Triplogue - Cyprus |
28 October, Pafos to
Pera-pedhi, 68 km (f) After our first days ride in Cyprus I couldnt decide what seemed more absurd, the political situation here or the idea of riding a bike on this island. (A brief oral history of the situation here was relayed by Eric and Anne at our rest the other day. They lowered their voices a number of times so not to be overheard by others in the restaurant. Apparently the Greeks came down here and planted a seed of discontent in the brains of the recently liberated Cypriots. They proposed that it might be a great idea to have an all Greek government and maybe reunite with Greece. They seemed to forget about the fact that well over a third of the population here was Turkish and Muslim. They started persecuting the Turks and excluding them from the government. Looking at a map you may have noticed that Turkey is a little closer to Cyprus than Greece. If you have ever met a Turk you may know that they are a proud people and dont take well to seeing their own abused, hence their subsequent invasion and annexing of one-third of Cyprus should come as no surprise. Except if you are a Greek or Greek Cypriot and have your head deeply buried in the sand.) The ridiculousness of riding in Cyprus was not soon forgotten. We began roughly where we had ended two days earlier --on the hideously narrow road now joined by impatient weekday Cypriot drivers as well as a generous number of nervous tourists each in his rented Suzuki Samarai. I narrowly escaped being run over by a slow moving truck when I erroneously assumed that a blinking left hand turn signal meant that the driver intended to turn left. Silly me! Thankfully I was marginally faster than the truck and its wild-eyed driver and lived to tell this tale. I cant begin to tell you what the terrain along the road looked like because I have no memory of it except of the white line marking the highway edge and my effort trying to keep my bike as close to it as possible. After about 15K of torture we turned off the main highway onto a little road by a dam. At first we guessed that wed made a mistake. There were no drivers on the road. Just when wed become accustomed to riding as though our lives would end at any moment we suddenly found ourselves breathing, looking around and, remarkably, enjoying riding once again. It seemed strange what difference it was to ride a few meters from the main road. The cars that did pass us did so sanely, all the cars not just the timid tourists. This also marked the end of our sea-level ride. We began climbing abruptly and the altitude afforded us sweeping views across the brown brushy hills to the teal sea. Sweat poured off our bodies as we puffed up the canyon towards the mountains. Miraculously, just as I began to feel as though Id perspired out all of my salt a little restaurant appeared. It turned out not to be a restaurant but a convenience store with a very limited selection of food. We were satisfied nonetheless by a package of cookies, two bags of chips and more beverages than you could shake a stick at. The shop keep spoke no English except to tell us the price of our consumption and repeatedly tell us that they had no sandwiches. Some three hundred meters higher up the mountain we found another "restaurant". This one run by a woman with brillo pads for hair and loads of cats roaming around her yard. She made us nasty canned lunch meat sandwiches while Andy played with the cats. I watched in amusement while his eyes turned red from his allergies. He cried and sneezed while demonstrating the "international kitty pet" to the locals and feeding the little pregos his luncheon meat. The cats were greatly satisfied by the attention Andy gave if not by our lunch which one nearly gagged on. After lunch the road pitched upward at an even steeper grade. We pumped and dripped through dinky villages full of women dressed like nuns and their mustached husbands. Judging by their reactions of disbelief our kind of travel is not commonplace here or they were shocked that we hadnt been run over already on the main road. We ascended to 860 meters before leveling off and gradually descending. After only 60km I was already a bit tired and ready to call it a day. Andy, in contrast, exclaimed that he could ride an equal distance and climb an equal amount before stopping for the night. Just the same, we had the option of climbing further and riding another five kilometers or descending to the next village to call it a day. Andy voted for descent and I could hardly disagree. It was the fastest five kilometers Id ridden in a long time. Reaching speeds over 60km/h we zipped into Pera-Pedhi. Traveling so fast we almost completely overshot the village until stopping at its edge in search of a place to lodge for the night. For a few moments we were worried that we might have to back-track the five km up to the last village and ride another five km up because we couldnt find anyplace to stay. I wouldnt call the villagers exactly warm and helpful either. Two loafing octogenarians opted to make lewd gestures at Andrew rather