Turkish Delights
I knew little of Turkey until my husband and I first travelled there in 1987 at the suggestion of friends who had been and raved about it. We were holidaying in Greece and thought we would make a short visit as we were so close. We quickly fell in love with this land of intriguing history, rich culture, warm and hospitable people, and an amazing variety of landscapes. We returned the following year, this time travelling with my parents, and took a longer and more leisurely journey.
Ovacik 1988
Ovacik appeared as a reasonably large dot on the map in our Turkish guide book. It seemed a perfect choice for our next stop. It was only a four hour bus journey away. It was on the coast so we could begin to take advantage of the approaching warm weather. And of course, it was a good sized dot on the map. Huh! As it turned out, the dot itself was bigger than the actual town.
In retrospect, the warning signs were there - the strange look from the person who issued our tickets, the puzzled look from the person on the bus who checked the tickets, the amused looks from the other passengers when the bus stopped to let off these four strange foreigners, and finally, the looks of sheer disbelief when the local Ovacikians spied us.
Our journey was again breathtaking and after four hours of narrow roads winding along precipitous cliffs, we were deposited quietly by the roadside at a sign that said Ovacik. “Funny,” we thought. “Why didn’t the bus go to the bus station? Every Turkish town has a bus station. Where were the taxi drivers and the hawkers plying for trade for their hotels or pensions? Where was anyone? In fact, where was the bloody town?”
There we stood, four foreigners, each with a suitcase and a sneaking sense that something was slightly amiss. We didn’t need to be anywhere in particular, but we weren’t supposed to be nowhere. Still, we felt calm and unworried. The afternoon held that hint of warm weather to come, the sky was blue and the countryside green. And yes, there was evidence of habitation. Nearby fields had been cultivated and some terracotta rooftops were visible. In fact, there was quite a pleasant looking building a short distance down the road and someone was approaching us from it.
Not having mastered the Turkish language, we deduced from this Turk’s tone, gestures and facial expressions that he was curious about our intentions and was offering help. “Hotel? Pension?” we asked. He grinned and shook his head. “No hotel.” “Yes. Hotel,” we repeated. “No. No hotel,” he repeated. This conversation continued for a short time until we were finally convinced that despite the language barrier we really did understand each other. There was definitely no hotel in Ovacik.
It never ceases to amaze me how clearly people can communicate using a variety of means other than words. Our kind Turk informed us that another bus would pass through before nightfall and that we were welcome to wait in his building which happened to be an eating place. Gratefully we accepted his offer and lugged our baggage down the road.
The restaurant had a patio style area facing the road. We sat at one of the two tables and ordered food and drinks. That meal turned out to be the tastiest and cheapest of all our Turkish meals, and not even the feeling of being the hottest circus display in the history of Ovacik marred our enjoyment of this fine feast.
News travels quickly in small villages and soon after taking a seat in the restaurant the locals began to come and check us out for themselves. They would come in small groups, lean over the railings at one end of the veranda, and discuss us with the owner. During the steady stream of spectators there was much gestulating, head scratching and clock glancing.
As the hours crept by, night draped its blanket over the countryside and still no bus came. It appeared discussions were becoming more intense as the locals tried to decide what to do with us. Eventually a man with a ute was voted to transport us to some lodgings which had been agreed upon as being a good solution to this strange problem.
From what we could gather, there was a resort on the beach several kilometres away. It was closed for the winter season, but they would see if the owner would open a room for us. Several men joined us in the back of the ute, seemingly unaware of how cold the night had turned. This type of entertainment was not to be missed because of a bit of chilly weather.
The “resort” felt eerily remote, clothed as it was in blackness, with the silence broken only by the soft shuffle of waves on the shore. As we waited in the vehicle a very Turkish Turk appeared out of the dark carrying a lantern. He wore a traditional long robe, turban and beard. His menacing looks evaporated as his face lit up with a smile and he nodded as the men put forth their proposal. We followed as he led us into a tiny room with two single beds. Beside it was the bathroom with a hole-in-the-ground toilet and a tap.
