Patriotism, Pelicans and Pilgrimage

So, Cyprus. Or Kobros as the Arabs call it (not that it’s any of their business). My parents were going to be there for a conference my Dad was speaking at so we went to meet them for a pre-Christmas minibreak. I’d taken charge of the itinerary since Mum had attempted to ask a (Greek) colleague where we should stay in Northern Cyprus and mortally offended him. Armed with insider tips from a friend of a friend who had been posted there, I had booked some hotels. First night was going to be spent with Mum and Dad in Limasol/Lemesos (running theme of everything having up to three names - guaranteed to ensure the name on your map will be different to that on the road signs) at their conference hotel. This we were looking forward to having read the guidebook: “ the city has several reputations: ‘the city that never sleeps’ is one, and the cliché is thanks to the tourist area’s exuberant nightlife, rivalled only by that of Agia Napa; another is ‘sex town’”. I think the clubbers and perverts had been put off by the late-November temperatures and we spent a very pleasant evening in a posh hotel on the coast surrounded by doctors. Mum paid for a facial for me, 90% of which I was asleep for. Then two pelicans attacked her while we were sunbathing the next morning. Dad was too busy sitting in the shade to help.

We spent the following couple of nights in Nicosia in a rubbish hotel with an astoundingly grumpy receptionist and a bathroom where it wasn’t possible to sit down on the loo and have the door closed. Ah, the mystique of our relationship. The Classic Hotel in case you’re visiting. Very nice bar though. And the breakfast must have been okay because I watched a fellow guest pile her plate up 3 times and scoop the lot in to her handbag.

We perambulated around Southern Nicosia/Lefkosia (Greek) enjoying the sunshine and avoiding the English Pubs. Then we perambulated around Northern Nicosia/Lefkosa (Turkish) enjoying the sunshine, the architecture and a mosque (originally a church). We crossed South to North on foot which involved walking through No-Mans-Land, past the 16^th Century Venetian Walls of the old city, rolls and rolls of barbed wire and lots of No Littering signs. Flashing our EU Passports the Greeks were utterly unbothered by our movements, while a terrifyingly officious Turkish Immigration lady wanted us to fill in a form. Our first international border (or at least, UN buffer zone) on foot: tick.

In my role as Chief Planner, I booked a restaurant for our second night. Having perused aforementioned guidebook I chose one in the Old Town “a pretty little Greek-style mezedopolio (a small restaurant specialising in mezedes). Try a selection of the mainly Greek wines on offer’.“ So in we walked to a restaurant that was straight out of Paris – all large mirrors, cream walls, white tablecloths and chandeliers, a menu with not a single Cypriot dish (smoked salmon, beef carpaccio, steak) and a wine list with endless French wines. It seems the restaurant had had a makeover. By 10pm it was full of beautiful Cypriots (the ‘intelligentsia’ according to Dad who can’t understand a word of Greek) and we sipped complimentary Amaretto feeling slightly smug.

The problem with contested International borders is that neither side is very keen on showing you where to cross. One tip is to look for signs of patriotism – when we eventually found the checkpoint it was buried under Greek and Turkish flags and banners (‘I am glad to say I am a Turk’). The Turks haven’t stopped there – they’ve also painted an enormous flag on the side of the mountains visible from Nicosia just in case anyone wasn’t sure where Turkey began.

We stopped off at Famagusta to get some Turkish money, admire some ruins, visit a mosque (originally a church), despair at British tourists on their 3^rd beers (10.30am) and have some morning coffee in a delightful restored old building with an obscene cocktail menu (‘after this headbanger she’ll be yours all night’).

We spent a couple of nights on the Karpaz peninsula – a relatively remote bit on the Turkish side. I had booked some self-catering ‘houses’ so we stocked up on pasta and beer in case there weren’t any shops. We arrived at beautiful stone buildings with no kitchens, a restaurant next door and two shops. We scampered down to the beach before it got dark, passed a lady milking her cow, and then returned to while away a dark, cold evening.

It seemed that the guys running the houses occupied their nights watching extremely informative state-produced documentaries about leaf rot and other agricultural pests, so rather than joining them we spent our time drinking rather good Cyprus red wine and eating fish. As we were just about to leave a bunch of weather-beaten men arrived and offered to buy us a drink. One particularly stubbly chap would only stop rubbing his chin on Dad’s bald head and kissing him when we promised to drink Raki with them tomorrow. The following night me and Mum ate quickly and coincidentally became extremely tired just as Stubbly walked in, so Mr A and Dad were forced to drink a bottle of wine each whilst bonding with the locals.