than help us locate a room. Another told us that there were no rooms in town (ironically we saw him drinking later in the restaurant of the pension we ended up staying in). Defeated and tired (even though Andy "could ride another 60km and climb another 1200 meters") we began to backtrack up the hill. Just before leaving the village we came upon a sign advertising rooms and scrambled up the dirt driveway to inquire about them. Nick, the owner, and his snarling dog Wolfie greeted us smiling. Nick showed us a "just completed" room and a place for our bikes and we were sold. He offered to make us a roasted chicken for dinner and I was more than satisfied. So what if the room would never be featured in Architectural Digest, the pink plaid comforters and matching towels would do the trick and left us wondering if Nick was widowed or a little light in his loafers. After check-in and before dinner I went on with the laborious task of finishing "Beloved" by Toni Morrison while Andrew caught up on writing his delinquent passages. If she can win a Nobel Prize . |
Click on image to see full-sized version Serene cycling in the Troodos mountains |
Click on image to see full-sized version On the road to Nicosia |
29 October, Pera-Pedhi
to Nicosia, 83km (a) Getting out of bed proved a difficult task this morning; we could practically see our breath in the cold mountain air that filled our room, and padding around on the tile floor felt like walking on ice. While Fred went through his usual busy morning routine, I remained buried deep under my covers until I heard our host knocking around in the kitchen below us, hopefully preparing our coffee. Munching on our toast, we learned from the t.v. that the Dow Jones Industrial Average had dropped over five hundred points while we slept, an event which felt impossibly remote here in the Cypriot hinterland. I knew from the map that this morning would entail a six-hundred meter climb, but not before making a major withdrawal from the altitude bank. Still dazed after a single cup of nasty nescafe, I couldnt fully appreciate the chilly, curving descent into Saitas, over two hundred meters below Chez Nick. The ensuing climb woke me up though. Our legs still felt rubbery from yesterdays climbing so we felt every push of the pedal up the relentless 10km ascent. At the top my altimeter read 1150 meters. We paused at a traileresque snack stand for some salty snacks and a healthy dose of chilly mountain air before dressing ourselves for the long ride down. Twisting down the slopes at the same speed as the motor traffic, I kept marveling that wed managed to climb so high in just over an hour. While I thought wed visit a couple of villages and their famous painted churches on the way down, we changed our mind about being tourists in the Brit-infested town of Kakopetria, where touts in front of cookie-cutter tavernas greeted us with "hello my friend" as we whizzed down the steep street. Poorly marked by befuddling road signs, the churches either eluded us or were atop impossibly steep hills. After convincing ourselves that they couldnt be as impressive as the many old churches we had seen in Turkey, we opted to continue down towards Nicosia, capital of this screwed-up country and supposedly the worlds only remaining "divided city." Traffic picked up as we descended towards the arid, undulating plain containing Nicosia and its confusing mess of suburbs. The road was obviously new, a replacement for the useless old road now bisected numerous times by the green line. Propaganda billboards lined our route, as well as abandoned buses from now-Turkish towns, signs forbidding the taking of photographs, and a string of lookout towers both Greek and Turkish. The many UN vehicles passing us completed the impression that we had entered a zone fraught with conflict. Finally, we were in the Cyprus of my media-driven expectations. These impressions grew increasingly stronger as we approached Nicosia. My map showed a quieter alternative to the main road, but after a blissful kilometers pedal the route was barred by masses of barbed wire and unfriendly signage. It struck us as odd that the road had been marked as leading to "Nicosia International Airport" (and odder still when we learned that this airport has been abandoned due to its placement in the "buffer zone"). In any case, this forced us back onto the main road, which promptly turned into a freeway filled with Mario Andretti wannabes. Off in the distance an enormous Turkish Cypriot flag made of white rocks covered the better part of a mountain, an unmistakable "fuck you" to South Nicosia. Later we learned that this landmark had been created by survivors of a particularly brutal massacre of a Turkish village at the hands of Greek Cypriots. Visible from miles around, it serves as a constant reminder for Turks and Greeks alike, though the two factions doubtless have widely varying interpretations of its significance. After many bewildering twists and turns in the route, we finally found our way into the heart of town. Since it was a holiday (marking the anniversary