This is a 3 part series of articles on my trip to Cyprus. I write in-depth travel articles about exotic places I have had the good fortune to visit over the years. My travel book, "Journeys With Soul" is also posted on Authors Den for interested readers.
The Divided Heart of Cyprus
John Herlihy
With end-of-year seasonal holidays fast approaching and fire in my blood simmering to a slow boil to hit the open road, my thoughts turned to distant horizons and far-off shores once again. As a matter of custom, I travel to places that provide, as the Arabs say, a “change of weather”, to unknown cities whose history whispers tales of dragons and hobgoblins to the modern traveler, and to haunted landscapes whose natural beauty draws the expectant traveler into a unique tableau to fill the senses and stir the emotions out of the dull routine of one’s humdrum day. Two years ago at this time, I found myself roaming the back streets of the ancient city of Valetta, the capital of Malta, whose siege against the invading Turks is still remembered nearly 5 centuries later as a turning point in the island’s destiny. Last year, I hip-hopped across the map heading east, touching down in Singapore, Jakarta and the island of Bali where I finally fulfilled a childhood fantasy to sip fresh coconut juice in the shadow of a Balinese volcano. The question inevitably rose over the horizon of my mind like a lazy full moon: Where could I go this year that I could tuck away onto the top shelf in the attic as a treasured souvenir next to my first baby shoes and tennis racket.
The following week, I had the answer to my search and made the bookings online, with nobody the wiser about my plans, until my tennis partner asked where I was going for the holidays. “I am going to Turkey, but I am not going to the country of Turkey. Where am I going?” My friend paused in mid-thought, thinking long and hard. “It’s a riddle, no?” He asks and I snap my finger. “Yes, a riddle,” I echo now amused. This is better than the mind games of tennis. “Listen, I am going to Greece, but I am not going to the country of Greece. Where am I going?” I ask again, adapting the riddle with another clue. “I give up,” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Game, set, match,” I reply. “I am going to the historic island of Cyprus,” as I think to myself: It has all my requirements, suitable winter weather with plenty of sunlight and a spot of rain to wash away the dust, a fascinating history from the Phoenicians through to the time of the Crusades and Knights Templers, until the present era witnessing the awkward alliances and chaos from the Second World War to the time in the mid-70s, when the island suffered another landmark jolt in its long history by becoming divided by what is referred to as the “green line”, the north to the Turks, the south to the Greeks. They are Cypriots all with a long and tumultuous history that stretches back thousands of years only to end up in this modern, enlightened era as a divided island with a broken heart.
From the window of the plane, I catch sight of the island which the pilot follows just offshore, saluting the country as it makes its final descent down into the inter-national airport at Larnaca, providing the perfect bird’s eye view of the landscape and the land below. From the vantage point of the heavens where I sit in modern-age comfort without a care for the miracle of flight that makes this angle of vision possible, the small villages looks like clusters of white marble against the backdrop of lush green countryside in the form of acres of undulating, almost rhythmic agricultural land, organized by human endeavor and subdivided into parts like a checkerboard, with the verdant grasses startling my eye with their virgin, primordial color after the dusty sandscape surrounding the glitter of Dubai where I live and work as a writing professor. In the distance lay the mountains of Northern Cyprus, known locally as “the Five-finger Mountains”. A gathering storm of dark cumulus clouds shroud the lofty peaks in gloom across the broad expanse of their brow like shields engraved with mysterious carvings, promising a winter rainstorm for the Turks in the northern part of the island. There is a strange and fascinating charm to majestic mountains enveloped in clouds at their peaks, becoming a never ceasing marvel to behold, looming head and shoulders over the surrounding agricultural plane like benevolent giants in kingly garments.
In the near distance just before touchdown, as the plane arched and turned to line up with the runway, beyond an ugly cement plant with its blackened smoke-stacks emitting a calligraphy of smoke and the sprawling port on the edge of town with its ugly dockyard cranes reaching awkwardly to the heavens with seemingly broken arms, I catch sight of a dramatic cluster of windmills, as if there for the touching, randomly spaced on a hilly plateau of land, standing watch over the serene landscape outside of town. Unlike the traditional windmills of Holland, called smock mills with their wooden latticework blades attached to a frail thatched cottage, these stately instruments of modern ingenuity are a testament to the craftiness and spirit of the modern scientific world that builds insight upon insight to create a world of wonders that match in their own way the miracles of the traditional world. Their sleek, modernized shape and vivid whiteness appear in striking contrast to the green of the grassy knoll upon which they stand, perched precariously as though on one foot. With a closer look, I count twenty of them facing the east wind and turning clockwise in silent rhythm to each other, like a cluster of birds in flight, in slow motion seemingly and at the mercy of the wind. The sight nearly justifies the trip itself; I have needed to come to Cyprus to see for myself these stylish, modern-day windmills that are increasingly becoming another viable source of energy for the future, taking nature’s bounty and putting it to good use. The lumbering jet with its four mighty engines eases its colossal bulk softly down to an uneventful, smooth mid-day landing.