“Thank you, thank you,” we said and they all gave a sigh together and began to chatter in relief as they deposited our luggage and waved good bye. As we sat in our small room, two to a narrow bed, laughing hysterically in relief, there was a sudden rap on the window. The turbaned Turk peered at us through the glass. He nodded his head at the door indicating we should open it.
My mother, having lived a somewhat sheltered life till now, mentally prepared to meet her doom. Opening the door revealed our menacing looking friend standing with a tray of hot tea which he had kindly prepared for us. He joined us in the room as we drank it and tried to make conversation. Our very limited Turkish led to long awkward silences. My husband’s crutch in any lull in conversation was to offer the man a cigarette. Perhaps that is why he stayed so long, despite the embarrassing stretches of silence. My mother is convinced to this day that he has children named One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine and Ten, but I am sure he was just counting them.
This father of ten eventually left, but we never did get much sleep that night. The bed was far too small for two, and the night was far too cold, but the hospitality of these lovely people warmed our hearts and souls.
The next morning revealed what a pleasant, quiet spot this was beside a tiny patch of beach. However, we did not wish to miss the bus which we were assured would come along the main road early this morning. We lugged our bags the couple of hundred metres to the main road and waited. Across the road was a timber mill and soon a man from it came and waited with us. He drew a clock in the dirt with the time showing 8. Aha. Only an hour to wait, so we sat on our suitcases and nodded and smiled at our fellow waitee for an hour and a half. As the bus finally approached, loaded with bodies and chickens and other produce, the timber mill Turk waved it to a halt, helped us on board, waved us good bye and returned to the mill. He was not intending to travel at all, merely minding and watching out for us. As we looked around the warm, grinning faces in the small crowded bus, we again thanked our lucky stars that we had decided to visit Turkey.
In retrospect, the warning signs were there - the strange look from the person who issued our tickets, the puzzled look from the person on the bus who checked the tickets, the amused looks from the other passengers when the bus stopped to let off these four strange foreigners, and finally, the looks of sheer disbelief when the local Ovacikians spied us.
Our journey was again breathtaking and after four hours of narrow roads winding along precipitous cliffs, we were deposited quietly by the roadside at a sign that said Ovacik. “Funny,” we thought. “Why didn’t the bus go to the bus station? Every Turkish town has a bus station. Where were the taxi drivers and the hawkers plying for trade for their hotels or pensions? Where was anyone? In fact, where was the bloody town?”
There we stood, four foreigners, each with a suitcase and a sneaking sense that something was slightly amiss. We didn’t need to be anywhere in particular, but we weren’t supposed to be nowhere. Still, we felt calm and unworried. The afternoon held that hint of warm weather to come, the sky was blue and the countryside green. And yes, there was evidence of habitation. Nearby fields had been cultivated and some terracotta rooftops were visible. In fact, there was quite a pleasant looking building a short distance down the road and someone was approaching us from it.
Not having mastered the Turkish language, we deduced from this Turk’s tone, gestures and facial expressions that he was curious about our intentions and was offering help. “Hotel? Pension?” we asked. He grinned and shook his head. “No hotel.” “Yes. Hotel,” we repeated. “No. No hotel,” he repeated. This conversation continued for a short time until we were finally convinced that despite the language barrier we really did understand each other. There was definitely no hotel in Ovacik.
It never ceases to amaze me how clearly people can communicate using a variety of means other than words. Our kind Turk informed us that another bus would pass through before nightfall and that we were welcome to wait in his building which happened to be an eating place. Gratefully we accepted his offer and lugged our baggage down the road.
The restaurant had a patio style area facing the road. We sat at one of the two tables and ordered food and drinks. That meal turned out to be the tastiest and cheapest of all our Turkish meals, and not even the feeling of being the hottest circus display in the history of Ovacik marred our enjoyment of this fine feast.
