Days 17-18: Constantinos the Great

Costas, short for Constantinos, is our good friend and formidable host here in Cyprus. Cyprus also thinks he's great, as there are both beaches and supermarkets named after him:

We have had a rough idea of how we might like to spend our time here and have taken things nice and easy.

Cyprus coffee at Costas' parents place on morning

Fresh pommagranate

We wake up at leisurely times (in our own home!) each day. The neighbour is usually sitting at the side of his house on a plastic lawn chair, dressed in shorts with no shirt, looking very solemn and intermittantly yelling at his dogs- or anything that moves, really. In the back there is a big wide open space of land- with a few homes down the one side, and the local football pitch visable in the distance. Directly behind the house is the 'stuff' area- there is a roofed area for keeping parked cars in the shade, and beyond that... the creatures! On my first morning I
wandered over and met the pheasants, rabbits, and roosters. The rabbits are bred for their meat are the size of your average cat, living in a big cage sitting on stilts. Boy, they are cute. But when I approach they go ballistic. A dozen big, nervous jumpy rabbits in a confined space is very unsettling...a lot of thumping and fast moving ears. I haven't visited them again.

Day 17, Thursday 23 September, we toured Cape Greecko- with lunch and a swim in the sea off the rocky shores. Nearby, tourist party boats were anchored.

In the last of the day's sun, we climbed around in the sea caves on the southern shoreline and then up to a nearby peak where the friendliness of the "Cypriot cat" (for which there are postcards) became abundantly clear.

one of many schmickens

It was windy... as illustrated by Paul's wind caught shirt.

Costas and his wheels

Ally and I at the sea caves

We stopped at the grocery store on the way home and shopped according to our plan to make a "traditional greek meal". Next to our house is another small house- Costas refers to it as "the old house," where his grandmother used to live. It is a long narrow home, with three separate rooms- all opening to a stone patio with two large arches. We cooked our traditional greek meal in the big old kitchen while Costas zipped home and back.

When he returned he saw our spread and declared himself speechless. Apparently we passed the test and would make suitable greek wives. ha. Dinner was meatballs stewed in a juicy tomatoe sauce, phyllo pastries stuffed with peppery rocket and salty Cypriot halloumi, cucumber and tomato salad and an eggplant, tomato and halloumi bake. Costas' mother- Paraskevi (which means "Friday" in Greek)- sent over some bulgar with vermicelli. The plate looked and tasted lovely, and we enjoyed it with Greek red wine under the grape vines in the courtyard- followed by a lively game of "Things."

Friday brought a bit of cloud and light drizzle and took us to the country's capital, Nicosia. Despite my border troubles and the brief history lessons that Costas had shared, it was this stop that best illustrated the gravity and impact of the Turkish-Cypriot war. The old city is surrounded by the Venetian City walls, built in the Lusignan period and named after the Venetian commanders who defended the city against Ottomans. Nicosia is split down the centre- almost like Berlin once was- with one half being Turkish occupied territory and the other as the internationally recognised country of Cyprus.

When you enter Turkish Cyprus, you do not receive a stamp in your passport for this reason; it is not recognised by most of the world as being a country. That said, you do fill out a little slip of white paper, of which they have thousands stacked like office scrap paper, providing your name, passport number, and nationality. This slip of paper is what gets the "Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus" (TRNC) entry and exit stamps. It becomes your ticket out of the country, and I nearly tossed mine upon arrival. Oops.

There remains one street down the centre- the no mans land- which has sat entirely untouched for nearly 40 years now, with old shop signs hanging from well-rusted wires attached to crumbling brick facades. Crossing on foot is a surprisingly informal affair. The Turkish check your passport and issue the white slip- there is no turnstile- no lines- and very few police. They look like they were guarding a 1950s folk art museum rather than a disputed international border crossing. Had I had problems getting across by car when I first arrived on Tuesday evening, this certainly would have been a feasible next option.

