Accidental Tourist: I had my own embarrassing Greek tragedy on holiday

At the end of the previous century, the Greek island of Lesvos was not a holiday A-lister but that's where we were headed: to really mingle with the locals.

Actually, we had very few drachmas, so our Greek friend had offered us her penthouse in Mytilini. Our friend had prepped us with basic words and organised for her Greek aunt to meet us.

Efharisto very much. Parakalo (please). Bira (beer). Néh (yes). That concludes our Greek vocabulary lesson.

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On our arrival, we were met by the Greek aunt, who was as Greek aunt as a Greek aunt could get: dressed in black, older than most of the Greek gods (or 25 with sun damage, I never could tell).

She took us up to the fourth-floor penthouse.

As she left, she pointed to a door we had not previously seen: the elevator. Why had she not pointed it out before we'd Sisyphus-ed our backpacks up four flights of stairs? Efharisto.

Our group consisted of six travellers. As the aunt wheezed her way down the stairs, two of them decided to watch the sunset from the patio, while the rest of us decided to explore.

The elevator arrived, the door slid open and we piled in. Just above the brass panel that held the floor numbers, there was a small sign. Since it didn't say efharisto, parakalo, bira or néh, we ignored it.

The fact that we were four sturdy South Africans squeezed into a space the size of a Monopoly board should have been a subtle hint. The elevator squeakily reached the ground floor. And kept going. Down. I had visions of Robert de Niro in Angel Heart.

About half a floor below ground, we screeched to a halt. We stared hopefully at the elevator doors, but they refused to open.

Gina started giggling, the kind of giggle you'll hear in a cinema just before the zombie chows on the busty blonde.

"Right," said I, "we will not embarrass ourselves by going hysterical on our first night in Greece. 'n Boer maak 'n plan, efharisto very much: I'll count, and on three, we all jump into the air, I zap the ground-floor button, the elevator moves up and we parakalo to the bira."

I counted to three. We jumped. I zapped the button. We landed. We creaked another four centimeters down. I got glared at.

"Okay," said Alicia, pointing at me. "Give me your belt and we'll use the buckle as a lever to force open the doors."

I had just lost 15kg so the belt actually had a function, but the elevator swallowed it like a possessed car in a Stephen King novel.

"Scream," said Pete. "Paul and Yvonne will hear us."

"Nope," I said. "We'll ration our food and do a lottery once we reach the cannibalism stage and …".

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At which point the other three started screaming.

Paul and Yvonne heard us, got the aunt, who called the fire brigade, who arrived in a cacophony of sirens. They started forcing the doors open. We had seconds before freedom would finally be ours.

Again I took to the floor: "Right, these are our hosts and we are their guests, so don't stare. Don't giggle. Don't become hysterical."

The door opened. We stared. We giggled. We became hysterical as, one by one, they pulled us from the cereal-box-sized opening. Like the captain of the Titanic, I waited till last. Two Greek gods grabbed me by my arms. Yanked me out.

My jeans stayed behind.

Hey, I was in Greece. And I was hanging with the locals indeed.

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