A Day in a Life - 12th December 2006

It is 08:00 on Sunday morning the 10^th of December. The sun is shining and it is 16C (61F) so I decide to walk to the supermarket at the other side of the village to fetch my Sunday paper. As I turn out of the drive the final bells are tolling for the church opposite and the priest and his team have turned on the loudspeakers and have begun to sing. One or two boys are making their reluctant way to church. I walk down past the yard of the man who produces hand-made fibre glass moldings. His yard is like a junk yard that has been hit by a bomb and yet in the middle is a pristine £20000 3 wheel Honda Gold Wing custom bike. I continue past the villa that Chris has built for his grand-daughter and is now rented out to Barry a millionaire from Jersey who, so rumour has it, pays £3000 per month in rent. I walk by the village centre and hope that ‘Fidel Castro’ is not about. Fidel is a bit of a pain as he is always trying to sell me something and it is always something that I do not want or need, oranges, lemons and nuts. In any other country he would work as a highly paid salesman for a computer company but in Tremithousa he is just a nuisance. I don’t know Fidel’s real name but as all the village call him ‘Fidel Castro’ on account of his wild hair and beard but by that yardstick three quarters of the village would be ‘Fidel Castro’ including some of the women.

As I walk to the edge of the village the sound of the loudspeakers from the Tremithousa church starts to fade and I can hear the loudspeakers from the church in the neighbouring village of Mesogi.

I pass over the bridge and by the cemetery and look out for Alekos but he is not around just yet. The small shrine outside the cemetery has its candles burning still. They seem to burn 24 hours a day. As I walk out on to the main road that runs from Paphos to Polis the majority of the traffic are the hunters in their 4x4s. Hunting is only allowed on Wednesday and Sunday mornings in Cyprus which is just as well. There are many people shot and domestic animals killed in accidents. When I was out in the Argaka peninsula last weekend the hunters were zooming back and forth in their 4x4s chasing anything that moved. I hardly dared step foot out of the car and it was small wonder that there was not a single soul to be seen in the small Turkish Cypriot village I went to see.

The picture shows one of the Turkish Cypriot villages in the Argaka region.

I pick up my paper and wander back home. As I walk by there a few individuals out washing their cars. I greet them in Greek and they respond in English. The only others out working on the constructions sites are a few ‘ians’. In Cyprus very few people work on Sunday except for the godless ‘ians’. They don’t seem to care.

I pass the coffee shop run by the village matriarch. Her coffee shop opens before 6 o’clock each morning. During the week people pop in for a coffee on their way to work and on Sunday it is the hunters who visit. This is particularly true in the more remote villages in the Argaka peninsular where the coffee shops are taken over by hunters drinking coffee and ‘sivenia’ and sitting and chatting. ‘Sivenia’ is the local fire water which comes in different qualities. There is the kind that is sipped ice cold and the kind that is used to clean the windows and as an alcohol rub on arthritic joints.

Finally I wander back passed Chris’ villa where the Philipino maid is just returning from walking Barry’s 2 labrador dogs. We briefly discuss the weather and continue home. It is 08:45 and the priest will continue singing for another 45 minutes yet. Just time to sit and read my paper and have a cup of coffee. An American friend called Alan from Chicago told me last week they had 12 inches of snow back home in the USA. News from home is that they had a tornado in London.

Today is just starting to warm up nicely. I think I may go and treat myself to a chocolate ice cream along on the sea front this afternoon. Surely it can’t last.

Mid-morning and the paper is read. Guilt gets the better of me so I decide I really should do some Christmas shopping. Anyway the CD player in the car is fixed so Chuck Berry, Johnny B Goode and I head down to the old part of town to see if the tourist shops are open.

On the way I pass some the Sri Lankan and Indian girls out walking. Sunday is their one day off each week and they walk in twos and threes into and out of town. They never take a bus or taxi. These girls work as domestic servants and their day starts about 6 in the morning and finishes at 9 around night. Somehow they survive on the most menial wages and yet manage to wire money back home. The Employment Wanted section of the newspaper holds their adverts seeking domestic/household positions and often includes their preference to work for an English or German employer rather than a Cypriot.

A section from the local Cyprus English language paper.

They are easily recognized as they invariably carry an umbrella to keep off the sun. As they walk they play with their mobile phones which seem to be their only luxury and a tenuous link home.

I park up near the centre of town. Should I put money in the parking meter? Nah no one else bothers around here and parking meters are treated as street decorations.

As I walk toward the tourist market the streets are blocked off by police and traffic wardens so I assume there is an accident. No. There is a street festival for Christmas. There are magicians, stilt walkers, balloon artists, face painters, choirs of school kids in their school uniform, brass bands and other musical groups. Father Christmas (Santa Claus) has even put in an appearance riding on the open sided street train which is hauling the kids around the crowded streets. He appears to be sweating profusely inside his full Christmas outfit. It is now 22C (72F) and Father Christmas’ red face makes him look like he is suffering from heat exhaustion rather than fat and jolly.

The brass bands are blaring out Christmas tunes and there is a Punch and Judy show going for the children. I decide to stop and watch for a while. It doesn’t make any difference that I do not understand what is being said because no one can hear anyway over the brass band.

Despite it being so warm the Cypriots are sporting Sunday suits, heavy sweaters and leather jackets. The tourists and I are instantly recognizable as we are the only ones in shorts and shirts.

The tourist market is not open so I decide to head down to the sea front and have that chocolate ice cream I promised myself. Parking is easy at this time of year as the swarms of red-plated hire cars have mostly disappeared and left the roads free for the locals. The timeshare sales riff-raff (I resist the temptation to use a stronger word) are still there at the sea front. Their ‘substance’ fuelled and frenzied efforts to get tourists back to their office appear to have calmed slightly. Amazing how many of them seem to have a cold even in this mild climate. It is unfortunate that they have not been made illegal here as they have in so many other EU countries.

I walk along the sea front passed the taxi drivers who are either gambling at backgammon or fishing with long poles. At this time of year there is a similarity between being a taxi driver and fishing. Most of the time you sit and wait and when you do get a bite it is usually for little reward.



The picture shows the taxi drivers playing backgammon. Their fishing poles are in the background.

What! The ice cream shop is not open! 22C and the ice cream shop is closed! I knew it could not last. Guess I will just have to sit by the pool in the sun and get an ice cream from the freezer.