I wrote this in 1996 after a particularly wonderful holiday experience in Cyprus. Noelin was still on a South African passport.
Chapter One: Plotting a Course
Since that fateful day in 1996 that set us on
the path to a new life in England, the course taken by our lives has been
navigated by a Higher Power. I have had
many arguments with Him about this, but I have learnt over the past five years
that it simply does not pay to “buck” His plan.
We have had no say in our destiny, and have simply followed along the
path that always opens up before us whenever we have had to make a
decision. When we have been tempted to
take the wrong turning, he has blocked the path and we have been forced to
follow his wishes. I no longer argue.
And so too, it happened, when we
decided that we desperately needed a “holiday.”
The overwhelming desire to “go east” built up to the point that we
craved sun and sea like a drug that we could not live without. I found myself becoming an avid collector of
travel brochures and T.V. TravelShop was far more gripping entertainment than
any soapie! I could quote the bed &
breakfast rates of a dozen resorts around the Mediterranean off by heart, and
eagerly scoured the shelves in the travel shops for the latest editions. My interest in Computer World and Classic Car
seemed like distant childhood fads. I
still argued with him; I was too busy at work and a contract was in critical
phase – the company brought my attention to the fact that if I did not take my
leave still due by the end of May, I would forfeit it. I said we could not afford to go on holiday –
I got a letter from my credit card company saying that because I was such a
good boy, they had increased my limit by £1000.
I said we still needed cash in our pockets to have a good time and to be
able to buy the odd ice cream and pint – £300 appeared on the kitchen table
with love from our children and their partners.
Predictably, I was not winning any of the arguments.
Therefore, off to the travel
agent I went.
“Where
to?” the woman asked.
“East!” I replied, to a look that said, “You always
get one, don’t you?”
“How far
east? Spain is east, France is east,
Germany is east, and Greece is east.”
“Did
you say Greece?” Something about
Greece…..no, about the Greeks, or maybe Feta cheese and olive oil, just seemed
irresistible. I still tried to buck the
system –
“We have
some fabulous deals to the Greek Islands for next winter,” she said, rapidly
paging through a brochure that I knew better than she ever would.
“No
good, too long to wait.” said I.
“When
were you planning on going then?” she asked.
Looking her straight in the
eyes, I said “Day after tomorrow!”
She turned deathly pale and with
a glazed look in her eyes made a little mewing sound that, on the second
attempt, came out as a hoarse “Oh dear.”
I was committing the ultimate sin – I was bucking the Sacred British
System that says that holidays are booked and paid for at least a year in
advance, so that the travel companies can earn the interest on your money for a
full year before they have to give you anything in return. No one, but no one, went on holiday “the day
after tomorrow!”
“It may
be a little difficult,” she said with typical British fortitude, “but I’ll see
if there are any Late Bookings available.”
She was a professional, I’ll give her that. Late bookings are cancellations or unsold
quotas that are usually discounted, but are then loaded with additional “late
booking” charges. She tapped away at her
terminal, and then asked
“Which
part of Greece?”
I said “Halidiki” before I could
think – it looked like heaven in the brochures.
She tapped some more, then “How
about seven nights B&B at the Villa Kosmas near Thessalonica?”
“How
much?”
“£265
plus late booking charge and ticket on arrival charge and transfer
charges.”
“Sold!”
said I, “and I also need travel insurance and long term parking at the
airport.”
“Grand
total £385.” She said, and her terminal
crashed – just went dead! Blank
screen. The Big Hints were starting. She made a call, then told me “The system is
down” which is the standard excuse for all I.T. ills, anytime, anywhere. “It will come back in a few minutes.”
“So
we just have time for my wife to get a visa tomorrow?”
“Yes”
she said, “if you get in the queue early enough.” The E.U. countries issue a “Shengen” visa,
which has to be obtained from the country of first entry, in our case Greece,
but which then allows travel across E.U. borders. Noel has had two from the French consulate,
and one from the Danish consulate, always by getting to the consulate before
the doors open, and has walked out a few hours later visa in hand (or rather,
in passport.) Spain is the same, as are
Holland and Belgium. I did not see why
Greece should be any different. I handed
over the plastic, and she went through the motions, and then her screen lit up
and she tapped in our names, address and birthdays, and meal preferences. (I should have remembered to ask for Kosher,
but how many Italian Jews do you know?)
Her printer spat out a heap of forms which she presented for my
signature, mostly absolving the travel company from any and all responsibility
in case we were murdered, poisoned, kidnapped or simply got sent to the wrong
place, or the aircraft broke either on the ground or in the air.
“These
tickets are NON REFUNDABLE!” she made a point of saying, “and cannot be
changed.”
“Sure,”
I said, dialling Noel on my mobile to tell her the good news and to ask her to
phone the Greek Embassy visa department and ask what time they opened in the
morning.
“We
have a ‘no commission’ deal on foreign exchange, so if you would like to take
cash with you in Greek Drachmas, please just go to our Forex desk.” The travel girl invited. I almost kissed and cuddled her in a fit of
gleeful thanks, and made a beeline for the Forex desk, where I shoved £300 in
Notes Of The Realm through the slot in the glass window, and boldly asked for
the equivalent in Greek Money. A pile of
bills was pushed back through the slot, that should have had their own suitcase,
but I managed to squeeze them into my pockets.
Back
home Noel was in a fit of frustration.
“You
phone that number and see if you can get their silly computer to tell you what
time they open!”
I did, and was greeted by an
electronic voice that told me I was paying 60p a minute for the privilege, and
then proceeded with the usual “If you have a star button on your telephone,
press it now” routine. After trying
every option offered, and a good few pounds more in debt to BT, I still did not
know what time they opened for business.
I phoned the travel shop, and asked them if they had another ‘phone
number for the Greek Embassy Visa department, and yes, they did. I tried again, this time greeted by a Greek
woman, in Greek, to whom I said that I wanted to enquire about the opening time
of the visa department. Click-zzzzpt – “If you have a star button on your
telephone……..” Back to square one. At this point, I should have taken the hint
from on high, but we were too hyped-up to take any notice of Him. We celebrated our achievement thus far with a
sundowner or two and planned our trip into London the next day. We were determined to be early to be first in
the visa queue at the Greek Embassy. We
would drive to Cockfosters and catch the Piccadilly Line tube to Holborn,
change to the Central line and travel to Notting Hill Gate, from where we would
walk up the hill and around the corner to the Embassy. Sleep didn’t come easily that night. It never does when the dawn is anticipated
with such relish, but the alarm woke us at 5.30 am and we were in the car by
6.30. Off the M25 at junction 24, around
the round a bout, down the hill toward Cockfosters – and the traffic was not
going anywhere! Total traffic jam, and a
crawl for the five miles to Cockfosters station that ate up an hour of our
time. Another hint? By the time we arrived at Notting Hill it was
8.45 and we were last in the queue outside the embassy door. The Greek diplomatic staff started to arrive
just after 9 am, looking over the queue of people with a pained expression
before going in through the security doors.
A woman eventually came out, walked down the queue, and handed out
numbered chits to everyone in the queue, the same as those little paper numbers
that you get to take your turn at the deli counter in the supermarket. Our number was 76, but when we were
eventually let in to sit in a completely closed waiting room with no air-con
the “next” display on the wall started at 41, in big red letters. We sat & waited & waited and sat
until the display slowly counted to our number, 76, at 12 noon.
 |
| En route to the Greek consulate |
We
went into an office, sat down in front of a little old Greek woman, who took
Noel’s application form that I had downloaded from the Web the night before,
and after reading through it asked
“When
are you departing?”
“Tomorrow!”
we said in chorus.
“Impossible!”
she said, “It takes three weeks to process the application!”
But, but, but – no buts!
“Applications
have to be sent to Athens so it is not in our power to do anything. Perhaps you should go upstairs and have a
word with the Consul – he may take a risk.”
This, we should have realised,
was a mega-hint, only to be confirmed by the Consul, whose disposition progressed
from interest to astonishment, to indignation, to sympathy and finally to
self-righteous justification. But never
to taking that risk, whatever it was. We
left, totally destroyed, and with all our dreams in tatters, and presumably
£385 poorer. We dragged our feet down
the hill and found a sidewalk cafe´ where we ordered a lunch that we never
tasted. Disappointment became anger and
then resolve. We would go back to the
travel shop and “robustly express our concern about their failure to provide us
with the correct information” regarding the procedures for applying for a Greek
Shengen Visa! So back onto the tubes we
went, and re-traced our journey of that morning that now seemed to have been
years ago.
The fact that the car had not
been stolen in our absence, and that it started first time, and that there was
no hold-up on the M25, and that when we arrived back at the travel shop there
was parking right outside the door, suggest that we were on the right course.
The travel girl was busy selling someone a trip to Disneyland, U.S.A. Perhaps, I thought, she should go with to
where she belonged. We waited. Eventually the cry of “Have a lovely trip”
meant that she was free to face my wrath.
Noel decided to opt out of the coming battle by remaining at the rack of
brochures, pretending to be completely unconcerned. After I explained the problem in a very
Brit-like manner (calm, cool & collected), she displayed all the sympathy
of a dentist pulling wisdom teeth. “The
tickets are non-refundable I’m afraid and can’t be changed.” When I told her that my position was that she
had failed to provide us with the correct information regarding the visa
application requirements of the Greeks, who were different to all of the other
E.U. countries, and that she should have known this as she sold holidays to
Greece, and that I would have no alternative but to phone Amex and cancel the
credit card transaction, and that her company’s solicitor could talk to my solicitor
about any problem that that may cause them, there was a miraculous change of
attitude.
