Kalymnos is an odd little island, thrusting jaggedly out of the Aegean a few miles north of Kos. While Kos is an understandably popular tourist destination, with over a million holidaymakers arriving at Kos airport each year, Kalymnos is a less obvious choice. There are no long sandy beaches, few obvious tourist destinations and a population half that of its bigger neighbour. What the rocky limestone cliffs of Kalymnos do offer are some of the finest rock climbing in the world.
Kalymnos’ rapid transformation into a destination for avid climbers from around the world began in the late 1990s. What this has meant for the island, and in particular the tiny town of Massouri, is more mutation than evolution. The quiet, calm and relatively untouched town was suddenly infused with the acrid colours and disposable income of extreme sports tourists with money to spend and reasons to spend it. This presents quite the case study of the growth of a town, and the drive and motivation of those people who are making a living as it grows around them.
Having decided to visit Kalymnos recently we flew into Kos airport. Having negotiated the ferry crossing from Kos to Kalymnos, we were ceremoniously abandoned in Massouri. With a cheery wave, our housekeeper and taxi service disappeared into the distance, leaving us with looks of bewildered amusement and an empty fridge that needed filling 2km away.
Massouri, bizarrely, reminds me of Nurburg (the home of the fabled Nurburgring). Where, in the villages around the ‘Ring, every house seems to have a wannabe DTM car parked in its driveway, Massouri in the afternoon sun is full of climbers comparing war stories and war wounds, while every third shop seems to be better equipped with climbing gear than a Sheffield climbing wall. Both towns are swept up in a bubble of unreality, created by the tourist industry that they support.
As we walked back through Massouri in the barely waning heat of the afternoon, we stopped in one of the many minimarkets lining the tiny main street. The market was small but clean and tidy, and barely containing the most incredible smile.
Decanting ourselves out of the unfamiliar heat and into the cool air conditioning, Themis watched us carefully for a few moments before launching her introduction, demanding our names, and briefing herself fully on our plans. Were we climbers? How long were we staying? Where were we staying? Was there anything we needed? Did we like prickly pears?
It was a full on assault, a special forces interrogation with an irrepressible smile. If ever anyone needs a lesson in needs analysis, you could do worse than to sit and watch Themis for an afternoon.
As we bustled around the shop, collecting the necessities for our short Greek existence, we realised that while Themis’ minimarket looked like a typical Aegean food store with small, neat shelves of cans and jams, soft drinks and delightfully affordable wine, the far back corner was home to a genuine surprise. Nestling between the disposable razors and chiller cabinet were logos for some of the best names in expensive climbing gear. A selection of climbing shoes and both new and pre-loved clothing was enough to make us stop and stare.
“Climbing gear?”, I asked
“My husband’s a climber! It’s something we’re trying out” said Themis, “There are a lot of climbers and they need gear! Sometimes, they don’t want to take things home when they leave, so we buy and sell them. We re-sole shoes too!”
Of course you do. Why would you not? A supermarket that re-soles climbing shoes and sells homemade chocolate cake makes perfect sense.
But, of course, it does make perfect sense.
Themis is a small business owner in a small town with plenty of competition for both groceries and high margin climbing equipment. Furthermore, Kalymnos is a seasonal destination, with climbers topping and tailing the high summer season in spring and autumn. The season to extract a living is as short for shopkeepers as it is for the local flowers.
Themis relies on repeat business, won by owning the relationship with the customer from the first moment that they appear at her door. Brutally put, she needs to try and ensure that she is the recipient of every Euro spent by anyone looking for groceries within a 500m radius of her doorstep. Ideally, they’ll also get their climbing shoes resoled at the same time.
As my friends at Endjin would put it, Themis has intuitively defined the total accessible market, decided on her competitive positioning and is trying to get right to her paying customers with her customer service and a smile.
But this might appear to wildly misstate Themis’ attitude as somehow depersonalising the experience. The opposite is true. While struggling with the ridiculous 100 Euro notes that the foreign exchange had delivered to us, Themis immediately noticed our difficulty and offered to let us pay the next day. I can only remember one occasion in the UK where that privilege has been extended to me – and unsurprisingly at a small, family run shop.
While I know that it’s hardly uncommon in Greece, a country renowned for its hospitality*, to offer some little extra at the end of a meal, Themis refused to let us leave her shop until she had dervished her way around the shelves, whisking up an impromptu cocktail of olives, olive oil and local herbs to take with us. Nor was this a one off occurrence, with little gifts being heaped on us at every subsequent visit.
And visit again we did. Every trip into town meant a trip to Themis’ shop. We met Themis’ mum, who makes excellent chocolate cake, and her husband who really does resole climbing shoes. We had tips from Themis on gifts to take home to friends (“Don’t buy anything, just pick some of the sage when you’re climbing – it makes the best gift”), and where to use the local wells so that we didn’t have to buy water from her. It seemed like Themis was going out of her way to prevent us spending any money with her.
But of course, this just served to increase our loyalty to Themis and her tiny market even more. Themis, let’s be honest, completely nailed customer service.
So why does this one example of outstanding service deserve mention? Why thousands of words to talk about this one tiny shop on an island of 16,000 people? Was it so unusual?
That’s the thing that struck me about the whole experience. From flustered waiters in Kalymnian coffee shops, to the unbowed resolve of the men greeting potential customers in front of seafront bars in Kos, customer service simply seems more natural to the people of tiny Greek islands. Why should this be the case, when in the UK we have training and uniforms, middle management and performance reviews?
I’ll oversimplify for the sake of belated brevity: because their livelihood depends on it. These people’s lives are defined by their success at winning and keeping customers. For every customer who doesn’t return to Themis’ supermarket, her dreams and ambitions take a knock off course.
The polar opposite of the service I received from Themis greets me at Paddington station every morning. Men and women, wearing uniforms proudly bearing the standard of their employer, lounge fecklessly against the station hardware. A train of dismounting passengers is clearly an imposition too far for some, who, rather than open the gates to allow easier passage (or at least smile and acknowledge the customers who pay their bills) turn their backs and their attention back to their phones. Customers in the UK – or at least this train load of people, more than Themis would see enter her shop in a day – are an inconvenience to be tolerated.
For the most part, it’s just not personal for people back in Britain. That’s not to say that our small business owners don’t care, but rather that too many people work in jobs where they are stripped of personal responsibility and the true impact of their actions is hidden from them. Most customer facing staff lack the authority to make decisions which will help customers, while also being denied the understanding of how their actions will effect a bigger whole.
Customer service is not difficult. It’s a smile, and a few seconds of your attention. It’s human, something that we should be genetically predisposed to. My fear is that it’s our organisational behaviour, our bureaucratic approach to reward and responsibility, that has stripped our innate ability to provide excellent service.
Themis is an example to us all – whether we work the front line or design the sales process. If you’re ever on Kalymnos drop in and tell her Mark sent you, and he’s coming back for chocolate cake.
* There’s a myth that everyone in Greece is friendly. It’s not true, just ask our cab driver from Kos to Mastichari. Not that he’ll answer in anything but angry grunts, but go ahead and ask him anyway.