By chance, we were in Karpaz on the day of the bi-annual pilgrimage to the Monastery of Apostolos Andreas. Over 4000 Greek Cypriots travel over the border to this remote, decrepit, normally deserted Monastery where miracles reputedly take place. The first sign was the streams of Mercedes on the single track road. At the Monastery police were keeping control of the coaches as middle aged ladies elbowed each other out of the way to get in the door. Once inside they lit candles for friends and family (unceremoniously cleared away every 10 minutes by a helper and dumped out the back), kissed icons and handed bundles of cash to the besieged Priest. Outside, market stalls catered for all your religious needs – bottles of holy water, Jesus trays, duvets, plastic toys…

All too soon it was time to return to Greek Cyprus (Larnaca: ‘All Day Breakfast with free Beer refills’) for a last lunch with the parents before leaving them at a seedy Chinese-run internet café. We stocked up on Cyprus Delight (remarkably similar to Turkish Delight) before Mr A headed back to Doha and I embarked on Phase 2 of my holiday…..[to be continued]

Robert de Niro and Russian dolls

So before we gallivanted around the Eastern Mediterranean (more of which later), Mr A’s brother, H, came to visit. We showed him all the highlights of this fair city – pointing out the skyscrapers (H: ‘Do you think they’ll turn to each other in 20 years and say “Mate, do you think we went a bit over the top?” ‘), ordering Indian takeaway, lying on the beach etc.

We took him on the compulsory visit to the souq where I found an Arab-family Russian doll: Gulfi man splits in half to reveal his black-abaya-ed wife, who reveals her son in a little white thobe, who has a sister also in an abaya who, finally, seems to have swallowed a capsule shaped camel. You have no idea how excited I was, and am.

I dragged him to a shopping mall where he loved the gondolas, but was particularly taken by the LARGEST SHOPPING TROLLEY IN THE WORLD outside the next door mall.

Of course we also took him to brunch, ate far too much, then rapidly moved in to action as we prepared for the party we had rashly planned that evening. After a speedy zoom round the supermarket and a trawl of backstreets to find the ice factory (cubes, chips or block?), we were ready to set H to work cleaning the kitten room and stocking the fridge while I made dips and Mr A tidied the entire flat. Having not had a party since we arrived we decided to kill many birds with one stone and invite pretty much everyone we knew. I had visions of either a) a fantastic mixture of ages and backgrounds as lots of people milled around our tidy flat sipping chilled white wine or delicious fruit mocktails whilst having fascinating conversations, or b) 6 people standing in our spacious flat trying desperately to find something to talk about since they had nothing in common. Luckily, after a minor blip where Mr A got an urgent work call just as the party was about to start, it all went well. Lots of people came throughout the evening with the mass exodus of parents leaving at 9.30pm replaced by our younger more carefree friends. I drank enough wine to overcome my neurosis about the balcony collapsing under the weight of hoards of people, and found H in the kitchen at 1am teaching an Italian diplomat how to make Seabreezes. A Qatari friend drank copious quantities of red wine (haram) whilst chatting up European women (haram), and everyone ate lots of cake (halal). All in all it was a great success except that my squiffy catering arrangements meant we had 12 leftover baguettes to plough though the following day.

During that week the Museum of Islamic Art finally opened. I will no doubt write more about this later as it is almost impossible for you to imagine how excited we are about this. Not only does it mean there is now a museum in Doha (the ONLY open museum), but it’s actually filled with beautiful things. Really beautiful things. That are more than a couple of decades old. In an amazing building which is well built, and well designed, and open every day, to everyone.

We watched the huge firework display at the VIP opening from the corniche. There was so much gunpowder involved (or whatever the explosives are) that a huge black cloud almost obscured the entire building, but it was still one of the most dramatic and most expensive firework displays I’ve ever seen. One thing this Museum doesn’t need to worry too much about is a lack of funds.

We were lucky enough to be invited to a Symposium during the opening celebrations where the architect I.M. Pei (he of glass pyramids at the Louvre fame) spoke, along with Sheikha Mayasa al Thani (who kept her sunglasses on for the whole event) and her mother, Sheikha Moza (wife of Emir). My name badge was nestling next to Robert de Niro’s on the way in but he didn’t seem to make it.

We went again the following day for the opening of a temporary exhibition, where the Pisa Griffin has been united with another metal animal, both of which are stunning. Apparently this is a Very Big Deal in the Islamic art world. Our friend took us on a little tour of the permanent exhibits and I almost wept at the joy of being in a gallery. I wouldn’t let her take us round all of the galleries because I didn’t want to see too much at once. We’re going to go back on our own and it’s going to be amazing.

So, after a week of almost overwhelming cultural stimuli, manic work for both of us as we tried to clear everything up before going away and mourning for the sleeve of a brand new jumper that the kittens ATE, we jumped on a plane to Cyprus to met Mother and Father Ajnabiya, woefully ignorant of Greek-Turkish issues [to be continued].