“Well, we don’t want to see you
lose your holiday, and the only way that the booking can be changed is with the
co-operation of the tour company, so let me ring them and find out if they will
bend the rules for us.”
She rang, and explained the
problem to someone, and thanked them, and said “O.K, they will agree to change
the booking to another destination, provided you fly on the same day as the
original booking.” What possible
difference this could have on their balance sheet, I could not imagine, but we
were getting somewhere.
“So,”
I asked, "Where can we go, departing tomorrow, where my wife will not
require a visa?”
“Let’s
see,” she said, and reached under her desk for a massive book called “The Travel Reference Guide.”
“Let’s
try….Tenerife,” and she paged to the appropriate page. “No, no good.”
“Try
Commonwealth countries” I said.
“Malta!”
Back on her terminal and no late
booking availability for Malta, tomorrow.
“Cyprus!”
Where the hell was Cyprus? Pages turned, and there it was under ‘Visa
Requirements:’ Entry visas are not required
in advance for tourists staying for 30 days or less who are nationals of the
following countries:- and buried way
down the list “Republic of South Africa.”
This was Mega-Hint number two!
Back on the terminal, and yes “The
two last seats on tomorrow night’s flight are still available with seven nights
Bed & Breakfast accommodation at the Elia Holiday Village in Latchi. The cost is a bit more than Halidiki,
though.”
“How
much more?”
“About
one hundred pounds per head more.”
“Can
we book half-board?”
“Yes,
half or full board.”
“Let’s
have half board.” Half board means
breakfast and dinner included which is usually cheaper than paying locally for
meals. At lunchtimes, we would be out
and about anyway.
She tapped, and said “Sorry, the
system won’t accept half-board. It’s
shown on the options menu, but when I click on it, it won’t accept it.” He was at work again!
“Fine,
we’ll go B&B, and eat out.”
“The
accommodation is either a studio apartment or a maisonette; both have cooking
facilities.”
“Let’s
have the maisonette.” I figured that
with two rooms, my snoring wouldn’t be a problem for Noel.
“Sorry
– same thing – it won’t accept the maisonette option. Don’t know why, but we could try later.”
“NO! It’s now or never – we’ll lose the
seats!”
I booked B&B for seven
nights in a studio apartment, 100 yards from the beach. We could swim in either of two pools, use the
gym and sauna, participate in the Group Activities, go to the Kiddies Club, and
generally have a good time.
“When
does the flight leave, and from where?”
“Gatwick,
Cyprus Airlines, departing at 22.30, arriving at 04.30 local time, at Paphos
airport.”
Where the hell was Paphos? Why 4.30 in the morning? What do they do in Cyprus, dear Lord? They milk goats, make cheese, drink like fish
(which they catch and eat a lot of) and do not worry about anything! Marvellous.
She took more plastic, printed more paper for me to sign, and reminded
me to change my money to Cyprian Pounds.
Back at the Forex desk, I pushed
the piles of Greek money through the slot, and the clerk counted forever before
saying “That’s £274.75”
“Cyprian?” I asked.
“Sterling!”
came the smug reply.
“But
why do I lose over £25?”
“Well,
because of the difference between the buying and selling rates.”
“No,
no – I can’t afford to lose £25 just like that – I must find a better
rate. I’ll be back if I don’t.” He pushed the pile back through the slot and
I set off from bank to bank to Thomas Cook to Lloyds. My own bank could give me £275.85 if I waited
until tomorrow as their system was down! I went back to an even smugger smile and
collected my £274.75, which I pushed back through the slot and asked for
Cyprian Money. He tapped, and said,
“That’s £220.00 Cyprian Pounds.”
“What??”
“Oh
yes – the Cyprian Pound is more powerful than Stirling – the rate is about
£1.20 Stirling to one Cyprian.” And this
on Goat’s cheese? I gave in and took the
slim little sheaf of notes he gave me and stuck them in the back of my wallet.
Chapter Two: Going With the Flow.
Back
home, we started those chaotic pre-going-away preparations that leave you
wondering if it’s worth it. Suitcases
have to be found, last winter’s old clothes that are in them have to be put
somewhere else,
(the charity shop bag), a note
to the milkman, the heating turned off, toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant and adaptor plugs, mobile phone
chargers, and call the mobile phone company to say you’re not going to Greece,
but to Cyprus, and will your phone work there?
Tell the neighbours you will be away but your kids may be in and out
(switch the heating back on) and decide what clothes to take. One more Sleep and you wake up on The Day
trying to remember what you have forgotten, and to the realisation that it is
really going to happen! How far is
Gatwick? Allow two hours – make that two
and a half – no, had better make it three in case there is a hold-up on the
M25. Check-in two hours before departure
– that is 22.30 minus two, that is 20.30 minus three, that is 17.30. Slap in the middle of peak rush hour! So we’ll leave at 15.30 to miss the
traffic. Half past three in the
afternoon to catch a plane at ten thirty at night? But then, this is London, not Bloemfontein.
The
M25 at mid-afternoon is like a horde of ants on the march, and seems to go on
forever. Over the Thames and through the
Dartford toll and you are on the home stretch.
Gatwick Që. Long Term Parkingì Zone Cë. Find a
slot, not there, there – near the bus stop!
Switch off, lock the steering, put the radio face in the cubby, cover
the dash with Noel’s boot protector, and wonder why you have the feeling that
you will never be back? Unload the
luggage and haul it all over to the bus stop.
SHUTTLE BUS STOP No.8-> the sign says.
Do we need to strap the wheels onto the big suitcase? No, not yet.
The bus pulls up, lug all of it onto the luggage rack, and find a
seat. We look at each other and silently
say, “We are really going.” The bus
drives up and down the rows of cars, stopping occasionally to pick up other
people, some as bemused as we are, some in suits carrying just a
briefcase. The terminal looms, and we
lug all the bags off the bus onto the pavement and go in search of a
trolley. Load it all onto the trolley
and argue about which to put on top. Push the trolley through
the terminal doors and follow the signs to DEPARTURES>>>. Some
kilometres later arrive in a check-in cathedral and look for EUROCYPRUS PAPHOS
368.
There
it is, at the head of that queue of 300 people!
Smugly, you congratulate yourself because 300 people made the same time
& distance calculations that you did, and they all arrived at 17.30. All shapes and mostly large sizes, they are
dressed in everything from shorts to beach shirts. Kids are using the luggage trolleys, packed
high, as an obstacle course, chasing one another around in circles,
screaming. Parents take no notice and
move forward like robots. Oh God, six
hours locked up in a flying bus with this lot, we’ll never get to Cyprus sane!
The
queue slowly shortens, and by 18.45 there it is, in front of you – The Check-In
Desk! You shuffle the luggage to hide
what you are carrying on with you and heave the rest onto the scale
conveyor. 32.5 kilos. You are under weight, so why carry that
shoulder bag. Never mind, its Noel's
cosmetics, and always goes on board with her!
“Did
you pack your bags yourself? Are you
carrying any prohibited goods?” How the
hell do I know what’s prohibited.
Cocaine? Not likely. “Would you like a window seat?” Her or me?
Her. Yes please. “Boarding time is 22.00; please watch the
monitors for the gate number.” You
suppress the urge to kiss her, and wander away shuffling passports and boarding
cards as if you are in a game of bridge.
Let’s go and find a pint; I don’t have to drive any more! Let’s go through emigration and get it over
with, and then find a pint. We pile our
shoulder bags onto the x-ray conveyor and Noel steps up to the detector arch
and says to the security police “Are
you ready for this?” and proceeds to walk through to a bedlam of sirens and
bells. “It’s these,” she says, pointing
to her arm bangles “They always do it.”
 |
“Step
this way, please madam!” Do not pass go,
do not collect £200, miss your next turn, and she becomes a suspected terrorist
and gets the full treatment. Because I’m
with her,
“Step
over here please, sir” and I get a frisking that makes me wonder if the police
officer is a.c. or d.c. I could never
carry anything there without risking permanent injury whenever I sat down! “Boarding card please.” Now where are they? Who is taking our bags off the x-ray
conveyor? Will we ever see them
again? All of the other passengers are
calmly walking through the security point with no bells & whistles, and
they all look at us in a funny way. Are they glad that their plane is not going
to be hijacked? Are they glad they
aren’t going to die? No, they are just
glad that someone else is being punished for their frustration. Creeps!
“Thank
you, have a nice flight.”
We are not going to goal!
We’re free!
