The Three States of Cypriot Cats

An idle thought...

2007-09-21T14:50:00.001+03:00

If a parent gives a kid a mobile phone (cell phone) then that is the last communication you will have with them.

Unless the kid wants you to pay the bill of course.

Epistle from Cyprus XIV - 24th July 2007

2007-07-24T09:04:00.000+03:00

Incredibly as it may seem it is now a year since I started my time here in Cyprus. The landscape has turned from dry and parched through to fresh and green during the winter and spring and back to the arid dry. The first fresh crop of dead cats decorates the roadsides and the red numbers plates of the tourists' hire cars seem to outnumber the local cars.

Later today I will disappear over the internet event horizon when my telephone is disconnected and I was going to make this entry a final one with reflections over the year. I have decided to leave that until I have have had a little time to think about it a little and instead share one Cyprus' best kept secrets.

Several months back I was making one of my many sorties around the mountain villages. I had visited a large dam called Evretou and noticed tourists signs for something called the Skarfos Bridge. I decided to have a look and after a short drive and walk found a small arched stone bridge. The bridge no longer has water running under it because over hundreds of years the river has diverted and now runs by what would have been the northern approachway to the bridge.

Skarfos Bridge

The location was so quiet I stayed around quite a while. The bridge is not near any of the more modern roadways and was part of an old trading network that ran to the heart of mountains in the centre of the island. The trade was in the copper ore that gives Cyprus its name. It was so peaceful I decided that when I got back home I would use the internet to look up any other mediaval bridges in Cyprus and then try and visit them. This proved a lot more difficult than I imagined.

Purely by coincidence in the following days I read an article in the local paper about some people who tried to visit some of these bridges that are located in the mountains and forests of central Cyprus and gave up without seeing any believing the bridges to be a myth.
I found a map with a series of three 'Venetian Bridges' marked on it and took the road to the nearest point a small town called Arminou. Now just because point A appears near point B on a map does not mean it is easy to get from A to B. The road became a loose dirt one which became a forest track which became a rutted nightmare.
If the hire car company ever find out I am sure I will be in big trouble. Eventually I was forced to turn back from finding one of the bridges and try in the opposite direction.

The view from the mountain track approaching Kelefos

Here I had more success and was rewarded when I drove the car through a small ford and found the Kelefos Bridge (Tzelefos Bridge). This is a much larger bridge than Skarfos and has a small stream running under it. The water has been dammed to deepen it and wonder of wonders there are fish and small fresh water crabs. It is picnic area and on Sunday is popular with Cypriots which started me thinking how did they all get there. I found out when I continued on the road to the next bridge. The road was a good all weather surface which I should have used in the first place. The problem is you cannot see that on a tourist map where all the mountain roads appear as a yellow line of equal significance.

Kelefos Bridge

The road lead to Elaia Bridge which is another impressive span over a riverbed that has been gouged out of solid rock over the millenia. Here the river was drying up in the intense summer heat. The last few pools of water were a veritable bouillabaisse filled with small fish struggling for oxygen. Seeing the mountain terrain over which traders with their caravans of camels would pass cannot fail to impress. Finding these places with a car and modern roads is difficult enough.
Elaia Bridge

I had now almost completed my task of seeing the bridges but one remained ellusive and would have to wait to another day.

The final bridge is called Roudias and was by far the most difficult to locate. The fact that most of the internet references to Roudias referred to it because it is famous for its vultures and that I could not find a picture of it should have given me a clue. Having failed to find it from the most obvious direction on the map I tried the the opposite direction.

Once again the road ran out. I came to a deserted Turkish village which on the map is called Vretsia but is known to locals as Vrecha. You do start to worry a bit in these deserted villages when you can see that the minaret in the mosque has bullet holes in it. By a stroke of luck I ran into a forest ranger who told me that although I was only 2 kilometers from the bridge it was impossible to go directly there and I would have to double back on another route for about 5 kilometers. I will never know what the 2 kilometer road was like but the 5 kilometers seemed like 50. I had only 2 liters of water and apple and some dried apricots and was beginning to wonder how they would find my dental records out here in Cyprus.

Then I was there in the middle of it. I had found Cyprus's hidden heart. If Aphrodite lived and bathed anywhere in Cyprus it was here. Towering pine trees at the bottom of a mountain valley. The breeze is cool and the sound of cicadas fills the air. Butterflies are drinking by the river bank. As I walk down by the water's edge lizards dart back into the undergrowth and frogs leap into the safety of the water. Small fish hide in the depths as I approach and insects scoot across the surface.

And here too is the Roudias Bridge. Built against a natural rock outcrop it is the most beautiful and most impressive of them all. The river runs against the base of the rock and sweeps under the arch of the bridge. I was the only person there. I was the only person for miles. I had my own personal paradise. I basked in the dappled sunshine under the trees. I stripped and swam in the river and hoped that Aphrodite was not watching. Never did water and dried apricots taste so good. I found a coin on the riverbank and threw it back into the river for luck and for someone else to find.

Roudias Bridge
Apologies for the poor quality of this picture which does not do it justice. I had dropped my digital camera and lost the memory card!

Eventually my time ran out. The real world was calling me back it's voice sifting through the forest. It was shouting. 'Money' it shouted. 'Work' it bellowed. 'Responsibility' it roared. I dried myself with my floppy hat and heeded the call.

The Clock is Ticking - 18th July 2007

2007-07-18T11:53:00.000+03:00

Many people will know Cyprus as a holiday island and may even have been here to one of the holiday resorts by the sea. Our local town of Paphos is one such holiday destination and is pretty much indistinguishable from a thousand other tourist destinations here in Cyprus and in Greece, Spain and all around the Mediterreanean Sea.

Paphos is slightly different in that it is split into two distinct areas. There is Kato Paphos (Lower Paphos) which is the tourist area with its hotels, bars, restaurants and beaches. In its favour I have to say they have a great ice cream shop on along the sea front which I would recommend to anyone who visits the island.

Then there is the old town area called Pano Paphos (Upper Paphos) which is the former Turkish town centre complete with its mosque. This is the part of Paphos that I particularly like. The area still has a Turkish feel to it with many small workshops, trademen and artisans all of which are open to the street for the passerby to see. Before I finish with this blog I wanted to give some idea of what this area is like and so this entry is merely a series of photographs showing a little of everyday life in Pano Paphos.

Pano Paphos has a central open market area that is now used as a carpark, a covered public market that has many small stalls selling linen and other tourist goods and nearby is the mosque that is now closed. The area is surrounded by a series of small streets with 2 storey buildings usually with a workshop at the street level.

Apologies in advance for the poor quality of some of the pictures.

One of the small side streets with its small workshops

Peering into a workshop were they make chairs. Just chairs!

Customized exhausts.

A tailor at work outside his shop.

A furniture shop preparing the tall church pews typical of the Greek Orthodox Church

Looking inside the covered public market

Notice that amid the traditional Cyprus lace there are the racks of pirate DVDs

A selection of DVDs easily available at many of the market stalls

Tin Pan Alley

Busy at work welding in the street

Something completely illegal anywhere else due to the possibility of 'arc eye', damage to the eye caused by looking at arc welding without protecting the eyes

The mosque near the central market

A workshop doing heaven knows what

Outside one of the furniture workshops

A clothes repair shop

Bicycle repairs

And the motorcycle repair shop

Upholstery made to measure

Another furniture workshop

The entrance to my favourite watering hole in town 'Timothy's Bar'

Bar and coffee shop and art dealer and antiques and you name it.

The beautiful tiled floor in Timothy's bar

More tiled floors in Timothy's

I am not a foot fetishist honest.

The band warms up at Timothy's

Letting down your hair at Timothy's

Notice the old chap on the right who is too far gone to get up and shake his stuff.

And finally....

Everyone should take their sheep to town now and then.

Lightning sometimes strikes twice here.

2007-07-11T19:46:00.000+03:00

As chance would have it we had another fire to the north of the village on 10th July 2007 and the fire helicopters were in action again. Usually they collect water from the sea but this time they were using a small purpose built reservoir which is about 500 meters outside the village. We had 'rainfall' for the first time in months as the helicopters went over the house. I managed to get a close up of one of them picking up water.

During the summer months there is nothing on the island that evenly vaguely resembles a river. This is due to a combination of the hot dry weather and government policy that 'no drop of water to the sea'. The idea was that any rain water that fell on the land should be saved for drinking and irrigation. However I recently attended a lecture given by the Cyprus Marine Protection Agency (CYMEPA) where it was stated that this policy was now acknowledged to be one which damages the sea environment because the usual flow of river water no longer nourishes the seas. A much greater emphasis is now placed on water recycling and minimizing usage.

The sight of a fire helicopter is quite novel for English people as we do not have them at home but I promise no more helicopter movies from now on.

(Unless I get requests for the "let's burn down McDonald's" fire were the helicopters came to the rescue!)

Excitement comes to Tremithousa

2007-07-09T10:44:00.000+03:00

Cyprus is a little bit off the beat track by anybody's standards and Tremithousa even more so. Imagine the excitement when we had our very own fire in one of the ravines that separates the village from the main road to the town. The ravine is next to the village cemetery.

When the fire helicopters arrived the whole village turned out to watch. Better than TV.

A Bug's Life - 6th July 2007

2007-07-06T21:41:00.000+03:00

One thing that has become more and more apparent during my time here is a lack of decorum and propriety. There is a lack of order here that extends from highest to the lowest orders of society.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the breakdown in the unspoken entente that exists in the UK between the human and insect populations. At home insects know where they belong. There is strict dividing line between human habitat inside the household and insect habitat outside the household. At home neither party would dream of infringing on the other's privacy and breaking what is a most satisfactory arrangement.

Here there is no such sense of correctness. Insects simply do not know there place.
Ants march freely and brazenly across the kitchen threshold. Millipedes constantly barge their way under the door jams and arrange themselves around the living room, up the walls and on the curtains even going as far as attempting to copulate with the spiral telephone cord. Woodlice do likewise and then fall in small armoured balls at the base of the walls. These require daily sweeping from the house and back outside. There appears to be no end to their varieties. Ants range from something that could mug a rottweiler to those that are microscopic.

Their memories are disappointingly short. Only days after a ceasefire is declared in one of my numerous chemical warefare battles with them than they have breached the defenses again and are encamped around the refridgerator or front door trying to establish new territory. They are not happy with the entire garden and surrounding areas. Their colonial ambitions appear to know no bounds.

Houdini-esque mosquitos, an insect rarely seen in the UK, find invisible holes in the fly screens to torment us at night. And why is it that a creature that was one second buzzing sweet nothings around your ears determined to stop you sleeping in the dark should suddenly become so shy when the light is switched on. I am awaiting the kiss of the benchuca to complete the experience.

Tremithousa School Crossing

2007-07-02T12:52:00.001+03:00

Not see this piece of graffiti previously. I thought it quite appropriate.

Little angels.

Epistle from Cyprus XV - 01 July 2007

2007-07-01T10:42:00.000+03:00

Love in a Warm Climate

Allow me to introduce Phoenicia. Phoenicia is from Greece, tall, very slim with absolutely zero conversation skills who works in a local hospital. Phoenicia found me at a weak moment when I was desperate. It was a brief affair and we were together for just 4 days and 3 hot sultry nights. It seems we were made for one another but then, cold and silent, Phoenicia moved on to some other poor sucker. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

If the ambient daytime temperature is in the 40s only dropping to low 30s each night even a cold fish like myself ought to be prepared for trouble. If you have been running a fever for 48 hours you should not wait a further 48 hours after the start of a bout of 'wildies' before seeking medical assistance.

With a hot fever you start to find some new cold hard facts of life. Like the fact that a ceiling fan is actually a fiendish device; a cross between crack cocaine and Chinese water torture. 'Turn it on! Turn it on! I need it!' 'For crying out loud turn off that noise.'

That an air conditioning unit is actually the sinister big brother of the ceiling fan but with added bleeding sinuses and razor wire stuffed down the throat.

That cicadas are an insect created by the devil and sent directly from hell to a tree outside your window. Their 'singing' has the effect of an electrode wired directly into the brain without anaesthetic. They practice at anytime of day or night beginning with a solo and finishing with full orchestra each voice slightly syncopated to induce the maximum mind numbing pain.

Sunshine is no longer a tourist magnet but is there to sear your brain just before removing your retinas.

That a Cypriot ambulance is a small mobile glass house used to increase the body temperature to dangerous levels. As in common with all Cypriot vehicles at least one tyre skid stop is obligatory. They are guaranteed to rise your profile in your neighbourhood.

- 'Hey! Everything OK?'

- 'Yes I always travel by ambulance. You simply can not get a taxi this far out of town.'

Anyway the hospital reception was an icy 25C and mercifully brief. I am taken to a hospital side room and then I am introduced to Phoenicia. Cool, tall, exotic and silent. Within an hour of hooking up with Phoenicia I start to feel better. I start to see things more clearly. Phoenicia introduces some new friends like Cannula, Saline, Glucose, Ciprofloxican, Bioflor, Buscopan. There are so many I lose track of their names. I started to count my liquid intake but as anyone who knows me will attest after 4 litres of saline and 2 antibiotics I am anybodies.

The hospital staff extract so many specimens and samples I am left feeling like a piece of rag thrown out by a ladies sewing circle. By the way does anyone know why they put a spoon in that little sample tube? Does somebody get to taste it?

Excuse me from breaking with protocol and traditional British reserve here. I know I am only the patient here and it is not my place to ask questions. However is it really my job to check the IV tube for air bubbles that are making their way every 15 minutes into my veins? OK OK I am over-reacting and I am sorry. A male nurse assures me it takes about 20 millilitres of air to cause an embolism. I am calmed and return to bed.

Wait a minute, is that 20 millilitres in total? Do I have to sit here and count them? How big is a bubble anyway?

Here are a few tips if you ever find yourself in the same situation.

Shave your entire body. I have mentioned the fact that Cypriots are hairy. It makes no difference. There are no concessions granted here when removing sticking plaster.

Try and avoid the room opposite or adjacent to the guy who sounds like he is wearing an aqualung filled with snot.