The sudden change in culture and language is fascinating. It is a matter of 10 loosely guarded paces and one small stamp between these two worlds- hardly the same sense of separation one gets when landing from a flight, or even crossing the American-Canadian border. While wandering around the Turkish occupied area- where Ally had visited on holiday in the past- she showed us some neat spots. The Great Khan was an interesting site- it was built between 1576 and 1577 by the Governor of Cyprus at the time. With two levels, the ground level rooms were used as shops and stalls for visiting horse-back travellers, and the top was used as bedrooms. It has since been converted into craft shops,art galleries and cafes.

Ally was sure to pick up some turkish sweets too- not the traditional delights- but minor variations thereof; almost marshmallow-y with pistachio and chocolate and almond. Sweets in hand, we sauntered back across the border to the Cypriot side for frappes at a cafe Costas knew of. I re-learned backgammon, sipped delicious frappe (iced coffee... putting the Tim's iced capp to shame) and tried too many sweets in a quiet courtyard for a good part of the afternoon.

On our way back through winding streets it seems our sugar cravings were not yet satisfied- Paul picked up a Mpougatsa (pronounced "boo-rat-sa) from a small bakery. Suffice to say I've found my new favourite baked good- doughy but fluffy pastry filled with a rich custardy creamy filling.

Having introduced Costas to the practice of post-carding, we spent some time at a big shop with oodles of postcards. Inside, tucked along a side wall, were racks of old black and white photos. Many looked like they had been behind glass frames for years, others looked like they had been sitting in the sun and seen a drop or two of water in their lifetime. They were incredible photos- portraits of family, images of protest and pre-war rallying, traditional acitivies and countryside. When we got chatting with the shop owner and the man next to him, we learned that the man with him was in fact the photographer. The photos dated back to the 1960s and were all taken in and around his hometown, Dali, not far from Nicosia. Ally bought two and I picked up one.

Driving back to Nicosia we drove up to Stavrovouni (which means mountain of the cross) Monastary. "Legend" has it that St Helen found a piece of the holy cross on this Cypriot mountain. It was a male-only monastary so I couldn't go in, but it offered stretching views of the countryside and the sea beyond. Paul did get chatting with the monk at the entrance and told us about how he learned that there is no difference between the various forms of orthodox- Greek, Russian etc.

Paul....having a go with the mitsubishi's suspension in front of the chapel.

There may be minor cultural variations, but that they are rooted in the same religious fundamentals. Andy and Paraskavie (Costas' mom and dad) insisted on taking us to dinner during our visit, so on Friday evening we were treated with the never ending Cypriot generosity and an absolutely spectacular meal called "Meze"- where dish after dish is served of the most traditional greek and cypriot foods for all to try:

It started with breads and dips- tahini, pita, taziki; then olives, sea salts, pickled caper leaves and hot peppers, and leafy green salad. Next came potatoes with egg, okra with cheese, spinach with cheese, roasted black olives, cracked green olives to absorb the olive oil, lemon and coriander, and a fried parsnip-like thing (it looked like a mushroom when I saw it in the grocery store). The meats rolled in with dark Cyprus sausage (almost the colour of black pudding; but tasting oodles better), BBQ beef liver, slouvaki, meatballs, halloumi with lountza (ham),
shieftlatia (mince pork with spices, wrapped in animal something), pork kebab, lemon pork chop with parsley (ie. greek bacon), mousaka, stuffed tomatoes with mice and mint with halloumi on top. Then was cypriot macaroni with mint and halloumi, and bulgar with vermicelli. All of this was enjoyed with a delicious dry red called Makkas from nearby Pathos. We learned all about hunting, the family history, and various Cypriot traditions. The evening could not have felt more indulgent for a traveller looking to taste and experience LOCAL.

That evening we had the pleasure of meeting Costas' childhood friends at a karaoke bar in town-

and while it is the off season for tourism, there were British vacationers readily taking the stage to belt "I will survive." With a two for one drink deal and a friend of Costas' behind the bar, the night stretched on into the wee hours.

Our time here continues to allow us to experience life as a Cypriot, thanks to the generous hospitality of Costas and his family. Stories from our last weekend in Cyprus to come soon...