We
find a pub-come-restaurant on the upper floor of the duty free concourse,
proudly displaying signs that proclaim “Hot bar food all day.” I ask for a menu at the counter and a large
yob in an apron glares at me and shouts “No food, no food!” We take our custom elsewhere, and gnaw on
stale baguettes washed down with a pint of Australia’s best lager while
watching the ‘planes take off and land and find their way to gaping tunnels
waiting to suck the passengers out like giant vacuum cleaners. Appetites suppressed, we wander down to the
duty free shops and find Johnny Walker black label for £6.00 a litre and
cigarettes for £32.00 for 300. So why on
earth are we lugging this green bag around weighed down with a bottle of
Sainsbury’s Scotch that cost £9.00 and a bottle of Irish Meadow that is the
only thing that I can afford to drink at £3.00 a bottle? We buy 400 cigarettes for Noel for £25.00
because we recon that customs at Cyprus will allow us 200 each duty free, and a
bottle of Southern Comfort for me for a mere £6.00 a litre. Another bag to carry, this time plastic, with
“Gatwick Duty Free Shopping” on it to tell everyone how stupid we are.
Eventually
the monitors say “368 – Paphos – Gate 15 – Wait in lounge.” We follow the signs to gate 15, and after a
15-minute walk along moving walkways, arrive at a glassed in area lined with
plastic seats, already almost full. We
sit, and eventually a smart hostess comes to the exit door and says, “The
passengers for seat rows 20 to 30 please board first, followed by those for
rows 10 to 20 and finally those for rows 1 to 10. We are in row 10, seats A & B. We wait, and take our turn to walk along the
tunnel and onto the A320. There is
congestion because some passengers have fought their way back from their seats
and are trying to get into the toilets.
Already. A hostess shoos them
back to their seats and we find row 10, A & B. by the window. It’s nighttime, so why do they ask if you
would like a window seat? All you can
see is the little flashing green light on the wingtip anyway. My feet hurt.
Noel has a migraine.
No
matter how often you fly, you are always convinced that either the aircraft is
never going to get off the ground, or the pilot is mad and thinks the aircraft
has STOL capabilities and can climb vertically.
This one was one of the latter; I swear the thing had afterburners and
rolled just seven feet down the runway before we were lying on our backs under
eight Gs, going straight up! No one says
a word until the power comes off and the seat belt light goes out, and then
everyone chatters at once like a cage of monkeys. Drinks, then dinner and pretty good dinner it
was for airline food. Things were
looking good but my feet still hurt. Six
and a half hours later, we are told to set our watches back two hours, and to
prepare to land at Paphos airport. No
sign of the dawn yet, and we touched down and rolled to a stop under full reverse
thrust and brakes in about ten feet. We
taxied behind a “Follow Me” truck to a terminal building that was just
beginning to be silhouetted in the dawn.
We Had Arrived! Down the stairs
and a short walk to the terminal and bleary eyed immigration officials waved
everyone through with a glance at their nice red passports, and then came
Noel. The procession stopped.
“South
African?” asked the official in the rumpled shirt and skew tie.
“Yes.” said Noel.
He said “No Visa!”
Oh Lord, why us? Noel said, “I
was told I didn’t need one.” He said
“Fill in this card, you buy one here.
Five Pounds!” A scam, I realised
with relief. She didn’t need one, but he
needed Five Pounds. Deal.
 |
| Is that mine? |
 |
| Latchi Holiday Village |
Chapter Three: A Fellow Well Met.
Thursday
Clean,
airy, comfortable and from the balcony that vast lake of Mediterranean water
was visible through the trees. They even
provided a fresh loaf of bread, some butter, cheese and a bottle of red wine in
case we could not wait for breakfast. By
the time we had unpacked, the dining room was open and we surveyed the buffet,
arranged in three sections: Fruit and
cereals, Cyprian Food and Brit. Food.
 |
| Our room at Elia Village |
 |
| Yiangos Stuanoy |
A
good breakfast always helps the digestion, or rather the walk afterwards, and
so we set off to explore what would be our hometown for the next week. We had seen the village across the road from
the hotel grounds, and we walked down the road and into the main centre, which
is more of a marina than a village. A
very pretty harbour with lots of yachts, ski-boats for hire, big day-trippers
and a naval patrol boat in its own berth.
Lining the quay are tavernas and restaurants all offering their own
menus of fish mezes and, for the Brits, plain fish & chips. We strolled down the main quay, the harbour
water a blue mirror on our right, the sky a shade deeper, and the sun burning
our legs and arms. I bought a kakhi
baseball cap with adidas on the front; I was not going to look like a
lobster-faced tourist! Near the end of
the main centre, sitting on a chair outside a restaurant called the “Sea Nest”
was an elderly man with a jolly face and a great white moustache. He was busy weaving the floats onto the edge
of a fishing net with a miniature shuttlecock and nylon thread. Ever curious, Noel was drawn over to watch
him work.
”Hello,
what are you making?” she asked.
“I
make the net for catching fishes,” he said.
“Can
I watch how you do it?”
“Please
– sit down and have a drink. What you
like, some beer?”
Never one to turn down a pint on a hot day, we
enthusiastically accepted and sat at the table next to him.
“Please,
will you have something with us? May I
buy you a beer also?” I asked.
“I
never drink beer! Only Zinovia.”
“What
is that?” I asked. He nodded to a good-looking young man
hovering in the background and presently two ice-cold bottles of Keo, the local
lager and a half jack of clear spirit coated in frost and two shot glasses were
plonked down on the table. He poured a
shot of Zinovia into each glass, handed me one, clinked his against mine with a
“Salut” and downed his in one gulp. Not
to be outdone, I followed his example.
With my eyes out on stalks and my sinuses now clear, I could only grin
and nod.
“Good?” He asked.
“Very!” I croaked, and immediately my glass was
re-filled.
“Salyut!” Why me, Lord?
“My
father only drank Zinovia all of his life and he lived to the age of 117!” He said, wiping each side of his moustache
with the back of his finger. We were
halfway through the Keo and I was feeling more chilled out than I had in years
when enormous salvers of every kind of grilled fish were placed on the table,
with great bowls of salads and baskets of delicious breads. Plates, cutlery, and two more bottles of beer
followed, while Yiangos, as we now knew his name was, downed another shot of
Zinovia. After a while, we thanked him
for the hospitality and made to leave.
“No,
no, you must eat something!” He ordered.
Introductions in order, we learned that his name was
Yiangos Stuanoy. He introduced us to his
wife who was sitting at a table preparing vegetables for the kitchen, and to
his daughter, Katina, who managed the restaurant and did all cooking. Two of Yiangos’ friends joined us, one an old
man wearing a fisherman’s cap, with whom he had fished as a teenager. The other, Yiannis Ctoris, had come to the
south as a refugee when the Turks invaded the north and was now a vegetable and
fruit farmer and from whose farm all of the salads on the table had come. Then, there was Miceal – the good-looking one
in his early thirties who was everyone’s friend and seemed to help everywhere,
in the kitchen, serving tables, clearing up, and who took Noel’s plate onto his
lap and dissected the bones out of her fish with his fingers, before feeding
her the flesh soaked in olive oil and lemon juice. They sure know how to eat, those Cyprians! We ate our fingers off, and when I took out my
wallet, I was indignantly told to put it away!
 |
| Latchi Waterfront |
Lunch
over, we were entertained with stories of Yiangos’ diving exploits as a
teenager, the whereabouts of the rest of his family (Australia, New York, South
Africa) and by Yiannis’ account of how he and his wife had been forced to flee
from northern Cyprus when the Turks invaded the north in 1974. He was wearing nothing but shorts and sandals
at the time, leaving behind a successful business in construction and a family
home. Given state housing and the use of
a piece of land, he now farms vegetables and fruit, mainly in tunnels and
supplies the needs of most of the area.
We reluctantly parted from our newfound friends in mid-afternoon,
slightly inebriated and totally entranced by the hospitality we had
enjoyed. They had made us promise to
return for dinner that evening to meet their wives. We wandered back to the hotel for a
much-needed snooze as our bodies were telling us that it was 4 pm, although our
watches only said 2.00. We had been
awake for thirty-six hours.
 |
| Mikael and GS |
We
woke at sunset and had a sundowner on our balcony overlooking the sea. Sunset over the Med, on a clear evening, must
be experienced to be appreciated; suffice to say it is different to anywhere we
have ever been, and is diffused with a sense of peace that is enhanced by the
calm water. At 8 pm we walked back down
to the village to exercise our right to buy a small snack for dinner at the Sea
Nest, as we couldn’t imagine being seen in any other restaurant and offending
our hosts of that morning. The whole
crowd that we had met that morning, plus the rest of Yiangos’ family, were all
seated at one long table when we walked in the door, and we were ushered to
join them despite our polite protests.
The meal was waiting to be served; a large platter of fish casserole
prepared to a “special” recipe of Yiangos’ that is a favourite of the family,
with the now familiar bowls of fresh salads and baskets of breads. We were asked what we would like to drink,
and when we said wine, a bottle of a special Cyprian estate white was brought,
opened, and poured. They make excellent
wine in Cyprus!
The
warmth and hospitality that evening were overwhelming, and we chatted and
laughed and drank and joked late into the night. We met Yiangos’ two daughters, Christina, who
“owns” the Sea Nest restaurant and her husband, and Katina and her husband, who
runs the two pleasure yachts, and Yiannis’ wife who had studied and worked in
England and whose English was very good.
Language was no barrier to anyone, though, and we felt as though we had
known this family all of our lives. Our itinerary was organised for us; we
would be taken out for a trip along the coast on the motor yacht the next day
with a barbeque lunch on board, and we had to visit Yiannis’ farm when we
returned to harbour. We were invited to
a family engagement party on Saturday night, that of Yiangos’ nephew. We were told that two thousand guests would
be attending! Yeh, right! Two thousand?