Try and avoid the room opposite or adjacent to the guy who has had his nurse alarm call bell removed. This was not done without good cause. To compensate he has now memorized the name of every nurse on the entire 3 shift roster. Not only that he is happy to demonstrate his new found knowledge and he will call those names incessantly every 8 seconds for the entire 3 shifts.

ETET. Entry to exit times for food. Initially I believed I had sub-second responses but the doctor tells me it was much longer. If I want to make the Guinness Book or Records I have to 'push the envelope'. I assure him that my envelope is already pushed completely out of shape.
The fingers on my left hand are so swollen with IV saline drip I cannot close them to make a
fist. It makes no difference as I am so weak I could not fight my way out of a wet paper bag. They are like a bunch of small white unripe bananas. I hear a universal sigh of relief as I realize I will never play the violin.

01:15AM and my IV has stopped flowing so I go to the nurses' station. She wriggles the cannula back and forward, up and down inside my vein to demonstrate how I can control the flow of saline myself. After I come down from the ceiling I decide that if it stops again it can stay stopped.

Anyone who has been there will tell you that hospitals are boring. Hours and hours of boredom. Nothing to do except work on my Homer Simpson impressions. 'Bed goes up' 'Bed goes down' 'Bed goes up' 'Bed goes down'.

Phoenica and me

I watch an apartment block opposite and I can see a tall leggy blond in a red bikini and sheer white top assisting her partner into a parking space. She makes sure the car is nice and close to the building with just sufficient space for a passing bus or 18-wheeler to slip into the gap. I wait with anticipation to see her driving partner. A stunning petite brunette or perhaps some sleek tanned Greek Adonis? Instead a short obese bald man dressed in a thong gets out. For heavens sake put that away in public.

For a few moments while they enter the building I wonder whether there really is a God. Then I realize that there is ... and He is mocking me.

The Roads in Cyprus - 22 June 2007

2007-06-22T17:42:00.001+03:00

I have on occasion made disparaging remarks about the driving in Cyprus. I think I may have found at least one of the reasons. Early one morning I was driving toward a small mountain village called Nata and approached a sharp left hand bend. Unusually for a mountain road the track was wide enough for two vehicles and was welled marked with white linings.

Which set of lines would you follow? Download the image and zoom it to see if that helps. Remember that in Cyprus, as in the UK, we drive on the left. (Actually it could have been worse if I had been driving on the right hand side!)

Epistle from Cyprus XIV - 20th June 2007

2007-06-20T20:54:00.000+03:00

Come to school with me.

I have just completed my year of evening classes in Modern Greek level 1. I thought you might want to come along with me and experience a Cypriot Gymnasium (secondary school). OK I know you spent long enough trying to get out of school and vowed that you would never return never mind all that rubbish about it being 'the best years of your life'. OK put on your sunglasses because you will need them.

The school I attend twice a week is in the village of Emba about 5 minutes drive away. The building is a large two story concrete building. This is the one, you may remember from a previous blog entry, that was struck by lightning one evening while we were in class. The building is painted a stark white and as with most Cypriot schools has several flags hoisted at the front.

The Apostle Andrew Gymnasium, Emba

One of the flags is the EU flag blue with gold stars. Cyprus is a keen EU member as they receive quite a few benefits and are able to use their EU veto freely in any negotiations regarding Turkey's application to join the EU. As you might expect one is the flag of the Cyprus
Republic which is a white background and a yellow/gold outline of a map of Cyprus and two crossed olive branches. These olive branches are supposed to symbolize peace between the Greek and Turkish communities in Cyprus. Ironic really as this is never likely to happen while the third and most prominently displayed is always the Greek national flag symbolizing a desire for unity with the Greek mainland. Unity with Greece is a complete anathema to the Turkish Cypriot community. (Anathema: nice Greek word there!) The Cypriots appear to be labouring under the misconception that because they speak the same language as the Greek mainland they inevitably should unite with Greece. Perhaps they should have a word with USA, Australian and New Zealand nationals to get that issue sorted out. However lets get into class because I am late as usual.

Peeking up at classroom B9.

I am in classroom B9 on the first floor. There are windows along both sides of the classroom and all the windows and doors are open because of the heat and white net curtains blow in the warm breeze. The walls are all painted white, there is a whiteboard at the front and it is illuminated by white strip lighting without the regulation diffusers that are mandatory in most office environments. The classroom furniture that was once had a wood veneer is now covered in graffiti. White graffiti of course. The students use white printers correction fluid to plaster the chairs and tables. The white graffiti even extends to the glass in the window frames. The chairs and tables have been extensively vandalized and it is difficult to find a chair that is not so
splintered that it does not injure the more tender parts of the anatomy. One week we had new furniture but withing in 2 weeks it had either been removed or customized by the students to match the existing stuff, it was impossible to tell. I don't know if they are feeding the kids around here but each chair and desk appears to have bite marks taken from them.

The lesson itself is like yet another 40 year timewarp. The teacher reads today's lesson and the class repeat it back parrot fashion. Then repeat it again. And again. The teaching technique seems to owe more to the era of 'reading, writing and arithmetic, talk to the tune of a hickory stick' than any modern theory of learning. The chanting is interrupted occasionally by the ring of a mobile phone. No one in Cyprus would ever dream of switching off their cell phone. Even the teachers will immediately break off from whatever they are doing to answer the phone. After 90 minutes of chanting in Greek in this room I am starting to suffer snow blindness and am glad when the session is over. I am sure if these conditions were inside a prison they would be considered a form of psychological torture. My head is buzzing maybe I should drive back home and visit the coffee shop.

Ah! Save haven and warm welcome outside the coffee shop.

How many cats to the boatload? 20 May 2007

2007-05-20T09:27:00.000+03:00

The legend that Helena the mother of the Emperor Constantine was the first person to bring cats to Cyprus is just that. I found the following National Geographic reference to a 9500 year old mummified cat in Cyprus.

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/04/0408_040408_oldestpetcat.html

So it seems that Helena missed the boat.... or the boatload which ever you prefer.

There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that the cat described in the National Geographic article was the victim of a hit-and-run incident by a 9500 year old Cypriot at the wheel of his chariot.

Epistle from Cyprus XIII - 16th May 2007

2007-05-15T13:30:00.000+03:00

More on Birdwatching
I have decided to make use of the time I have spent birdwatching by publishing a book of the many photographs I have taken. The current working title is 'Cyprus: Burds Wot I Soor'. I envisage a deluxe edition of 350 pages (I am sure that should be enough to include even those species yet to be officially classified), each page a glossy 6" x 8" photograph. These will be a miscellany of blurred images or small black dots receding into the distance or the occasional in focus picture of a tree or some foliage. I will of course include some careful posed images of the sparrows eating bread crumbs on the patio and the pigeons on next doors roof unless I can persuade Andreas to rid me of them first. You may remember Andreas as the shotgun owner who celebrates Easter in such a noisy fashion.

I did manage to see one bird which I was pleased with. I was told by one of the ex-pats that there were several European Rollers in a small valley nearby. According to Wikipedia this is a 'Near Threatened' bird.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/European_Roller

It is a highly colourful bird about the size of a crow and I was very happy when after several hours I managed to track some down and get another set of blurred images for my collection.
When I told my bird watching colleague he shot me down faster than the European Roller that was flat in the road near their nesting location. Apparently they are common as vermin and can be seen all over Europe.

Some More Wildlife
One of the side effects of birdwatching is that you invariably come into contact with some of the islands snake population. The dense undergrowth by the side of the rivers is loved by the snakes just as much as the birds. In fact on several occasions I have nearly stepped on one only for them to disappear rapidly into the long grass. Each time they have moved so fast they have been impossible to identify.

However on one occasion I was driving out to one of the small mountain villages in pursuit of that perfect bird picture for the book when I noticed what looked like a crack in the road surface and so slowed down and eventually stopped. It was a large snake that I recognized from its mug shots at the local police station as a 'Blunt Nosed Viper'.As I was stopped in the road and starting to take photographs several other 4x4s came up and stopped to see what I was doing. The locals were also quite amazed by such a large snake and so they started to take photographs on their mobile (cell) phones too. Eventually there was quite a little traffic jam on the hillside. A line of 4x4s, trucks and tractors all behind my little blue Nissan.

The Blunt Nosed Viper

The first man who approached me told me 'This is the number one killer in my country (Cyprus)'. Leaving aside the fact that the last person killed by a Blunt Nosed Viper was in 1996 who was walking barefoot in the grass, I think he was also forgetting the dozens of people killed by in road accidents by the homicidal maniacs behind the wheel over here and the rising number of domestic murders committed by Cypriot husbands on their foreign born wives and girlfriends.

One of the late comers to the snake gathering conferred with his countrymen and then asked if I wanted to pick up the snake. I am not sure if he was just checking how stupid the ex-pats are or if he mistook me for Moe. ("Homer, I was born a snakehandler and I will die a snakehandler").

Eventually the group of Cypriots decided that as I had been first on the scene it was my snake
and I was offered the honour of killing the snake by running over it in the car. It caused some confusion when I refused as the snake and I had a mutual agreement to live and let live and at last the snake slipped away under my car and off into the long grass at the side of the road. I trust that had I attempted to pick up our slippery friend he would have stopped me but you never know. There is not much in the way of entertainment in these remote villages and the story of how a crazy Englishman was hopping around after being bitten by a snake is something you could tell in the coffee shops for a long time.

Tackling a Blue Pool Snake

A particularly vicious specimen

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.

Cultural differences

I came upon the following sign in a small village nearby. I think it sums up one of the differences between Cyprus and England. Bear in mind that the graffiti on the walls in some of these villages refers to the return from exile of Archbishop Makarios. That was in 1956.

I can imagine the reaction from one of my daughters if I suggested that her clothes should be repaired rather than discarded after a few weeks and replaced with this months latest fashion.

I can't see this on my High Street

Maybe 40 years ago but not in 2007.

An Update on Easter in Tremithousa - 26th April 2007

2007-04-24T19:33:00.000+03:00

Great Friday or Good Friday (Μεγάλη Παρασκευή)

First you need to know a bit about the construction of a Greek Orthodox church.
They follow a cruciform (cross-shaped) plan and are oriented west to east with a raised altar at the eastern end. The altar is separated and obscured from the main body of the church by a screen called an iconostasis that is decorated with large brightly painted icons. There is a door in the centre of the screen called the Beautiful Gate through which only the priest may pass. During Lent the icons on the screen are hidden behind black material.

The iconostasis with the Beautiful Gate in the centre
This picture shows an iconostasis from the small church outside the monastery at Stavrovouni.

The Easter Friday (here it is called Great Friday) service is long. Very long. 19:30 - 22:00. The priest is dressed in black vestments and can just be seen through the door in the iconostasis. The entire service is in the form of chants with the disembodied voice of the priest singing behind the screen and acolytes chanting their responses.
The congregation is divided with the women on one side and men on the other. Although the women outnumber the men by a large majority. The women and young girls are all dressed in black. Everyone is dressed in their Easter best outfits. I feel like I have stumbled into a Goths convention or a mismatched outing of group of dark haired dark eyed houris and the opening scene from Macbeth.
The service has a familiar feel. It is like a 45 year time warp for Catholicism where you sit through an entire service in a language that you do not understand. At least here you get to stand instead of groveling on your knees. All during the service there is a constant barrage of fireworks set off by the young men and boys who are guarding the bonfire which is about 20 meters from the church door.
In the centre of the church is what appears to be a funeral bier with a white shroud laid on it. The bier is crowned with 12 candles. During the service young girls are invited to come forward to throw flowers over this bier. When the service is over the candles are taken down. The entire congregation comes forward to kiss the shroud on the bier. They then have their hand sprinkled with water in a ritual cleansing before receiving a single bloom from the priest. This being Cyprus of course the men come first and the women after.
The bier is then lifted and carried aloft around part of the village accompanied by singing and chanting all the way. IThe procession stops at regular intervals to allow the ex-pats to gawp from their windows.
When it arrives back at the church there is one lap of honour around the church before the final event. The 12 candles are broken up and thrown to the congregation. It is believed to bring good fortune if you firstly manage to get hold of a piece of candle and secondly manage to keep it at home or in your car for an entire year. As in all things Cypriot it is not what you know but who you know. Otto, who assists at the church, has saved me a piece of candle and I do not have to scramble and fight for it.

Great Saturday or Easter Saturday (Μεγάλο Σάββατο)

This is altogether a jollier occasion. The service starts in Otto's coffee shop with a couple of warmers to fortify us for the coming night. The church service starts at 23:00 and goes on till 00:30.

Everyone brings their own candle except for heathens and ne'er-do-wells such as myself who take a candle from a box by the church door. People have been making and decorating these candles over the previous weeks especially for this occasion. They are beautifully wound around with ribbons and flowers and with little wind protectors near the wick.
Except for the ones in the box which look like a stick. Holding one of these is like wearing National Health Service glasses. (A stigma that I believe is similar to Welfare coupons in the US)
Today the priest is in white vestments and the black covers have been removed from the iconostasis. Once again the service is accompanied by a gathering crescendo of fireworks on the doorstep. Last year there was insufficient space outside and the lads were forced to bring them inside the church. The priest was not amused and set about them. I certainly would not want to get on the wrong side of this priest. He is a small and powerfully built man and he lives with his wife and family at one end of the village. He is a farmer and is frequently to be seen driving around the village in his tractor with a plough or harrow at the back. I mention this merely to compare it with the strange life led by priests of the Catholic church who live an entirely unnatural and isolated existence. Here it seems a priest can live a normal human life.

At midnight the lights in the church are turned out and the priest comes through the Beautiful Gate with a single lighted candle. This symbolizes the Light of the World. This candle is then used to light all the candles held by the congregation symbolizing the Light spreading around the World. Once again it is believed to be lucky if you can take your candle home and draw three little crosses above your front door with the soot from your candle. My candle does even get as far as the church door before it needs relighting. Then there is a candlelight procession around the church with the church icons held high and leading the way. At one point the church icon are held aloft to forma bridge and the congregation walk under. All this is to the thunderous explosions of hundreds of fireworks on each side so that you cannot hear yourself think.