News travels quickly in small villages and soon after taking a seat in the restaurant the locals began to come and check us out for themselves. They would come in small groups, lean over the railings at one end of the veranda, and discuss us with the owner. During the steady stream of spectators there was much gestulating, head scratching and clock glancing.
As the hours crept by, night draped its blanket over the countryside and still no bus came. It appeared discussions were becoming more intense as the locals tried to decide what to do with us. Eventually a man with a ute was voted to transport us to some lodgings which had been agreed upon as being a good solution to this strange problem.
From what we could gather, there was a resort on the beach several kilometres away. It was closed for the winter season, but they would see if the owner would open a room for us. Several men joined us in the back of the ute, seemingly unaware of how cold the night had turned. This type of entertainment was not to be missed because of a bit of chilly weather.
The “resort” felt eerily remote, clothed as it was in blackness, with the silence broken only by the soft shuffle of waves on the shore. As we waited in the vehicle a very Turkish Turk appeared out of the dark carrying a lantern. He wore a traditional long robe, turban and beard. His menacing looks evaporated as his face lit up with a smile and he nodded as the men put forth their proposal. We followed as he led us into a tiny room with two single beds. Beside it was the bathroom with a hole-in-the-ground toilet and a tap.
“Thank you, thank you,” we said and they all gave a sigh together and began to chatter in relief as they deposited our luggage and waved good bye. As we sat in our small room, two to a narrow bed, laughing hysterically in relief, there was a sudden rap on the window. The turbaned Turk peered at us through the glass. He nodded his head at the door indicating we should open it.
My mother, having lived a somewhat sheltered life till now, mentally prepared to meet her doom. Opening the door revealed our menacing looking friend standing with a tray of hot tea which he had kindly prepared for us. He joined us in the room as we drank it and tried to make conversation. Our very limited Turkish led to long awkward silences. My husband’s crutch in any lull in conversation was to offer the man a cigarette. Perhaps that is why he stayed so long, despite the embarrassing stretches of silence. My mother is convinced to this day that he has children named One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine and Ten, but I am sure he was just counting them.
This father of ten eventually left, but we never did get much sleep that night. The bed was far too small for two, and the night was far too cold, but the hospitality of these lovely people warmed our hearts and souls.
The next morning revealed what a pleasant, quiet spot this was beside a tiny patch of beach. However, we did not wish to miss the bus which we were assured would come along the main road early this morning. We lugged our bags the couple of hundred metres to the main road and waited. Across the road was a timber mill and soon a man from it came and waited with us. He drew a clock in the dirt with the time showing 8. Aha. Only an hour to wait, so we sat on our suitcases and nodded and smiled at our fellow waitee for an hour and a half. As the bus finally approached, loaded with bodies and chickens and other produce, the timber mill Turk waved it to a halt, helped us on board, waved us good bye and returned to the mill. He was not intending to travel at all, merely minding and watching out for us. As we looked around the warm, grinning faces in the small crowded bus, we again thanked our lucky stars that we had decided to visit Turkey.
Mersin 1988
Ovacik to Mersin was rags to riches. As soon as we arrived at the Mersin bus station we took a taxi to the best hotel in town. Four stars. Flushing toilets. Steaming hot water. Double beds. Sheets. Blankets. Towels. The works. We felt we needed and deserved such luxury once in a while on the road.
We soaked up Mersin at a leisurely pace enjoying strolling through the streets and along the sea front esplanade, exploring the shops and sampling the food. Although a big city, the people here were still very warm and friendly and we enjoyed loitering a few days while we planned our next move.
This was in to be a side journey into northern Cyprus. We arranged to leave our luggage at the hotel and only carried some hand luggage for a couple of days away. We caught a boat from a town back towards Ovacik and entered a country which does not really exist in the eyes of many.
We soaked up Mersin at a leisurely pace enjoying strolling through the streets and along the sea front esplanade, exploring the shops and sampling the food. Although a big city, the people here were still very warm and friendly and we enjoyed loitering a few days while we planned our next move.
