Borderland shopping

I never used to take my passport when I went shopping, but then I’ve never lived in Cyprus before. Now my well stamped border paper and passport are an essential part of a trip to the city. That’s because shopping in the country’s capital is a peculiar experience.
Yesterday I strolled down Nicosia’s Ledra Street with a couple of family members, we past some familiar names like Debenhams, Peacocks and Starbucks and could have been walking through any European city centre. The several storey buildings loomed above us and cafe tables and A-frame blackboards with enticing offers spilled onto the pavement. But after a few minutes the shop fronts disappeared and we were wandering past a bare section of walls and barricaded fencing before we found ourselves in a queue at a customs kiosk. Our passports were examined and stamped and we continued on down the street into another world of shops and stalls, slightly scruffier this time, but also spilling onto the pavement with an array of goods, where new scents and sounds were on offer. It was a little like walking through the wardrobe into Narnia, but without the fur coats. The currency had changed to Turkish Lira within a few metres, yet it was the same street and the same city. This other side of the city looked poorer though and more run down, there were less high rise buildings and many more crumbling sections of concrete and simple shops selling anything from fake designer T-shirts and handbags to rolls of material and chunky baskets.
Stopping to admire some tablecloths, a stall-holder and his son began to chat to us.
“So you’re staying on the rich side and visiting the poor side are you?”
We felt a bit embarrassed by this and I promised to return another day, when I had room and time to buy a basket and a tablecloth. They pointed out the barricade at the end of a side street and shook their heads, “We’re not Turkey, we’re one Cyprus…it’s one country. We’re Cypriot”, they explained. Winding our way through the narrow streets of shops I knew what I was heading for, but which streets led there was another matter.
inn
After taking a circuitous route we eventually found the ‘Buyuk Han’ or Great Inn which dates back to the 1500s. Walking in through the archway we found ourselves in a walled courtyard lined with arches in a soft sandstone. In the middle was a domed hexagon shaped building, also with arches at its base. Round the corner wide steps led to the upper floor, which looked down on the courtyard, with rooms leading off, where travellers, and I imagine crusaders, would have stayed, leaving their animals to rest down below. Now the rooms are filled with artists and craftspeople, selling anything from painted glassware to jewellery and sculpture. It hasn’t lost its atmosphere though and sitting at the cafe tables below you could imagine being transported back to the days of Robin Hood and Richard the Lionheart, with camels and horses appearing in a ball of dust through the archway. In fact, this place wouldn’t have been there in that era…but why let the facts get in the way of my imagination?

Nicosia is filled with history and culture and I was keen to show off some of the bits I could remember from a fleeting visit a few weeks earlier. But I’m not the best with directions and maps and unfortunately my sister is no better! Still, we found ourselves at the ancient Cathedral of St Sophia, now a mosque. The massive gothic building had been carpeted throughout, two minarets tower above the arched windows and many of the carvings and statues have been chipped away to remove the Christian symbols. But it couldn’t take away the similarities with many gothic English Cathedrals. Carvings of leaves still adorned the door arches and curled themselves around pillars at the entrance, but it wasn’t quite Southwell Minster. I slipped off my shoes, wound a scarf round my shoulders and head and stepped inside. It was strange to feel the carpet on my bare feet and look up at the vaulted roof and massive pillars – Richard the Lionheart had been crowned King of Cyprus right here. If these walls and pillars could speak, what would they tell me?