I had pre-arranged for a taxi to take me from the Larnaca airport, across the green line border between Greek Cyprus and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, to the historical ancient port town known as Kyrenia (Girne in modern-day Cyprus) for a considerable sum (100 Euros) considering the distance. I didn’t get much else into the bargain. The taxi driver either couldn’t speak English or had reluctance to come out of himself with yet another European tourist. Either way, I had my own quiet time to observe the landscape close up from the taxi window. I quickly noted that we were soon passing the elevated knoll that served as the staging-ground for the 20 windmills just off to the left along the side of the two-lane country road. Up close, they appeared even grander than from the distance of the plane, like gentle giants standing tall and ready to provide a vital service. Their rotary blades, echoing the comfortable silence of my mind, turned in spooky silence like brave warriors, sleek and bone white against the brilliant blue light of the winter sky. It felt like any other day in God’s litany of time across the open field of eternity; but in fact it was Christmas Day in the year 2012. Travel pays no attention to the sanctity of religious and cultural holidays. Could any convince me that this was the same Christmas day of my childhood, with its feverish anticipation of gifts, Christ in the manger on the mantle of our living room fireplace, Christmas stockings stuffed with tangerines and red-stripped candy canes. Hello Cyprus.
Travel dresses itself in its own comfortable suit of clothes, bringing unexpected reasons to justify its existence, depending on the destination in question and the manner in which one travels, whether by ox-cart, donkey, motorcycle or Mercedes limousine. When roaming across borders and entering into foreign countries with different customs, foods, clothing, languages, laws and life-style, it can be a rude awakening to realize how easily one’s own culture is stripped away to be replaced unceremoniously with an alien culture that, while interesting and possibly unique, also makes us realize just how parochial and limited our own cultures can be, tucked away in the mediocrity of our own routines and familiar life-style.
The border-crossing from South to North Cyprus proved to be relatively une-ventful. The driver suddenly came alive and asked for my passport which he promptly took to the passport kiosk at the side of the road while I remained in the car. He quickly returned and handed the passport back to me, then drove unceremoniously through the uplifted gate. This was a far cry from other border crossings that I remembered for previous trips, in 1967, for example, to a freezing mid-winter Moscow with sub-zero temperatures where I took note of the dutiful stares of pass-port control or travelling by train through Hungary and the then Czechoslovakia, both satellite countries of the old Soviet Union, where people were carefully scrutinized and luggage was routinely searched by intimidating border guards. Borders can have a cold feeling about them even in warm weather; but in Cyprus on Christmas day in 2012, the crossing contained no drama except the range of mountains that fringed the northern coast in the distance, perhaps a mere fifteen miles away, looking suddenly rude and wild in the otherwise serene landscape, conveying a sense of spontaneity and freedom in their endeavor to reach for the heights of the heavens. On the other side of the mountains lay the small port town of Kyrenia where I would spend the next few days of my holiday. After the flatness of the agricultural plane behind me, the mountain range provided a welcoming sight. Great clusters of clouds hovered over the various peaks as though attempting to gather a mood of tempest; but it wasn’t meant to be as great shafts of light continued to shine down from the sky. As we descended the other side of the cliffs, I caught sight of the miniature port in the distance, filled with sailboats, yachts, fishing vessels and tourist pleasure boats, stacked one against the other in a quieted bay that itself reflected the brilliant white light of the descending sun across its brightly shining waters. I later saw such names as “La Forza del Destino” and “Barbarossa” painted on the bow of several larger vessels. It seemed like the perfect setting to visit that had come alive from a picture postcard.
When you travel to distant places in ancient towns and cities, it is sometimes dif-ficult to conjure up in one’s mind the long and varied history that these places have undergone and experienced. One takes for granted that they exist for people like me to visit them, all the while forgetting that they have possibly lived through tumultuous eras across the centuries, indeed across millennia, witnessing terror and hardships that only the ghosts behind the ancient walls could tell about with any certainty. Kyrenia, for example, can be traced back to the Persian King Cyrus who took over Cyprus from the Egyptians in the 6th century BC. Other sources suggest that the city was established by the soldiers that fought in the Trojan War around 1250 BC. The remaining buildings from the Byzantine period still give testament to a long and creative culture that lasted through the Lusignan and Venetian periods when further construction took place, describing the town then as “a small town of waterside residences which has city walls and bastions within it.” From these lines we can perhaps deduce that the name Schernae, meaning “pleasant” or “delightful” has evolved over time into the “Girne” of today, and indeed the remnants of ancient Kyrenia still offer the traveler a charming and delightful town to stop in and visit if there ever was one, and it could still safely be described as a “small town of waterside residences and restaurants”. If there are no longer “city walls and bastions within it”, there is a charming promenade leading out to the mouth of the harbor’s entrance, and the castle fortress opposite the lighthouse at the entrance to the port still guards the inner harbor with due diligence. Eventually, all empires pass and Kyrenia transitioned into the era of the Ottoman Empire on the 9th of July 1570, at the time one of the safest Venetian strongholds, whose strength and longevity lasted for a good number of centuries. Ultimately, the Ottoman Empire gave way to the British who annexed the island in 1914, formalized by the Treaty of Lausanne when the new Turkish Republic accepted British rule over the island.