This was in to be a side journey into northern Cyprus. We arranged to leave our luggage at the hotel and only carried some hand luggage for a couple of days away. We caught a boat from a town back towards Ovacik and entered a country which does not really exist in the eyes of many.
Cyprus 1988
The harbour at Girne, otherwise known as Kyrenia
At its closest point the island of Cyprus is only 40 miles south of the Turkish coast.
After a lengthy wait to get through passport control and customs we emerged into the picture book harbour town of Girne, joining the ranks of past distinguished visitors such as Leonardo da Vinci, Homer, Euripides and Durrell to this fair isle. It was here that Aphrodite, Goddess of love was born. It was this island of which Mark Antony made a gift to Cleopatra. It is this island, the third largest in the Mediterranean, which preserves thousands of years of history from some of the world’s greatest cultures.
The Greeks called this town Kyrenia. Its Byzantium castle enhances its picturesque state set beside the beautiful blue sea. We had become quite used to easily obtaining accommodation - one of the great advantages of travelling off season - so it was somewhat of a shock that each hotel we approached was full. We eventually found a room for one night only in a lovely, but expensive old inn style hotel, quite disappointed that we could not stay a few days to enjoy this beautiful town.
What appears to be bad luck at first can often turn out to be a blessing in disguise, and this proved to be the case for us. One of the hotel owners we had approached told us she had rooms available in a mountain village a short distance away. We felt it was a great pity to be in Cyprus and not be on the coast, but on arriving in Ozankoy we lost our hearts.
Ozankoy was very green, nestled amongst orchards and olive groves. The hotel was delightful - ours alone. We chose our rooms and were able to enjoy the use of the kitchen, bar, living areas and the roof top to enjoy the outdoors. The only other living sole who entered the hotel was a young British girl who came each morning to give us breakfast and clean the rooms. It was like having our very own country villa. We savoured it. We savoured the intimacy of the village. And most of all we savoured the delicious aroma of spring.
Leonardo de Vinci wrote in his Notebooks that, “...here the beauty of some pleasant hill invites the wandering mariners to take their ease among its flowery verdure, where the zephyrs continually come and go, filling with sweet odours the island and the encompassing sea.” Amen. To me Cyprus is synonymous with scent. To this day I still feel the thick sweet smells of this magic place in my pores.
Those heady scents were like a drug. It heightened our senses, but relaxed our bodies. We walked and talked and fell in love with this village, these people and this life. I wrote and wrote, but words just wouldn’t capture the spell of Ozankoy. I have been to two places on this planet at which I would be happy to spend eternity. Ozankoy is one of them.
Our walks allowed us to get to know the locals and vice versa. The children would call hello as we passed their kindergarten. The near-blind coffee house owner known as the sergeant would invite us in for coffee and camaraderie. At night my father would play billiards at another coffee house across from our hotel. He did not speak Turkish. The local lads did not speak English. They communicated through gesture and grins. The billiard table was newly arrived from England so their playing skills were raw in their infancy. They called my father Eddy Charlton as his skill superceded theirs, but they delighted in learning from him and kept him there for all hours of the night. My normally shy father delighted in all the attention and despite only drinking coffee all night would come home intoxicated with the joy of life.
Our sense of smell may have been bombarded in Cyprus but our taste buds were also tantalised. Any true traveller will tell you that a country’s food is a major window into the people and culture of the land. My travel diary reads like a recipe book, and meals we ate are most often our main reference points when pinpointing specific times and places of past journeys.
Our days would start with a traditional Turkish breakfast of olives, cheese, boiled egg, and crusty fresh bread. Each day the quantity increased until finally the housemaid asked if she was giving us enough to eat. Because we always devoured the entire fare she provided more each day to try to satisfy our obvious hunger. Embarrassed, we politely began to leave a little after that.