We were keen to see some more of the history and walk along the massive Venetian built city walls, so after pouring over a map and turning it round a few times to see if that helped, we headed off in what we thought was the right direction. One of the party was sighing frequently and looking over his shoulder as the streets became more and more empty and the houses increasingly dilapidated. “Where are we going?” was the question…we were heading for the city walls of course, patience was required. More twists and turns and the only people we saw were children peering from behind half open doorways. A shrill whistle just beside us made everyone jump and we peered round to see a clutch of small children giggling at us from behind a parked truck. I think they knew something. Sometime later and no wall in sight we gave up on the map reading and wound our way back in the direction of the minarets, through more deserted alleyways and streets and even a motorbike graveyard hidden behind a corrugated fence. A collective sigh of relief was breathed when shops appeared and other people were walking past us! The wall was also eventually found, after we asked for directions (who does that?). Below the huge Venetian built walls we looked down into the massive moat which runs right round the city and part of which hosts a shared football pitch in the middle of no-man’s land, where young people from both sides can play. No matches were on today. Looking across the vast dried out moat between the walls we could see the UN headquarters, with its flag fluttering on top, in a former hotel that had seen much better days.
photo 2 photo 1
Finding our way back to the border crossing involved tackling another maze of streets that frequently led us to dead ends and barriers with a red sign of a soldier with a gun and a camera crossed out marked as a ‘forbidden zone’. As we skirted the buffer between north and south, the buildings became more and more derelict, some with war damage and many crumbling through neglect. Later, after we eventually crossed the border from one shopping street into another, we paused to look at the narrow gap between the buildings in no-man’s land. This little stretch of land, barely 10 feet wide, where several storey buildings towered above us, is called ‘Spear Alley’ after an incident where a soldier was killed by one from the opposite side simply leaning across with his weapon and running him through with his bayonet. Apparently at one time bayonets were strapped to broom sticks and there was jousting across the alley from the balconies above. This area of the city is called ‘the Green line’ and is a constant reminder, to all those who cross, of the deep divisions that remain. A few steps from Spear Alley as the first European shops emerged there was a bench and plastered into the wall above it a tile which read: PEACE. We sat there for a moment and wondered how long before that will become a reality for the Cypriots living on both sides of the line. I wasn’t in the mood for shopping anymore.

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I want a donkey for Christmas

It’s started…I just saw a photo of the first Christmas tree that’s gone up in Nottingham. Oh dear, and even worse we are beginning to choose and practice Christmas songs in the Military Wives Choir http://www.militarywiveschoirs.org/ – whatever next? I’m not really complaining though because I’m very used to talking about Christmas in September or even July, which is exactly what Churchads.net does each year, trying to help churches engage with free advertising campaigns. This time around they have some interesting posters as part of the established ‘Christmas Starts with Christ’ campaign, which aims to save Christmas from becoming just another secular festival – do check out the posters on http://christmasstartswithchrist.com/ and tell me what you think.
I’m not really thinking Christmas though because it’s not the right weather yet. We’re having blustery days and what Cyprus calls ‘storms’. This seems to involve lots of wind, some clouds, and a few big drops of rain, that never really become anything. It’s hot and sunny, so I’m still waiting for what we call rain and locals have promised it will come….but not for a few weeks probably.
In the meantime I’ve been finding out about wild life on the island ( No, I don’t mean Aya Napa). A trip across the border took us to some amazing ‘umbrellaless’ beaches of golden sand where the only competition for space to lay out the beach mats were wild donkeys! Yes, we’ve been having a lovely time with Eeyore and all his family. The donkeys were amazingly tame and very happy for us to stroke them, coming right out into the road and getting cars to stop, so that people could pat or feed them through the window. One little herd (google says they can also be referred to as a drove or pace) came and grazed on grass in the sand dunes by the beach. We even had our own donkey who called round each morning and evening at the beach hut we stayed in overnight. He particularly enjoyed cheese rolls, but not sure if he should have had them. We all thought he looked thin and in need of building up.
donkey pic
The only problem we faced were the ‘donkey terrorists’. I didn’t realise they existed until one evening we were driving through a very donkeyfied area of wild country and spotted a red van stopped on the road ahead with some blokes shouting and waving their hands at a donkey, as we approached we realised with horror they were trying to scare it and get it to make a noise and they even picked up stones to throw as it trotted away into the bushes. Words of disapproval were spoken from the car and we drove on – the offenders were fairly large as it happened. Later they passed us and hooted and jeered. Disgusted and somewhat outraged by their behaviour on behalf of the very gentle wild donkeys of Cyprus, we all wondered what should be done. Various sticky ends were contemplated some which involved clearing their vehicle from the road and others wanted some unmentionable ‘army-type’ solutions. Unfortunately, none of us were quick thinking enough to take down their registration and report them to the police or possibly give their position to the Typhoon pilots currently training out here.

steal or salvage?