Further developments of historical note ensued down into the present time that may be of interest perhaps to the attentive reader. On the 16th of August 1960, based on the principle of equality of the Greek and Turkish communities, a new republic was declared in which Turkey, Greece and Great Britain were to guarantee the territorial integrity of the new republic. The partnership known as the Republic of Cyprus ended with the inter-communal clashes of Christmas 1963. Without going into the troubled details, it is enough for our purposes to write that this long and varied history culminated in the formal division of the island in 1974 into the Republic of Cyprus in the south and came to be known as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus in the north with Nicosia as the divided capital of both republics.
The beauty and simplicity of Kyrenia come as an expected surprise to the jaded traveler who has been everywhere and seen everything. A person may feel amazed and overwhelmed by the strength and immensity of such world-renowned cities as New York, London, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Tokyo, each with their own iconic im-ages, such as the sweeping image of Christ overlooking the city of Rio, or the famous Eiffel Tower of Paris, not to mention the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor; but Kyrenia overwhelms its visitors with unexpected sentiments of another sort with its feeling of intimacy and accessibility, together with an enduring history still reflected in its ancient setting and traditional architecture. History’s shafts of fortune are em-bedded within the walls, streets, and fortification of the island’s cities. The fortress built to ward off unwelcome invaders still stands guard at the harbor’s entrance, although in modern times, the only invaders are the casual and sometimes irreverent tourists walking the quay in a drunken stupor. The quaint, miniature port is a natural harbor in the shape of a horseshoe and has been the shelter of fishing boats and small merchant ships for centuries.
Strewn along the roadside corniche there lies a multitude of well-placed cafes and restaurants all seeking business from the tourists and passers-by. I personally follow a strict routine not to eat in-between meals that dates back to my childhood, although on that first afternoon, once settled at my nearby hotel, I went out to survey the town and remain on the lookout for an inviting restaurant with an interesting menu that I can return to in the evening after the sun goes down. At the moment, however, there is no lack of friendly faces smiling and actually greeting me when I look into their eyes, something I would never do in the Western world unless you are looking for a fight (“What you lookin’ at, mother f-----?”). In these places, however, people seem to respond to direct eye contact with a smile and a nod, if not a full greeting. Even the young people are ready and willing to come out of themselves with a “Hello Papa,” a salutation no doubt meant to be endearing. I eventually stop at a restaurant with tables overlooking the fishing boats of the harbor, intrigued by their set menu of Turkish mezze (stuffed grape leaves, fried eggplant and the like) for starters, followed by grilled grouper with a garlic and walnut infusion with parsley and seasonings as a garnish. There was the promise of after-dinner coffee and a shot of local cognac thrown in “for free”, the talkative waiter said with a wink. How could I refuse? Later that evening, I did return around 7:30 for dinner, only to find that in this winter season, the waterside seafront restaurants were all nearly empty and ready to turn off the lonely lights that were twinkling in the darkness amid the fishnets and lobster traps. You could count the number of tourists having dinner in the various restaurants on one hand. After a cup of coffee accompanied by the offer of some local brandy which I declined, I made my way back through the sleepy town as evening had settled into an ambiance of peace and dreams, seemingly so remote from the troubled world I have left behind.
The next morning, I made arrangements for a private taxi to take me into the Five-Finger Mountains that fringe the northern coastline of Cyprus with their elegant, understated charm. A number of billowy white puff clouds were trying to make a statement of some sort, hovering as they did around the various mountain peaks; but the otherwise glorious blue sky and the crystal clear winter light of this Mediterranean island refused to give up its ghostly appeal to the likes of a couple of stray storm clouds clinging to the mountain peaks like remorseful children who had done something wrong. In fact, I learned from the taxi driver who spoke good English that the five-fingered peaks derive their name from an interesting legend that dates back centuries. There once lived a very beautiful girl who lives in a village in the mountains that form the backdrop to today’s Girne. Two young men loved this girl and decided to have a duel in order to win her affection. Not surprisingly, one of the youths was a malevolent person who pulled the good-hearted youth into a nearby marsh. He gradually started to sink into the marshy area. In one final effort to lift himself from the mud, he raised his sword, but the sword slipped from his grasp. He was buried with five fingers open to the sky. Over time, the marshy area dried out and the good-hearted youth’s hand turned into mountains resembling his five fingers in tribute to his enduring and universal love.
