yr old who had lost his father and family.