I'm swimming in the crystal clear
waters of the Mediterranean, surrounded by deep, chocolate brown
tans, and accents hinting at Russian, Greek, and the indecipherable.
The beach is covered with the obligatory sun lounges and umbrellas,
and the air is filled with cheesy 80's pop hits.
But this is not the idyllic scene you
might think it is.
There is an air of paranoia tainting every element of what should be a relaxed day on the beach on this European holiday. Because this isn't your holiday brochure style European vacation destination.
This is an island divided by politics, bitter memories, and shattered families. Where resentment runs as deep as the ocean.
This is Cyprus, and I'm on the beach at Famagusta, in the Turkish occupied territory in the North of the island.
To explain, as long as I've known Madelene's family, I've been very aware of the resentment towards the Turks due to the invasion of Cyprus back in 1974. Madelene's mum, whom although left Cyprus in the 50's, hailed from the small village of Yialousa (since renamed Yeri Erenkoy) which lies in the now occupied territory.
So as this Cypriot leg of our journey was all about family, we left the home of Mad's cousins Themos & Maroula early, piled into our hired minibus, and headed to, as Mad dubbed it, "Checkpoint Mustafa".
It's an eerie journey into the occupied territory, as the only road in closely follows the "border" between the two rival states. It's literally Greek on one side of the road, and Turkish on the other. Every kilometre or so along the way, Turkish army sentry towers keep watch, painted in camouflage colours, containing shadowy figures within, whom you know are watching us watch them through binoculars.
These towers are not symbolic, they are the real deal, and Mad's other cousins Demi & Andreas make us all the more nervous by telling us stories of recent young Greek Cypriots whom crossed the border in protest, only to gain a bullet in the head for their trouble. The closer we get to the border, the higher the tension grows, and the ill-will builds.
And then we see it - "Checkpoint Mustafa".
There's signs everywhere advising us that no photographs should be taken under any circumstances, and Andreas again shares an anecdote about friends whom have, and how their cameras were confiscated. Apparently we are under surveillance from all angles.
It kind of reminded me of a scene from an Alistair MacLean novel, with barbed wire fences, more camouflaged buildings, boom gates, and security cameras everywhere. Military vehicles parked on either side of the road, and all streets leading to our left and right having been barricaded so that you can only continue straight ahead.
It's an eerie journey into the occupied territory, as the only road in closely follows the "border" between the two rival states. It's literally Greek on one side of the road, and Turkish on the other. Every kilometre or so along the way, Turkish army sentry towers keep watch, painted in camouflage colours, containing shadowy figures within, whom you know are watching us watch them through binoculars.
These towers are not symbolic, they are the real deal, and Mad's other cousins Demi & Andreas make us all the more nervous by telling us stories of recent young Greek Cypriots whom crossed the border in protest, only to gain a bullet in the head for their trouble. The closer we get to the border, the higher the tension grows, and the ill-will builds.
And then we see it - "Checkpoint Mustafa".
There's signs everywhere advising us that no photographs should be taken under any circumstances, and Andreas again shares an anecdote about friends whom have, and how their cameras were confiscated. Apparently we are under surveillance from all angles.
It kind of reminded me of a scene from an Alistair MacLean novel, with barbed wire fences, more camouflaged buildings, boom gates, and security cameras everywhere. Military vehicles parked on either side of the road, and all streets leading to our left and right having been barricaded so that you can only continue straight ahead.
"Get your passports out", we're told by Themos, and as Mad's brother slows the van down to a crawl, we slowly approach the passport control booth.
Only after some tense discussions, and the mandatory paperwork being completed are we granted access across the border.
I say tense, but really it's only paranoia on our part. With four Greek Cypriots in the van (all bar one travelling with British passports), and only horror stories having been told for the last 45 minutes, of course we were tense!
With the clarity of retrospect, the reality was that the border security officer was an attractive young Turkish woman whom exuded all of the same charm we had experienced by the bucket load whilst travelling through Turkey only a few days before.
This is not the Midnight Express experience we were expecting, but the mind tends to play funny tricks when automatic weapons are in the picture. We're (largely) such innocent lambs in Australia, and this is so completely outside my
experience, that every posture and word is being misinterpreted as a result.
Only after some tense discussions, and the mandatory paperwork being completed are we granted access across the border.
I say tense, but really it's only paranoia on our part. With four Greek Cypriots in the van (all bar one travelling with British passports), and only horror stories having been told for the last 45 minutes, of course we were tense!
With the clarity of retrospect, the reality was that the border security officer was an attractive young Turkish woman whom exuded all of the same charm we had experienced by the bucket load whilst travelling through Turkey only a few days before.
This is not the Midnight Express experience we were expecting, but the mind tends to play funny tricks when automatic weapons are in the picture. We're (largely) such innocent lambs in Australia, and this is so completely outside my
experience, that every posture and word is being misinterpreted as a result.
We drive a few kilometres further up the road to Famagusta, and are faced with the "Forbidden Zone" - a vast strip of prime, circa-1974, beach-side real estate, lined with once-luxurious high rise apartment buildings, nudging the Mediterranean, being caressed by it's turquoise embrace.
Why is it the "Forbidden Zone"? Because it has been left in a state of abandoned ruin following the invasion of forty years earlier. Every building is pock-marked with bullet holes, or with entire walls missing - most with both. Others have bits of masonry and twisted steel hanging precariously from the top floors, hanging over the fenced-off Forbidden Zone. Again there are signs reminding us that photography of any kind is strictly forbidden.
Andreas makes the point that the every building has been stripped bare of any (and all) fittings, pipework, windows, doors, sinks - you name it, it's gone!
This is a UN-sanctioned bargaining chip - a hangover from the early days following the invasion. It was to become a no-man's-land, as it remains now, frozen in it's ruin until such time that an amicable settlement could be reached. As such, the beautiful beach at Famagusta is framed by destruction - imagine the Gold Coast if it underwent weeks of bombardment and air-strikes, and you're beginning to get the picture. It's Beirut meets Bermuda.
As we sit on the beach, Maroula (Mary) makes a comment which encapsulates the Greek-Cypriot feeling towards this tragic scene perfectly.
"...how can we let go of the past when this remains as a constant reminder?"
So like I said in the beginning, this is a surreal, tragic scene.
Maybe it's those 80's pop hits I'm hearing, but I'm reminded of the bitter lyrics from the U2 song, "Sunday Bloody Sunday":
And the battle's just begun
There's many lost, but tell me who has won?
The trenches dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters
Torn apart
This battle hasn't just begun though. The general's have simply hit the pause button while the politicians do what they generally do.
Nothing.
Nothing.
