The Odyssey of a Small-Scale Contractor
Nikos learned life on the road. Where asphalt is cut open and ducts are laid beneath sidewalks. Where fiber is blown through conduits and kilometers of cabling are joined together — cabling no one will ever see.
For years, he worked for others, earning a steady daily wage, with responsibility limited to the boundaries of each individual project. Until five years ago, he took the leap.
He started his own small technical company, with two technicians and a van that could carry only the essential tools, instruments, and materials. He believed that if he worked hard enough, he would make it. He believed that hard work and reliability were enough.
And then growth exploded.
From 2021 onward, Greece was digging everywhere. Fiber optic networks began spreading like the roots of an invisible tree that would connect cities, villages, and islands. Announcements of digital transformation, tenders, promises, and a pace of deployment unlike anything seen before.
The phones started ringing.
“We have projects all over Greece, Nikos.” “A steady stream of projects.” “Payments always on time.” “We’ll grow together.”
Panos was one of the first to approach him. He worked within one of the large companies holding contracts with all the major telecommunications providers. He was someone Nikos knew well — one of his own. They would occasionally meet for coffee and share stories from older projects.
“This time, it’s different,” he told him.
And at first, it really was.
The first invoices were paid. Nikos gained confidence and bought new test equipment. He upgraded his gear. He promised work to two new technicians. He began thinking about a second van. He dreamed of building a team that would grow steadily.
And then the delays began.
“A minor internal issue.” “We’re waiting for a disbursement.” “Definitely next week.”
But the invoices had already been issued, and VAT was already due. Annual income tax was due as well, along with the 40% advance tax payment for the following year.
Anastasis, his accountant, spoke to him in numbers.
“VAT must be remitted as normal.” “Tax is assessed on invoiced revenue.” “The advance payment is mandatory.”
“But I haven’t actually received the money,” Nikos would reply.
Anastasis would shrug. It was not his fault. The state does not ask whether you have been paid; it asks whether you have invoiced. That is how the system works.
And so Nikos was paying tax on money that existed only on paper.
The companies that owed him money were not small. Their exposure was enormous. Debts to partners, debts to the state, promises made to dozens of subcontractors.
At first, they paid. Then they delayed. In the end, they went silent.
One evening, Panos told him:
“They fooled us too.”
And that was when Nikos understood that the problem was clearly at the top.
The Nights
His days no longer had any boundaries. Faults did not choose a convenient time.
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The phone would ring at two in the morning.
“The line is down.” “There’s no signal.” “An entire section is out of service.”
He would get up quietly so as not to wake the children. He would glance at his sleeping family, take the van, and head out onto the road.
Greece at night was damp and silent. Empty toll stations, dark industrial zones, sleeping villages, narrow unlit streets.
And there he was, bent over inside manholes, a flashlight clenched between his teeth, trying to splice fibers thinner than a human hair. His hands froze in winter and burned in summer. The fusion splicer lit up in the darkness like a small source of light.
He knew that behind every fault there were lives. Businesses that could not operate. Children studying for exams. Doctors relying on those connections.
And yet the man helping keep the country’s invisible nervous system alive did not know whether he would ever be paid for the works he had already delivered.
The Bureaucracy
At one point, he also tried to pursue grant funding.
He assembled entire application files filled with certificates, sworn declarations, and tax and social security clearance documents that expired before he could even submit them. He paid for studies, administrative fees, and consultants.
The requirements kept changing through circulars and administrative notices. They asked for turnover levels only large companies had. They asked for equity capital from the very people who did not have it. They asked for a “clean financial profile,” while the system itself taxed him on receivables he had never collected.
Platforms opened and closed. Corrections. Resubmissions. “Pending review.”
And in the end: “Not approved.”
Growth seemed designed to favor those who were already strong, not those struggling just to stay on their feet.
The Weight
Nikos was constantly on the move — Crete, Thrace, Epirus. He stayed away for weeks at a time. He ate on the run. He slept only a few hours. His family waited back home.
“Just a little longer,” he would say.
The dreams he once had — new equipment, new hires, structured growth — were turning into questions of survival.
Will the outstanding wages be paid? Will the VAT be covered? Will the company survive?
At night, he would speak with his childhood friend Odysseas. He was not asking for advice. He was asking for space. For someone to listen.
Endurance
And yet, there were others as well. The healthy companies. The ones that paid on time. The ones that showed respect. The ones that spoke plainly.
Because of them, Nikos did not break.
From 2022 to 2026, he matured abruptly. He lost his innocence, but not his passion. He learned to ask for guarantees and to measure risk. To protect himself, and the people who worked with him.
But every time he saw service restored, every time he heard, “It’s working,” he felt that small victory.
Fiber optics are invisible, yet they connect. And he, despite the debts, the taxes, the delays, and the sleepless nights, kept connecting.
With determination. With dignity. With a bitterness that never turned into hatred.
Because he knew that if he bent, the light would never reach the other end.
A story by Moschonas George
