7 August 2013
It’s roasting hot even at 1000hrs as I walk to the observatory tower in the heart of Nicosia. It’s actually the top floor of Debenhams. Great 360 views of Nicosia and surrounds. The mountains rise in the Turkish north with arid plains to the south. Those pesky Turks have painted a huge crescent flag on the mountain side just to rub it in. The old city of Nicosia is bounded by ancient walls forming a circular defence with arrow shaped battlements every 100m or so. Despite the height advantage of being 11 floors up you can’t see the division between north and south like you could between east and west in Berlin. Further investigation required.
Head to the Ledra Street crossing.
The Greeks just let you walk out along the flowerpotted no man’s land. The Turks take your details and stamp that white slip of paper (the one with the John Bull printing). I’m now in the Turkish north. 100m separating two pints of lager and a packet of crisps from mosques and minarets – the cultural change is noticeable. Wanting to walk the border line and explore. See sights of general decay and derelict buildings. It’s quite staggering walking along silent streets. It’s like the Mary Celeste. Deliberately find dead ends where I find concrete walls and barbed wire between buildings. Just like Berlin.
Everwhere are decaying buildings, derelict beyond repair. The only noise being the cicadas clicking away in the searing lunchtime heat. Mad dogs and Englishmen. Barbed wire, concrete walls and oil drums pop up sporadically between the empty buildings to prevent ingress/egress.
Come across a children’s play park. It’s desolate and bounded by chain link fence. Barbed wire atop. At the end of the deserted street is a green painted camoflage concrete machine gun outpost – it sticks out like a sore thumb in this brown and dusty environment. Cough as I approach so as not to surprise. Two soldiers pop up. Think they’re glad for company. Ask if it’s OK to enter the playground on account of all the signage saying it’s a military zone. They consent. Walk the perimeter chain link fence and barbed wire. I’m on top of one of the arrowheads of the old walled city. Below is Greek Cyprus and across the road, metres away, is a seemingly disused Greek concrete machine gun outpost. The proximity of it all reminds me of Vimy Ridge (WW1 battle ground in France).
A disused UN watchtower sits behind goal on a disused and decaying football pitch.
Brings a whole new meaning to “He shoots and he scores”. I’m frequently using the terms decay and disused for good reason. It’s what I see. Return to the Turkish soldiers to have a bit of craic and hand them my Greek map. The Turkish part of Nicosia is blank and says “Under Turkish occupation since 1974” but even so I have a rough idea of where I am. They take the map. It’s like watching the Chuckle Brothers. They haven’t a clue. They turn away from me such that I’m now looking over the soldiers’ shoulders. Wish I’d taken a photo it was so comical. They can’t even determine where they are let alone where the Ledra Palace crossing is – even though I’ve sort of sussed it…..Scout training you see. The map is the wrong way up – everyone knows maps are north at the top…..don’t they?
Pulling camera out in this no photographs zone pointing at them and saying “Can I take a photo?” but at the same time clicking away before they say no.
Determination…..opportunity…..
Find my way to the Ledra Palace crossing (as opposed to Ledra Street). No one about. I could just walk through the Turkish border unnoticed. But I’m not like that…..Find the border control having lunch. One has to stop eating to stamp me out. Ledra Palace Crossing is a vehicle crossing and probably the widest point of the UN Buffer Zone at about 200m. Halfway across is, bizarrely, a cafe. So there I am. Having a Coke in a UN Buffer Zone. In no man’s land. I am countryless.
Walk the remaining 100m to the Greek border. At last. My passport is checked. Well he takes it. Flicks through it. Suspicious of the Santa stamp from the Arctic Circle. Clearly too hot to query. Hands it back.
Take a service taxi to Larnaca airport picking up people through the suburbs of Nicosia splashed with bougainvillea colour.
Do the reverse when in Larnaca and eventually dropped off at the airport.
Go through the usual conversion of rucksack to holdall and daysack and check in for Beirut flight. Hand passport over. Have you any bags to check in. No. The width of my body hiding the 18kg bag behind my back. She flicks through the passport, “Have you been to Israel?”. No. Here’s your boarding pass. Just about to turn to leave when…..”Wait….wait……give me your passport.”. Hand passport over. She flicks. The Santa stamp isn’t of concern. It’s the northern Turkish Cyprus stamp that is.
“You’ve come from the other side.” she states. Yes…..and….?? You can’t fly to Beirut with this stamp. WTF?!??!?!?! FCO never said anything about that! Muppets. A superior is called over. Passport momentarily confiscated. Oh hells bells. This isn’t in the script.
She says he needs to ring someone. A phone call ensues. Travel to Beirut in jeopardy. Contingency plan kicks in. Will have to bypass and fly direct to Amman – there’s a flight twice a week from memory. Bugger. Was looking forward to Beirut. Heart pounding.
Suddenly. Hear “OK….OK…..OK….” from superior. Check in girl smiles. Things are looking up. Phone call finished. A quick conversation in a foreign language…..it’s all Greek to me. It’s OK. I’m not Syrian. The restriction only applies to Syrians. Sighs of relief are heaved. Getting too old for all this. Passport returned.
Considering we’re in the EU am expecting the full liquids in a bag rigmarole. But. No. Rucksack full of electronics and liquids pass through no problem and meet them the other side of X-ray. As I’m collecting my belongings hear the security interrogating the person next to me saying she has a wine opener (corkscrew) and liquids in her bag. She’s denying it. She has no such thing. Suddenly realise that he’s actually describing what’s in my bag and that he’s got the wrong bag to search. Time for a sharp exit and buzz off.
Board flight and find myself sitting next to some Lebanese lads who’ve obviously been partying in Aya Napa. One looks like Boris Becker and his mate is a fat Arabic George Michael. The contrast is surreal. Boris Becker has a whistle that he keeps whistling whilst on the aircraft. He’ll find it rammed down his throat by the time we land in Beirut.
Greeted by hotel transfer. He’s European looking. Ask if he’s actually Lebanese. He is. But his ancestors must be European. No. They’re from Egypt.
Have decided on a hotel transfer purely for safety reasons. Didn’t particularly want a local taxi that was going to take me to Kidnap Central.