People drift away home with their candles. As we walk back to the coffee shop a lady drives by in her car and around the corner where we are standing. The passenger window is rolled down and in one hand she holds a mobile phone in the other she holds a lighted candle. Its OK you can do that sort of thing here.

The bonfire has been lit by the church and the village lads have started the barbeque. You should know by now that every celebration in Cyprus is incomplete without a barbeque. When we get back to the church after more fortification at the coffee shop we find the food is ready. A couple of police cars are there and the policemen stand around eating and drinking. After about thirty minutes they decide that the drinks and barbeque are up to standard and leave presumably to find the next barbeque.

The priest sits at the middle of a long tressel table surrounded by villagers. A rival barbeque has been set up by another group of lads about 20 metres away. The rival barbeques entertain themselves by throwing fireworks at each other. The priest is not immune to this. His own side frequently drop fireworks under his chair though he seems not to notice and barely blinks an eye. The joke never fails to lose its appeal even after the twentieth firework and he ignores them all.

The food and drink flows freely. I have no idea who provided it all but someone is always ready to fill up my plate or my glass. The bonfire is roaring and every few minutes there is a huge explosion as one of the homemade fireworks explode. These are serious pieces of ordinance which are detonated a little way away. A piece of shrapnel from one of these would do serious injury.

This little beauty (the one on the right!) exploded about 30 feet away from us.

(That's a metal pipe by the way)

At three thirty Andreas, one of the group, takes the priest home in his pickup truck and returns with his shotgun. He then starts the celebratory shots in the air over the church roof. The fireworks, shooting and feasting continues.

At five o'clock I feel I have done my bit having stayed longer than the other ex-pats and decide it call it a night. Surely nothing else can happen and so I leave them to it. Just as I am departing the group remember that they have not played with the church bell all night. I go off to sleep with the frenzied clanging of the church bell in the background.

The next day the fireworks continue. It is unanimously agreed it was a good evening. Two people were arrested after I departed. Andreas for shooting his shotgun and not having a licence and Costas for shouting at the policemen down at the station while trying to get Andreas released. Costas was allowed out that day and Andreas on Easter Monday.

I don't know about you but church was never this entertaining for me when I was growing up. You never know I might still be going if it had.

Ouch - 24th April 2007

2007-04-24T12:16:00.000+03:00

OK I did not realize so many people would be so keen to know. However I can't just give you the answer that would be too easy. Instead here are a few lines of a song that is significant to me and will also help to get the answer of what is inside the monastery.

Now if you make a pilgrimage I hope you find your grail
Be loyal to the ones you leave with even if you fail
Be chivalrous to strangers you meet along the road
As you take that holy ride yourselves to know
You take that holy ride yourselves to know WZ

The answer is in the song. Come on you are all internet users it is easy now.

Epistle from Cyprus XII - 22 April 2007

2007-04-22T18:16:00.000+03:00

A Pilgrimage

This all started several months ago when we went to Larnaka airport to pick up D. On the way back I noticed what appeared to be a fortress or castle on a high mountain and I made a half-hearted decision to visit the place but not knowing the name of the place it would be difficult and so I put it out of my mind.
This particular day however started as a pilgrimage to Bethlehem in search of a miracle cure. At least a trip to the HP service centre on Bethlehem Street, Nicosia with a laptop with a broken LCD. If anyone asks what you do for a living tell them you collect the 20 cent coins in the public toilets. When was the last time you asked one of those people for help with a problem with your own toilet? Nobody bothers them with work related questions. Can you look at this printer? Can you check my mobile phone?
Having left the patient in the care of the HP laptop hospital (and if you ever read this HP support people I am still waiting for that email you said you would send) I turned back on the 140 kilometre trip home.
Hunger diverted me from the motorway and my stomach directed me along the smaller side roads between Nicosia and Larnaca. It complained bitterly as each small restaurant we found was closed because it was out of season. As I was driving I noticed several tourist signs for a monastery called Stavrovouni but at this point my stomach was still holding the steering wheel.
Generally Mr. Stomach has the timing of a Swiss chronograph and the direction of a GPS but it soon became apparent that there were no restaurants or coffee shops open in this area so we called it quits and tried to head back to the motorway hoping to find the next large town.
Now things started to get strange. No matter which direction I drove I could not find the road back. The tourist map that I had was as meaningful as a Jackson Pollock. The only consistent road sign were the brown tourist signs towards the monastery. Rome, it seems, had been transported to Stavrovouni.

Eventually I was on a road head up a steep mountain and being drawn like a moth to a flame. Mr. Stomach had abandoned all hope of ever being fed again and given himself to his fate of a slow and painful starvation. After 30 minutes I arrived at a car park outside the monastery at the top of the mountain. I bowed to the inevitable and decide to have a look. Just my luck it is just after 1 o’clock in the afternoon and the monastery is closed between 11am and 2pm. Even the monks out here take a siesta.

I decided to wait and have a look around which is not a problem. This car park has the best views in the whole of the south of Cyprus and possibly the entire island. The monastery sits on the very peak of the mountain and dominates the area. I can see from the oil terminal at Limassol in the west, across the salt lakes and the airport at Larnaca and to the very south east tip of the island at Cape Greco. To the north it looks over a central plain to the Pentadaktylos mountains of Nicosia. (Pente - five, daktylos - finger) Thank heavens there are five instead of one of two.

I am so high that I can look down on a light aircraft performing acrobatics in one of the valleys to the north. The plane is swooping down into a valley and trying to chase its own shadow on a mountainside. To the northwest I can see into the heart of the Troodos mountains and the dome of the tracking station on the peak of mount Olympus that looks like a giant golfball. There is snow up there in Troodos.

There I sat in the cool shade of the monastery gates and I could hear the monks chanting inside so it wasn't a siesta. From this vantage it is easy to imagine that you can see across the Mediterranean as far as Egypt and Libya to the south and Lebanon to the east.

Stavrovouni Monastery. There is a footpath but I advise you to take the road.

Eventually the clock crawled around to 2pm and one of the monks opened a small door to the side of the large gates. He was not my vision of a typical monk. He was about as far from the Friar Tuck image as it is to get. He was very tall and elderly with a scratchy grey beard and wore a pair of overalls and an overcoat. An overcoat in this weather! He scrutinized me and asked that I take my camera back to the car as photographs are not allowed inside the monastery. I was then free to around the monastery gardens and up to the central monastery itself. Good job he did not notice the mobile phone. I spent most of the time while looking around, worrying that the phone would ring while I was in one of the quietest and most sacred of their rooms. I did not want to get it out and turn it off lest they caught me and threw me from the precipice for being a god-forsaken heathen.

What was inside the monastery? Well half of the people reading this will never get to find out. Women are not allowed inside the monastery. This is a bit strange because the place was founded by Helena the mother of eastern Emperor Constantine. As for the other half of the readers…well you will just have to come and see it for yourselves. It is worth it just for the view.

Footnote 1
The title of this blog “The Three States…” and the monastery of Stavrovouni are linked. The Emporer Constantine’s mother Helena was forced to land on the island by a storm. Cyprus had been suffering from a 50 year drought and was overrun with snakes. As well as founding the monastery as a gesture of thanks to the island she sent a boatload of cats which were freed to exterminate the snakes. I am not sure exactly how many cats make up a ‘boatload’ but I can vouch that the cats are still here and they are still working.

Footnote 2
I did eventually hear back from HP Support Team. Well after I rang them back again they contacted me. They had sent me an email to the wrong address. Sound familiar. Anyway the patient is back with its owner and I am about £400 poorer for the experience. By the way K. what about my garden hoe? I never got that back.

Footnote 3
The very second I was outside the monastery gate that damn phone rang. Is that divine intervention or what?

Some updates - 10th April 2007

2007-04-10T13:37:00.000+03:00

A slice of good luck

One of my Romanian friends is Nicu. The other Romanians tease him because he comes from an rural area of Romania that is between Transylvania and Moldavia. The Moldavians have a reputation in Romania for their simple and bucolic life. He has the distinction of being the only person I know who fell asleep while riding his motorcycle. This happened late one night and the other Romanians say it is because he forgot he was on a motorcycle and thought he was back home on his horse. He takes all the teasing with good grace.
A few nights ago Nicu had a visit from another Romanian husband and wife. There had been some slight between them and in the ensuing fracas the woman stabbed Nicu in the arm with a broken glass and severely wounded him. The apartment was soaked in blood across the floors and up the walls. Nicu had to be taken to hospital for sutures and had lost a couple of pints of blood. When asked about it later he said he had been lucky. He was quizzed by what he meant. He said that the guy had brought a chainsaw with him and it was lucky that he could not start it.

More spirit activity

Hilary and I were in a restaurant in the next village with two friends and, as the fates would have it, the lady 'psychic, palmist and angel reader' was also there . See(http://thethreestatesofcypriotcats.blogspot.com/2007/03/from-home-of-xenon-of-kition-27th-march.html)
A further coincidence was that our two friends happened to know the psychic lady very well. Perhaps not such a coincidence was that the lady was once again in free touch with the spirits. When she noticed our two friends she came over to our table to declare her undying affection for them both. At that very moment there was a knocking sound on the underside of our table.
Unfortunately the lady was on another plane and missed the message but I received a kick under the table.

Birdwatching in Cyprus

At this time of year there are many more birds around. During the hotter summer months they are not to be seen and I suspect they either migrate of move to cooler locations higher in the mountains of the island. Encouraged by a friend I have started a very amateurish interest in birdwatching. It is a hobby that I find immensely frustrating. My modus operandi is as follows

Adopt relaxed position in chair on the veranda
Wait for a bird to appear on a bush or neighbouring rooftop
Use binoculars and attempt to memorize the subject (size, colouring)
Rush to the computer and lookup subject on the internet.

Even with the entire global resources of the internet at my disposal I have failed to identify anything that was not a sparrow of a pigeon. I have decided that the answer is to adopt the Japanese scientific approach to tghis kind of research. Find it, shoot it, eat it then make a decision about what it was.

"Bang...."
"Mmmmm... that duck was delicious"
"That wasn't a duck it did not have any feathers. It was enormous and grey. It had a tail and lived in the sea. I think it was a whale"
"Are you sure? Ducks have tails and live in water"
"Yeah you are right....and it was delicious"
"Tell you what lets shoot another one and eat it just to check"
"Bang...."
"Mmmmm... that duck was delicious"

Epistle from Cyprus XI - 5th April 2007

2007-04-05T15:12:00.000+03:00

The Easter Build-up

It was early this morning and I was in the shower and I could hear a groups of kids coming down the road as they were making so much noise. Suddenly there was a beating at the door and ringing of the door bell sufficient to raise the dead. My immediate thought was that it was one of the traditions were children visit all the houses in the neighbourhood and extort goodies and money with an implied threat of violence or vandalism. This is much in the mould of the child's Christmas wish list that closely resembles a list of hijackers demands (suitcase with $2 million in unmarked notes, plane ready fuelled with pilot...oh and a Playstation and a new bike).

When we lived in Sweden they had a similar Easter tradition were children would dress as the Påsk Kärring (Poask Sherring) or Easter Witch and take a basket from door to door to gather sweets, eggs and other goodies.

Mr Grumpy eventually stepped from the shower and quickly dressed so as to avoid embarrassment and possible arrest. Of course by the time I got to the door the children were already several streets distant so I prepared for the worst and opened the front door to inspect the damage.
There on the doorstep was a small bundle with a decorated cellophane wrapper. Inside bundle was a small loaf of Tsoureki (Easter Bread) and 2 Kokkina Paschalina Avga (red painted Easter eggs).

Then there was the slow realisation that here the children are actually delivering gifts instead than demanding money with menaces.

My Easter Easter Bread and Red Eggs

I mentioned in a previous note that Easter rather Christmas is the big Greek Orthodox celebration. The preparations have been going on since the beginning of Lent on what is called Cleansing Monday. Each Sunday a large load of wood is delivered to outside the church in preparation for a large bonfire and fireworks celebration on Easter Saturday night. The wood is usually in the form of a tree trunk complete with roots. These are frequently dragged along the roads or on the back of pickup trucks and made into large piles.

On the way to Agiou Georgiou Church

Each church will have their own bonfire and it is a matter of some pride as to which village church has the largest bonfire. This leads to a deal of intrigue. Raids on other village bonfires are quite common. This is either to supplement your own bonfire or for commercial reasons. Firewood of any description is valuable here in Cyprus where they do not yet have their own supplies of coal, oil or natural gas.

The stash of one of the local rivals

These raids serve as a good excuse for the village boys to form vigilante groups to guard their own bonfire. They camp out in the evening next to the bonfire with the barbecue and associated party and loud music that goes with it. With such revelry it is not surprising that nights are punctuated with the sound of explosions as the boys let off steam and fireworks. Hilary has not been impressed with the consequent lack of sleep.

Well the Easter build-up has been so good I for one am looking forward to the main event.

Glad Påsk

Καλό Πάσχα

Paşte Fericit

Happy Easter

From the Home of Xenon of Kition - 27th March 2007

2007-03-27T17:25:00.000+03:00

One of the similarities that I notice from living in Cyprus, Sweden and to my limited knowledge also the USA is the number of unsolicited bits of junk advertising that drop through my letter box. They are usually for local supermarkets and electrical stores listing their latest bargain offers. These flyers are actually quite useful and are eagerly awaited by the locals. Over here they are not content to merely slip them into your letter box but you will also be assailed at each set of traffic lights by people pushing them through any available open window in the car.

One recent letter box delivery that did catch my eye was for “Mind, Body and Spirit Exhibition”. It came with a glossy magazine that described the exhibition and the various presenters. These were the usual motley collection of psychics, palmreaders, regression therapists, tuning fork healers, rebirther trainers etc. I have seen similar exhibitions advertised back in the UK and it always amazes me that they need such an extensive advertising campaign. Surely if the psychics were any good then all of that would be unnecessary and people would just turn up. Maybe I am too sceptical.

A selection of flyers including my favourite.