of Mussolinis declaration of war on Greece), the tourist information booth was closed, making us rely upon the lodging advice of a friendly waiter at a touristy taverna. After settling in at Tonys cramped-but-homey Bed and Breakfast, we walked around the old part of town (delineated by an incredibly intact 11-bastioned Venetian wall, of which five bastions each have been allocated to the Turks and Greeks respectively, the eleventh under UN control). The green line beckoned us like a magnet, cutting right through avenues and streets of what used to be the towns commercial center, marked by crude sandbag bunkers and eerily dark guardposts. Its like a Lilliputian pre-unification Berlin, ridiculous almost cutesyin scale but deadly serious as a palpable barrier of hate. Most of Nicosias center (at least on the Greek side) has an abandoned, ghost-town feel to it, not unlike Saint Louis or Detroit. Fred and I kept marveling aloud how creepy it felt, and how weird and unhealthy it would be to grow up in such a place. As if to prove our point, a mad motorist appeared out of nowhere along a deserted, darkened street, gunning his motor and acting as if wanting to mow us down. When he rounded the block and turned up again, we noted his licence plate (AAE123) and after a long standoff in which he stayed parked at an intersection while we screamed that wed call the police, he mercifully let us alone. We were shaken up enough to pick up a couple of rocks in case he came around again and made a point of staying on busier streets thereafter. In a sick sort of way, I was thrilled to have Nicosia live up to my expectations, though its hardly a place Id choose for a prolonged vacation. |
The Turkish Republic
of North Cyprus (f) Id anticipated this day since our arrival in Cyprus. My imagination went into overtime. I gathered that wed have to jump through hoops, spit nickels, be strip searched, interrogated, embarrassed and cajoled in order to pass the border. In execution it turned out to be markedly easier than getting information about ferry schedules in Athens. We simply walked to the border, registered on the Greek side, passed immigration on the Turkish side, bought our visas and walked across the green line. There were a few remarkable sights along the way that did leave an impression. First many of the buildings just before the border on the Greek side had undergone trauma. Their blemishes and wounds ranged from gunshot induced chips in plaster to roofs ripped off from mortar fire. Many had anti-Turkish graffiti including intellectual barbs like "suck my Greek dick you murdering Turkish pigs." Huge billboards decorated the Greek border with graphic color photos of bloodied bodies of innocent Greeks. One was beaten to death on the Turkish side leaving a pregnant wife. Strangely there was no detail as to why a hoard of Turks might have decided to beat him to death or the circumstance of his visit to the Turkish side, leading us to question their propaganda. After crossing the Greek border and passing menacing tangles of razor wire we entered the UN buffer zone, strangely the first building we came to was the German Cultural Center. I wondered to myself about many visitors they receive in this location. Next, a formerly glamorous hotel, its carved limestone facade pockmarked by gun and mortar fire now house a contingent of UN peace keepers. Leaving the propaganda-free zone (the UN buffer zone) passing yet another nest of razor wire and a dozing robins egg blue hatted UN guard we entered the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus (TRNC). Immediately we were greeted by display cases with black and white photos showing atrocities committed by the Greeks. Frankly they were better propaganda vehicles than the flashy Greek ones. Their matter of fact presentation clearly detailed the who, what, when, where and whys of the situation. After the drama of the crossing the rest of the visit seemed largely anticlimactic. The north side of the city was much sleepier than the south. Apparently few Turks live on this side of the city. Underscoring this fact is that the Turks have imported Anatolians from the mainland to inhabit the city. The first thing that struck me was the civility of the traffic compared to the south. I found myself marveling at how quiet the streets were and how calm the drivers were. We encountered only a few cases of BCS (Big Car Syndrome where the owner of a fancy vehicle imagines that he bought the road and the right to maim along with his expensive car) while in the TRNC. We did encounter lots of the same friendly, easy going, honest and clean Turks like the ones wed met in Turkey. Unfortunately our sight seeing would be limited to the outside of many buildings. Wed come to the TRNC on a very special day, the anniversary of the death of their revered deceased leader Ataturk, founder of modern Turkey. We arrived at the one gate through city walls on the Turkish side to see a massive gathering of army personnel and civilians commemorating this day. Huge banners proclaiming their relationship with the "motherland", Turkish flags and balloons decorated the square. We listened to the military band play "taps" and the crowd sob while the flag was lowered and raised again in Ataturks honor. From the demonstration we walked down the main street to an eight story hotel in the center of town. There we went to the top to see the view of both sides of the green line from above. From this vantage point you could see the disheveled buildings in the buffer zone decaying from disuse. Among them is rumored to be a warehouse full of "new" 1974 Toyotas and Nissans. They were supposedly rushed to their resting place there from Famagusta as they were partitioning the country. They were thought to be safer here than in the new Turkish port there. Further wanderings revealed architectural curiosities like the massive Venetian gothic churches that were hastily converted into mosques. Their bell towers converted to minarets and their worship spaces re-oriented to face Mecca. Somehow I couldnt find a single smelly, dirty, mean and violent Turk that I had been warned about. What we did manage to find was a very tasty pide (Turkish pizza). Crescent shaped, filled with goat cheese and lamb sausage, it made a yummy picnic in front of the cloisters of one of the gothic mosques. Strolling along the green line of the TRNC we saw no armed soldiers as we had on the other side. We speculated that they were either much more lax about the patrol of the border, or that everyone was celebrating Ataturks holiday. In any case we were afforded many opportunities to photograph the green line from this side. Even though the day in the TRNC had gone without a hitch, I approached our crossing back to the Greek side with trepidation. I worried about the photos wed taken of the line and confusion about our digital camera. In actuality the trip back was even easier than the trip there. We simply walked through the border largely unquestioned by either side except to view our passports. |
Click
on image to see full-sized version Remembering Ataturk North Nicosia's answer to Domino's Pizza |
Click
on image to see full-sized version JAPOR |
30 October, Nicosia to
Limassol, 85 km (f) At breakfast in the rooftop garden of Tonys B&B we munched fried eggs, slurped Nescafe and readied ourselves for the day ahead. We met a couple of Dutch travelers and convinced them that it was easy to get to the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus (TRNC) and told them how to get there before departing. As for the ride, Andy had told me that it would be an easy day, only 85 kilometers and "pretty flat". I found myself huffing and puffing climbing out of Nicosia as we pedaled over rolling hills. Fortunately the traffic was more respectful than I thought theyd be and the road better. The landscape of suburban Nicosia is not worth mention. Some have compared it to Los Angeles, but I think Eastern Europe suburbs are a better comparison. Wed opted to take the old road to Limassol, leaving the superhighway to the leadfooted masses. The first part of this route was not much prettier than the suburbs of the city. Dominated by industrial sprawl I began to wonder if the whole trip would be like this. Good fortune smiled upon us and warehouses gave way to rural landscapes. Scrubby bushes and eucalyptus trees covered the hills and I was reminded of my origins in Southern California. Before long wed pedaled half way to Limasol helped along by stiff tail winds. We stopped for souvlaki and chicken shish at a roadside stand having a beer and a game of backgammon for dessert. I was so full after lunch the hills seemed insurmountable. Further complicating matters, the wind seemed to have shifted 180 degrees and was now blowing in our face. We climbed and fell over and over again finally making it to our tourist stop for the day, the Neolithic ruins of Kakopetria. Though probably very interesting to the archeologists who discovered them and the historians analyzing them the outdoor museum looked like JAPOR to us (just another pile of rocks). The fantastic mosaics and remains of buildings seen at other Greek, Roman and Byzantine sights had spoiled us. In the afternoon we were greeted with a headwind that rendered the afternoons ride into Limasol a challenge. Still we hustled down to the coast after a few very satisfying downhills. The very last part of the ride was nearly unbearable. Fifteen kilometers past a seemingly endless chain of tourist hotels ranging from elegant to trashy. Torrents of tourist-filled cars and busses whooshed by us numbing us to the beauty of the beaches and coast we passed. Andy said it made Paphos look charming in comparison. Back in Limassol we looked forward to a day of relaxation and a trip to Stellios fantastic bar. At the bar we met a young and handsome soldier with a clear picture of his mission in the army. When asked what hed do if he saw a Turk he said " Id not shoot him. I would stick him with my knife and drink his blood!" Still we found him charming somehow, but so much for a peacefully unified island. |
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