Can you steal from the sea? This moral dilemma has been troubling me for a couple of nights…as I hunt around for a corner of the sheet in the middle of the night. These fresher September nights are a refreshing change from the routine of tip toeing out to the water cooler in desperate need of a fresh breeze. So I have been a little troubled about the legalities of sea salvage and what’s allowed. It all began with a ‘run of the mill’ trip to the nearest beach…

We have been out to the same little bay on a number of afternoons, but each time with a different set of visitors. The last few weeks have involved a never-ending stream of ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes’ – some sad as we wave goodbye to loved ones for several months and others bringing a smile as familiar faces appear through the arrivals door. It’s a little weird to keep driving to the airport so often but never actually boarding a plane. On departure for her flight, our daughter commented: “It’s odd you’re staying here,” and I’m still getting used to that fact.

Back at the beach, as we bumped along the cliff track to the secluded bay, we could all drink in the deep blue and turquoise scene on our left, where dark black rocks and yellow sandy cliffs curled their arms around the clear water. We’ve named this bay, Sea Carrot Bay, on account of someone finding what was believed to be a ‘sea carrot’ on the sea bed a few weeks ago (please don’t tell me you’ve never seen a sea carrot!). Bags, snorkels, beach mats in hand we eased ourselves carefully down the winding steps to the beach below, mastering the knack of feet slipping from flip-flops on the sand coated steps. At the beach some tried out snorkelling for the first time, others just put on flippers, while the expert son No. 2 just wore goggles! This particular bay affords a view of the crumbling old hotels and buildings lining the beach of Famagusta. Between the gaps in various jagged rocks forming archways and strange ‘windows’, the multi-storey blocks are visible like mini painted scenes on the horizon of the bright blue water. While we were floating around, some peering down at the fish and rocks below, a strange piece of wood was spotted on the seabed by the eagle-eyed Major and son No 2. promptly dived down to investigate. Earlier I’d seen him lift up a concrete weight with a rope tied to it. I was impressed, but then realised everything weighs less underwater and it wasn’t just the gym sessions taking effect. So, the piece of wood was brought to near the surface after a bit of panting and heaving and the salvage operation of swimming it to shore began. On asking, “why are you carrying a really heavy piece of wood to the beach?” The answer was: “Treasure!” Too many Pirate films had them thinking this was part of a wrecked ship. The huge beam was lifted onto a rock by the beach for further examination and looked like…a piece of battered brown wood, with some holes and bolts, slightly curved, with lots of sea creatures attached to it. And it smelt of fish. So I was a bit perturbed that they announced it was going home with us. There was no hidden key or map or even a hint of treasure hidden within.

“But it belongs at the bottom of the sea,” I protested…”and what are we going to do with it?” Apparently it would go in the garden. The question of who it belonged to, didn’t seem to be an issue. So two strapping lads were tasked with lugging the beam, or piece of ship’s hull, up the winding cliff steps and then it was manoeuvred into the car, with passengers dispatched to the other vehicle to make room for the salvage. The smell behind my left ear on the journey home wasn’t pleasant and I was glad to get out of the car when we got home.

Yesterday I went for a swim and noticed a kind of fishy-sea smell as I headed up one end of the pool. Glancing up I saw the gnarled-shipwreck-like beam of blackened wood staring down at me. Thank you guys for the authentic decoration on the edge of the pool – we won’t be taking this back to the UK with us, but we now have a little bit of history and something from the sea bed at Sea Carrot Bay in the garden. I’m a bit hazy about the laws of salvage and realise raids from customs officers are always a possibility – but I have planned my excuse. ‘Didn’t you know this area of Cyprus was once under the sea and this ancient scrap of wreck must have been left behind?’. One day it’s presence here will puzzle archeologists, because who would dream that a family would drag it from the sea and drive it home several miles as a trophy or even a garden ornament?