I continued to read the glossy magazine that ‘celebrates the 11th in the current series of events promoting holistic health and self-development’. Again I am surprised they needed to have so many, surely one would have been enough or maybe two to pick up the stragglers like myself.

To my amazement there staring from the glossy pages was a face I recognised. A lady of a certain age who has stayed in the village several times. She had a long and impressive resume and longer list of letters after her name. She was described as being able to offer ‘Private Tarot Readings, Psychic Awakening Courses, Palmistry, Crystal, Reiki & Angel Readings’ and many more besides.

She is well known around the village for an encounter that she experienced with the spirits in Otto’s coffee shop that caused her to fall from her bar stool banging her head on a table. Still under the influence of these powerful spirits she proceeded to talk in a foul and abusive tongue to the locals before staggering out of the door. She was last seen the next day leaving the village with a black eye that had resisted her extensive healing powers.

My own experiences with the local spirits were equally painful and now I stick to the beer.

I like to think that Xenon (also known as Xeno of Citium) would be smiling.

Lost and Found - 24th March 2007

2007-03-24T10:19:00.000+02:00

I thought I should add this as a footnote to the previous entry about the Coptic gales.

In the unlikely event that a representative of the Egyptian government reads this and they want to know where their desert has gone it is in the front of my house on top of my car. I would be very grateful if someone could pop around and pick it up and wash the car before they leave. Thanks.

El Shams - El Kebira - 23th March 2007

2007-03-23T09:23:00.000+02:00

It is the time of the Big Sun gale. I remain sceptical about the Coptic Gales and their basis in scientific fact but I have to acknowledge that today we are in the middle of a gale. It has been simmering for the last 48 hours and the temperature and the wind from a southwest direction has been steadily increasing. These warm winds that sweep in from Africa (for there have been several) are certainly strange for someone from the northern parts of Europe. In that part of the world any wind is normally guaranteed to freeze the marrow of your bones.

The Halal Sultan Tekke Mosque - 23 March 2007

2007-03-21T11:24:00.000+02:00

I was dropping off a friend at Larnaca airport about a 2 hour drive away so I decided to have another look at the mosque and the salt water lagoons that are just 2 minutes from the airport. It was definitely worth the trouble. The salt water lagoons were crowded with pink flamingoes and other water birds. I was lucky to have my binoculars with me but unfortunately the wild birds were out of range for the camera.

The mosque itself was a bit less mobile so I managed to get a couple of pictures.

The Halal Sultan Tekke Mosque, Larnaca

Although I caught the image it cost me dearly. I was savaged by a several mosquitos that, to judge by the size of the bite marks, must have been the size of small dogs.

You meet the most interesting and friendly of people in these places. Here I met a man from Chechnya who had been asked to visit the mosque by his teacher as part of a pilgrimage. He was dressed in a full traditional costume called a beshmet and a small pointed hat. A character straight from Arabian Nights. He was only too willing to practice his English and give me a personal tour of the mosque.

An unexpected sight - 21 March 2007

2007-03-21T10:52:00.000+02:00

I suppose the geography of Cyprus should have given me a clue. An island in the Mediterranean Sea to the west of Israel so that some would believe it located in the heart of Europe probably close to Rome or those nice Swiss with their cuckoo clocks. The western EU countries see it to the east of Turkey in the depths of the Middle East. Somewhere near Syria. Probably a suburb of Beirut.
It was still a surprise to come across a full scale and savage battle right on my doorstep. Two armies opposing each other and fighting over an apparently barren and stony wasteland. Long supply routes hampering both sides with a constant flow of messages back to their HQs and a stream of reinforcements sent to the frontline. The battlefield itself was littered with corpses. Soldiers engaged in single combat and all prepared for the indiscriminate use of chemical weapons. Each soldier with inhuman strength desperate to overcome their opponent as though they knew that the loser would be dragged back behind enemy lines for a fate that does not bear thinking about.
For hours the battle continued, a war of attrition limited only by the number of bodies each side could throw at the enemy. The next day neither side had prevailed and the landscape they had battled for was as bleak and barren as ever with no sign that either had ever been there.
The only sign of life were the highly coloured butterflies that warmed themselves on the grey rocks.

A visitor to Tremithousa - 14th March 2007

2007-03-14T20:00:00.000+02:00

My son Matthew has threatened to come and stay in Cyprus for several weeks!! Well I know how he likes to watch movies and, as I have just finished a book by John Irving, I thought I would recommend a film for him to watch and absorb.

I am not sure he will find this one at the video library.

Epistle from Cyprus X - 30th January 2007

2007-01-29T21:10:00.000+02:00

Otto’s Rolls-Royce

I have mentioned Otto’s coffee shop on several occasions earlier. The tradition of the coffee shop has been described as far back as the 9th century as the “meeting places of a circle of pleasure seekers and idlers” and I suppose that about sums it up.
Although it is called a coffee shop it also serves soft drinks, beer, wine and other the local fire water. The primary attraction for the ex-pats that patronize the premises is the fact that the beer is cheaper than any where else we have found on the island. However the main function for the locals is as a meeting place after they have been to church on Sunday morning or to while away the late afternoons and to sit, chat and play backgammon. They drink Cypriot Coffee and a type of hot almond cordial drink. Otto prepares these hot drinks on what he describes as his ‘Rolls-Royce’. This is a basic gas heated ring with a metal plate containing sand and mounted by a chrome water cistern. As I mentioned in a previous epistle a Cypriot coffee cup about the size of a thimble and served with a glass of cold water. The coffee is prepared using a long handled dipper and slowly brewed in the sand on the metal plate.

Otto's Rolls-Royce in action preparing sausages. Mmmm sausages...

As with tea making in exotic locations of China, Japan and England the coffee making is an art and it has many traditions and superstitions associated with it. The coffee must be served with a creamy foam on top of it. This is especially true when it is served to a friend. If the coffee boils and the foam disappears it may portend the end of a long friendship. Best stick to bottles of beer I say you are pretty safe with that and it is so much easier to prepare.
Otto’s Rolls-Royce is quite utilitarian. It is used to bake potatoes, cook mushrooms, prepare kebabs, light cigarettes and heat the place. One of the few things it does not do is drive. He calls it his Rolls-Royce because its predecessor was old-fashioned!

Out on the town – alone.

Recently I had another opportunity to visit Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus. The Greek name for Nicosia is Lefkosia however the uppercase Greek letter L is Λ and there appears to have been a corruption or anglicization of the name.
Since 1974 Nicosia has been a divided capital. Like post-war Berlin it is divided by a wall. Here it separates the Turkish Cypriots in the north from the Greek Cypriots in the south. To the north of the city in the Turkish controlled area are the central Pendadaktylos mountains. Pendadaktylos means five fingers which describes the supposed shape of the mountains.

On the nearest slope the Turkish Cypriots have cut a giant flag which can be seen from the southern part of Nicosia. The flag acts as a red rag and permanent reminder to Greek Cypriots in the south of the division. There are check points and border guards and a United Nations buffer zone between the two parties. The buffer zone is dilapidated and bullet scarred. North and South eye each other through windows and watch towers. On this occasion a drunk was entertaining the Greek Cypriot guards with his antics while those across the divide were taking their job much more seriously.

Here is the border wall complete with guards, viewing point and drunk.

However I was not here to monitor the border guards or resolve Cyprus issue. I was alone in the big city. I now remember why I usually go with H. She acts as regulator and reality check.
On my own I am transfixed by the bright lights. I become transformed into Homer in the Land of Chocolate. I am a butterfly in a rose garden, a town dog let loose in the forest. I wander from one shop window to another attracted by the next piece of glitter and eye-candy.
There is a sweater I need a couple of those. Look a Zippo lighter that would be fun. Oh a digital voice recorder I don’t have one of those. How about a Cartman doll that would raise my Cool Quotient (CQ) quite a bit? Wait a minute what about that sheepskin jacket. I have promised myself one for years. Look a digital voice recorder… oops I have been to this shop window once already. Surely I must be meant to have one. Hang on there is a pair of skis. Wouldn’t that be something to buy skis in Cyprus and even more CQ. There are some Wayne Rooney football boots for me and a Scaletrix race track for the boys.
Wait a minute…A Zippo lighter? I don’t smoke. Scaletrix for the boys? The youngest boy is 20 years old (though no doubt they would both fight over it anyway) and the chances of skiing in Cyprus are at best remote. A Cartman doll? What was I thinking of? A digital voice recorder? Good grief that could only be used to provide evidence against me and I would be locked away.

Eventually exhaustion takes over and the retail fever passes. I photograph some stray cats by the city library and settle for minestrone soup and a tuna salad in a side café near the wall that divides the city. At least my daughter will like the pictures of the cats.

For D. A stray kitten outside the Nicosia library.

A trip to the mountains

One Sunday I decided to take a trip to the mountains. I had a quick glimpse at the map and looked at the place where the roads ran out and the rough tracks began. That was as far as my little car would get if I was lucky. I headed up along the small back roads that H. does not like to drive. These are very rough and narrow even by Cypriot standards and often have steep drops on one side or the other. As I headed up the scenery became greener and greener and the air cooler and clearer.

I have remarked on this before but it is amazing how green Cyprus is in the winter. I am sure a visitor from northern Europe would think it brown and drab but when it is compared to the same place in the summer months the transformation is wonderful.
I drive through one small village (Choulou) with it's abandoned mosque and an old lady stands in a doorway chatting to her neighbour while a lamb struggles under her arm. That reminds me of one of something that I miss from England. With mint sauce.

The mosque at Choulou

I head further up and pass a shepherd sitting alone on a hillside. He or she is completely wrapped in a head scarf and the goats run freely across the hill and in front of the car. This is the 21st century and you can still find a job as a lonely goatherd if you look hard enough.

Goats wandering in the road.

Once again there are deserted villages here. They appear to have been empty since the island became divided in 1974. I visit one of the monasteries again. I have been to this one before but I still enjoy coming here. They are so peaceful and quiet. Well quiet that is except for the sound of gunfire that echoes around the mountains. This is Sunday remember and the hunters are out and about.

Ayios Fotios one of the deserted villages

As I drive from one village to another I go up and down the mountains and my ears are popping with the change in pressure. Even in these remote locations with the villages well spaced you can still find a determined cat that has managed to enter the third state. There is so little traffic here I wonder just how it did it.
OK now I am at the end of the road. I enter a small village called Galataria and I see an old lady in the road winding wool into a ball. I haven’t seen this since I was a child. I now have sufficient Greek so I can ask her if it is OK to take her photograph. She looks at me like I am the village idiot from the next town but politely agrees. Did I never see anyone wind wool before?

'Thea' winding wool from her knees into a ball.

Fortunately she does not continue the conversation because I have used up all my stock phrases.
I can look out from this village to the Troodos mountains and the forest across the valley. There are no more villages here just an occasional isolated farm and here the road becomes a track.

Civilization is down there somewhere across those hills.

Time to head back to civilization? Well time for dinner certainly.

Enough for now and 2 points for the other Homer Simpson reference.

Epistle from Cyprus IX - 9th January 2007

2007-01-10T18:47:00.000+02:00

Ah the new year. Just time for a short epistle. A time for resolutions and new starts. Time to make a clean breast of things. Confession is good for the soul and all that so let me get on with it.

The following confession may come as something of a surprise to some reading this after all I have said in previous notes. Some will gloat and rub their hands and say he is only getting what he deserves after all that bragging. And that may be true.

Cyprus is cold in the winter. Very cold. Let me clarify. Yes it is still warm. Today for example it was 18C (64F) but as soon as the sun goes down it gets cold. Then to make matters worse Cypriot houses are not designed for the cold. They are meant to be lived in when it is 35C. They are large and airy with high ceilings exactly the opposite of what is required in the winter.

During the afternoons I sit and bask in the sunshine safe inside full length windows. Yet all the time I am waiting for the moment when the sun goes down and the house becomes cold enough to preserve meat.

Heaven knows I have tried to warm up the place. I have two gas fires, numerous electric heaters, even the air conditioning turned up to 26C and all is completely useless.

The house has an open fireplace so I ‘obtained’ a large supply of wood and logs thinking to sit by a cosy log fire. All I succeeded in doing was smoking myself out and ended smelling like a Manx kipper. Despite the cold I was forced to open all the windows and it still took 3 days to get rid of the smell of burning.

A man with a lampshade on his head watching TV and trying to keep warm.

There it is out in the open. You can enjoy the schardenfreude and I will enjoy the catharsis.

What a lovely word: ‘catharsis’. And now I will use it as often as possible as I now know the Greek origin which is Καθαρός (katharos) meaning clean or pure.

It has become apparent during my halting efforts to learn Greek that there are very few Greek words in English. Those that did slip through tend to be restricted to medical and scientific text books. Anthropology, gynaecology, paediatrics, gerontology, dendrochronology are but a few. Definitely not the sort of words that come up in regular conversation. Even when I do recognize the word the pronunciation is usually quite different. If only I had been told at school that a dodecahedron was actually a thothekahethron it would all make so much more sense.

Enough for now.

Happy New Year

Χρόνια Πολλά (Chronia Polla)

Epistle from Cyprus VIII - 20th December 2006

2006-12-20T17:12:00.000+02:00

My big toe and the ‘ians’
Cyprus has been invaded by a number of foreign tribes of what I will call ‘ians’. These are the blue eyed, light-haired and light skinned foreigners from the Balkan and former Soviet bloc countries, Russians, Georgians, Albanians, Rumanians and lots more. (Actually with that physical description I could be one of them.) They occupy the lowest positions in Cyprus working for wages far less than any Cypriot would even consider. They are also blamed every type of social problem on the island. The mere mention of the word ‘Rumanian’ in the coffee shop is enough to set the Cypriot heads nodding in disgust. This is a peculiar Cypriot action of a sharp nod of the head backwards when they disagree or disapprove of something. Once again my illusions were about to be shattered.
I was disturbed early one morning by the doorbell and on answering there was a couple of typical ‘ians’ standing there. I had no idea what language they spoke and as they spoke no English and as little Greek as I did so the communication was limited to signing. I eventually understood they were there to do some work on the pool and so I left them to it. They set to with a will and a jack-hammer so there was no possibility of sleep and they started to remove large sections of stonework and concrete from around the pool. I was a bit nervous as their reputation had gone before them but they were certainly hard working. Even so I decided to wait around and watch what they did. Mid morning there was a big hole next to the pool which was surrounded by large lumps of concrete and stone. At this point they started to fill the pool using a hosepipe and then they both disappeared. After 15 minutes of so I looked out to see the pool about to overflow and panicking over yet another large water bill I ran out to turn off the water. In my rush to save money I tripped over a large stone slab split my nail and burst the end of my large toe. The air was blue as I hopped back into the house.
Now the ‘ians’ returned and carried on working as though nothing had happened. While they continued working I continued to hop around the house looking for cotton wool and sticking plasters leaving a trail of blood across the tiled floors. It is amazing how far a little blood will spread across a tiled surface. The result was something out of a chainsaw horror movie.