Fishermen always exaggerate. We
learned of a son who was a lawyer living in Australia, married to a
Barrister. Their son, Yiangos’ grandson,
was a close friend of Prince William, having spent most of his school life as
Prince William’s roommate. Now they
would be going to university together in Scotland. (It was only three weeks after we had
returned to London that it was announced that William would be attending
university in Scotland and not Oxford).
We also learned that Yiangos is a close friend of Prince Philip who
often came to Cyprus on holiday, the family connection going back a long
way. The conversation and food and drink
continued until, at around 11.30 I cornered Katina in the kitchen and asked her
to please allow me to contribute to the cost of the meal, and she shooed me
away saying “My father would kill me if I allowed it!”
 |
| Mdme Stuanoy |
As
we said our goodbyes, Miceal asked if we had heard live Greek music, and
insisted on taking us to the hotel down the road where a live Greek band was
playing. We were shown to a table next
to the dance floor and listened to some of the best bouzouki music we have ever
heard, while flattening a bottle of Cyprian brandy between the three of
us. A touring coach group were also
among the audience and one of them, a Glaswegian by his accent, sang a few pop
numbers to a Karaoke backing. He was
incredibly good and drew a standing ovation from anyone sober enough to stand
up. We stumbled out on to the pavement
at 1.30 in the morning and, refusing Miceal’s offer of a cab, led each other
down the street and along the quay, back to the hotel where we fell into bed in
a stupor.
Chapter Four:
Enlightenment.
Friday
We
surfaced at around nine the next morning, just in time for another Greek
breakfast with lots of coffee, and tried to justify our experiences thus
far. It seemed impossible that it had
all been sheer chance and accident, and we both felt that we were being steered
along in a pre-determined way. Two
foreign tourists with no previous experience of the place or the people simply
do not get that lucky without His influence!
We had met, and had been made to feel at home, by a family of some
standing in the local community, a family that were completely open and as warm
and close as our own. We could have
walked another way the day before, and not seen the old man with his fishing
net. We could have gone to Greece and
not come to Cyprus at all. We could have
done many things that would not have brought us to meet Yiangos. Why had we come this way? Only He knows His reasons, ours not to wonder
why.
 |
| The Koulla |
We
were due on board the “Koulla” at 10 am, so we postponed further analysis of
our fate and gathered our hats and cameras and hurried down to the harbour
quay. Christina was waiting for us, and
ushered us on board. We were not the
only passengers, but were joined by four other couples who had booked for the
trip – they only take ten people at a time.
We waited a while and Christina apologised for the delay, but told
everyone that the delay would be worth it, because we were waiting for her
father who insisted on skippering the boat that morning, as he had friends on
board. You know that feeling when everyone
is staring at you? Yiangos and his
ships mate, Christo, soon joined us and
fired up the engine, a v-twelve Detroit turbo-diesel of some 260 horsepower. He turned the boat neatly away from the quay
and once clear of the breakwater, he set a course north-west up the coast.
The
sea was calm and blue as usual, and the sun blazed out of a clear windless
sky. Yiangos was in his natural element
behind the big wheel, and clearly knew every nook and cranny of the coastline,
as well as the reefs and coves. We
sailed close inshore at places of interest;
 |
| Aphrodite's Rock |
 |
| "I've got a fish!" |
“This
I cook especially for you, later,” he told her.
If it had been a Bluefin Tunny, her grin would not have
been any bigger. Needless to say,
everyone then wanted to try their hand and they were throwing bits of bread
into the sea around the bait, to attract the fish. Strangest thing you ever saw, the fish would
eat all of the bits of bread, but not one went near the bread with the hook in
it! No one caught another fish that
day. If you can’t catch them, join them. The water temperature was around 25C and so
clear, every detail on the sea bed was visible, and soon some of the other
guests were jumping over the stern for a swim.
Noel showed them all how it’s done, by effortlessly swimming to the
shore of the bay some 500 metres away and combing the beach for shells, before
swimming back at a lazy crawl. She
wasn’t even breathing hard when she climbed back on board.
The
food was laid out buffet style in the wheelhouse, and we helped ourselves to
marinated pork, grilled chicken, salad, and breads. Delicious!
Yiangos then took a large jar filled with what I thought was feta cheese
from under the shelf, and extracted a large chunk of the cheese which he cut
into pieces with his knife.
“This
is special Houmouli cheese from Micael’s goats,” he told me, “just for you to
try,” and he put the pieces on the grid over the barbeque coals. Scorched and hot, there is nothing on earth
like the taste of that cheese. Sheer
magic. A woman passenger took only salad
from the buffet, and when asked why, she said that she did not eat red meat or
chicken, and as there was no fish, she would eat only the salad.
“You
are unlucky today,” said Yiangos, “only one lady caught a fish and I must cook
it for her,”
I immediately volunteered my wife’s catch for the good of
customer relations and reluctantly, Yiangos agreed to grill it for the poor
woman. I hope she appreciated what she
ate!
All
too soon, it was time to set course for home.
While we surged back across the bay at a steady six knots, I stood in
the wheelhouse and chatted to Yiangos.
He told me tales of his youth, when, assisted by his boyhood friend, who
we had met at the Sea Nest, he had started out in his teens as a sponge diver. Back then sponges were a valuable commodity,
there were no synthetics to make the plastic ones we have today, so every woman
who wanted to bathe with the luxury of a soapy sponge, had to buy a natural
one, harvested from the sea. Soon he
became the “Sponge King” of the Mediterranean, buying up the harvest of all of
the sponge divers in the Mediterranean region, and selling them on to the
world’s markets. I guess he must have
made his fortune in a similar way to the Ostrich feather “Kings” of Oudshoorn,
who also supplied a priceless natural commodity that was in worldwide demand at
the time.
 |
| Latchi harbour |
He
told me of the time during the Turkish crisis when a young British soldier,
attached to the U.N. forces, had disappeared while skin-diving off Fontana
Amorosa. After three days of
unsuccessful searching, the U.N. command had approached Yiangos for help. He had mobilised every fisherman in the area,
and together they had combed the seabed and searched the coastline for a
further three days without finding a trace of the man. Then, the day after the search had been
called off and Yiangos had gone out in his fishing boat to set his nets, he
happened to glance over the side and he saw something in the rocks, in about seventy
feet of water. He donned his mask, which
was all he had with him, and dived over the side to investigate. He found the missing man, and what he had
seen from the surface was the sun reflecting off the scuba tanks on his
back. He had been spear fishing, and had
pursued a fish into a cleft in the rocks and become jammed by his scuba
gear. He could not go forward or back,
and must have run out of air struggling to free himself. The body was by now so bloated that Yiangos
could not free it, and he returned to Latchi where he notified the
authorities. They sent a diving team out
with him, and they could not free the body either. Eventually Yiangos went back home and
returned with a hammer and chisel, dived down himself, and chiselled the rocks
and coral away until the body came free.
In return the U.N. presented him with a lifetime free travel and
accommodation pass with which he could fly anywhere in the world and stay free
in any city, for the rest of his life.
He has never used the pass, as he feels that to do so, he would be
profiting from the death of a family man who left a wife and three young
children. Such is Yiangos.
We
reached Latchi harbour wishing we could have stayed at sea forever. Cruising on the Mediterranean is the most
effective chill-out medicine in the world.
Forgetting that we had made tentative arrangements with Miceal to go and
visit Yiannis’ farm, we strolled back to the hotel and crashed on our beds until
eight o’clock. I then had a desperate
craving for sugar, so we strolled into the village, found a coffee shop open,
and ordered baklava. Served warm with a
glass of iced water, it was so good we could not resist seconds. After a friendly chat with the proprietor, we
strolled back to the hotel, watching the fruit bats flit among the trees. Another fantastic day.
Chapter Five: Around the Mountains
Saturday.
We
had booked to go on the Troodos Mountains Jeep Safari, as we wanted to see the
Kykko monastery, famed for its gold décor, and also something of the interior
of the country. As we did not have a
hire car, as do most tourists, this would be the best way to see what we
wanted, and then some. These safaris
comprise of four Land Rover Defender station wagons, which travel in convoy to
places inaccessible to ordinary cars (with the possible exception of Yiangos’
Mercedes.) We had to get up early, as
our jeep would collect us from the hotel at 7.30, and sure enough, it was right
on time. Our guide and driver, who was
also the safari leader, turned out to be South African. He introduced himself as “Ryan”. Noel immediately responded with,
“What
do you mean, ‘Ryan’? Dis mos ‘Riaan’, is
it nie?” He broke into a huge grin.
“Thank
God someone can pronounce my name! I
have to call myself ‘Ryan’ so that everyone can say it.” He was a Boere-seuntjie from Port Elizabeth
in the Cape and had married a local girl of Cyprian decent. Their second child had been born three years
previously, whereupon they had come to Cyprus to show the baby to his wife’s parents,
and had been persuaded to stay.
 |
| Our Safari "Jeep" |
With
our Land Rover in the lead, the convoy set off for the first stop of the day,
the forest station in the mountains at Stavros Tis Psokas, where the Cyprian
government had established a breeding station for the Moufflon mountain
sheep. We remembered seeing Moufflons at
Johannesburg zoo and never realised that they were so rare. They are large, dark brown, longhaired sheep
with enormous curved horns. Native only
to Cyprus, they are on the endangered species list and only about 300 of them
are left, none in the wild. We made good
time, as the roads through the Troodos Mountains are very good, as they also
lead to and from the Capital, Nicosia.
