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I was going through the formalities of crossing the frontier between Greek Cyprus and the Turkish occupied territory to the north of the Mediterranean island. Suddenly, I found myself the subject of a miniscule international crisis. The incident occurred over the color of the number plate of my car.
Cyprus has been a divided island since 1974. The long standing adversary of the Greek Cypriots is the fiercely patriotic Turks. Their national guard invaded Cyprus and after a battle, the so-called interlopers annexed the northern territory. Ever since then, the two national’s have lived cheek-by-jowl on this last stepping stone to the Middle East.
After almost 35 years, Cyprus is coming to terms with being unified as a single member of the European Union. Hence the reasons why the border gates have recently been left ajar under the watchful eye of the United Nations peace keeping force. The EU feverently hopes that within the next two years, the Greeks and Turkish Cypriots will cross, what is called the Green Line, in the spirit of cordiality.
Whether you reach the north via Turkey or fly direct to Greek Cyprus from the UK, as tourists, we can also gain access to both sides of the island.
My Greek registered Mazda car had a yellow number plate.
I was aware that rental cars are all marked with a red number plate. The fact that I had paid the hosts, at my place of stay in Paphos, for the loan of their car, added a new dimension to the border formalities.
Fortunately, an attractive female official at the Famagusta crossing was dealing with the re-insurance of the car to drive on Turkish roads. The matter came down to 25 Euros. Had I been a Greek Cypriot, I could have stayed on Turkish occupied territory for up to three month’s at the cost of 50 Euros to cover the vehicle.
My independent visit to the north was going to be no more than three days. If I had been driving a red plated car, everything would be hunky-dory. I informed the young lady I was a British visitor on holiday. All I wanted was to see her green and pleasant land. She conceded. The Mazda was covered by the added insurance of 25 Euros. Content to have reached a happy compromise, I drove up to customs and emigration.
No problem here. Sheets of Turkish bureaucracy fluttered over the desk. Everything, including my passport was duly stamped. I was firmly informed not to view any residential property or bring back furniture. The Turkish officials beamed then, wished me a pleasurable journey.
My sun drenched stay in Greek Cyprus had suddenly turned into a cultural adventure. Different language, strange currency. Road signs that rendered my Greek published road map utterly useless. And a Turkish National guard who waved a cautionary finger at me if I produced my camera. A friendly UN patrolman warned that I should be cautious about taking pictures of the “dead suburb” of Gazimagusa/Famagusta. The red posters, that apparently threatened life, if I so much as poked a lens through the green canvas, said it all.
Beach hotels that had stood derelict for over 30 years, were now crumbling from neglect. These ruins over shadowed Gazimagusa beach, adjacent to a palatial modern four star hotel. Al fresco restaurants where seats and bars stood almost as they were left, are over grown by vegetation. I wandered around, virtually alone in Victory Square. Then made my way to the old fortified town of Gazimagusa. Here, sleepy vendors in shabby shop fronts plied their wares at peppercorn prices.
In various corners, EU sponsored restoration work was being carried out on historical monuments. Entire streets are barricaded off so that work can start on rebuilding little boutiques that had been long closed. All this work is presumably to soften the stark contrast between north and south when the green line is finally demolished.
Cyprus is a relatively small island. Which magnified the difference between the modern Greek resort of Ayia Napa and the quaint old Turkish fishing village of Girne/ Keryneia on the north coast. The former, being highly commercial and popular with European youth. The latter, a destination for Greek based senior tourists, who can take a regimented coach tour from Nicosia.
Talking of Nicosia, driving along the north coast looking for appropriate sign posts to the capital of Cyprus, I could not see anything to remotely help me along. Until I met a friendly old fellow he gave my forlorn query, deep consideration. Then ‘Eureka’ brightened his eyes. “Ah, you want Lefkosa” he grinned. Same place, but not marked as such on my Greek map.
I reached Lefkosa, parked the car close to the Ledra Gate. My passport had two more stamps. I was free to walk into Nicosia. The Greeks enjoy a more sophisticated life style. A fact mirrored in the cost of staying at a city center hotel. So, another two stamps in the passport, enabled me to return by the diplomatic gate, to check into a four star Turkish hotel, at half the price.
Lone travelers, have to check through Metehan Gate, some five miles away from the city center. There is a broad stretch of no man’s land to cross back into Nicosia. I spotted soldiers on both sides, performing their dawn square bash as UN vehicles cruised past.
My drive back to Paphos via Olympus, the highest mountain, in the verdant Troodos range, provided time for reflection. The sparsely populated north, almost mirrored the south. There is a simple charm to the occupied sector and its people.
The Turks realize if they get into the EU, they must smarten their act up. The rustic north, where Cypriots hope to regain the home they fled all those years ago, will inevitably give way to modern high rise and beach villas. The foundations of new buildings are already there to be seen.
Meanwhile, despite the formalities, the opportunity to see Cyprus as an entity was a real cultural adventure. Forget the military and the amiable Turkish police patrols who stop you to check your documents. Cross the Green Line while Brussels’s ponders upon the Cyprus entry into the European Union. It’s quite a revelation.
Copyright © 2009 Max Le Grand
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