Epistle from Cyprus V - 10th October 2006
Bird migration
Cyprus lies at the eastern end of the Mediterranean sea and is in the path of many birds migrating from Europe and Russia. As most of the birds in the UK wear in indistinguishable brown uniform that makes it difficult to tell them apart I was amazed to see a brightly coloured
Bee-eater for the first time perched on a wire in front of the house. I had heard them and caught glimpses previously but this one was close up and quite an amazing bird to English eyes.
A few days later in Otto's coffee shop we sat with one of the locals called Kostas who just by chance had a dead bee-eater on the window sill behind him. To save H.'s English sensibilities Kostas tried to tell us that it simply fell from the sky and possibly died of old age or exhaustion. A trickle of blood from under its wing gave the game away. It did give us the chance to see it close up and they are slightly larger than an English blackbird but with a formidable beak with which it kills and eats up to 250 bees in a day. As such they are not held in high regard by the locals. Cyprus like Greece is famed for its honey with yoghurt. As the evening wore on H. picked up the bird and said she would take it home to bury it. At this point Kostas decided it time to emphasize to us that we were now in Cyprus not England. He promptly took it into the coffee bar and plucked it put it in a pan and presented it in front of us with an oil and vinegar dressing and some of the local unleavened bread.
Cypriot health and safety regulations
I have been aware since I arrived that Cypriots merely pay lip service to health and safety matters. This was brought starkly home to me on a recent boat trip.
It was an organized snorkel trip with perhaps the largest scuba operator in Cyprus. I was wary to begin with when I found that the snorkel instructor had only arrived from the UK the previous week. The ‘captain’ of the boat I took to be Egyptian as the conversation between he and the instructor was stilted to say the least. Things did not get off to a good start when the manifest of passengers’ names blew from the quayside into the sea and no one seemed concerned. On the other boat trips I have been on we have been obliged to wear safety vests. Not here though. The safety vests were all neatly stowed under some netting. The sea was a little rough so the ‘captain’ elected for a couple of rock shoals about 1 or 2 miles from the coast. The ‘captain’ slowed the boat occasionally so that the sound of the engines did not disturb his mobile telephone conversations. Eventually he selected the leeward side of the first of the rocky shoals but after about 20 minutes it was apparent that the rough sea was causing too much foam and cut up seaweed in the water so he opted for the second rocks. This was a good deal calmer and visibility was much better. Off went the intrepid band of snorkellers (should that be a school of snorkellers?) into the water. After a little while I decided to try the end of the rocks. I swam out in that direction. Just for safety’s sake I turned to keep an eye on the boat only to see it disappearing into the distance. Panic is an overused word and in this case does not go near far enough to describe my feelings. They were off the Richter scale. Had I been caught up in a strong current without noticing? What to do now? At this stage the boat was just about reachable so I started out swimming towards it. Then it turned and started back toward me. Thanks heavens for that they have noticed I am not there and are coming back I naively thought. The boat then sailed passed me and they shouted over at me ‘Swim after the boat.’ “Swim after the boat?” Who did they think I was Mark Spitz? Perhaps it was some kind of Cypriot water torture. Make the Englishman swim after the boat, exhaust him and watch him slowly drown just out of reach of safety. Eventually they stopped (layman’s term meaning dropped anchor) back near the rocks again. It was all a mistake. The original anchor they had used was not heavy enough and they had drifted away. What a lark it was what a joke. Exhausted I dragged myself back on board leaving fingerprint impressions embedded on the handrail.
Unfortunately I did not have the wit or composure to ask them if the boat had managed to drift so far in so short a space of time what in heavens name were we doing snorkeling there.
Domestic issues
In a previous note I mentioned how we are coming to grips with some of the more mundane things of life. Hilary has started my domestic education and shown me where the washing machine is and how it is loaded. This has come as a major shock to me but apparently well known in female circles. Wasn’t it a hard enough blow when the truth about Father Christmas was finally revealed. Now to shatter all my illusions it appears that the Laundry Fairy is also a myth. All these years of blissful ignorance and it transpires that socks and underwear do not magically move from the bedroom floor to the washing machine and back to a sock drawer. This is something I might have to get used to.
Kostas' father in law at Loutra tis Aphrodite
We had the good fortune to meet Kostas' father-in-law at the coffee shop. I hope he won't mind me saying that he is about 75 (blame Kostas!) and he was recovering from a Keith Richards moment. He took the grand-children to Loutra tis Aphrodite for a day out. This is the Baths of Aphrodite near Laatchi in the north west of Cyprus a place where Aphrodite the goddess of Love is said to have bathed and received lovers there including Adonis. The place is not as spectacular as it sounds but is worth a visit for the local beaches. However he became lost and decided to climb a tree to get his bearings. He then fell from the tree into the small stream that runs from the springs. The waters of the baths are reputed to have miraculous powers. Sadly the goddess was not around to save him and finished in hospital recovering from cuts and bruises. Just goes to prove:-
A grown man should no go tree-climbing
It's about time that that guy grew up
But most fathers are really like winos and weirdoes
In the long run, they always screw up
Tell me about it.... (Thanks Loudo I knew I could use a quote from you sometime.)
As predicted D. returned home. I guess I must be like the bougainvillea. OK from a distance but you do not want to get too close. Bye D.
Finally
I know you have wanted the answer to this question since the first paragraph. The answer is yes it was delicious and it tasted of honey. What did you expect?
Enough for today.