As I remember it I used the word 'Ouch'

The ‘ians’ finished the job and I have to say they did a pretty good one.

Rumanian Telecomms
Since then I have met a group of Rumanian guys who are the exact opposite of their reputation. They are well educated, friendly and fun loving. They will always help out if they can. Another of my misconceptions has been shattered.
They have introduced me to yet another system of communication. When they want to ring home and confirm that they are fine and that everything at home is fine they do the following.
Ring home and allow the phone to ring twice. This means “I am OK, I will be sending money home as soon as my next pay check arrives and how are you and the kids?”.
Wait up to 30 minutes for a call which rings just once. This means “Good to hear from you the wife and children and all the relatives are fine and look forward to another extended conversation in 3 days time”. It is a simple and free to use communication system. If they do not receive the single ring back they know there is something to discuss so they phone home from here because phone charges here are less than back home and beside which no one at home has money to call anyway.

Useless tasks
While for the one millionth time cleaning the pool which I cannot use at the moment because it is too cold I pondered that there a number of tasks in life which are a complete waste of time. Brushing and raking leaves in Autumn for examples. I think a blog site should be dedicated to them.

A fat bloke hiding under a large hat sweeps the pool for the 1 millionth time

I will start the ball rolling with my suggestion for the number 1 useless task.
What is the point or ironing? You know that the moment you put something on it is going to crease. Why not save the time and put it on creased in the first place. I don’t care if it is creased or not. I certainly don’t look at other peoples clothes to see if they are creased. Does anybody actually care? Perhaps there is a business somewhere that insists all their staff have carefully ironed blouses and shirts.
OK I know the military do but for heavens sake that is the biggest waste of time of all. Does it matter when a soldier is doing whatever it is soldiers do?
“I am sorry son I can’t let you go into battle today because you do not have a crease in your pants.”
“Oh please sarge please let me go. I promise I will do them when I get back.”
“Sorry son my mind is set. None of my men go into battle without freshly pressed blousons and pants.”

Who invented ironing in the first place. Surely not a man. At least not a man who actually did any ironing. Possibly some military or management type who had a bunch of idle personnel at his disposal and had to think of something for them to do in order to fill their time.
“Come Smithers we can’t have the men stood idly by doing nothing. What can we do?” “Well Mr.Burns I have been toying with this new idea called ‘ironing’. It involves taking all your clothes laying them on a board and rubbing them all over with a hot iron full of steam.”
“Mmmm. Interesting. A complete waste of time and effort eh? I like the sound of it, Smithers.”

I hereby declare that for the rest of my sojourn in Cyprus I will not iron another item of clothing. I urge others to take of the banner (a creased one of course). Shake off the shackles of convention, the chains that tie you to the ironing board. Think or the hours you will save yourselves to do something more fulfilling and meaningful. Learn to skate. Take up karate. Spend time with your grandmother. Free yourselves.

Christmas in Cyprus
Traditionally the Cypriots do not celebrate Christmas. Their big religious festival is Easter. However they would easily allow a money making opportunity to pass by and so they have taken to Christmas with a will. The TV advertising and supermarkets are overflowing with Christmas hype. However they have still not quite got the hang of things.
I was asked to assist a couple of Rumanians friends with the ‘removal’ of a Christmas tree from a forestry area for some English people. All very naughty but real Christmas trees are at a premium here. However the tree had been selected by a Cypriot who thought he knew what a Christmas tree looked like and cut down by a Rumanian who did not care what one looked like. Bearing in mind that most people are more careful about selecting their Christmas tree than almost any other purchase they make over the holiday period. It has to be just right. The correct height and of course bushy. Cyprus is excellent for growing oranges, lemons, grapes, olives and a host of other goodies. It is not good for growing Christmas trees. As soon as I same the tree I knew that it had been sacrificed in vain. As we loaded it in the van I could picture the recipient shaking their heads.

A fine example of a Cypriot Christmas Tree

Two further trees died before it was decided
1. A Cypriot cannot select a Christmas tree.
2. A Rumanian will cut down anything you tell them if the money is right.
3. Buying an artificial tree was the best solution. (Failing then above the send a Brit. to carefully inspect the gardens in the neighbourhood and then send the Rumanians to do the rest. I plead not guilty m’lud.)

I like to kid myself that I am familiar with some unusual Christmas traditions. The Swedish “julbok”, the 13 Icelandic “Jolasveinar” and the Mexican “piñata”. I was not prepared for the following Cypriot “thing” I noticed when driving into Paphos. I am still not sure what it is even though I have asked around. At first I thought it was 6 pigs but when I stopped to photograph it I saw it was 6 bears. I am still none the wiser as I have never heard of the 6 Christmas bears or the 6 Christmas pigs.

Are they Christmas Bears or Christmas Pigs?

Christmas Dinner arrives Cyprus style

Cultural exchange
As part of my stay I here I have begun to introduce some new ideas to the locals. One of theSe is a Combined exeRcise in frUit pruning and wealth restribution. At hoMe this would usually involve apPle trees but I have fouNd that the local oranGe, tangerine and mandarin trees are an ideal substitute. My Rumanian friends have taken to this and have not just a natural talent but a positive flare for it. They think it is capital fun.

Politics
There is no escape even here in Cyprus. Just when you think you have found paradise. Sunday 17th December was the day of the local elections. Each town and village elects both the mukhtar (village president) and councillors. In Tremithousa there are 6 councillors. As with politics anywhere it is a murky business. The position of mukhtar is very powerful. He can decide where money is spent and which planning applications to allow. In this village the council agreed to purchase 2 cars for use by the villagers themselves. One of the vehicles has disappeared and rumour has it that it is in use by one of the mukhtar’s relatives. In another local village the mukhtar requested a personal payment of £5000 before a construction project could continue. The construction company passed the request to their sub-contractor who refused to pay as this was not the usual way of doing things in the EU(European Union). Actually I suspect it may be more common than we think in Mediterranean countries and as the EU grows it will become the de facto business standard.
The current mukhtar in Tremithousa just happens to have 4 of his first cousins as council members and he does not show the account details to the 2 independent councillors. In fact he reportedly does not show them to the government inspectors either.
So there has been a plan afoot to try and replace the current mukhtar and some of the council members. Otto who runs the coffee shop has been standing for the position of mukhtar. A group of others got together to put up a candidate to oppose the mukhtar. Now you would think that this would be easy and they would simply put forward the best candidate. That is not the way things are done in Cyprus. Here the person most likely to win an election is the person with the largest extended family so the best opposition candidate is simply the one with the largest family. Are you with it so far? Good.
However there is a joker card in the pack in Tremithousa. Despite the fact that there are several hundred ex-pats living in Termithousa only 36 have registered to vote. Now 36 ex-pat voters can be considered a very large extended family and so all the candidates have been courting the ex-pats who are eligible. However nothing is ever that simple. The current mukhtar has the list of voters and their addresses and he has been very reluctant to allow the list out of his control. Eventually the list was handed over so that all candidates can have the opportunity to canvass the voters. So now the ex-pats can be targeted as a group.Great.
Not quite.The voting list of English and other names has been phonetically translated into Greek so although they have the addresses no one knows their names. Even the people themselves do not recognize their own names. There was then the painstaking task of translating the Greek sounds back into an approximation of English names so that the voters can be canvassed. And you thought it was complicated at home.
The day of the vote arrived and suddenly what was the sleepy village centre becomes a hive of activity. Everyone is out in their Sunday best outfit. Even Alekos takes time out from his cemetery vigil and box of red wine to have a shave put on his best suit and totter down to the village hall to vote. The village has a carnival atmosphere. All the candidates greet the voters outside the village hall as they go in to vote.
Later in the evening as the election results are declared the church bells in the local villages start to ring out and fireworks let off. All is well except in the coffee shop which is all the fun of a wake. Otto has not been elected. Not to worry though as because of the unusual vote counting system he can combine his votes with another candidate George giving a grand total of 60 votes which gives George sufficient votes to be elected.
At the end of the day all that has been established is that the current mukhtar still has the largest extended family and Otto can count on most of the eligible ex-pats votes but will not get elected but that doesn’t matter because the votes are transferable to someone else who will get elected. Confused? I still am.

And finally

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

A Day in a Life - 12th December 2006

2006-12-10T13:32:00.000+02:00

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.

Troll Hunting with a Couple of Rapscallions

2006-12-03T08:18:00.000+02:00

This entry is purely self-indulgence

Troll Hunting with two Horrid and Handsome Boys
A little while back we went hunting for trolls in the mountains. Well actually we went to the mountains and kept really really quiet lest the trolls should hear us and come out of their caves and drag us down into the halls of the mountain king and chew on our bones.

We just about got away with it (being quiet that is) and we have the pictures to prove we were there.

Left to right are Jack and Sebastian. Later we had a picnic, played 'pee-ow pee-ow' (known to the rest of the world Laser Quest), made some new friends who were very interested in 'pee-ow pee-ow', played Spider-man and generally had a good time.
With all that playing it is hard to believe the trolls did not hear us but in hindsight they probably did and decided not to bite off more than they could chew.

Epistle from Cyprus VII - 29th November 2006

2006-11-28T20:58:00.000+02:00

Food again

It is autumn and the season for wild mushrooms. As you might expect the Cypriots take advantage of all of nature’s bounties. Otto’s coffee shop has the doors closed in the evening now and a kerosene heater stands in the middle. One of Otto’s regular customers is the ‘Mushroom Man’ who visits with a large bag of mushrooms he has collected in the hills and fields nearby.

Fortunately for all the customers the kerosene heater also doubles as a stove. You can see the foil package of mushrooms cooking on top of the stove.

A sharp reminder of where I am

It is the end of November and the temperature is 22C (72F). As I sit here in the late afternoon sunshine it is all too easy to forget exactly where I am. For those not aware this island paradise of Cyprus is actually divided between the north and the south. Divided because of religious and sectarian differences. The south is predominantly Greek Orthodox Christian and the north is Muslim. The separation occurred in 1974 with a bloody war and the two sides glower at each other across a UN peacekeeping line. I read a sharp reminder of that separation in the newspapers and TV.

In the capital of Lefkosia (Nicosia) and in other parts of the island there are a number of International schools which have been set up to bring the two communities together. In the Lefkosia International school an incident took place between a 13 year old and a 12 year old were there was a perceived slight on the others religion. Whether the slight was real or imagined I do not think matters much. The next day a group of masked and hooded pupils from surrounding schools broke into the International school. They were aged 16 to 18 and the proceeded to beat up and terrorize a group of kids who did not share their particular faith. Iraq, Lebanon and Gaza are literally not a million miles from here.

God spare me from such 'faiths'.

Preconceptions and Misconceptions

For the rest of this epistle I will look at something close to home. How what you perceive and may have believed for a long time is not always true.

Strange how we/I make an assumption about something and only when it the assumption is put to an acid test does the truth really emerge.

Mandria

I have been told or warned at least in the local coffee bar about a village called Mandria. The bar talk was that this had become an ex-pat ghetto and should be avoided if at all possible. I had no reason not to believe the accepted wisdom which seemed to be common belief.

I was driving back from a tourist location called Petra Tou Romiou (the Birthplace of Aphrodite) when I saw a sign for Mandia and thought I should just drive through and confirm my prejudices. My suspicions began to be confirmed when I saw that there is only one road into Mandria and that is through an underpass that runs under the motorway. I presumed the locals had done this deliberately so that if necessary they could block the underpass and keep the undesirable ex-pats holed up there.

Once through the underpass however it was a different story. The road to the centre of the village was an avenue of whitewashed trees typical of the south of France. The centre of the village was a group of small tavernas and coffee shops. There was none of the high rise building usually associated with new developments. The area itself was a rich agricultural plain with extensive citrus orchards and olive groves. All this and a beach front as well.

Admittedly there is quite a lot of new development going on but it seemed to be in keeping with the village.

There was one exception to this which was a long row of box like houses each with its obligatory satellite dish so that they could face west and worship their Sky god, Rabid Maddog. What is he now? Australian, British, South African, American? I suspect he may be Indian next as that is what will be paying most.

It seemed such a waste of good agricultural land which is at a premium in this country.

Ayia Napa

I have mentioned Ayia Napa in a previous epistle. I had never been there and based all my opinion on the press and TV coverage of young Brits drinking too much and generally misbehaving. Well at long last I had the chance to go and see myself even though it is at the far end of the island from here. Not too far distance wise but on Cypriot roads and my little old car it was a very long way.

The first thing I saw as we approached were some cows in a field. Big deal you may say but I have not seen a cow for months and they are such a common sight in England. They simply do not exist at this end of the island. Weird how you can miss a simple thing like a cow.

Then we drove into Ayia Napa itself. Well it was clean and tidy and altogether a completely different place to the Ayia Napa of my imagination. The people were friendly and surprise surprise it had a municipal museum with some good displays of ancient ships and artifacts. Good value too at just a few pounds.

Most surprising was the lack of Brits. Perhaps they were all in bed with hangovers but the population seemed to be made up of Scandinavians. Swedes, Norwegians and Finns. If you popped around to Sweden to borrow a cup of sugar you and found that it was closed up and no one was home don’t worry. They were all in Ayia Napa.