We only had a short distance to go once we left the tar and followed
gravel roads into the forests. The
diversity of tree species is extraordinary once you climb above 2000 feet. Real Cyprus trees are everywhere, not the
diminutive cemetery kind, but giants in every way. Indigenous forests still cover much of the
mountainous areas, and with a climate much like the South African Low-veldt,
everything flourishes.
We stopped at the
Moufflon station and Riaan gathered everyone around one of the large picnic
tables provided by the forestry department, on which he stood, introducing
himself with ‘My name for today is Ryan’,
and lectured us on the rules of the day.
We were to swap our seating arrangements around after each stop so that
everyone could have a turn sitting on the more comfortable rear passenger seat
instead of the bench seats fitted along each side of the rear. Then he led us all off to walk the perimeter
fence of the Moufflon enclosure, which was more of a hiking exercise than
anything else. We managed a glimpse of
two Moufflons before returning to the vehicles and setting off for the next
stop, this time with Noel & I in the back with a young German couple. The huge English lady who had travelled in
the front passenger seat had to stay there, as she could not fit anywhere
else. Why are the Brits so
overweight? We have been trying to
puzzle it out, and have concluded that it must be something they put in the
water! Or perhaps it’s the baked beans?
 |
| Riaan's team |
 |
| Kykkos Monastery Entrance |
We
wound our way higher and higher up the mountain roads, until we reached Kykkos
Monastery. “Monastery” is misleading –
it is more like a walled town, with a very imposing entrance gateway surrounded
by an archway of gilded mosaics. On
either side of the entrance are magnificent rose gardens, which were in full
bloom. Roses, we found out, bloom twice
a year because of the climate. We went
through the entrance and into a large courtyard. On two sides were rows of stone columns
behind which the courtyard walls are covered in painted murals of biblical
scenes, rich in colour. Through the
courtyard and down a set of stone steps we came to the entrance of the church
proper. We had never been into a Greek
Orthodox Church before, and found it quite strange, but our attention was
riveted by the sight of the transept frieze extending the width of the church
and completely covered in gold. The
chandeliers were solid gold, the wall sconces, the roof beams, the pulpit,
everything! Not gold paint, or fragile
leaf, but a solid layer of the stuff, sculpted and formed. It took the breath away, and left us totally
awed and speechless.
 |
| Kykkos Monastery Interior |
There
is a palpable presence in the church at Kykkos monastery. It is evident no matter what one's beliefs
are, quite apart from the impression of awesome wealth that pervades the
monastery. A feeling of serenity and
peace diffuse throughout which leave one in no doubt that, this is a good place
to be. It is difficult to leave and you
have to promise yourself that you will return.
Some people do not appreciate this, however, and we remarked on the
children that were allowed to run around, screaming, in such a Holy place. You always get one, don’t you? The flash goes off at regular intervals
despite the signs admonishing, “No Photography Is Allowed” and a loud American
woman shouts, “Gwarsh, Howard, lookit all thay-hat gold! Howard?
Now kids, you-all come lookit too, ya hear?”
Back
outside we assembled to continue our safari, and climbed into the vehicles,
rotating our seating positions. We
climbed higher into the mountains until we pulled off at a viewpoint from which
we could see forever. Everything we
could see, Riaan told us, was in Turkish territory, as we were looking due
north from an elevation of six thousand feet. After listening to Yiannis’ and
Yiangos’ stories about the Turkish invasion, the feeling was one of menace,
like looking over the Berlin Wall. You
expect to see tanks and guns pointing at you, and devastated villages and towns. In fact, from the distance we were at, no
such detail would have been visible anyway.
The border is called “The Green Line” because it was drawn on the map
with a green pen when the U.N. and the
Turks came to an agreement, halting the Turkish advance, and goes through the
middle of Nicosia (or Lefkosia, as the Cyprians call it). It not only divides Nicosia in two, making it
the only divided city in the world now that the Berlin wall is no more, but it
goes through the middle of Woolworths department store. One can shop in the south side of the store,
all brightly lit and modern, and look through the partitioning into the north
side, untouched since the invasion and covered in dust and decaying stock. There is a motorcar showroom in the north
side of Nicosia where two Rolls Royces still stand undisturbed after 27 years,
tyres flat and upholstery rotting.
Yiannis’ villa still stands as it was on the day he and his wife left,
furniture covered in dust, food rotting in the cupboards and jewellery and
ornaments still in place. There appears
to be some political agenda for this apparent quarantine of property of value,
at odds with the commandeering of farms and villages, the total destruction of
churches, museums, archaeological sites and all other aspects of Greek Cyprian
culture and history, not to mention the importation of thousands of Turkish
peasants.
 |
| The NATO radar on Mt Olympus |
Behind us, we could see the summit of Mount Olympus, the
highest mountain in Cyprus at over 6,500 feet where the early warning radar
system is located, and out of bounds to everyone but the military. It is said that the radar has sufficient
range to see the skies over Iran, and is used for that purpose by NATO. Back on the road, we headed for lunch, and
were soon winding along narrow roads between villages where picture postcards
prove to be true. An old man leading a
donkey with a pole across it’s back carrying a large clay pot of goats’ milk on
each side. A herd of goats standing on
their back legs, to reach the foliage of a tree, minded by a shepherd dressed
in a red woollen cloak, and who played a haunting tune on a reed flute. In each village we passed through, a group of
old men sat outside the local taverna, smoking pipes and drinking in the
sunshine. (Noel says that their wives throw them all out so that the women can
get on with their work.) We passed
orchards of orange, lemon and lime trees, cherry trees, almond trees, carob
trees, and vineyards that were planted on terraced hillsides. All of the houses are whitewashed with red
roofs and each village is prettier than the last, some of them dating back to
before Christ.
Lunch
was served at a restaurant high in the mountains at a village called Platres,
and the food was five star. Maybe we
were all so hungry by then that anything would have been five star, but it
really was good. Grilled half chicken,
pasta, dolmades, salads, roasted vegetables, breads, red and white wine, and
baklava. I missed out on the
baklava. We tucked in with gusto, and
not much remained when we finished. Back
aboard the “Jeeps,” making our way out of the village, Noel could not resist
stealing cherries from the trees overhanging the road, assisted by Riaan who
pulled the Land Rover up close enough for her to stand and reach out of the
window. You can’t take my wife
anywhere! We wound our way back down
into the forests and eventually to a gorge that has a famous waterfall called
the Caledonian Waterfalls, which one has to climb down about three hundred
steps to see. Where the name came from
we never found out, but there must be a Scot in the story somewhere. Noel and I held back and let the rest of the
party exhaust them selves while we waited at the top. The screeching and yelling echoed up to us as
our fellow travellers splashed each other with water from the falls, and
eventually came panting and puffing back up the steps. You can’t take them anywhere either!
 |
| The "Caledonian" Falls |
Coming
out of the mountains and back on tar roads, we descended onto the coastal road,
which became a motorway, and the “jeeps” were soon racing each other up the
hills two abreast. Those 2.5 litre turbo
diesels can really go when pushed! We
pulled off at a view site overlooking Aphrodite’s Rock, and took photographs of
Riaan and his team against the background of the bay. We arrived back at our hotel after dropping
other passengers off at the Coral Beach hotel in Paphos, with just enough time
to catch our breath before getting ready for the engagement party.
Chapter Six: Getting to know them.
Saturday night
We showered and
changed into the best clothes we had brought – I remember saying that I was not
packing a blazer or tie, as we had no intention of hitting any high spots on
holiday! Yiangos drove up in his Merc at
7.00 on the dot, and we set off down the coast road towards Polis. I was amazed that his car was an identical twin
to my fathers Merc, even to the colour and year, and when I mentioned this,
Yiangos told us that he had in fact bought the car new in South Africa and had
had it shipped to Cyprus. Why?
“Because
they make much stronger cars in South Africa.
Much heavier and last a long time!
I buy all my cars in South Africa.”
This one had 389 000 kms on the clock, and as we would personally
experience in days to come, was used as a 4 X 4 as well. It had a few bruises, but went just as a
Mercedes should. Evidently, Christina
was driving a BMW 318 that he had also recently bought for her in S.A.
We
arrived at the venue of the engagement party, which was a restaurant with a
vast open-air dining area and dance floor.
We joined the end of the reception line and waited to be greeted by the
young couple and their parents, to whom we were introduced by Yiangos when our
turn came. They were resplendent in full
evening dress, and we felt a little uncomfortable in our casual dress, but we
were greeted warmly and the feeling vanished.
Once past the reception line, where I had deposited an envelope
containing £20 as a “gift” to the bride and groom to be, we followed the line
to the buffet area. There were tables
piled with the most wonderful food, salads, and desserts, and finally a table
where we helped ourselves to whatever we wanted to drink – not by the glass,
but by the bottle! Zinovia, Cyprian
brandy, Johnny Walker scotch, Vodka, beer and any mineral going. Out back were a row of eight of the
traditional round clay ovens that one sees everywhere in Cyprus, still warm
from the days cooking. Katina had been
there since five in the morning, preparing the food. For how many?