Despite quite a few coffee houses, Ozankoy’s size did not support a restaurant, or at least a full time restaurant. We did eat one night at the local football club coffee house, but we had to order our meals in the morning so they could shop for the food and open for us that night. It was a delicious meal of lamb chops, yoghurt and salad served under the stars in an open courtyard. The other patrons that night had chosen to bring their own food and were bar-b-cueing it on little containers of hot coals beside their table. They offered us some tasty plump olives hot off the bar-b-cue and we joined them in wine and song for a time.
Of our many memorable meals, those at The Lemon Tree restaurant remain especially vivid. The Ozankoy locals told us it was about ten minute’s walk down the road. Perhaps “walk” and “drive” mean the same thing in Turkish for we eventually stumbled with parched throats and empty stomachs into the Lemon Tree, one and a half hours after leaving the village. We had almost given up hope, certain that we had misunderstood the directions. But no, there it stood like a welcoming oasis in the desert, and after dining on the sumptuous seafood and endless mezzes I would cross any desert to sample that fine fare again.
After quenching our thirst with cold beer we dined on a variety of hot and cold mezzes. I think we counted about 30 different dishes. Next, we were presented with a mountain of calamari which melted in our mouths and the grand finale consisted of huge fillets of groper served with chips and salad. We felt like kings - very full kings I might add, so we were sure the calorie intake would certainly provide enough fuel to see us home on the long trek ahead.
We had walked to the restaurant in mostly daylight. This same walk in the late dark night felt a little different. As we passed an army camp, dogs began barking. The barking seemed to go on and on, becoming more and more frenzied. Whistles began blowing and men yelled commands. We became quite nervous, sure that we were the cause of all this ruckus, so it was without a moment’s hesitation that we jumped into the back of a jeep which pulled up and offered us a lift.
The thought of that delicious food lured us back a few days later. We again chose to walk the long and lonely road to the restaurant, but we started out early to make use of full daylight. The army camp looked quite unobtrusive in the light of day and we heard barely a few muffled barks.
It seems we were gaining a reputation on the island. An Australian was dining at a nearby table. When he heard our accents he excused himself and asked were we the mad Aussies he had heard about who walked everywhere. His party joined us to make a merry evening. Our new friend drove us home afterwards and invited us to join him in a drive around the island the next day.
Our day with Richard was a glorious blue sky day, just perfect for sightseeing in an open jeep. Richard worked on the Turkish mainland and was enjoying some R. & R. His first stop after collecting us was to buy some pork from Mr Piggy, the only pork butcher in this Muslim country. Then we were off eastwards, hugging the coast, passing interesting flora, cosy coves and always the dazzling blue sea. We stopped for a tea at Esentepe, drove inland through Buyukkonuk and hit the coast again at Bogaj where we lunched on delicious kebabs, yoghurt and cheese sticks beside a lovely beach. We looked at the ruins of Salamis and then explored Famagusta. Here at Othello’s Tower, the ticket seller was a most interesting man. He spoke to us at length about the history of the area and informed us with determined excitement that he was close to finding long lost treasure. We returned the rented jeep to its owners in Nicosia and finished our journey home by bus.
After a lengthy wait to get through passport control and customs we emerged into the picture book harbour town of Girne, joining the ranks of past distinguished visitors such as Leonardo da Vinci, Homer, Euripides and Durrell to this fair isle. It was here that Aphrodite, Goddess of love was born. It was this island of which Mark Antony made a gift to Cleopatra. It is this island, the third largest in the Mediterranean, which preserves thousands of years of history from some of the world’s greatest cultures.
The Greeks called this town Kyrenia. Its Byzantium castle enhances its picturesque state set beside the beautiful blue sea. We had become quite used to easily obtaining accommodation - one of the great advantages of travelling off season - so it was somewhat of a shock that each hotel we approached was full. We eventually found a room for one night only in a lovely, but expensive old inn style hotel, quite disappointed that we could not stay a few days to enjoy this beautiful town.