Caged dogs

Down at the Otto’s coffee bar there was a holidaymaker who must have lost his way. I say that because the village is not exactly on the on the tourist map. He was launching into a vitriolic diatribe against the Cypriots as cruel and heartless because he had seen a dog that was kept in a cage outside someone’s house. I have to admit that I had fallen into the same trap when I arrived here but kept my mouth shut. It was only much later that I learned that only the people who care about their dogs keep them in a cage. The reason is that the farmers in this part use a poison called ‘lanate’ to keep the snake population down. The poison is almost always fatal when ingested by dogs and cats and acts with a matter of hours. Unfortunately it is not unknown for some despicable individuals to deliberately leave scraps of food that have been spiked with ‘lanate’ in public places.

In such an environment caging your pet dog does not seem quite so cruel.

The cemetery view

The road from my place to the shop where I buy the daily newspaper runs by a bungalow that has an ‘alley way like’ entrance. That is the entrance is set back between two typical white walls. In front of the entrance is a table and 4 chairs and there is an elderly man who sits there from morning to night looking out down the alley and over the road, across the valley and away into the distance. He always has a carton of wine in front of him and he could easily pass for a character from Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat who live from one gallon of red wine to another. In recent days I have met him and spoke to him a few times in our broken English and Greek as he walked up to the kiosk for his next carton of wine.

His name is Alekos and he told me he sits by his door so he can look out at the cemetery across the road where his wife who died last year is interred.

I thought the view across the valley to the cemetery was pretty but he gave it a whole new perspective.

Finally

There are years that melt in the seas of life

Like drops in the ocean of time;

And the joys they bring are as soon forgot

As the words of a careless rhyme.

Thanks to GH for telling me about that poem. G cannot read or write but remembers the poem from his schooldays over 75 years ago.

The eccentricity of the ex-pat - 15th November 2006

2006-11-13T16:40:00.000+02:00

What you are looking at is a cat apartment building up on the first floor balcony of an ex-pat neighbour here in Cyprus. If you examine it closely you will see that it has a small flight of steps up to its very own small balcony on the roof. After all we wouldn't want pussy to strain himself climbing up onto the roof to have his nap.
Around the edge of the veranda is a safety rail in case pussy should roll over in his sleep and fall off and hurt himself. If you look closely you can even see pussy having a little nap in the late afternoon sunshine. The fact that pussy had to climb up on a 9 foot carport and jump a 4 foot gap to get onto the balcony appears to have gone unnoticed by the owners.

There is a school of thought that says that I am well at home here in Cyprus with this kind of eccentricity.

There is another school of thought closer to home which says I am far beyond eccentric. As I haven't yet built a catbox with a balcony and safety rail so I guess there is still hope for me.

More on Kleftiko - 12th November 2006

2006-11-11T15:52:00.000+02:00

Food is a subject never far from my heart. Literally. So it is only natural that I should devote another entry to Kleftiko.
As I stated in a previous note the original kleftiko was cooked by poachers when and where they took their catch. These days it is usually prepared in a traditional stone outdoor oven. These are dome shaped and vary in size between 6 or 7 feet (2 meters) high to that of a small hill which would feed the entire village. Many of the village house have their own oven in the garden.

One of our local butchers has four or five such ovens outside his shop as seen in the picture.

The sign states:

ΚΛΕΦΤΙΚΟ

ΚΑΘΕ ΠΕΜΠΤH

Kleftiko - Every Thursday. (Hey this night school class has not been entirely wasted.)
The butcher prepares Kleftiko as a special take-away dish during the summer.
The oven works by filling it with wood and starting a fire then leaving it with a metal plate to act as a door. Once the wood has burned away the oven is opened and the ash removed. By this stage the inside of the oven is glowing red hot. Then the meat is placed into the oven in foil packages. Each package contains meat, vegetables and herbs. The oven is then sealed up again and left for 6 to 8 hours while the meat slowly cooks and the vegetables cook in the meat juices. The result is delicious.
I was surprised that a hot dish like this was only cooked during the summer but I have been educated to the fact that during the winter the ovens do not keep hot enough to allow the kleftiko to cook properly. Simple really.

Sadly many of these ovens have fallen into disrepair. However I have found that they are very useful for getting small children to behave. After all it is a well known fact that these ovens are used by witches for cooking badly behaved children.

Well it is well known in my household anyway. :)

One final thing. The international dialling code for Cyprus is +357 but I am not sure if the butcher has a home delivery service.

Epistle from Cyprus VI - 11th November 2006

2006-11-02T13:01:00.000+02:00

Apologies for the length of time between this and the previous note. I am afraid the Muses have literally deserted me. This morning however I have just returned from a walk around the old market part of Paphos. To put it in context you must first know a little about the current state of Cyprus. Cyprus is in the middle of a development frenzy. There is new building work almost everywhere you look. Every other shop is a real estate agent and almost everything appears to revolve around tourism and selling property to foreigners.
The old market next to the abandoned mosque in Paphos next is a small island in this storm of building activity. There are a group of old-fashioned open fronted shops with their owners making every conceivable object from metal and wood. Tables, chairs, cabinets, pots, pans, buckets and all made by hand in front of your eyes. Amid this the old ladies scurry back and forth from their coffee shops to the store owners carrying small cups of thick strong Greek coffee. Each coffee cup only the size of an egg cup but always accompanied by a glass of water. In front of the coffee shops the taxi drivers sit and play backgammon and small groups of passers-by gather to watch. The smell of the coffee, the wood from the carpenter’s shops is wonderful. Nearby there is a small street where the villagers from outlying towns come to sell their produce. Apples, pears, nuts, beans, fresh vegetables and host of other things that I do not recognize and certainly could not pronounce the Greek names. This is a world away from the large supermarkets and modern antiseptic malls I am more familiar with.

Old fossils in Cyprus
So you thought I was the only old fossil here. Seems that the BBC are on my trail. I am expecting a camera crew at the door any moment.

Check this out http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/6043648.stm

Kleftiko
In a previous note I mentioned eating a local specialty dish 'kleftiko'. The origins of the word Kleftiko are from 'kleftis' meaning a thief. The 'kleftiko' is traditionally a sheep or goat that has been stolen and then cooked in a shallow pit dug by the poachers. Nowadays the meat is purchased from the butcher and cooked in one of the traditional ovens.

At Jimmy the scouser’s housewarming/leaving party kleftiko was prepared and cooked by Jimmy's landlord Christakis (or Chris as he is known by the ex-pats). I say housewarming/leaving because Jimmy has never actually stayed there and has now gone back to the UK to nurse his lady friend while she convalesces from her cataract operation.
The food was delicious and afterwards Chris told a story of how when he was a boy in Northern Cyprus before partition he and his brother went walking in the mountains where his grandfather's goats were grazing. While there they smelled kleftiko cooking and after searching up and down wind they discovered a goat roasting inside a hidden pit dug in the ground and covered with the goatskin and branches and leaves. As they waited an old man with the traditional Greek handle-bar mustache approached carrying a flagon of red wine. It was apparent that he was the thief who had returned to enjoy his booty.
He sat down and invited them to drink a large cup of the wine even though they far too young. They refused at first but he was so insistent they eventually agreed and had a large cup of wine each. The old man did not drink. When they had finished the drink the old man uncovered the kleftiko to eat. The two boys however could hardly eat a thing. The old man told them how he had tricked them both as by drinking the wine first had sated their appetite and he would now eat the lion's share of the goat. He then proceeded to eat the entire goat while the two boys looked on.

Weather
Do not let anyone tell you that it does not rain in Cyprus. This is not true. What they mean is for long summer months there is no rain at all. Then when it does decide to rain they have some truly awesome storms. The thunder and lightning has to be seen to be believed and the hailstones well... if I told you they were as big as golf balls that would be a lie however they are big enough to put dents in the bonnet of your car and tear holes in the fly screens on the windows.
We sat and watched while the planes continued to try and land at Paphos airport in the middle of this storm. The lightning was flashing on all sides of the planes and they appeared so pathetic and fragile. Yes I have seen the Van Der Graaf generator tests (For the sad old ones reading this I am talking Robert J. and not the 70s rock band) and I know the theory that the electrostatic charge only touches the very surface of the object it strikes but theory goes out the window when put to so practical a test. It did nothing for my pteromerhanophobia and only confirmed my prejudice that airline companies care nothing for passenger safety and only for profit. Heaven help the poor people who were up there in those planes trying to land before they closed the airport.

I have started to attend night school classes in Greek in a village called Emba a little further down the hill. Last Monday night's class was held in the middle of a mighty thunder and lightning storm. The class had just started when the school building shook to its foundations as it was struck by lightning. Being in a building which is struck by lightning is not an experience I care to repeat. We lost all power except to the alarms so class for that evening was cancelled. Almost as bad was the car journey home as the roads that lead up the hills had turned to Water courses for the flooding. Only later did I find out that another car with a husband and wife in it driving between Emba and another village had been swept away into a ravine by the torrent. As I write this they are still searching for the body of one of the occupants.

The rain did have a couple of unexpected benefits. First were the snails which are another Cypriot delicacy. Otto was complaining of an upset stomach after only 35 snails. No I did not partake of the snails I have to draw the line somewhere. Maybe next time.

The other amazing thing was that springtime came again. Suddenly out in the brown and parched orchards and olive groves the leaves turned green and fresh grass appeared out of the hard sun-baked clay. Very strange indeed to see this occur in October.

OK I know I am not a fashion guru. I prefer to delude myself that fashions will one day get around to the crumpled brown corduroy look and I will be trendy. I do have one observation though. While sitting in the arrivals lounge at Paphos 'International' Airport I had a revelation. Why is it that larger ladies with extremely tight see-thru white trousers insist on wearing a thong? Please ladies spare us. It is not fashionable or tasteful. It never was and it never will be. I had planned to get photographic evidence to accompany this note but then decided I did not want to see the inside of a Cypriot prison. I have seen the film Midnight Express and have a suspicion that a Cypriot prison may be similar to a Turkish one. Let’s just call a truce. I promise I won't wear Lycra if you promise to wear dark trousers.

One other effect of the weather has been on the electricity supply.
The electric supply has been up and down like the Assyrian Empire. About 3 inches of rain in 90 minutes can do that. Anyway as I said the electric supply went off so I called the landlords agent who also happens to be his brother-in-law to ask him how to switch it back on using the main safety cut out switch. I am outside in the dark with a candle and a mobile phone peering into a wooden box that houses the main fuses on the side of the house.
Me: "OK I am looking in the main fuse box now."
Agent: "Good. You should see 2 buttons. One red and one white."
Me: "OK.”
Agent: "Now press the red one then the white one and that will bring the power back on."
Me: "Mmmm. OK I tried that and it did not work."
Agent: "Well that is the procedure."
Me: "What about this black button above the other two?"
Agent: "Black button? Sorry don't know anything about that one."

Guess which button turned the power back on?

How to determine if a house is owned by an ex-pat
It is easy really you look to see if the house has a roof. If it has a roof then it is owned by an ex-pat if not then it is owned by a Cypriot. The more astute reader will now be asking the question 'Why would a house not have a roof?'. The answer is two-fold.
By leaving off the roof and using a flat concrete base that has been waterproofed you can always extend the house upwards at a later date. This is useful in Cypriot society where they have extended families and it is the father's responsibility to provide a home for his daughter and new son-in-law when she marries. Indeed this is the reason that the Cypriot will tell you there is no roof.
The ex-pats are more cynical about it. They believe it is because when a house is completed with a roof then there is a substantial 'Completion Tax' due on the property.
There are some very old properties here without rooves!

Someone had doubts about a comment I made in a previous note about the nearby church and whether or not it really does have a loudspeaker to broadcast to the neighbourhood. Well here it is...

.. and finally one whole brownie point to those who noticed the Monty Python reference. That does not include you Ian as you have the script memorized.

Cypriot Health and Safety - 13th October 2006

2006-10-13T19:07:00.000+03:00

While searching for a shortcut to the beach I found the following in the road...

Yes it is a metal wire support cable which is embedded right in the middle of the road. To make matters worse there is no street lighting in this area.

Imagine the fun you could have. You wait till dark, order a pizza and then watch the pizza delivery boy coming around the corner on his motorized hairdryer that passes for a moped.... then you phone the police and watch them drive into it too.

Epistle from Cyprus V - 10th October 2006

2006-10-12T19:02:00.000+03:00

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.

Greek Cypriot Invention - 12th October 2006

2006-10-12T18:47:00.000+03:00

Archimedes? A mere boy. Euclid? A meddler (not to mention scourge of future generations of school kids).

Yianni is the real giant of Greek innovation and genius. I believe this could be a model for the house of the future. Some day all houses will be built with a bar across the front door.

Partial Eclipse - 6th September 2006

2006-10-10T21:42:00.000+03:00

Some readers of the epistles have requested photographs and I thought about it for a while. I decided against on the grounds that a photograph would ruin the image that you may have built for this place. Instead I will put up some images of other events that may be viewed in isolation.

There was a partitial eclipse on 6th September and I was looking forward to the event as the nightsky here is usually very clear.

Then 15 minutes before the eclipse the cloud started to come over. It was just like being in the UK again. I did manage to capture a couple of shots of the moon looking through some of the palm trees at the bottom of the garden.

Apologies to any photographers out there as I am not one of your number. The images were taken on a DV Camcorder.

The eclipse can be seen as a shadow on the top left of the moon.

Publish Technorati

2006-10-05T19:15:00.000+03:00

Technorati Profile

Coptic Gales - 27th September 2006

2006-10-03T12:33:00.000+03:00

For some time we have heard locals talk about the Coptic Gales. These are seasonal winds with evocative Arabic names that effect this part of the world. I had checked with the charts and we were due one on 27th September, the El-Saleeb (the Cross). There is a nice chart of them here:

http://cyprus-storms.batcave.net/coptic_chart.jpg

That day was fine and so I went to bed sceptical about the whole thing. During the night we were woken by a wind blowing through the house in New Testament fashion. The curtains blew about and outside the garden furniture was blown over.
The strangest thing was that normally the temperature drops slowly over night so we would have expected it to cool from 25C (77F) to 20C (68F) whereas on that night the temperature rose from 25C (77F) to 31C (87F) at 6:00 am.