Well, I counted 2000 seats and there were not enough by 8.30. It was not a fisherman’s tale!
 |
| The betrothed couple |
Yiangos
led us to a table where his whole family were already seated, and there were
more introductions and greetings from those we had met the night before. A hug and kiss on both cheeks from Yiangos’
wife, Christina and Katina, really made us feel welcome, and when we had
finished eating, and the alcohol was flowing, the dancing began. All this while the reception line was still
in place, with guests still arriving, and the young couple and their family
were beginning to look a little peaked.
It was about 26C and quite humid, despite being outdoors, and jackets
and ties were coming off everywhere.
Traditional Greek dance music had been thundering from disco speakers
since we arrived and the beat is quite impossible to ignore. The dance floor was soon filled with men, all
dancing together in a circle in the traditional Greek way. The women rarely danced – I did see Christina
and a few others occasionally, but then they danced inside the circle of men
and passed from one to the other following informal if traditional steps. Soon the dance floor was too crowded, so
everyone began dancing on the tables.
These were trestle tables and no one gave a thought to the possibility
of a table collapsing. The atmosphere
became party, big time, and if this was an engagement, I sure would like to see
the wedding! By eleven o’clock, we had
flattened three pints of beer each, and had helped to take care of two bottles
of brandy and half a bottle of Zinovia.
Drink-driving? What’s that? Yiangos dropped us off at the hotel just
after midnight and neither of us remembers a thing until ten the following
morning.
 |
| It was quite a party |
Sunday
Another
healthy breakfast set us on course to explore the village, the harbour, and the
beaches. We were in and out of the local
tourist shops, examining everything, and even strolled around the local
supermarket looking at the groceries and fresh vegetables and fruit and
comparing prices. It was then that we
realised how foolish we had been to spend money buying booze and cigarettes at
Gatwick duty free. A bottle of Black
Label was C£3.50 and cigarettes C£0.80 a packet! That’s £4.20 and £1.10 respectively in our
money. Next time we will know
better. The quality of the fruit and veg
was amazing, and also very cheap. We
strolled through the village, through the harbour, past the Sea Nest, and out
along the beach on the other side. Noel
kicked her sandals off and immediately got her feet burnt by the hot sand. The sand extended as far as the high water
line, if you can call it that, as the tide only rises and falls about two feet,
and then gave way to pebbles where the wavelets tried hard to be an ocean. The water temperature was about 20C and the
air about 30C so it was a relief to walk along in the water.
Needing
something to drink, we made our way back to the hotel. We went and found two sun beds next to the
hotel pool and lay sipping brandy sours until lunchtime. Now this is another Cyprian delight that
grows on you. The brandy sour is served
everywhere, and some construct it better than others do. The best we had were made by Ianiou on his
boat, but wherever they are made, the secret is in the Cyprian brandy. French brandy just does not crack it. The dose of Angostura bitters must also be a
healthy one, not just a dash. Noel
became a connoisseur of the brandy sour by the time we left, and can tell the
origin of the ingredients at a sniff. We
were not in the mood for lunch after what we had eaten the night before, but we
had bought some fruit and that, with the cheese and bread so thoughtfully
provided by the hotel served for our lunch.
We spent the rest of the day back at the pool, and had a nap before
sundowners on our balcony, watching the sun sink into that great lake of the
Mediterranean Sea. We strolled down to
the Sea Nest promising ourselves that we would insist on buying our own dinner,
and were allowed to do just that, as Yiangos and Christina had taken the day at
home. Andreas, a charming waiter, showed
us to a table in the pavilion across the road, overlooking the beach, and we
ordered a bottle of the famous white wine and a light fish meal and
salads. The night air was cool and still
and a rising moon sparkled off the water of the bay as we ate and savoured our
good fortune.Chapter Seven: Enlightenment.
Monday
The
next day was a Monday and we were to be taken to Andrei’s’ farm by Ianiou. We duly presented ourselves at the Sea Nest
at 10 am and after drinking the obligatory coffee, we piled into the Merc and
set off. First, we were going to Polis,
to visit a shop run by friends who had family in the village of Lefkara, famous
for the Cyprian lace made there. Noel
wanted to buy some articles of lace, and we were told that the shop in Polis
usually had a good stock. The town of
Polis is one of contrasts. On the outskirts,
one sees all of the new buildings being constructed, and as one gets deeper
into the centre, the buildings get progressively older. The buildings in the street where the lace
shop was must have dated from the 16th century; in narrow twisted
streets they were all of ancient stone and wood, and we could have spent days
exploring the curious little shops and tavernas. The little shop that Yiangos took us into was
stocked floor to ceiling with Cyprian handicraft, from intricately decorated
pewter tableware, to ceramics, embroidered clothing, crochet tablecloths,
reproductions of archaeological artifacts and of course, when we asked, Cyprian
lace. As we should have known, a large
tablecloth made entirely of lace, which would have taken some three months to
make, cost around £500! Noel settled for
an Irish linen tablecloth inset with panels of lacework which is stunning, and
which was offered for only £30, due to what we are sure was Ianiou’s influence. We also bought a smaller crochet cloth for
each of our girls, and Noel was given a pure Cyprian lace tray-cloth as a
gift. Wonderful people.
 |
| NJ shopping for Cypriot lace |
We
stopped for fuel on the way back, and Yiangos was approached by a very pretty, young, dark-haired girl who, after a short
conversation, jumped into the back of the car.
Yiangos explained that she was the maid employed to clean Christina’s
villa daily, which was let out to a family of eight holidaymakers for three
weeks, and was then booked up until October.
We would give her a lift there.
She was a Croatian refugee, and worked under the State employment
scheme. As we drove along the coast back
towards Latchi, she hesitantly asked Noel something in her own language, and
not understanding, Noel just smiled and nodded.
The girl immediately reached out and felt Noel’s hair between her
fingers, and then touched Noel’s arm, examining the hair there as well. Yiangos explained that she had never seen a
naturally blond woman before, and she was fascinated! We left the tar road and drove into the
countryside on a good gravel road, passing between olive groves, vineyards and
orchards. Leaving the good road, the
Merc became a 4 X 4 as we wound up a rough track towards a magnificent villa
surrounded by citrus trees. We went up
the driveway and stopped outside to let our “hitch-hiker” out of the car. Christina’s villa is a two storey white
Mediterranean house of five bedrooms with a roof of red Roman tiles, set in
acres of garden and orchards, with a pool and three garages. It would easily cost one million pounds in
the U.K. Yiangos explained that it was
leased to a British holiday travel company who paid £2000 per week for nine
months of the year, and Christina and her family lived with him and his wife
during that time. There was a shortage
of villa accommodation for holidaymakers, and anyone who owned a villa, and who
could make alternative accommodation arrangements, let their villa out to
holiday companies, as the income was too great to refuse.
 |
| Yiangos' villa |
Yiangos
explained that many people from all over the world, especially Britain, built
villas in Cyprus as holiday homes, and leased them out in this way when they
were not in residence. By doing so, they
could recoup the cost of the villa within a short time. They then retired to Cyprus rent-free. And what did it cost to build a villa, I
asked? The land cost about C£35 000 per
acre, but there was only so much land available for private sale on the island;
the rest was State land and the State didn’t sell any of it, ever. A four bedroom villa would cost about C£65 000
to C£80 000 so all in it came to around C£120 000. He also said that if Cyprus’ application to
join the E.U. was successful, the demand for land would outstrip supply.
We
drove from there along a very rough track around the hillside to where Yiangos
had planted a piece of ground with tomatoes and corn, as he needed to switch
off the irrigation pump, which had been running all morning. Doing some more 4 X 4 stuff, the old Merc
took us around the hillside and on to a concrete road that climbed up the hill
to a magnificent villa, which overlooked the entire bay. This was Yiangos’ home, and we were greeted
by his teenage grandson, who rushed out to the car and begged a lift back to
town. We dropped him off en route to
Yiannis’ farm, which was to be our next stop.
When we arrived, Yiannis was supervising the weighing and packing of a
crop of tomatoes, the smallest of which was the size of a melon! Packing 14.5 kilos to a crate, he and three
Kosovan workers were stacking the crates six high for collection by his son,
who would take them to the market.
We
sat around a table under the roof of the packing shed, and Yiannis produced
cold Keo beer and Zinovia for Yiangos.
Yiangos old boyhood friend was also there, giving Yiannis a hand, and
the workers carried on with the packing.
We were given a tour of the tunnels, in which Yiannis had tomatoes,
cucumbers, and black beans growing.
These tunnels were extensive, with electric ventilation fans at each end
and drip irrigation throughout. On the
land around the tunnels, he had orchards of peaches, nectarines, plums, oranges,
limes, apples and pears and even olives.