As we drove deeper into the mountainous region, I noted that the cliffs were not especially high; but they were dramatic to drive through, with some sparse vegetation and trees lending variety and color to the arid cliffs, including the stately cypress tree with its evergreen limbs reaching straight to the heavens. My first stop was St. Hilarion Castle, off the main road and atop a high elevation with its vital strategic importance, in addition to providing a dramatic vista north to the Mediterranean Sea. Not surprisingly, the castle was constructed to give protection against attack by Arab corsairs raiding the Cyprus coast during the Arab invasions of the late 7th century. It takes its name from a little known saint whose name first appears in records in 1191. Eventually, with the advent of cannon artillery and the increasing importance attached to coastal defences, castles such as this one lost its functionality and importance. When you roam around ruins such as these, there is a half-dressed appearance and a hint of lost glory locked within the skeletal frames of the remaining buildings. You know that the premise once served a vital function, that individuals built and lived in such fortresses; but the eerie silence of that brilliant morning intrudes into the imagination of what once was and what little remains. Only the wind roams free through Prince John’s Tower at the very top of the castle and the remnants of the royal apartments and the panoramic view through the Queens Window, carved in the Gothic style on the second floor of what remains of the building.
My next stop was the beautiful Bellapais Abbey built on a rocky outcrop on a hillside of the Five Finger Mountain range. Its name is derived from the French, “Abbey de la Belle Pais”, the Abbey of Beautiful Repose (peace). It is a masterpiece of the French Gothic style even in this state of perpetual ruin, built by Augustinian monks in the 13th century. It is a most imposing partial ruin with commanding views down to the modern city of Girne and the Mediterranean Sea in the distance in stunning counterpoint to the majestic ruins embe dded within the mountains. The parts of the Abbey still standing today were built by the French King Hugh III (1267-1284). The colonnade that surrounds the courtyard and the refectory were added during the reign of Hugh IV (1324-1359). After the Ottoman conquest in 1570, the abbey was given over to the Orthodox Church for their exclusive use. The church is situated at the rear of the courtyard and is the oldest part of the abbey, dating from the 13th century. The refectory is a perfect example of Gothic art. On the northern wall, there is a pulpit from where the prayers were offered during mealtimes. Next to the refectory are the remains of a kitchen, while underneath the kitchen there is a two-chambered cellarium or cellar for storage. The monks’ dormitories, study and common room are on the upper floors. One roams around such places like a thief, trying to steal meaning and ambiance from an era that no longer exists. We can only play make-believe regarding what these places were like in previous centuries, like children lost with toy building blocks that resemble the castles of our mind.
Finally, as a practicing Muslim, I wanted to stop and make my salaams at the Hazreti Omer Tekke, the Tomb of Omar, four kilometers to the east of Girne (Kyrenia). There is an eerie quality to the lonely setting on an abutment by the sea, the dark blue waters in contract to the white washed walls of the building and the blue-white edge of the illuminated sky. The small mosque and tombs house the remains of a 7th century commander and six other Muslim holy men. According to one story, Omar was a company commander in the army of the Umayyad caliph, Muawwiye. In one of the Arab raids Oman and his soldiers set foot on Cyprus at the very spot where the tomb now stands where they were killed by the awaiting Byzantine forces. Their bodies were interred in brick-built tombs. After the Ottoman conquest of Cyprus in 1570, however, rumors led to the rediscovery of the tomb and a small mosque was built which encompassed the holy resting place. In Islam, the Prophet himself encouraged the faithful to visit the tombs of relatives and friends and the custom prevails among the Muslims to visit the tombs of warriors and saints from the past to offer one’s salaams and to say the al-Fatiha in commemoration of the soul buried there. No doubt, I surprised the taxi driver by my interest in visiting this particular place, but more importantly by the fact that I performed the ritual prayer in the mosque in mid-afternoon before returning to the hotel after a busy day of touring. “You are a Muslim,” he exclaimed with incredulity. “You saw for yourself that I said the ritual prayer at the appointed time, no,” I replied in reference to my performing the prayer ritual at the ancient mihrab of the lonely mosque. “Ma sha’Llah,” he quipped, shaking his head. “God is great.”
Christmas and Boxing Days passed quietly enough in this sleepy port town. After a late afternoon coffee down along the shore amid the bobbing fishing boats looking forlorn in the winter chill of that cloudy afternoon, I made my way back to the hotel, stopping off at a local taxi stand to ask about my trip in the morning to Nicosia about 20 kilometers away. Several rough-looking drivers dressed in sweaters and winter jackets milled about looking for business and brightened momentarily as I approached in my golfing cap and walking shoes, clearly a bright-eyed Westerner needing to get somewhere and not knowing how to get there. I decided to play Mr. Tough-guy, the know-all with all the answers. “How much to Nicosia,” I blurted out to them knowingly as a statement rather than a question, more like a roaring lion rather than a bleating sheep, as though I were only seeking confirmation of the facts. You can’t give the appearance of vulnerability in these places, I thought to myself. One of the drivers smiled at me benevolently in a manner that belied his rough and tumble exterior, not to mention my aggressive attitude. “Nicosia,” he confirmed, “Yes, 5 Euros for dolmosh taxi”, and 50 Turkish Lira for private car.” That sounded within reason I thought and told the driver that I would return in the morning to take up his offer. I had one final dinner in a nearby restaurant where I treated myself to donner kebab (with cumin, onions mint leaves and yoghurt) and seasoned pilaf (Turkish rice) in the chill twilight of an outdoor café before leaving Kyrenia.
