Mosaic of the Med
James Fryer hides from lace-wielding grannies and takes a deep breath of fresh air on the island of Cyprus.
The flight from Dubai is only three hours, but it’s long enough for the image of a chiselled Apollo to imprint itself on the back of my retina – he took pride of place on the wall of the Cyprus Airways cabin section of the same name (it’s Aphrodite class if you’re further back). But the godly image quickly faded as we entered Larnaca airport and we faced groups of sunburnt holidaymakers stumbling around to a chorus of Summer Holiday. It quickly became apparent that the island’s ancient history has to scream to be heard over the thumping basslines of Cyprus’s attention-seeking clubbing capital, Ayia Napa.
As we entered Cyprus’ actual capital – Nicosia – an unnerving feeling intensified when we made our way into the heart of the city, via the intricate network of narrow stone streets. It felt like we shouldn’t have been there, as if something was about to happen, but it was most likely the result of the ghostly, abandoned shops. I peered through the dusty window of an old shoemaker’s premises, and saw old cobbling equipment and nails strewn across the floor. That was the first of many times I heard about the Turkish invasion of the island in a three-day trip.
In fact, the year 1974 seemed to be on the tip of every Greek Cypriot tongue, the year Turkish forces invaded the island on the back of a government coup. To this day, more than a third of Cyprus is occupied by Turkish Cypriots, with 40 per cent of the island’s population forced out of their homes, heading south in spite of what is argued by many to be a violation of principles governing international relations. We climbed some stairs to the roof of a disused office block and looked across the city into the north. As I adjusted my camera a group of UN troops wearing blue berets shouted up and waved their hands – I slid it back into my bag, but back on the ground we visited a border lookout where a makeshift platform meant we could look over into the Turkish side, 20 or so metres past derelict hotels and shops in the buffer zone. The single soldier stationed here was slumped against the wall of his booth, rifle in hand, turning a blind eye to the clicking of cameras.
Our Greek Cypriot guide, Demetra, was passionate about the subject, but it was odd entering the city’s archaeological museum while speaking about something which happened 32 years ago. The strange situation wasn’t helped by the Monty Python-esque displays of priceless, headless and limbless statues from the Neolithic Age on display. But, despite originating from as long ago as 8200BC, they weren’t protected from poking fingers and are stored in primitive conditions without air conditioning. Still, the museum gives a valuable insight into the island’s ancient history of Egyptian, Syrian, Greek and Turkish influences, and how each ruler took control of the copper industry and made their mark.
Back on the bus we made our way past Next, Mango, Esprit and Top Shop (the consumerist invasion has also made its mark here) before heading south-west into the heart of the Cyprus. We crawled up mountainous terrain to one of the island’s 638 villages, Lefkara, famous for its embroidery and Lefkaritiko lace. It might have been the altitude – 750 metres above sea level – that gave it a sleepy feel, but the locals soon woke at the sniff of tourists ripe for the picking. The grandmothers were the front line, stridently emerging with their famous lace in hand, showing off their finest doilies, before beckoning us to come closer. Then, once we’d come just close enough, the mothers and (mostly English-born) fathers filled our hands with an array of handmade silver necklaces, turquoise rings and, of course, more lace. I reluctantly entered Harry Loizou’s shop – a proud Liverpudlian with sales skills that could sell sand to the UAE – promising myself I wouldn’t take my wallet out of my pocket. Fifteen minutes later I emerged with a tablecloth, placemats and a ring.
I scrambled for the safety of the bus Dhs300 poorer, and avoided eye contact with more lace-knitters that emerged from nowhere. Once the rest of the group had escaped it was time to call it a day and head back to the sanctuary of the hotel. It only takes about three hours to drive from one side of the island to the other and you will rarely see a signpost for a destination more than 60 or 70km away.
Many of Cyprus’s holiday haunts fly the five-star flag, although most seem dated by UAE standards. But newer hotels seem to be springing up everywhere. The modern Columbia Beach Resort in Pissouri, 35km east of Pafos is modelled on a traditional village but is a far cry from the country’s rural charm (though it does have its own church to take the honeymooning demand a step further and cash in on the wedding market).
We took the short journey to Pafos, but not before stopping off at Petra tou Romiou – the birthplace of Aphrodite, the goddess of love – to admire where (according to legend) she was born, rising from the foam where the sea meets the sky before being presented to the gods of Mount Olympus. Besides the few rocks jutting out of the Mediterranean Sea, there wasn’t much to look at, but Demetra brought the scene alive with her retelling of the vivid stories surrounding the area, with tales of ancient myth which are etched into Greek history.
At the Mosaics of Pafos, faded, tiled floors became storybooks exposing the passionate tales which inspired Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, reveal the origin of bay leaves and issue warnings about what happened to the world’s first wine drinkers. But reinforcing how the 1974 invasion has impacted upon the island, we also heard how bombings had caused more damage to the mosaics than had been done since their creation in the third century BC.
Jutting out into the harbour, Theo’s is the kind of restaurant that theme-joint owners the world over try to emulate, and never come close to. Old, wobbly tables wore mismatching tablecloths, cutlery and crockery, positioned so they could quickly be moved about if a party of 20 arrived unannounced. Not that it would have rustled the feathers of the staff – an entire family and a couple of hired hands in the high season. As in most traditional tavernas, all you need to do is plonk yourself down and ask for a selection of mezze before finding your table overflowing with small plates of delicious Cypriot fare. We opted for a full fish mezze – dish after dish of fantastic red mullet, octopus, skate and shrimp, the compulsory Mediterranean salads, dishes of olives and freshly fried chips. All washed down with tall glasses of the local Keo beer.
It’s no surprise the naturally hospitable Cypriots are passionately proud of their local produce. The traditional kleftiko (lamb roasted in a traditional oven), haloumi cheese and stuffed vine leaves from the island’s vineyards and rich selection of citrus fruits fill the bellies dessert wine) – the oldest and strongest wine in the world. It’s also the setting for September’s annual wine festival, drawing huge crowds with the offer of free plonk for two weeks.
While I’d already seen my fair share of holiday programs featuring Ayia Napa – white beaches awash with a rainbow of parasols, beach towels and tragic Bermuda shorts – the thought of being dragged along with its 18 to 30 nightlife made me cringe. Hopping from bar to bar and swigging cheap shots of local tipple before dancing the night away to the Vengaboys didn’t appeal. But the rest of this enchanting island had more than enough on offer to fill the most hardened tourist’s itinerary.
Cyprus Airways, Emirates and Gulf Air offer regular return flights to Cyprus from the UAE.