What appears to be bad luck at first can often turn out to be a blessing in disguise, and this proved to be the case for us. One of the hotel owners we had approached told us she had rooms available in a mountain village a short distance away. We felt it was a great pity to be in Cyprus and not be on the coast, but on arriving in Ozankoy we lost our hearts.
Ozankoy was very green, nestled amongst orchards and olive groves. The hotel was delightful - ours alone. We chose our rooms and were able to enjoy the use of the kitchen, bar, living areas and the roof top to enjoy the outdoors. The only other living sole who entered the hotel was a young British girl who came each morning to give us breakfast and clean the rooms. It was like having our very own country villa. We savoured it. We savoured the intimacy of the village. And most of all we savoured the delicious aroma of spring.
Leonardo de Vinci wrote in his Notebooks that, “...here the beauty of some pleasant hill invites the wandering mariners to take their ease among its flowery verdure, where the zephyrs continually come and go, filling with sweet odours the island and the encompassing sea.” Amen. To me Cyprus is synonymous with scent. To this day I still feel the thick sweet smells of this magic place in my pores.
Those heady scents were like a drug. It heightened our senses, but relaxed our bodies. We walked and talked and fell in love with this village, these people and this life. I wrote and wrote, but words just wouldn’t capture the spell of Ozankoy. I have been to two places on this planet at which I would be happy to spend eternity. Ozankoy is one of them.
Our walks allowed us to get to know the locals and vice versa. The children would call hello as we passed their kindergarten. The near-blind coffee house owner known as the sergeant would invite us in for coffee and camaraderie. At night my father would play billiards at another coffee house across from our hotel. He did not speak Turkish. The local lads did not speak English. They communicated through gesture and grins. The billiard table was newly arrived from England so their playing skills were raw in their infancy. They called my father Eddy Charlton as his skill superceded theirs, but they delighted in learning from him and kept him there for all hours of the night. My normally shy father delighted in all the attention and despite only drinking coffee all night would come home intoxicated with the joy of life.
Our sense of smell may have been bombarded in Cyprus but our taste buds were also tantalised. Any true traveller will tell you that a country’s food is a major window into the people and culture of the land. My travel diary reads like a recipe book, and meals we ate are most often our main reference points when pinpointing specific times and places of past journeys.
Our days would start with a traditional Turkish breakfast of olives, cheese, boiled egg, and crusty fresh bread. Each day the quantity increased until finally the housemaid asked if she was giving us enough to eat. Because we always devoured the entire fare she provided more each day to try to satisfy our obvious hunger. Embarrassed, we politely began to leave a little after that.
Despite quite a few coffee houses, Ozankoy’s size did not support a restaurant, or at least a full time restaurant. We did eat one night at the local football club coffee house, but we had to order our meals in the morning so they could shop for the food and open for us that night. It was a delicious meal of lamb chops, yoghurt and salad served under the stars in an open courtyard. The other patrons that night had chosen to bring their own food and were bar-b-cueing it on little containers of hot coals beside their table. They offered us some tasty plump olives hot off the bar-b-cue and we joined them in wine and song for a time.
Of our many memorable meals, those at The Lemon Tree restaurant remain especially vivid. The Ozankoy locals told us it was about ten minute’s walk down the road. Perhaps “walk” and “drive” mean the same thing in Turkish for we eventually stumbled with parched throats and empty stomachs into the Lemon Tree, one and a half hours after leaving the village. We had almost given up hope, certain that we had misunderstood the directions. But no, there it stood like a welcoming oasis in the desert, and after dining on the sumptuous seafood and endless mezzes I would cross any desert to sample that fine fare again.
After quenching our thirst with cold beer we dined on a variety of hot and cold mezzes. I think we counted about 30 different dishes. Next, we were presented with a mountain of calamari which melted in our mouths and the grand finale consisted of huge fillets of groper served with chips and salad. We felt like kings - very full kings I might add, so we were sure the calorie intake would certainly provide enough fuel to see us home on the long trek ahead.