After all these years I understand why Joni Mitchell sang "The wind is in from Africa and last night I couldn't sleep".

Epistle from Cyprus IV - 26th September 2006

2006-10-03T12:26:00.000+03:00

The end of the previous epistle gave some of the more mundane details of Cyprus life such as bill paying. We are expecting our local rates/council tax bill shortly. Rumour has it that this in the order of £100. That is £100 per year not per month. If I lived in the next village at the top of the hill then for my £100 council tax I would receive £200 winter heating allowance per year because the village is above 600 metres altitude. Unfortunately we did not know about that when we were choosing a house. Even so £100 to have your bins emptied twice a week (Monday and Thursday) is not bad. Emptying the bins twice a week is essential because the stench is overpowering when left for a full week.

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille would love Cyprus. For those not familiar with the name he is the main character in Patrick Suskind's novel 'Perfume' and is a man with a superhuman sense of smell.The variety of smells in Cyprus is astounding. From the truly gut-wrenching stench of the bins behind the restaurants in the tourist areas to the heavenly delights in the medicinal herb gardens in the monasteries high in the mountains. Fortunately the majority are pleasant. When you walk through the village in the early evening there are the smells of the barbeques that the Cypriots love and the herbs like rosemary, basil and thyme that seem to grow wild on every patch of waste ground. On Thursday evenings there is the smell of 'kleftiko' around the large supermarkets. Kleftiko is lamb that is oven baked in a traditional half-round oven. Then we are able to pick rosemary for cooking our roast while walking back with the Sunday papers.

Talking of smells there was a bit of a stink at Otto's bar recently. (Sorry could not resist it.) His neighbour a lady who runs the coffee bar opposite complained about the smells coming from Ottos drainage system. You have to remember that most of the village drainage system is one step from a plastic bucket. Otto at least has a flushing toilet and tap. OK so the toilet runs into a septic tank in his back yard and the tap runs straight into the ground but his is quite high-tech. The tap drainage was thought to be the culprit because it was running directly onto the ground that was used as the urinal before the inside toilet was installed. I think his neighbour may have had a bit of case.

Cometh the hour cometh the man and up steps Jimmy to the rescue. Jimmy you will remember is Otto's resident scouser and Jimmy has warfarin bruised fingers in many pies. He stays with Stefan a builder so they volunteer to fix the problem. They duly arrive on Sunday morning Jimmy wearing his preferred headgear of black baseball cap and start to dig for the drainage system which no one can remember exactly where it is. At least Stefan digs and Jimmy supervises. After a short while he digs up a very large black spider. Now Stefan is not too keen on spiders but pushes the spider aside and he soldiers on. Soon afterwards the rest of the spider's family appears and Stefan is bit more jumpy. Jimmy chooses this moment to knock his own cap from his head and the cap falls and hits Stefan on the leg.

Stefan beat that cap to death three times over before he realised what it was.

In addition to these occasional notes I have been using a webcam to keep in contact with people at home. I think I should proffer the benefit of my experience of webcam use. The golden rule for using a webcam is that no matter how hot it may be in Cyprus when using a webcam you must always wear a t-shirt. People watching you will *always* assume that because you do not have a shirt you also do not have trousers.

I have mentioned that there are two coffee bars on the main street of Tremithousa, Otto's the one we frequent and the other selling only coffee, water, soft drinks and postage stamps which is run by the little old lady opposite. This lady does not speak a word of English and combined with our lack of Greek leads to very short conversations each morning when we fetch our newspaper and essentials. She is always pleasant and smiles to everyone in the village and is one of the local matriarchs treated with great respect. One local arrived on his motorized bicycle. To call to call it a motorcycle would be to offend others of the type. He duly stayed ordered his water and Cypriot metreo, or medium sweet coffee which to anyone else is sugar with a dash of coffee and slowly drank it and talked over the next 45 minutes. A single coffee the size of a thimble will take a minimum of 45 minutes. When he was done he walked to his cycle lifted the seat and removed his motorcycle helmet which he keeps there and removed a single lemon. You have to remember that Cypriots will never use a motorcycle helmet if they can avoid it and instead it decorates their elbows or is kept warm and safe under the seat lest it be damaged. Anyway he then took the single lemon with two hands and presented it to the lady in the coffee shop with such reverence and care it could have been mistaken for a Faberge egg. She accepted it with equal dignity. It is wonderful how such small gifts can appear so great.

Finally today I wanted to say a word about cars. We have settled our transport problem and far exceeded our budget with a old Nissan March 1000cc. After some initial teething problems it has performed OK but it has set me looking around at the locals and the ex-pats. It is quite simple really. The ex-pat drives a Honda. It has to be a Honda and best of all the CR-V. The Cyprus Retirement Vehicle as they are know locally. A 4 wheel drive CR-V is absolutely essential for negotiating the tough terrain of the recently tarmac ked car park at the UKCA Club (UK Citizens Association) after a heavy Sunday lunch.

The Cypriots are equally demanding. They want a truck. A Toyota HiLux or Mitsubishi L200. A big one. A huge 'dont-mess-me-with-me' one. Doesn't matter how old or what condition. In fact the older and worse the condition the better it is to intimidate the ex-pats in those head on situations. The Cypriots are best I have seen at engineering those head on situations. Yes the Italians, French and Spanish are mere amateurs when it comes the head on confrontation. The Cypriot is king of the brown flair, eyeball to eyeball car showdown.

The standard of Cypriot driving is a matter of great concern to the ex-pat community. So much so that it is the source of an unending thread of letters to the Cypriot English language newspaper. The Cypriots are totally unconcerned so much so that they have developed their own language form that they use while driving. It is an abbreviated form of Morse code performed with the car horn. An example would be as follows.

A Cypriot truck (T) overtakes a Cypriot construction digger (CD) on a pedestrian crossing outside a school at the start of the school day.

CD - "Beep beep"
T - "Beep beep"
CD - "Beep"

Translated into former empire ex-pat speak it would go as follows.

CD - "I say old chap that is an extremely dangerous maneuver there are children about."
T - "Sorry about that I hardly noticed them while I was chatting on my mobile phone. I will get them next time."
CD - "No problem. It could happen to anyone. I wish the little blighters would stand still. I nearly missed one myself."

If it was translated into the more recent ex-pat speak there would be too many expletives for me to repeat.

One of the recurring themes in these notes is that of the Greek Orthodox church and I have to relate a subject which nearly knocked my eye out when I saw it in the main English language newspaper. Greece being the cradle of democracy the Greek Orthodox church is more democratic than most. At the moment there is an election being held for the position of Archbishop and there are bishop candidates from the different regions of the island. This election contest has turned bitter and the candidates have said some harsh words about each other. Something of a local storm in a teacup one would say. However the local Cyprus Mail ran a front page leader headline which summed it up: "BISHOP BASHING".

Definitively enough for today.

Epistle from Cyprus III - 12th September 2006

2006-10-03T12:20:00.000+03:00

We have at last discovered the name of the barman/owner/farmer at the local watering hole. 'Orthonos' or Otto as the ex-pats know him because Orthonos is too difficult for the English tongue apparently. Otto told us of the expected arrival of 'Jimmy' who was his best customer and a close friend. The name 'Jimmy' immediately conjured up the image of a savage and tattooed Scotman almost certainly using Cyprus as a base to spend his illgotten gains from the ice-cream wars and remain out Her Majesty's custody. Apologies to any Scots reading this but the name 'Jimmy' always seems to be accompanied by the words 'See you Jimmy' in a strong Glaswegian accent with an implied threat and a potential bottle fight.

A few days later we called in at the coffee bar which was unusually busy and we took our place outside. It is a strange fact that the ex-pat comes to Cyprus for the good weather and then likes to sit inside a smoky barroom to drink his beer. The locals on the other hand sit outside in the shade and fresh air and drink coffee. After a few minutes a tall and well upholstered ex-pat wearing the white singlet vest so beloved of the holiday makers on Blackpool promenade came to join us. He invited himself to our table. Actually these are not tables but small white stools that Otto puts outside his customers to rest their drinks on. The chairs that we use are handmade rustic ones which I am sure would fetch a high price in trendy London shops. The new ex-pat starting talking and his accent was immediately apparent as a Scouser and then the penny dropped that it was not so much 'See you Jimmy' as 'R A Jimmy R A'. As it happens Jimmy comes from Whiston which was/is a small village near to Huyton where I was brought up. At that time both Whiston and Huyton were separate villages which have since been consumed by the ever expanding Liverpool district. Jimmy was back for a few months recuperating from his second heart attack. His arms are covered in bruises and cuts caused by the warfarin medication he has to take. They should not last long he tells us as he has to cut down on the warfarin to be able to consume more alcohol.

J. has already made an agreement with the local Greek Orthodox priest that he can be buried here on the island as it costs only £300 and that is much cheaper than flying home.

Ah the practicality of the hardened drinker.

J. was the first English person in the village. He is so well known that after his first heart attack which happened here the local taxi driver took him to the hospital for free and then picked up his dry cleaning afterwards. You certainly do not get that kind of service with the NHS.

Cyprus is famous if not infamous for its cats. If it was not for the Cyprus cats then there would only be a third as many postcards for sale. They are not as obvious this time as they have been on earlier visits here when they were at every restaurant, bar and hotel and under every chair and table they could have been mistaken for a carpet. The tourist office office have obviously got their act together on this since joining the EU. On one previous holiday there was an occasion when we were driving through a small mountain village and the local children greeted us by waving a dead kitten through the car window. Obviously a quaint local custom.

The Cyprus cat is a thin and spidery creature that appears to have jumped straight out of an LS Lowry painting. (Actually Lowry wrote "I can't do a cat yet. The only way I can do a cat is by doing a very bad dog and then in a way decapitating it and it becomes a cat'")

Cypriot cats exist in one of three states. (I was going to say three categories but that would be too much!) The first state is asleep and always in the coolest and shadiest place. They are the exact opposite of 'Mrs. Chippy' the cat that accompanied Scott to the Antarctic. It was said that Mrs. Chippy was the best thermometer on the ship in that he (Mrs. Chippy was indeed a male) always found the warmest place on the ship whether below in the galley or on deck in the Antarctic sunshine.

The Cyprus cat however is more akin to a vampire and never willingly walks in direct sunshine. If they are forced to move from one location to another they enter the second state which is hurtling from shadow to shadow with legs and tail thrashing and flailing as though all are moving independently. For some unknown reason they usually do this in the evening, across roads and in front of the oncoming traffic.

While performing this trick they frequently enter the third state where they can be returned to their owners by quietly slipping them under the front door.

Hilary has been very much looking forward to the arrival of our youngest daughter D. D.is 16 years old and has decided to come and live with us for the moment. At least she will stay until we have our first major disagreement. I asked Hilary if she was looking forward to taking D. out shopping and doing that kind of girlie thing but she said she was mored concerned with acting as a referee between D. and me.

D. arrived at Larnaka airport which is at the eastern end of the island about 2 hours drive away. We had never been there before and I have to say if that had been the first place we visited then we would probably never have returned. Geographically it has all the variety of Morecambe Bay mud flats. An uninteresting landscape covered in holiday housing and interrupted by dried salt lakes. In its favour I have to point out that the beaches are much better there but I can understand why Agia Napa has the reputation for being such a boozy holiday resort. You would need copious quantities of alcohol to compensate for the boring landscape.

One highlight of the trip however was the opportunity to visit the inside of a mosque. We have seen several mosques in the south of Cyprus but sadly up to now they had all been neglected and sometimes vandalised. The Hala Sultan Tekke mosque near to Larnaka airport has been restored and opened to visitors. Even women! I have to say I did not see any women there but there were signatures in the visitors book to prove they had been there and had come from all over the world. There was even a Koran donated by a couple from the exotic location of Blackburn Lancashire. The Cyprus cats were of course there and had probably been there since before the mosque was built.
It was the first time I had been inside a mosque anywhere. What a contrast it was to the many Greek Orthodox churches in the south. Entering a GO church is like an assault on the senses. The smell of candles and incense and the incredible gold and blue paintings are almost overwhelming. The mosque by contrast was quite Spartan and restrained inside. Something that they both have in common though is the high roofs, stone pillars and walls and cool atmosphere.

The second highlight of the trip was of course picking up D. at the airport. Yes yes yes! At last there is someone on the island who is paler than me. She has the colouring of an extra in a vampire movie. Despite Hilary's misgivings it was nearly 18 whole hours before we had our first argument. OK so that includes 14 hours while D. was in bed asleep. Teenagers, vampires and Cyprus cats never arise before Noon and never ever go out in the direct sunlight.

My quest for the perfect suntan continues. I decided that perhaps the factor 155+ sunblock I was using may be preventing me from reaching the bronzed look and a possible new career as a male model. I decided to experiment with factor 75+ and see if that improved things. After one day I was burned red raw. Strangely though the redness and burning was down my front and back and had completely missed my sides which were still grayish white. I looked like someone wearing an Ajax football shirt. My eldest daughter W. insists this is because when I lie down my stomach is that much closer to the sun. Ha ha. Anyway after that I went back to my normal sunblock and within a few days I was restored to my normal unhealthy 'Y-front grey' hue. We must appear a strange sight when out walking together. Hilary with her gypsy colouring, myself like a preserved cadaver and D. like one of the undead. That may explain the locals slamming their doors when we approach.

Those of a squeamish nature should move on to their next email as I am going to touch on a personal subject. Hairy ears. There is no good beating about the bush (pun intended) as this is something that has affected me for several years now. You start to notice these thingswhen the barber spends more time on your ears and eyebrows than he does on your head. In the last few weeks I have noticed another change. At first I thought it was my imagination. Things are getting worse. I put it down to the additional hours sunshine. At first this was just a theory but I believe it has been confirmed as I have observed the ears of the Cypriot men. It is quite astonishing how hairy a Cypriot ear can be. I believe there is a lucrative business opportunity here if I can find a way of transplanting the hairy skin from a Cypriot ear to a balding English head. I envisage planeloads of shiny pated tourists coming here and returning home with a full head of thick dark hair. I just have to find an entrepreneurial balding business man with airline connections. Anyone have Stelios' number? I checked on his website http://www.easy.com/stelios/gallery.html) and easyhair.com is the only thing he does not have already.

