Author: Maggie Stewart

By: Maggie Stewart

Kastalia Theo was swimming in a cove off the Cycladic islands when something brushed against her leg. At first, “I pushed it away,” she said, thinking, “it was a plastic bag with a hair in it,” but as she began to have an allergic reaction, she realized it was a jellyfish. 

Theo, 21, now works part-time at Archelon, a sea turtle rescue and rehabilitation center founded in 1983, located in Glyfada, a coastal neighborhood outside Athens, giving tours and educating people about turtle injuries, many caused by plastic mistaken for jellyfish or entanglement in fishing gear. Lying in the hospital after her sting, she realized, “People think, oh, how could a turtle confuse a plastic bag for a jellyfish? Are they stupid? But they’re actually really smart.” 

Theo grew up in Greece, spending summers camping on Zakynthos, an island known for its threatened Loggerhead nesting beaches, a species of turtle common in the Mediterranean. Her fascination with sea turtles began here. 

Greece is crucial to the survival of Loggerheads. The Greek island of Zakynthos alone hosts 80% of the Mediterranean’s nests. But tourism and climate change put them at risk. Zakynthos is one of Europe’s most overcrowded destinations. According to The Guardian, overnight stays outnumber residents 150 to one. Tourists unknowingly disrupt nesting sites by crowding beaches and playing loud music. Artificial light from beach bars confuses hatchlings, drawing them away from the moonlit sea. Climate change heats the sand, skewing hatchling sex ratios towards females. Meanwhile, shrinking fish stocks put fishermen in competition with turtles. As Theo told me, some even deliberately harm them. 

The mounting threats to the turtles and her personal experience pushed her into action. A few years after her sting, she joined a nesting beach project in the Peloponnese. “I was there during the beginning of the nesting season, and with the eggs and the mother turtles, it was a smaller beach project out of all of them, but it was really nice.”  

Now, Theo spends her free time educating the public. Theo introduced herself as my tour guide for the day while standing inside the teal-colored former train cars that serve as Archelon’s office. Dressed in a light blue shirt that read “Ask me about sea turtles,” and silver sea turtle hoop earrings, she led the way. 

When I arrived, the power had gone out due to construction on a nearby marina. Still, the team carried on. As we walked through the open-air tanks, one turtle surfaced for a breath while a volunteer cleaned another enclosure. “We will make it work,” one said when referring to dealing with the outage. 

The volunteers of Archelon embody this spirit of perseverance, adjusting release methods, caring for injured turtles, and taking them back as often as they need. One turtle, named Sophie, lost a flipper to a fishing net. “We’ve released her before, gotten a call, then brought her back, released her again, gotten a call, and brought her back,” Theo told me. But Archelon hasn’t quit on Sophie or any turtles.

“It is everything for us,” said Christiana Kamprogianni, Archelon’s communications officer. “Volunteers are how we exist and how we can protect turtles. If we didn’t have volunteers, we wouldn’t be able to do any of the work we do.” 

Their efforts have been paying off in recent years; conservation teams across the Mediterranean have recorded record numbers of nests and surviving hatchlings. But while Loggerhead conservation is currently a success story, it remains a fragile one. Since Loggerheads take roughly 20 years to mature, Panagiota Maragou, WWF’s Head of Conservation, warns that the success we see today in nesting is a result of conservation work from 20 years prior. To ensure the continued protection of sea turtles, volunteers like Theo and the team at Archelon are crucial, as caretakers and educators protecting sea turtles from the increasing threats of climate change, pollution, and human encroachment.

“We just have to let nature be nature,” Theo said, and by “ helping nature be nature it means fixing the problems caused by humans.”

by Maggie Stewart

In February 2023, cheesemaker Katerina Moschou was helping her goat give birth. Six months earlier, she had given birth to her own daughter, now she was listening to the labored bleats of her goat alongside the rumble of trucks rolling in to lay concrete nearby. Moschou said, “It was a construction orgasm going on next door.” As she recounted her tale, however, her humor faded, “Is there space for me here,” she wondered, “or am I eventually going to be chased away?” Moschou, 42, is one of the many small-scale farmers throughout the Cyclades who fear for their livelihoods due to the threats posed by overtourism and climate change.

On the rocky hills of the island of Paros, Moschou spoke with me, wearing all pink, down to her rubber Birkenstocks. With 63 sheep and 203 goats, caring for the farm is an intense job. Mornings on the farm start at 8 a.m. after taking care of her daughter, and consist of two rounds of milking and other chores that often last until 11 p.m. But Moschou says, “It doesn’t feel like work.” She remembers summers spent with her grandmother on their farm, where her love of caring for animals and cheesemaking began. As I kissed the soft fur of one of her newborn goats and watched baby chicks following closely behind their mother on Moschou’s farm, I could easily see why. Cats lounge in the sun against the backdrop of blue ocean water as goats climb the rocky hillside; a scene disrupted by the villas below.

In the eight years Moschou has operated her farm, development on the island has exploded. “It was so sudden and so big, everything started being constructed all around,” she said. According to Moschou, nearby owners have harassed her over the smells and sounds coming from the farm. 

This tension mirrors a broader crisis of overtourism in the Cycladic islands, including Paros, which is home to approximately 14,000 permanent residents, but sees 32 times that number arrive during the summer months. In 2024, Paros issued the most building permits in the Cyclades. Giorgios Lialios, chief reporter on overdevelopment at eKathimerini, explained one of the reasons that development is so damaging in Greece is because, “In Greece, under certain circumstances, you can build pretty much everywhere,” leaving farmland especially vulnerable. 

The rise of tourism has put pressure on the island’s water, land, and culture. “Sun and sea tourists,” as Nicolas Stephanou of Save Paros calls them, often overlook the lives and traditions of locals. One of these traditions being ignored is Cycladic cheesemaking, a centuries-long practice that Moschou inherited from her grandmother. In 2024, it was recognized as a part of Greece’s intangible heritage, but recognition does not guarantee survival. 

Moschou, who studied agronomy, explained that the Cycladic climate, characterized by dryness and an abundance of herbs, contributes to the cheese’s distinct, rich taste. The goats and sheep adapted to the environment produce less milk, but offer greater flavor. 

At around 6 p.m., she began her hour-and-a-half milking routine, changing her clothes from pink to grey. In Moschou’s stable, silver and blue milking machines await her animals, who have been trained to line up in the chutes. As she works, she discusses the challenges of farming in the changing climate. To deal with rising temperatures, she has extended shade over her barn, but even that hasn’t been enough for her sheep, which she plans to sell due to their sensitivity and complicated herd dynamics. But it is not all negative. She has switched from feeding her animals with water-intensive clover to Parian barley. “Barley is a win-win,” she said. “It’s cheaper. It requires less water, and even though it makes the goats produce less milk, it’s more tasty.” 

Moschou’s farm is a living example of perseverance in the face of climate change and overdevelopment. Farming is essential not only to keeping culture alive but also for the longevity of the island. “We cannot only rely on tourism,” said Paros’ Mayor Kostas Bizas, “It comes and it goes.” Paros must be prepared for when the next island goes viral or climate change worsens, and to survive, it will depend on people like Moschou, who know and love the land.