MEDITERRANEAN MEANDERINGS
24TH JULY 2010

As Andy Williams so aptly sang: ‘where do I begin to tell the story of how great a love can be...’ And I never do know where to begin to tell of my continuing love story with the sun and the sea. Once I am in the flow there is no stopping me, but as is the case with most people it is the opening sentence that flummoxes me. Still I have started now so I will get on with it.

I will get my now weekly bus update out of the way first. I am still finding it very useful, although there are obvious teething issues, which is inevitable for a change this big. I don’t think they yet have enough drivers to cover all the buses and it will take time for the drivers who used to have their own routes to realise they are now working to a set timetable and set route. They can’t just miss out a village anymore because they can’t be bothered to go that way this time. However, I am totally convinced they will get there. Unfortunately because it is always my way to put a positive slant on things and say how brilliant it is that it has even begun, there are some people who have gone to catch a bus and because they have had to wait as it hasn’t turned up when it said it would, or some other such hitch, have said to me: ‘well you said...’ Yes I did, but I have also been prepared to go and take the risk and try it out for myself and put up with all the inherent risks of getting stranded halfway across the island with no way home. Is it just me or do people have no sense of adventure? The minute something doesn’t go exactly to plan they go into panic mode. What is the point of living on a beautiful island in the gorgeous sunshine if you are going to moan? If there has been one thing I have learnt in my life it is that the more I moan, the more the universe gives me to moan about and conversely the more I smile the more there is to smile about. It is a common theme in my life that I have to pioneer and find things out for people. I remember going to meet my sister in Bristol for the day where neither of us had ever been before. I spent the whole day saying which bus stop we had to get off at and deciding in which direction to go. ‘How did you know this was the stop for the town centre?’ she asked. ‘Because there are shops’ I sagely replied!

One of the bus drivers that has been a regular on the bus route really seemed to have lost it last week. He has always been an ankle groper. So those of us who catch his bus frequently know to stand well back from his reach when letting him know you want to alight. He also has a habit of stroking your hand when he takes your money – which is pleasant. (I hope the sarcasm came across strongly there, I am never quite sure when I am writing whether you can hear my voice.) This week he went even further. To every woman who got on the bus aged from 12-102, of all shapes and sizes, with partners and without, he replaced his usual question of ‘yes please?’ to ‘sex please?’ Then when everyone was sitting down, usually looking very bemused, he started barking like a dog and purring like a cat. He would then shout out ‘sex please’ through his window at various women we passed. I have to say I found this highly amusing, but then I knew he was harmless as I have seen him regularly since I have been here. Those who had arrived in Cyprus the day before must have gone back to their hotels with a truly skewed opinion of Cypriot men. I mean, for Goodness Sake, what did he expect to happen? Did he really think that one of us would say: ‘well ok then. I’ve got nothing better to do and I was just thinking I could do with a jolly good rogering. Do you want to pull over here, or shall we just use the aisle?’ I was sorely tempted as I thought he could do with a bit of humbling as some of the women were looking decidedly nervous, but I reminded myself that this was a Middle Eastern country, albeit a very laidback one, and the sarcasm, once again, would get lost in translation.

Saying that, I never feel unsafe in Cyprus. I happily walk home from the pub in the early hours without a qualm. I have never felt threatened or worried in any way. Last Saturday I was, you will not be surprised to hear, a complete Dilbert. I took Scruffy for a walk as I needed to go to the bank to get some money out. When I got there the ATM wasn’t working, so Scruffy and I stopped for a drink of water and then headed up the hill to Orfanides (about a further 20 minutes walk). The temperature was in the late 30s and both of us were flagging by this point. I got to the next ATM only to find my purse was missing. Poor Scruffy looked incredibly cross by this point as she realised that I was about to drag her back down the hill again, as the only place I could have left my purse was at the bank back at the bottom of the road. If I had been on my own I would have carried on, but I couldn’t make Scruffy walk any further in that heat. So I rang Sandra and bless her within minutes she had sent Pat out to rescue me. We got back to the bank but my purse had already gone. So Pat drove me home where Scruffy refused point blank to get out of the car as she thought I was about to take her on another route march. Anyway the long and the short of it is that I behaved as a paranoid Englisher and immediately cancelled my bank cards. I felt incredibly protected as there wasn’t a penny in my purse to lose, as the evening before I had been to the shops where I found that the connection to the bank was down. Obviously this meant that I couldn’t use my card but had to use up every last scrap of cash I had on me. Pat and Sandra kindly lent me some money to last me until I could get to the bank on Monday with my passport (it being Saturday the branch was not open) so I ceased to worry about it as there was nothing I could do and I hadn’t really lost anything. The only problem was that I was due to be back in the UK in ten days and without a bank card I would not be able to get any money out while I was there – which to say the least would be irritating. About half past five that evening my phone rang. A lovely Cypriot couple had found one of my business cards in my purse and were asking how they could return it to me. It hadn’t occurred to them that I would rush out and cancel things; this is not the Cypriot way at all. They had gone to spend the day on the beach at Protaras and were only just on their way back in this direction, so hadn’t thought to ring before. They drove out of their way to get my stuff back to me. The lady said to me ‘Do you really do reiki; it must be my karma calling you to me.’ I thought trust me to get the only hippy Cypriots to find my purse – how wonderful! I thanked them profusely and told them they could have a free treatment any time. If I had trusted in the goodness of the people here I would not have given myself all the hassle of re-ordering my card, although that too did not turn out to be anything to worry about. When I explained my predicament to the lady in the bank on the Monday morning, she said that the card would probably take a few days to arrive, but that I shouldn’t worry. Friday morning I got a text to say that my card was ready to collect. I do love Cyprus.