Quite an achievement for a man who started with nothing. The tour over, we settled down to some
serious drinking and ribald joking around the table, Yiangos peeling fruit with
his pocket knife and feeding us a piece at a time. Yiannis’ son turned up and he and the workers
loaded a one-ton GVW Hi-Ace with two and a half tons of tomatoes. Away he went, dragging the back bumper, not
at all concerned.
 |
| L-R: Yiangos, Yannis and NJ |
 |
| Yannis' tomato tunnels |
On
the way back to Latchi, Yiangos told us that there was a two-acre plot of land
for sale, overlooking the bay, not far from his villa. It belonged to a Canadian who needed cash,
and would accept what he had paid for it some years ago, which was C£25
000. Yiangos slowed to a crawl and
turned to look at me, and said, “If you could buy this land, I could arrange it
so that you could build not one villa, but two villas on it. The law says that only one villa may be built
on one piece of land, but if the design is clever, with a passage or play room
connecting two villas, as far as the law is concerned, it would be one
house. This could be done for something
like C£100 000 with the right builder.
Then, you lease both out for C£1000 a week each to a holiday
company. Soon the cost will be repaid in
full, and then you move here to live in the one, and continue to lease the
other one out, which provides you with an income for life. I think this is a good plan for you and your
family, and I will help you to do it, if you like. Think about it.” We had told Yiangos nothing of our personal
circumstances, yet here he was, offering us a solution to our future security
in old age, and a home of our own.
Realisation dawned on both of us at that moment as to why He had sent us
to Cyprus. There would be much to
consider, and much to investigate, but if it all checked out with no serious
obstacles, we were being handed our future security on a plate.
 |
| L-R: Yiangos, Stavros and Yainnis |
We
arrived back at the hotel in the late afternoon and had time to change before
walking back down to the Sea Nest, for this was the night that I was treating
the family to dinner. We were greeted by
the waiter Andreas, who showed us that a long table had been prepared in the
pavilion, and we went into the restaurant proper to see who was there. We were greeted by Yiangos’ wife, Madam
Styuanoy, and Katina, and soon the rest of the family, including Christina and
Katina’s husbands and their children, and Yiannis and Miceal were all there,
and we were greeted as part of the family as each arrived. There were thirteen of us and we all took
our places at the table in the pavilion.
As we sat down, each of the three families presented us with the most
wonderful gifts. Katina outdid herself
as a master chef that night, as the most wonderful traditional dishes we have
ever eaten were served. She must have
been busy all day preparing them. There
was fish of every kind, in every manner, and lamb, pork, crab, shrimps,
calamari, dolmades, souvlakia, moussaka and taramasalata all accompanied by
roasted vegetables, rice, home baked breads and that wonderful Greek
salad. Olive oil, lemon juice and garlic
came with each dish. Baklava and coffee
finished off a meal we shall never forget.
 |
| NJ opening gifts |
I
tapped a spoon on my glass after the last course and rose, to say how honoured
we felt at the hospitality we had received, and at being made to feel part of
the family, which we would always treasure.
I told them how He had manipulated our holiday plans so as to ensure we
came to Cyprus, which we knew nothing about.
I told them that I had asked Him ’what the hell’ was in Cyprus, and He had said “The people
keep goats, eat cheese, drink like the fish they catch and are happy, so go and
be enlightened!” And so we had been, in
a way that would affect our lives forever.
There is never a simple way to say thank you. The evening only became merrier as it
progressed, but all too soon, it was over.
We were hugged and exchanged tearful kisses on both cheeks with
everyone. We strolled hand in hand down
the street, along the marina and down the road to our hotel, both of us aware
of the other’s thoughts, as we usually are, and made our way to bed after
midnight.
Chapter Eight: Farewell
Tuesday
The
next morning was our last in Cyprus. We
were to be Christina’s guests on the glass-bottomed boat, and had to be at the
quay by 10.00 am. First, we had to pack,
as there would not be time when we returned, as our transport would collect us
at 3 pm to take us to Paphos airport for the return flight home. Why do the same things that you unpacked from
a suitcase when you arrived, never seem to fit back into the same case when you
leave? Yes, there were some extra items,
such as the wood and glass tea-tray with a genuine example of Lefkara lace
framed in the centre, the statuette of Aphrodite and the condiment set that the
family Styuanoy had given us as parting gifts, the tablecloths we had bought
and the practically untouched bottles of spirits we had foolishly brought with
us. Already opened, no way were they
being left behind! All of these we had
to carry separately as cabin luggage as we feared for their safety in the
hold. No matter how often you check a
hotel room, there is always that nagging feeling that you have left something
behind. Under the beds? The beds are flat to the floor. In the back of the wardrobe behind the extra
blankets, even though you know you have never even climbed up there? You check in the bathroom cabinet and behind
the bathroom door six times, convinced that whatever you have forgotten, has
become invisible. There is nothing to be
found, and finally you are sure that you have packed it all. Almost sure.
 |
| Katina's yacht |
A
porter in a little van comes to collect the luggage and drives it to the
reception where I am told to leave it piled in the lobby until we return. Just leave it? Not locked away? Yes – just leave it. The receptionist looks disappointed when she
sees that there are no extra charges on our account, to be paid for. Her eyes question how we could have had a
good time if we did not charge drinks and meals to our room. Why do I feel embarrassed? Is it because she must think we sneaked our
lunch and dinner off the breakfast buffet, squashed into Noel’s beach-bag? I look her in the eyes and smile. If only she knew, even the booze that we
brought with us was being lugged back home, never mind the hotel’s
offerings. Again, we had bucked the
system. Brits do not leave their holiday
resort and party elsewhere, they fly thousands of miles to the most exotic
places on earth, and as long as their hotel has a kiddies club, swimming pool,
snooker table, bars, games, rides, pinball, mini-golf, music, dancing and
activity hostesses they never venture out of the hotel gates! Ask, “How was your holiday?” and the reply is
always “Fine!” However, ask, “What’s
Cyprus/Greece/Italy/Spain like?” and they go a bit vague for a moment before
telling you about the hotel’s décor and the terrible flight they had.
We
duly presented ourselves for boarding at the appointed hour, and we were shown
on board by Katina. The captain was
her husband and the mate their nephew.
The glass bottom boat is just as big as Yiangos’ pleasure yacht, but has
rows of upholstered bench seats on the upper deck under a roof to provide
shade, and in the large saloon below deck, there are glass windows in the
bottom and sides of the hull through which one can see the seabed and the
marine life. We elected to sit on the
lid of a locker next to the rail at the rear of the upper deck, and left the
seats to the tourists. We were, after
all, family! Soon we were rounding the
harbour breakwater and heading out along the coast, on much the same course
that we had taken in Yiangos’ boat.
Again, the weather was glorious and the breeze as we sailed along was a
welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the harbour. At each bay we slowed down to a crawl so that
we could go below and watch the sea life, although not many of the tourists
seemed to be too interested, as we always had the saloon to ourselves whenever
we went down there.
 |
| Anchored in Amorosa Bay |
Anchored
in Amorosa bay the bar opened, and we ordered brandy sours and watched the
tourists swimming over the stern rail.
One little girl screamed hysterically as her parents dived off the
transom and swam out into the bay, and continued to scream the entire half hour
or so that they were in the water. The
parents paid not one jot of notice.
Another fellow had been sitting on one of the bench seats near us
reading a novel since we left Latchi harbour.
He continued reading all during the trip, never once even looking
around. I wondered at his capacity to
realise that he could have done the same on the beach or in his hotel for far
less cost. Tourists! We ordered brandy sours from the bar, and sat
and watched the rental ski-boats anchored here and there around the bay,
occasionally drifting down to the saloon to see if there were any fish to be
seen through the glass windows. When it
came to weighing anchor, it was discovered that one of the ski-boats had fouled
our anchor chain with their anchor rope.
I pictured our anchor being winched in regardless and the ski-boat being
dragged back to Latchi under our bows, with a would-be macho man and his
topless girlfriend hanging from the rail.
To my disappointment, it never happened, and the offending party were
hailed and made aware of their transgression.
We
set course for Latchi harbour, along what had now become a familiar
coastline. Realising that it was the
last time that we would see it for a while, a feeling of nostalgia overcame us,
bringing our high spirits down to the reality of leaving this beautiful place
and its wonderful people. Parting from
our friends would be hardest of all, but we could not dismiss the feeling that
Cyprus would somehow be entwined in our future destiny. We would see this coast again, of that we had
no doubt.
Christina’s
husband swung the boat around the breakwater and into the harbour, and turned
it around 180 degrees with the alacrity of a ski-boat, to dock stern to the
quay and the gangway was secured. We
waited while all of the other tourists filed off, and Christina came
aboard. She scolded me for gathering up
the full bin-liners from the waste bins around the deck, saying, “You didn’t
come to work – I will clean the boat!”
She hugged us and kissed our cheeks as we thanked her and said our
goodbyes. We walked over to the Sea Nest
to say farewell to Yiangos and Madame Styuanoy, Katina, Miceal and
Andreas. It was an emotional parting,
and tears were shed. I had such a lump
in my throat I could hardly talk!
Walking back to the hotel we were in low spirits, comforting each other
with unspoken words.
 |
| Our taxi to the airport |
 |
| Fortunately there was little traffic as she kept driving on the right |
Airport departure halls are all alike, no-matter the
country. Chaos! Finding the check-in desk took a while, but
the smile was charming and a window seat offered. We passed through the security checkpoint
without any problem, and as there was over two hours to wait before our
departure time, somewhere to sit with a cold beer seemed a good idea. But where?
