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]