The next morning I went to reception around noontime to check out and make my way to my next stop of this trip, Nicosia, the divided capital of Cyprus. The Turkish woman at the desk was as bright and cheerful as she had been every morning, with good English to boot. “I hope you enjoyed your stay with us,” she beamed like a ray of light. “By all means,” I replied back sing-song fashion, “it was delightful. Now, what about a taxi,” I inquired getting down to business. “I need to get myself over to Nicosia. I spoke with the taxi people outside yesterday afternoon and they told me it would cost 50 Turkish Lira, no, for a private taxi?”
“Yes,” she replied crisply and then added more ominously, “of course they will not take you to your destination; they will drop you at the border crossing. You must go on foot to the other side of the border. You might find taxi on the other side.” Hmmn, I thought to myself at the uncertainty of “might” and “might not”, feeling suddenly annoyed. How quick we are to change gears, when it comes to our moods and conveniences. They didn’t tell me that last night, now did they? That’s what I get for not wanting to tell them I was going to the Hilton, lest they overcharge me. I don’t mind value for money, but I don’t like being cheated; I suppose no one does, so I am not unique in that regard.
“How much would it cost to have a private taxi from here to the Hilton in Nicosia,” I asked and the receptionist, eager to please quickly dialed an inquiry. After much back and forth in Turkish, she hung up and said “65”.
“Hey,” I can manage that,” I joked with bravado.
“Euros,” she corrected, “or British pounds, I am not sure which.”
“Could you check,” I asked her, “There a sizable difference.”
She made another call and came back with a quick reply. “British Pounds.”
“That’s highway robbery,” I shouted. That cost more to go a mere 20 kilometers than it did for me to take a private taxi from the airport in Larnaca, clear across the island from south to north, direct to my hotel in Kyrenia. “It doesn’t make sense,” I added with emphasis.
“I not know,” she bleated, becoming increasingly confused and losing her English now that we had entered alien territory outside the comfort zone of traditional tourist platitudes. “Maybe the hotel far away.”
“That doesn’t make sense either,” I cried. “The hotel is in Nicosia, isn’t it? How far away could it be?”
“I not know,” she said again,” I never been to Nicosia.”
“You haven’t?” I said stunned before suddenly realizing that I had said enough. I needed to calm down and spare this poor woman my aggravation. “You know, I think you are right and thanks for your help. I’ll talk the taxi outside for 50 Turkish Lira to the border and hope for the best.”
End of Part I
* * *
I did finally get to Nicosia in the taxi, after a few confusing moment initially when I got into the aging Mercedes. The tough-looking driver, with several missing teeth and a surly leer couldn’t understand when I said my destination with an air of affirmation, “Nicosia.”
“Huh,” he grunted perplexed.
This isn’t going well at all, I thought. He doesn’t know the capital of the country 20 kms away. “Ni-co-si-a,” I drawled out in syllables, still no sign of recognition. “Border, hudood (Arabic for border crossing), duane (French for customs border),” I said, trying several languages and grabbing my passport in a wave of frustration.
Finally another driver cleared up the issue and we were on our way. I began to realize that problems had resulted from the fact that we were crossing borders in a divided city in a divided island country less than 150 kms. in length from north to south. What seemed like minutes later, he pulled into the back end of the city, turned left, then right, down a few dingy side streets shaded with bushy trees, and then into an open area that was clearly the border crossing for pedestrians. He opened my door and invited me to step into the transitional world of the borderland. Why not, I thought. Give me your hand and help me out, I asked, not with a word but a gesture, as a concession to old age.
“Can give you ride across border to other side,” a voice asked from the back of behind. “Where you go?”
Not another con, I wonder wearily and turn to look into the dark eyes of a colossus behind the voice, hands hanging idly from his bulky torso as though they didn’t belong to him. With the trademark, old model Mercedes taxi in the background waiting for well-healed passengers, no doubt his prize possession, I see my new friend approaching with studied nonchalance, wearing the traditional leather jacket on what one comes to expect from taxi drivers in these places, his face a life map of trials and tribulations. Still, there is an impish air recalling the boy that once was that I immediately intuit from the man, as he tells me obligingly, “I take you to hotel on Greek side. I have ID for Cypriot Greece,” he adds proudly, like a child with a shiny coin.
I can be Mr. Grouch on occasion, particularly when I suspect I am being unduly ripped off, and am perfectly resolved to walk across the border on my own two feet (with my suitcase of its own two wheels) after the hassles of bargaining in Kyrenia, just to prove some obscure point of principle in my own mind. But for some unknown reason, I like this guy, although instinct suggests that I should be on guard.