We had walked to the restaurant in mostly daylight. This same walk in the late dark night felt a little different. As we passed an army camp, dogs began barking. The barking seemed to go on and on, becoming more and more frenzied. Whistles began blowing and men yelled commands. We became quite nervous, sure that we were the cause of all this ruckus, so it was without a moment’s hesitation that we jumped into the back of a jeep which pulled up and offered us a lift.
The thought of that delicious food lured us back a few days later. We again chose to walk the long and lonely road to the restaurant, but we started out early to make use of full daylight. The army camp looked quite unobtrusive in the light of day and we heard barely a few muffled barks.
It seems we were gaining a reputation on the island. An Australian was dining at a nearby table. When he heard our accents he excused himself and asked were we the mad Aussies he had heard about who walked everywhere. His party joined us to make a merry evening. Our new friend drove us home afterwards and invited us to join him in a drive around the island the next day.
Our day with Richard was a glorious blue sky day, just perfect for sightseeing in an open jeep. Richard worked on the Turkish mainland and was enjoying some R. & R. His first stop after collecting us was to buy some pork from Mr Piggy, the only pork butcher in this Muslim country. Then we were off eastwards, hugging the coast, passing interesting flora, cosy coves and always the dazzling blue sea. We stopped for a tea at Esentepe, drove inland through Buyukkonuk and hit the coast again at Bogaj where we lunched on delicious kebabs, yoghurt and cheese sticks beside a lovely beach. We looked at the ruins of Salamis and then explored Famagusta. Here at Othello’s Tower, the ticket seller was a most interesting man. He spoke to us at length about the history of the area and informed us with determined excitement that he was close to finding long lost treasure. We returned the rented jeep to its owners in Nicosia and finished our journey home by bus.
It was in Nicosia where we realised that this is actually a troubled country split in two. The capital is physically divided by a high wall and there was no way we could pass into Greek Cyprus. We were in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, a country recognised internationally only by Turkey.
Inhabited for over 7000 years it seems Cyprus has always been the rope in a tug-o-war between Greeks and Turks. Greek Achaeans colonised the island sometime between 2000 and 1000 B.C. It fell to various great Middle Eastern Empires, but was part of the Roman Empire when the Apostle Paul introduced Christianity here. It later became part of the Byzantine Empire, falling to the Crusaders in the 12th century. The Ottoman Turks captured it in 1571. The British leased it from the Ottomans in 1878 and took it as their own in 1914.
Disagreements between Greek and Turkish communities hampered the struggle for independence which finally came about in 1960. Representation was guaranteed to both communities, but continuing conflict made the document unworkable. In 1963 civil war broke out. The Turkish community withdrew from coalition government. A coup forced out the president of Cyprus in 1974. Turkish forces invaded and took control of the northern third of the island for the Turkish minority. This zone declared independence in 1983.
And so, the island remains divided. Listening to the sentiments of the local people one wonders how it could have happened. They speak with sadness of Greek friends they have not seen since the split, and homes they had to leave.
Our time to leave this place was also nearing. We had only planned to stay a couple of days and a week had slipped by without us hardly noticing. We walked up to Bellapais Abbey on our final day in Cyprus. It was a lovely climb through the cool green mountainside flora alive with wildflowers and goats. How obvious it became to understand why these mountains inspired Walt Disney’s setting for the film of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Bellapais Abbey is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the Middle East. The main buildings were constructed between 1264 - 84, with the refectory and cloisters probably added the following century. In the silent, serene mountain air I could almost hear the footsteps of the monks shuffling over the stone paving, hear their chanting, smell the incense and burning candles wafting back through time.