As we have been here over a month we are starting to get into the Cypriot 'system'. That terrible thing where you have to pay bills. We received our water rates bill. Over here everyone is metered so you pay for what you use. The bill itself was a handwritten form none of that computer generated rubbish for Cyprus and for a little over a month the bill was £80. This was something of a shock as we had been led to believe that everything over here was cheaper this being the promised land of milk and honey. Well yoghurt and honey anyway.We checked the figures as best we could and looked at the meter reading. It seems we had been charged for water before we moved in. A simple accounting error and that was it so we could go and get it corrected. This meant a visit to the village Mukhtar who is the local elected council person. The Mukhtar has an office located in one of the local bars (where else?) and is open for business after 15:00 each day. The office itself is a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs for people to sit and wait. There is no concept of privacy as everyone knows everyone else's business. At least they certainly do after a visit to the mukhtar.
There is also no concept of queuing. The English people arrive and sit in an orderly fashion whereas the Cypriots arrive and walk to the front of any queue there may be. I guess it is their country so fair enough. As the Mukhtar is an elected representative then he has no personal property and the locals are free to help themselves to his cigarettes, drinks etc. I have to admit we were a bit vague on that bit but it is something that the British could learn from. If the elected representatives everywhere had no personal property and the electorate are free to come and take whatever they fancied I am sure we would have a fairer and more democratic system. I think we could learn from this Greek tradition after all Greece is the cradle of democracy. "Excuse me Mr. B I will just take the 3 piece suite you are sitting on. You can tell Sherie later OK?"

When all the locals were done we spoke to the Mukhtar and explained the situation. We thought there was going to be a long process of changing the bill which would take for ever. Not a bit of it. A scribble here, a tap tap tap on his Casio calculator, another scribble there and it was all done. The bill was down to £28 for 2 months. Not a computer in sight and it all worked fine. Having spent 6 weeks trying to get BT to persuade their computer to issue a final bill I am now convinced that computers only slow things down.

Our only other dealing with the Mukhtar was to enquire where our mail was going. Silly us! Didn't we know the postman was on holiday for 6 days? Do not worry the post will start to arrive when he gets back or maybe a few days later. One of the few Greek expressions we have picked up is 'Sigah sigah'. 'Slowly slowly'. If the plumber says he will visit tomorrow then that is Cypriot timescale which could be tomorrow or could be next week. Don't worry it will happen .... eventually.

Enough for today.

Epistle from Cyprus II - 29th August 2006

2006-10-03T12:12:00.000+03:00

Here is number 2 in a limited series of notes from sunny Cyprus. Unbelievably it is now 4 weeks since I departed the UK. It hardly seems possible and time has flown by. For those who were notpaying attention the first part of my last note was a pack of lies. At least everything except my time of arrival and the temperature. Anyway here a few more observations about my current life.

I have found a marked similarity between Greek grammar and Cypriot wine. For example the definite article in Greek (the word 'the' you moron!) comes in several flavours. Like other European languages it has a masculine, feminine and neuter variety. As I am sure you all know wine also has similar characteristics of red, white and rose.
The similarity does not end there however. The Greek definite article (Pay attention at the back there boy! Yes I am still talking about the word 'the'!) also has three variations for each gender. These are nominative, accusative and genitive. This gives a total of nine variations for the word 'the'.
Similarly with local wine (at least when purchased in the quantities that I am thinking about) comes in sweet, medium and dry for each of the three colours. This also gives nine variations. Now that I have your attention there is more. The Greek definite article (Yes yes yes I am still talking about the word 'the'!) has both singular and plural versions for each of the previous nine. This gives a grand total of 18 possibilities for the word 'the'. I suppose I could continue and say the same is true with the wine but that might be stretching the point.

Ere.. I shay.. pash be adudda o' dose female genitive plurals..

However it does give you some idea of how easy English must seem in comparison and perhaps it accounts for why Anglophones are so bad at learning other languages. Our brains are never exerted when we are learning our native tongue.

I should mention something of the local Flora and Fauna
One day last week I witnessed a David Attenborough moment. A life and death struggle between a wasp and a spider. Being a lifelong Spider-man fan there was no doubting where my sympathies lay but I was on a loser here. A small but terrifying wasp was everywhere and soon immobilized her eight-legged victim. She then proceeded to find a suitable location and drag her prey to a quite hole to lay her eggs and depart. Ah the female of the species.

The bungalow is surrounded by bougainvillea (sp?). Very picturesque and all but do not be fooled. Anyone who is familiar with this will know it is a nightmare. It is covered in thorns at every leaf joint just waiting to impale the unwary. The petals when they fall are almost indestructible. They do not seem to rot into the earth like other biological material but simply blow around for ever clogging up every drain hole and blowing through every doorway. I am thinking of suggesting to NASA that they may want to use these petals as a heat shield on the Space shuttle because as far as I can see they are almost indestructible. I just have to find someway of knitting them together.

A few mornings back we discovered we had been sharing our bed with a monster. There was a spider as big as a dinner plate dead in the bed. I swear it was that big. In the morning closer inspection showed it was actually the size of a 50 pence coin but as many out there will confirm the size of objects in bed is often greatly exaggerated.

One day we were tidying the garden with a little pruning of the bushes and plants. Hilary discovered a cute little green 'grasshopper'. However this 'grasshopper' turned out to be a preying mantis.

Traditional English sports
Some of you may be aware of the traditional 'olde englishe' pastime of cherry stones. The aficionados of the game will know that this involves the eating of cherries and then the firing of the cherry stone between the thumb and forefinger at a target the size of a beer bottle, some 8 to 12 feet away. The game is usually accompanied by copious quantities of English beer. Circumstances have demanded that I have adapted the game to use olives and olive stones instead. I have to say that unlike English beer this is something that travels very well. Mmmmmm. What do you mean you never heard of such a game?

Village life.
The village of Tremithousa is quite unusual in that it changes the spelling of its name according to who you ask and which map you look at. The village itself is situated outside Paphos on the side of a hill. It is a mixture of traditional Cypriot houses in the centre and newer 'villas' around the outside. I can only assume that the locals have made a packet selling off land to the developers. That said it is one of the less developed areas here. We went for a drive to some of the other nearby villages and it could be anywhere in Spain.
The main street of the village runs from the village piazza at the southern point then uphill northwards. The geographic position might seem irrelevant now but wait....

To call it a 'street' is a bit of flattery as at some points it is only the width of 2 people with their arms outstretched. That does not stop the locals from using it as a race track and stunt arena. One of their favourite tricks is to drive their quad bikes up the hill and then tip the bike on to 2 wheels and weave from sideto side of the road .... in the dark .... with no lights. I have to admit I was impressed by that.

The main street has 2 local coffee bars one on each side. These are conveniently positioned so that in the morning you can sit in one and drink Greek coffee and water in the shade and then in the afternoon move to the other side of the road to drink beer and still enjoy the shade. See how the geography of the location is all important and cunningly planned for the all day drinker, idler and ne'er-do-well!!

In my previous epistle I may have seemed a little dismissive of the local attitude to religion. How wrong could I be? The same night I finished that note we visited the local watering hole. The local priest came in and joined us with a few other locals. It was the eve of the big Greek Orthodox celebration of the Assumption of the Virgin. They sat near by and the priest joined the others for a few drinks. By and by someone drove up with some of the local bread which he handed over. From that point I swear it was a miracle. Food seemed to appear from every pocket and every car until the table was covered with a veritable feast.

To rub salt in the priest invited us to join them and the locals were only too glad to share whatever they had with us. This spontaneity seems quite characteristic.

A few evenings later some of the younger village men decided they would have a barbecue. In the main street next to the coffee shop and between the telephone box and wooden telegraph pole. Once again it was quite amazing to see how they produced food from nowhere. Also it was surprising to see such a diverse age range mixing together. The group of about 15-20 guys ranged from 40s to early teens and all seem to be able to mix and chat together. I do not think I have ever seen anything like this in the UK.

By marked contrast we sat with an ex-pat local for a short period were he told us that he had been in Cyprus for 10 years and how much he disliked the Cypriots. He finished his beer and went home to the wife. Apparently his wife does not like him drinking in the pub so he only ever has the one. What a waste of space, oxygen and beer!

Mesogi (mes soy ee) is a village approximately a 20 minute walk away. It is a larger and more populous and popular village especially with the ex-pats and tourists. We decided to eat at one of the taverns there. Once again we struggled to finish the meal and had to admit defeat before the final courses were served. Towards the end of the meal 2 police officers, one armed with a pistol arrived and started to inspect the place including the kitchen. We assumed they were there on some official business. As they approached the room we were in they stopped at table with two local men. The sergeant poured two glasses of beer which I assumed he was giving to the two diners. This shows how rash it is to assume anything here. He then took a large swig from one and proceeded to help himself to the meal. This was not enough. They then decided to put several tables together and had an impromptu feast next to our table. The proprietor served them by now the group had grown to 6 with his finest. One of the guys had brought his own bottle the local version of ouzo. This seems a fairly common practice in the smaller taverns here whereas bringing your own drink into a pub or bar at home would be an invitation for immediate eviction. They insisted that Hilary and I join them for several shots of this firewater. It was not too bad.

They joined us in conversation and when they found out that we were staying in the neighbouring village of Tremithousa thought it great fun to tell the story of the 'Tremithousa brain'. Apparently it is a well documented fact that the average brain in Tremithousa weighs in at 300 grams whereas in Mesogi the average is 400 grams. At least it is well documented in Mesogi. I thought it wiser not to ask if the fact was as well recorded when I got back to my local. As one wag later pointed out perhaps with my brain I should be well at home here in Tremithousa.

Enough for today.

Epistle from Cyprus I - 15th August 2006

2006-10-03T12:08:00.000+03:00

It is almost 2 weeks since I arrived so I thought I should at least let you know how things are going. I will not be correcting spelling mistakes, grammar errors or looking for missing / duplicate words. Pedants should stop here. (Mr.P that means you.)

The flight arrived at 23:15 local time and the temperature was 25C. I expected things to continue much in the same vein. How naive! Since then things have gone downhill. The weather has been unseasonably cold. As yet I have not been able to go down to the beach not only due to the cold but also the oil slick that moved in from the Lebanese coast.
The new accommodation is fine if you do not mind hot and cold running cockroaches and nights interrupted by rats scurrying outside and the sound of gunshots from the Lebanese refugees making themselves feel at home. For the last 4 days I have been laid up in bed suffering from the Cypriot equivalent of Delhi belly. Most annoying considering the restaurants are so expensive. OK if you are reading this in your place of employment you had better stop now and go back to pretend to be working as you probably feel much happier with the news of my misfortune. If you are really bored then continue reading....

Except for the arrival time and the temperature all of the above is fabrication! So far things have gone pretty smoothly. The rented place is a bungalow in the village of T. just overlooking Paphos. It has its own pool and garden with the regulation number of palm trees and tropical plants. We had a nasty scare this morning when we thought there was a bees nest at the bottom of the garden and the place was swarming with bees and wasps. It turned out that one of the palms had fruited overnight and the bees and wasps were drunk on the nectar. So drunk in fact that they were drowning themselves in the swimming pool and prevented me from taking my early morning constitutional.

The view from the garden is quite beautiful by day overlooking the town and the sea and even better at night when the coastline is all lit up. I am settling in to a regular routine of sweeping the pool by morning, early morning dip, wander to the local village for a newspaper and to the bakery for bread and cakes followed by a heavy day lounging around the pool or visiting one of the beaches or mountains.

Hilary and I have established ourselves in one of the two local taverns. There is "Ollies" run by ex-pats and serving beer at £1.20 per large bottle in the stainless steel and antiseptic clean, purpose built bar or there is the locally run tavern without a bar or air conditioning which serves beer at £1.00 for the same size bottle. We are usually to be found outside the latter in the evenings. The guy who runs the tavern looks for all the world like George on the farm that I used to stay on. Those who know George will have an instant mental image but for those who do not picture a dentally challenged version of Albert Steptoe (senior). Not sure why it is that I gravitate towards these Steptoesque characters. He recently introduced us to his home-made Halloumi cheese. I have never been a great fan of Halloumi as it always appeared leathery and chewy. This the tavern owner tells me is where we English go wrong. Halloumi should be eaten freshly made otherwise it does indeed go leathery and is then only fit for grilling. I have to say he was right because his fresh Halloumi had a consistency more akin to Fetta and was delicious not to mention courtesy of the house.

The clientelle at the tavern are a mix of ex-pats who have gone native and locals. The ex-pats drink inside at one of the rough tables while the locals sit outside and make a great deal of noise. There is no jukebox so one of them usually drives his 4x4 Japanese pickup next to the door and turns the music up to wake the dead.

I was hoping to go down to the beach where the only fashion accessories are a golden tan and a film of body oil. After 2 weeks I should have picked up something of a tan. Not a bit of it. I have simply gone an unusual grey colour of unwashed Y-fronts. I am sure I can here them say 'Here comes that dirty looking Englishman'. Still it could be worse. I could have the lobster pink appearance of the 2 week holidaymaker or the deep puce of the ex-pat. Hilary on the otherhand has simply gone brown like a native. I am trying to persuade her that she should start selling pegs and lucky heather door to door. Whenever we go somewhere I push her to the front in the hope that as a 'local' we maybe offered some cheap rates and bargains. It also has the advantage that I am nearest the door in case things go awry.

The house is situated in Ayiou Giorgiou, St George's and has a large Greek Orthodox church about 50 meters away between us and our place of worship. It took us several nights to figure out that the strange smell was not one of the locals exotic horticulture but rather the incense and wax from the church that was drifting down. They take their religion as a serious business. Sunday's start on Saturday night with an early service and Sunday morning starts at 7 am with bells calling the heathen English to worship. For those recalcitrants among us all of the services are relayed by loudspeaker to the neighbourhood. The services run for a good 90 minutes but unfortunately there are no football matches running at that time that compete with them so they have the field to themselves.

Enough for today