“How much,” I ask breezily, as if I could care less and could buy the car if need be.
“Twenty-five Euros.”
“Why should I pay 25 Euros when I can walk across the border and pick up a taxi on the Greek side for 15 Euro?” hazarding a guess at the level of rip-off.
“Fifteen Euros then,” he responds, smiling sheepishly. “Special price for you.”
A few minutes later, I was on my contented way through the backstreets of Turkish Nicosia to the car crossing into Greek Cypriot Nicosia, to the Hilton on Avenue Archbishop Makarios III, listening to the driver’s heart-felt account in broken English about what happened back in the 70s at the division of the island into two parts and how it affected the average person like him.
“I born in Paphos on south coast of island. We children played together, Turkish and Greek the same, no one cared about names and religions. We were friends, like brothers. Then the people in big politics got in the way.” By putting the pieces of his grammatical puzzle together to form coherent meaning from my friendly and engag-ing taxi driver, Yunus (the Muslim name for Jonah), I finally learned bits and pieces of the history of what happened from the point of view of an ordinary citizen of the place. “The Republic of Cyprus was born on 16 August 1960. In 1963, constitutional amendments were introduced that were rejected by the leadership of the two groups, leading ultimately to the establishment of a peace-keeping force established by the United Nations Security Council. Then in 1974, at a time when there was a Greek military junta in power in Athens, Turkey invaded the island on 20 July 1974. As a result, the taxi driver told me, he and his family left his ancestral town of Paphos and went to live with the other Turkish Muslims north of the Green Line in Northern Cyprus.
“Politicians make problems in these places; the people live together with no problem. One country, one heart,” he shouted over the traffic noise, warming to the subject. At the hotel, he carefully gave me the right change from the 50 Euro note I gave him, and shook my hand with a strong grip, like he meant it. “Good-bye Yunus,” I said with feeling, thinking that he had exposed my unwarranted prejudices when we first met for what they really were. “Thanks for the ride, and hope to see you again.”
“God willing,” he replied with a resigned smile.
* * *
I had one full day to explore the hidden byways and backstreets of old Nicosia before moving on to Larnaca at the tail-end of my stay in Cyprus. The old city itself, I soon learned early the next morning after the buffet breakfast at the Hilton, is surrounded by buttressed fortifications that date back to the Venetian Period (1489-1571), when the fortified walls were built to avert the danger of losing Cyprus when the Ottomans had conquered the island of Rhodos in 1522. The city itself lies in the very center of the island and constitutes a rich cultural hub with interesting history that dates back to the Bronze Age. Originally known as Ledra, it has been the capital of Cyprus since the late Byzantine period (11th century). The old city that I hoped to explore, the old “Chora” boasts interesting museums, old churches, traditional mosques and medieval buildings, not to mention its old bazaar, full of handicraft shops, cafes and restaurants, blending ancient traditions with the rhythms of a modern city. Lefkosia, the old Green name for Nicosia, remains the only divided capital in the modern world.
A brief walk over an old bridge spanning the moat and medieval wall of the city, I found myself adrift with the multitude roaming through the fruit and vegetable market. I am always interested in my travels in seeing what fruits and vegetables are on display in public markets since it tells me a lot about the local cuisine, and I was not disappointed in seeing oversized oranges still dressed in their leaves, fresh tangerines (josephendi) which are traditionally a festive winter fruit that we received in our Christmas stockings, blood red, oversized pomegranates begging to be cracked open, egg plants shinning purple-blue in the sunlight, huge, freshly picked mushrooms still speckled with earth, cauliflowers the size of soccer balls. All women bartered and bargained for their wares with determination and verve, their faces like ancient parchment dried in the sun containing a map of their lives. The cooks of the world, I thought to myself, would be at home here with this simple, honest fare. “I’ll take a few of those roasted chestnuts,” I tell the aging street-vendor with a few grunts and hand signals as she scoops up the smokey chestnuts into a small cone of newspaper.
I am always interested in what street vendors sell to local passers-by. In New York City, for example, the so-called hotdog is de rigueur complete with mustard and relish as a luncheon snack. In Nicosia, street vendors were making a brisk business in the chill winter air, selling steamed corn on the cob, candied apples sitting in neat rows and catching my eye with their brilliant red brittle coats, stacks of popcorn looking fluffy and fresh, and finally pink cotton candy looking like a 19th century French aristocrat’s wig sitting on a unsteady cardboard handle. I saw one eager toddler staggering around with his handful of cotton candy and a look of uncertainty what to do with it.