There were six Airbuses lined up outside – EuroCyprus, Britannia, B.A.,
Olympic – and all of their departure times were within 15 minutes of each
other. There was nowhere to stand, let
alone sit. Spotting a door leading to an
outdoor terrace we pushed our way through the crowd and out into the hot sun,
where there was an area of patio tables and chairs and a bar counter. The tables were all occupied, but we found
two chairs to one side and we sat and sipped our beers while watching the human
zoo around us. From the apparel most
were wearing, they could have been waiting for a bus to the beach. Indeed, most of them had come straight from
the beach to the airport, not bothering to change into anything more
appropriate for travel. Bikinis and
beach wraps, bathing trunks and slipslops, running shorts and string vests, and
one Amazon of a girl stalked past us with a gait like an ape, muscles bulging
out of her skin-tight aerobics shorts and bra less top. A bleary-eyed Brit sat on a stool at the bar
with a face the colour of a lobster, sucking on a can of lager. Opposite us, a macho man complete with Aussie
bush hat, sleeveless vest, tight khaki shorts, boots, and wrap around opaque
sunglasses put his feet up on the table and ordered his girlfriend, who was in
bikini and sarong, to fetch him a “cold one” and be quick. She asked for some cash, and he told her to
use her own. The power of love?
At
departure time I said that we had better find the boarding gate, and Noel told
me to relax, they would call the flight over the tannoy soon enough. I went through to the main hall anyway and
found a TV monitor. Sure enough there it
was, flashing in red – UI 836 GATWICK BOARDING GATE 4. There had been
nothing from the tannoy. Rushing back
through the crowd, I grabbed the bag of booze and the shoulder bag containing
Noel’s cosmetics and told her “Hurry, they are boarding already!” I had visions of us being too late, and of
spending the night on a plastic chair in the departure hall with no cash and no
toothbrush. Gate 4 was at the end of a
small lounge lined with more plastic chairs, which were all occupied except for
two at the far side. No one was going
anywhere, and we claimed the two unoccupied seats. Ten minutes later the area was crowded with
all 300 passengers of flight UI836.
Eventually a hostess came to the exit door and said, “Will all the
passengers with seats in rows 10 to 50 please get into the first bus, on the
left, and those in rows 51 to 100 get into the second bus, on the right.” A rush for the door, and she checked boarding
cards as people filed past, until the crowd started to build up outside,
because the bus on the left was full, but the bus on the right still half
empty. Everybody stop! Now what?
The rest of the 10 to 50’s are still inside the lounge. “O.K. - take any bus!” We move forward again, exchange smiles as she
glances at our boarding cards, offer our passports, which she doesn’t want, and
go out the door where the heat hits us in the face like a hot fist. The departure building is air conditioned to
21 degrees, and it is 36 outside. The
transition is dramatic, and more so when we are squeezed onto the overfull bus
and have to stand hanging onto a pole and breathing everyone else’s stink. Worse than the London underground but
thankfully the ride is a short one and we spill out of the bus and climb the
stairs to the aircraft behind an old woman with a stick who can only manage one
step at a time.
Finding
one’s seat in an airliner is like playing hide and seek. As you struggle to push your way sideways up
the isle, peering at the seat numbers, which are always too small to read from
more than one row away, you look down at the people already seated as you pass,
and the message in their smug faces is always “Shame, still finding your
seat? I’ve got mine!” Seat 09F.
Is that row 9 seat F or row F seat 9?
There are nine seats in each row, so it must be seat 9 row F. But in the departure lounge, they said
everyone in rows 10 to 50 on the first bus!
Are we on the right ‘plane? Don’t
panic, the hostess looked at the boarding cards. She would have said something. It’s row 9 seat F and I dump the bags on seat
G while I take Noel’s hand luggage and open the overhead locker. It’s full.
The next one? Also full. To hell with them, push it all up and make
your own space. In go the booze, the
tray, and the cosmetics. I realise that
I do not have anything to read during the six-hour flight and hope for a new
issue of the in-flight magazine. No such
luck, it is still the same one I read on the way here and is more a duty-free
catalogue than a magazine. I resign myself
to getting to know the prices of EuroCyprus’ duty-free offerings off by heart
and to knowing better than anyone else, where all of the emergency exits
are. Eventually the doors are shut and
armed, the cabin crew walk the aisles checking seat belts, and a steward is
going through the pantomime of the life vest as we taxi towards the
runway. Noel is next to the window, I am
in the middle, and I check out the guy in the seat next to me. He is already asleep. The usual rush for the toilets as soon as the
seat belt sign goes off precedes the drinks trolley that traps some of those
with weak bladders at the wrong end of the isle. We order scotch and water and it comes in
those miniature bottles that you have the urge to keep but don’t really know
what to do with if you do. We sip Black
Label and watch the tops of the clouds across Europe, any landmarks hidden
below a white blanket. Dinner is served
at sunset, and we have a choice of chicken, ham, or vegetarian quiche. We settle for the chicken.
Airline
food is presented on a tray, with the main course, the desert, the bread and
cheese, the cutlery and serviette, and the coffee cup each in a sealed
container and packed like a Chinese puzzle.
Once you figure out how to get the lid off the main course without
spilling gravy on your lap, there is nowhere to put it. You try putting it under the tub it came
from, but it will not fit in the depression in the tray, and puts the chicken
at risk of sliding off into the lap of the guy next to you. You fold it in half, and try to jam it
between the dessert and the coffee cup, but that only dislodges the cup. You finally manage to get it to sit long-
ways, between the chicken and the bread & cheese, only to find that you
have put it on top of the packet of cutlery, which now has a coating of chicken
gravy. I look around to see how everyone
else has done it, and there is not a lid in sight. Maybe they tuck it into the seat pocket with
the magazine and emergency exit chart.
Take it out again, lift out the packet of plastic cutlery, put it back,
and try to open the cutlery packet with your teeth. Dig inside for the knife and fork and then
try to find somewhere to put the things you do not need yet, still in the
packet. By the time you get to the bread
and cheese there are three lids, three plastic tubs, two packets, a used knife,
fork and spoon, a messy serviette and a coffee cup that you are trying to keep
in a fit state to be used for the purpose of holding the coffee when it comes. This all usually sits on the tray that folds
out of the seat in front of you for ages after you have finished with it all,
and that’s when the passenger in the inside seat wants to get up and go
walk-about. Trying to relieve the
clutter, I pack all my tubs and Noel’s tubs together, scrape all the leftovers
and serviettes into the top one, nest the two trays into each other and pile
everything on top. This tested the
airhostess’ people skills to the full, as it did not fit back into the slot in
her trolley that way, and she had to disassemble everything, getting her hands
all gooey in the process. Her smile
wished me an enjoyable trip to hell.
Our decent into Gatwick rouses us from boredom and we
touch down like a feather and taxi to the waiting ramp. Everyone tries to stand in the isle at the
same time, to haul hand luggage out of the overhead lockers. We sit and wait patiently until the doors
open and the crowd start to move forward.
I retrieve the booze, packets, and shoulder bags, and Noel and I take
our place in the queue for the door. The
crew smile at us as we pass, and I wonder what they know that we don’t. We walk through the tunnel and into the
terminal and follow the signs to IMMIGRATION & BAGGAGE RETRIEVAL.
We walk forever, along miles of passageways, down stairs, up stairs, and
eventually emerge into the Immigration hall.
Noel digs our passports out of the wallet and we separate into our
respective queues, me to E.U.CITIZENS
and she to OTHERS. Holding my
passport aloft, I am waved through and wait for Noel on the other side of the
barrier. She always has to convince the
officials that she is a resident of the U.K. but this time has no trouble and
we follow the signs again to BAGGAGE RETRIEVAL. In the baggage hall, the
carousels are displaying luggage as yet unclaimed. Ours is not among them, and again I get the
dreaded feeling of never seeing it again.
Eventually our cases and hand luggage are all packed on a trolley, and
we head for the green, wary of the call to “step this way please.” We have nothing to declare anyway and the
booze is half used, but customs barriers always instill apprehension. You know that the cameras are watching.
Out
the way that we had come in, and we look for the shuttle bus to the parking
area. A long line of busses is parked in
front of the exit doors, and way up there on the left is a sign that says COURTESY BUSSES >>>.
I struggle to push the trolley against a falling camber without ending
up in the road, and when we reach the bus by the sign, Noel asks the driver if
this is the bus to the parking. Pointing
back the way we had come, he says, “There it is, at the end of the line!” I struggle back on opposite lock, expecting
any second to see our transport pull out and leave us standing there. We make it in time and off-load the trolley
onto the baggage racks in the bus, and elect to stand for the short journey to
the car park, as the only free seats are upstairs, and we are not going to let
our luggage travel unattended. Will our
South African caution never let up? Up
and down the rows of cars we go, until eventually we reach stop seven, and haul
the luggage out onto the pavement next to the bus shelter. Belying my fears, our car is still there, and
we lug the luggage over to it and load it into the boot, taking extra care of
the breakables that we have successfully protected so far. How amazing - the battery is not dead, it
starts first time, and we head for the M25 at 11.30 pm on a Tuesday night. Driving a car after not having done so for a
week is a little strange, but the roads are quiet and I peg the speedometer at
80 and we pass the sign that says “Hertfordshire” with a feeling of relief and
nostalgia.
At our front door, the Odyssey is over and we have much to
contemplate. We have been to another
land, and made new friends. We have been
enlightened, we have much to ponder, and we are humble.
Fini