Cyprus lies at the eastern end of the Mediterranean sea and is in the path of many birds migrating from Europe and Russia. As most of the birds in the UK wear in indistinguishable brown uniform that makes it difficult to tell them apart I was amazed to see a brightly coloured
Bee-eater for the first time perched on a wire in front of the house. I had heard them and caught glimpses previously but this one was close up and quite an amazing bird to English eyes.
A few days later in Otto's coffee shop we sat with one of the locals called Kostas who just by chance had a dead bee-eater on the window sill behind him. To save H.'s English sensibilities Kostas tried to tell us that it simply fell from the sky and possibly died of old age or exhaustion. A trickle of blood from under its wing gave the game away. It did give us the chance to see it close up and they are slightly larger than an English blackbird but with a formidable beak with which it kills and eats up to 250 bees in a day. As such they are not held in high regard by the locals. Cyprus like Greece is famed for its honey with yoghurt. As the evening wore on H. picked up the bird and said she would take it home to bury it. At this point Kostas decided it time to emphasize to us that we were now in Cyprus not England. He promptly took it into the coffee bar and plucked it put it in a pan and presented it in front of us with an oil and vinegar dressing and some of the local unleavened bread.
Cypriot health and safety regulations
I have been aware since I arrived that Cypriots merely pay lip service to health and safety matters. This was brought starkly home to me on a recent boat trip.
It was an organized snorkel trip with perhaps the largest scuba operator in Cyprus. I was wary to begin with when I found that the snorkel instructor had only arrived from the UK the previous week. The ‘captain’ of the boat I took to be Egyptian as the conversation between he and the instructor was stilted to say the least. Things did not get off to a good start when the manifest of passengers’ names blew from the quayside into the sea and no one seemed concerned. On the other boat trips I have been on we have been obliged to wear safety vests. Not here though. The safety vests were all neatly stowed under some netting. The sea was a little rough so the ‘captain’ elected for a couple of rock shoals about 1 or 2 miles from the coast. The ‘captain’ slowed the boat occasionally so that the sound of the engines did not disturb his mobile telephone conversations. Eventually he selected the leeward side of the first of the rocky shoals but after about 20 minutes it was apparent that the rough sea was causing too much foam and cut up seaweed in the water so he opted for the second rocks. This was a good deal calmer and visibility was much better. Off went the intrepid band of snorkellers (should that be a school of snorkellers?) into the water. After a little while I decided to try the end of the rocks. I swam out in that direction. Just for safety’s sake I turned to keep an eye on the boat only to see it disappearing into the distance. Panic is an overused word and in this case does not go near far enough to describe my feelings. They were off the Richter scale. Had I been caught up in a strong current without noticing? What to do now? At this stage the boat was just about reachable so I started out swimming towards it. Then it turned and started back toward me. Thanks heavens for that they have noticed I am not there and are coming back I naively thought. The boat then sailed passed me and they shouted over at me ‘Swim after the boat.’ “Swim after the boat?” Who did they think I was Mark Spitz? Perhaps it was some kind of Cypriot water torture. Make the Englishman swim after the boat, exhaust him and watch him slowly drown just out of reach of safety. Eventually they stopped (layman’s term meaning dropped anchor) back near the rocks again. It was all a mistake. The original anchor they had used was not heavy enough and they had drifted away. What a lark it was what a joke. Exhausted I dragged myself back on board leaving fingerprint impressions embedded on the handrail.
Unfortunately I did not have the wit or composure to ask them if the boat had managed to drift so far in so short a space of time what in heavens name were we doing snorkeling there.
Domestic issues
In a previous note I mentioned how we are coming to grips with some of the more mundane things of life. Hilary has started my domestic education and shown me where the washing machine is and how it is loaded. This has come as a major shock to me but apparently well known in female circles. Wasn’t it a hard enough blow when the truth about Father Christmas was finally revealed. Now to shatter all my illusions it appears that the Laundry Fairy is also a myth. All these years of blissful ignorance and it transpires that socks and underwear do not magically move from the bedroom floor to the washing machine and back to a sock drawer. This is something I might have to get used to.
Kostas' father in law at Loutra tis Aphrodite
We had the good fortune to meet Kostas' father-in-law at the coffee shop. I hope he won't mind me saying that he is about 75 (blame Kostas!) and he was recovering from a Keith Richards moment. He took the grand-children to Loutra tis Aphrodite for a day out. This is the Baths of Aphrodite near Laatchi in the north west of Cyprus a place where Aphrodite the goddess of Love is said to have bathed and received lovers there including Adonis. The place is not as spectacular as it sounds but is worth a visit for the local beaches. However he became lost and decided to climb a tree to get his bearings. He then fell from the tree into the small stream that runs from the springs. The waters of the baths are reputed to have miraculous powers. Sadly the goddess was not around to save him and finished in hospital recovering from cuts and bruises. Just goes to prove:-
A grown man should no go tree-climbing
It's about time that that guy grew up
But most fathers are really like winos and weirdoes
In the long run, they always screw up
Tell me about it.... (Thanks Loudo I knew I could use a quote from you sometime.)
As predicted D. returned home. I guess I must be like the bougainvillea. OK from a distance but you do not want to get too close. Bye D.
Finally
I know you have wanted the answer to this question since the first paragraph. The answer is yes it was delicious and it tasted of honey. What did you expect?
Enough for today.
posted by /s at 7:02 pm
1 Comments:
Mmmmm - Cypriot fried Bee Eater; Fits right in with that Colonel Sanders look you were sporting a while back!
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