Just beyond the market stalls I saw a mosque adjacent to the city ramparts looking abandoned and forlorn. Indeed, upon closer inspection as I walked by, the entire enclosure of the mosque was surrounded by fencing with a closed and locked gate. Worshippers had not passed through these gates apparently for many decades when the Turks vacated their ancestral homes and headed north and the Greek Cypriots similarly headed south. Interestingly enough, the front of the enclosure was full of orange trees that during this season were full of bright oranges. They didn’t go anywhere and continued to fructify and bloom into fresh fruit ripe for picking in this winter season. The area was otherwise adorned with sturdy palm trees mixed with a number of elegant and stately cypress trees characteristic of the Mediterranean area and climate. It is the first time that I see a building such as this abandoned and in disuse. There is something melancholy and disenchanting about the sight of the mosque, as though lost in a time warp, sitting isolated and forgotten amid the bustle of city life that surrounded it. There would be no call to prayer from this minaret and no worshippers filling the rows with their ritual prayers to God, not now, possibly never. Similarly in the Turkish north, the Byzantine churches serve the curiosity of the tourists, but no longer function as places of formal worship.
Opposite the mosque, I noticed a promenade area heavily shaded by a dense cluster of trees along the side of the road. In summer, I thought, this would be the perfect place to gravitate toward to get out of the direct summer sunlight; the leafy awnings of the trees provided perfect, merciful shade to the relentless, glaring sunlight. However, in winter, It was also well populated and proved to be a lively social meeting ground for the local Cypriot men with time to spare. In fact, there seemed to be quite a lot of time to spare and quite a few people willing to do so. Cement and tiled tables were laid out at random and clusters of middle-aged and older Cypriots were sitting playing dominos and various card games. They were bundled up in their winter suit coats and sweaters, and woolen scarves, and many of them sported great handle-bar mustaches. They were definitely into their various games in an unconscious gaiety, keeping score on old newspapers, and multiple on-lookers looked over their shoulders giving seemingly raucous advice. You could not accuse these people of being anti-social, winking, shouting and pointing fingers at each other in good humor. They were obviously having a good time. I sat among them for a while, imagining myself in another incarnation; but they took no notice of me and I soon went on my way feeling rested and refreshed by the sight of these people, as though they had conveyed something of their culture and life to me without the need for actual words.
I eventually found myself in the main district of the old town in and around the central Eleftherias Square, surrounded with traditional Cypriot urban architecture and full of shops selling the typical tourist fare, including ceramics and hand embroidery. One shop I visited was selling some interesting old map prints of the island in former times, the cartographer in me was instantly intrigued since I have a secret fascination for maps of any kind. There were also some beautiful, yet simply executed watercolor paintings on offer. The narrow streets were beaming with people, with children, with life. Even in winter, the cafes and restaurants spilled out onto the sidewalks under the awnings of the bazaar of the old town with their colorful cotton tablecloths that covered wooden tables, inviting people to sit down for a brief repast.
I stopped by to rest after a mid-day beef slouvaki in a pita sandwich drenched in fat and drippings outside the Agios Ioannis (St. John’s) Cathedral, washed down with a strong cup of “black” Cypriot tea. The cathedral was built in 1662 on the site of a 14th century Benedictine chapel dedicated to St. John the Evangelist. It was turned into a monastery in the 15th century and thrived until the 18th century when it was turned into a cathedral, establishing it as the seat of the Orthodox Archbishopric in Cyprus. It is the only church in Nicosia in which the whole of the internal wall paintings have survived in their entirety. The four large icons on the icon screen were painted by the Cretan master, Ioannis Kornaros (1795), depicting scenes from the Holy Bible and the discovery of the tomb of St. Barnabas at Salamis. As I sat outside the aging cathedral watching the afternoon light extend into lengthening shadows, I could hear the bells of the church echo and intermingle with the call to prayer that floated strong and resonant across the Green Line separating the divided city, uniting the city once again in principle through the sacred sentiments of sound, if not actually in fact.
* * *
Unlike my other taxi journeys across the island at extortionist prices, the taxi trip to Larnaca for my final two days proved to be relatively cheap because I was able to take a Taxi Express between the two towns that serviced the hotels not as a private taxi, but one that drove a handful of people between their destinations in various cities. Instead of costing me an extortionist 50 Euros, it cost a more reasonable 5 Euros. Once settled into my hotel just off the impressive Larnaca Corniche, full of a thriving social life of cafes and restaurants along an extensive palm-tree laden promenade, I made my way to investigate dinner options and get the lay of the land before having a late afternoon coffee frappé in the dying sunlight of the beach café only a few yards from the breaking sea waves.
Later, roaming amid the back streets of the inner city, I fell upon the Agios Lazaros Church, famous I soon learned for being the burial site of St. Lazarus, who came to Cyprus after being resurrected from the dead by Jesus. I actually stepped inside the church by accident, going there to rest my weary bones in search of my own sense of resurrection, and not to visit the tomb of Lazarus. I only learned of the tomb’s existence once I was inside the church. I made my way into the back of the church with other worshippers, thinking of many other such tombs that I have visited over the years in sacred sanctuaries around the world. The remains of Lazarus lie buried in a marble sarcophagus under the “Holy of Holies” where I paid my respects and said a brief prayer of commemoration. Lazarus is called Lazarus of the Four Days because he was raised from the dead by Jesus after four days. After his resurrection, the traditional literature relates that Lazarus became the first bishop of Kition (Larnaca) where he lived for another 30 years until he died and was buried for a second time. Tradition says that Lazarus never smiled after his first death because of the memory of the unredeemed souls he had seen during his four days in Hades. The only exception occurred when he saw someone stealing a pot, when he said with a smile, “the clay steals the clay.” With my own inner smile, I think to myself: “Now clay is praying for clay,” as I close my eyes and extend my hands up in supplication and silent prayer for the departed soul.