Buddhist Sue and I went to get our cultural fix last Sunday evening as Frenaros was holding their Watermelon Festival. It was fabulous. The village square was filled with tables and chairs all heading towards a stage. As you entered (for free) you were given a huge tray of watermelon (also free). We elected to share one between us as there were also many other goodies on offer. We had kleftiko and then chocolate and vanilla crepes whilst watching the dancing. Sadly, we had to leave early and so missed the live music. We had heard them warming up earlier in the evening and they had sounded great. What more can you ask for than sitting outside on a hot summer’s evening whilst being plied with good food and entertainment. Did I mention that I love Cyprus?

On the complete opposite end of the cultural scale I went to see Bobby Lee, the drag act, at the Corner Pin the night before. This too was a fun evening out. The Pin were doing a fish and chip supper which, I have to say, was extremely tasty. Being the token southerner I managed to give everyone on my table a jolly good laugh by just saying the sentence: ‘do you know I have never eaten mushy peas before’. Looks of astonishment, followed by thick Derbyshire accents proclaiming what a posh, southern softy I was, came my way. They obviously don’t know my part of the country very well if they think that I am posh! Needless to say this has followed me around all week. Everywhere I go I am now greeted by people saying to me: ‘have you really never eaten mushy peas – you’ve never lived.’ I hate to break it to them but the likelihood of my ever eating a mushy pea again is extremely small.

On Tuesday I had been due to go to Kyrenia on a boat trip. I had been looking forward to this and I had somehow got it in my head that it was to celebrate Turkish Independence Day. It was only upon hearing the sirens last week that I put two and two together and realised that, despite it being called Freedom Day, it was actually to commemorate the 1974 invasion. Once again I will say that I do not want to take sides on the politics of this, but even so I could not bring myself to attend. If I had gone I would have had to go and ask for a large H, for Hypocrite, to be tattooed on my forehead. I spend my whole life speaking out against war and violence. I have refused to take part in Remembrance Day activities in the UK for years because I will not glorify the terror of war in any way. How uncomfortable would I have been watching a military fly by – I will leave that to you to work out. I also think that it would be incredibly insensitive of me, living where I do, to take part in something that to all extents and purposes celebrates a day on which nearly all my Cypriot neighbours lost if not family, then land and livelihoods. It would be like asking Germany to celebrate VE day, or the victims of Hiroshima to take part in VJ day activities. The day passed without comment on this side of the green line. As I said would be happening the sirens did go off early in the morning – similar to church bells ringing to signify the start of the two minute silence in the UK – but nowhere did it say what it was about. Indeed I spent a lot of the day explaining to bemused tourists why they had been awakened by the sirens as there was nothing anywhere to tell them. So, instead of being on a boat, which I love more than anything, with people I love and who are not involved in either side of the conflict, I spent the morning standing on my balcony facing the area of land that still bears the scars of that day and chanting. I chanted for the land to be loved again, for the people to remember that they are all Cypriots and to love each other without recrimination and for peace and reconciliation to come soon in spite of the power hungry politicians on both sides that seem to be doing their damndest for the conflict to continue. A wise friend said to me this week: ‘you know that fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity’ and she is so right. We just have to want peace, to each live our lives in a peaceful fashion and to rid our hearts and minds of all things that remind us of war, hatred and violence. So I will crowbar my Gandhi quote in this week and I stand by this with all my heart and soul: ‘I am prepared to die, but there is no cause for which I am prepared to kill.’ Not only do I love Gandhi, but have I mentioned that I love Cyprus! It's because of this that I want so much for it to be healed.

So, next week my Mediterranean Meanderings will be Mile Oak Mutterings – watch out UK!