From the Abbey perched on the edge of a cliff, a glorious view to the sea reminded us our time was up. To cross that sea we headed down to the harbour, ready to catch the ferry. The scheduled departure time came and went and patiently we waited and waited. The departure hall was full of people, but devoid of any seating. Fortunately the entertainment helped to pass the hours. From our little patch of floor we watched as all around us Turks performed amazing feats of magic and dance. Several packets of tobacco could be miraculously squashed into a single packet by dexterity of finger and stomping on by foot. Coffee was disguised by changing containers and packing these into luggage bags. All around us they worked in a frenzy, stomping, packing, squashing, stashing. It seemed like we were the only waiting passengers not attempting to smuggle an excess of duty free items into mainland Turkey. As they worked feverishly at this activity for the whole four and a half hour wait, we wondered what they would have accomplished if the ferry had left on time.
Finally an announcement was made to board the boat. This boarding experience left us dazed and shell shocked and convinced that these Turkish travellers were most definitely hyperactive. The previous four and a half hours of activity culminated in a stampede for the boat which swept us aboard wondering whether more tickets than seats/space had been issued.
We did get seats on board and after a rather rough crossing we reached the mainland. We passed through customs with surprising speed and ease. Our excess baggage of precious memories caused no problems.
Inhabited for over 7000 years it seems Cyprus has always been the rope in a tug-o-war between Greeks and Turks. Greek Achaeans colonised the island sometime between 2000 and 1000 B.C. It fell to various great Middle Eastern Empires, but was part of the Roman Empire when the Apostle Paul introduced Christianity here. It later became part of the Byzantine Empire, falling to the Crusaders in the 12th century. The Ottoman Turks captured it in 1571. The British leased it from the Ottomans in 1878 and took it as their own in 1914.
Disagreements between Greek and Turkish communities hampered the struggle for independence which finally came about in 1960. Representation was guaranteed to both communities, but continuing conflict made the document unworkable. In 1963 civil war broke out. The Turkish community withdrew from coalition government. A coup forced out the president of Cyprus in 1974. Turkish forces invaded and took control of the northern third of the island for the Turkish minority. This zone declared independence in 1983.
And so, the island remains divided. Listening to the sentiments of the local people one wonders how it could have happened. They speak with sadness of Greek friends they have not seen since the split, and homes they had to leave.
Our time to leave this place was also nearing. We had only planned to stay a couple of days and a week had slipped by without us hardly noticing. We walked up to Bellapais Abbey on our final day in Cyprus. It was a lovely climb through the cool green mountainside flora alive with wildflowers and goats. How obvious it became to understand why these mountains inspired Walt Disney’s setting for the film of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Bellapais Abbey is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the Middle East. The main buildings were constructed between 1264 - 84, with the refectory and cloisters probably added the following century. In the silent, serene mountain air I could almost hear the footsteps of the monks shuffling over the stone paving, hear their chanting, smell the incense and burning candles wafting back through time.
From the Abbey perched on the edge of a cliff, a glorious view to the sea reminded us our time was up. To cross that sea we headed down to the harbour, ready to catch the ferry. The scheduled departure time came and went and patiently we waited and waited. The departure hall was full of people, but devoid of any seating. Fortunately the entertainment helped to pass the hours. From our little patch of floor we watched as all around us Turks performed amazing feats of magic and dance. Several packets of tobacco could be miraculously squashed into a single packet by dexterity of finger and stomping on by foot. Coffee was disguised by changing containers and packing these into luggage bags. All around us they worked in a frenzy, stomping, packing, squashing, stashing. It seemed like we were the only waiting passengers not attempting to smuggle an excess of duty free items into mainland Turkey. As they worked feverishly at this activity for the whole four and a half hour wait, we wondered what they would have accomplished if the ferry had left on time.
Finally an announcement was made to board the boat. This boarding experience left us dazed and shell shocked and convinced that these Turkish travellers were most definitely hyperactive. The previous four and a half hours of activity culminated in a stampede for the boat which swept us aboard wondering whether more tickets than seats/space had been issued.
We did get seats on board and after a rather rough crossing we reached the mainland. We passed through customs with surprising speed and ease. Our excess baggage of precious memories caused no problems.