Holiday time advances at its own steady pace, a metronome that has been set to the beat of sounding cords drummed by another player. As the sun fell out of sight of the Larnaca coastline, I felt the compelling intrusion of imminent departure. Kyrenia was picturesque and relaxing as though moving in slow motion in the spirit of mist and dreams; Nicosia was intense and demanding, visiting the inner marketplace of the city behind its ancient, historic walls; Larnaca was enchanting and cosmopolitan in the clarity of its crisp winter light. The trip that was about to happen a week ago in sweet anticipation had now become a fast unraveling reel of film footage that can be replayed perhaps, but never relived. The castles are fast receding into the shadows; the abbeys, monasteries and Byzantine churches tolls their bells, but their echoes are fading quickly into silence; the lights and laughter of the seaside restaurants and cafes are still thronged with people; but I am not longer among them; time is spent and my booking sheet is empty; the road to my next destination leads back to the airport.
End of Part II
* * *
With one final day to complete my wanderings through both historic sites worth visiting and modern neighborhoods worth experiencing, I need to make up my mind how to spend my last day in Cyprus. Not another castle, I thought, as I surveyed Larnaca’s fashionable seaside corniche known as the Avenue of Palms. I couldn’t very well sit all day in one of the cafés along the promenade sipping a Nescafe frappe and hope for satisfaction, although I would be sure to take up my station at the appointed hour in the late afternoon to rest my weary feet. Also, I had no intention to waste valuable time aimlessly roaming around the city looking for points of interest that may never materialize.
As it happens, on the back side of Larnaca, there lies a salt lake that dries up into a crust of salt and a haze of dust in summer, only to flood once again into a luxurious lake full of water in winter, shimmering in sunlight to become one of the distinctive landmarks of the city. In addition to its scenic ambiance, the lake is the haunt of nearly 85 species of migratory birds that come down from Europe during the winter months, most notably wild ducks and flamingos who group together in a blaze of pink amid the crystal blue waters, creating an image of serene beauty that was breath-taking to behold. According to legend, the lake’s saltiness comes from a request of St. Lazarus for food and drink from an old woman. She refused, claiming that her vines had dried up. Lazarus replied: “May your vines turne dry and become a salt lake forevermore.” A more scientific explanation is that the salt water penetrates the porous rock between the lake and the sea making the water very salty. Amid the scrubland along the western shore of this impressive lake lies the Hala Sultan Tekke, one of the holiest shrines in Islam after Makkah, Madinah, and the two mosques in Jerusalem. This old Tekke is a retreat that houses the mausoleum of Umm Haram, allegedly an aunt and mid-wife of the Prophet Mohammed. Now I knew what I would do on my final day in Cyprus.
I consulted the internet for the history of the holy site and its exact location, learning that the mosque lay on the western shore of the lake, about a kilometer off the road that leads beyond the international airport and about six kilometers all told from the center of the city. I decided to make my pilgrimage by walking rather than taking the bus. What better way to approach the mystery of the sacred than on foot. Although I am nearing 70, I have kept reasonably fit and still do a regular jog around the university campus several times a week to keep in shape. There is nothing more consoling to the mind and heart than a well identified purpose, a clear destination and a suitable way of getting there, in this case on my own two feet. On my final day in Larnaca, I resolved to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Umm Haram on the edge of Larnaca’a great salt lake.
I set out the next morning from my hotel around 11:00 in the morning after a substantial buffet breakfast in a breakfast room overlooking the beach prom-enade, the shimmering winter surf of the glorious Mediterranean Sea in the distance. My heart was at rest as I set out on this unexpected pilgrimage and my mind was full of expectation, wondering whether the distance was too great, would I tire before reaching my goal, would I get lost in the scrub of the land? My route took me initially beyond the fashionable section of Larnaca with its flashy restaurants and seaside cafes, now subdued in repose at 10:00 in the morning. I continued down along the coast road that quickly deteriorated into a rocky pathway that could service the occasional car going in one direction. Eventually, the road gave way to the right to avoid the fields of scrubland that characterized the rough coastline south of the city. There is a feeling of contentment and liberation to be on one’s own, foot-loose and without a care in the world, on a holy pilgrimage to an old mosque and burial chamber of the relative of the Prophet of Islam, Mohammed, sometimes called al-Amin (the trustwor-thy), upon him blessings and peace.
My research into the Hala Sultan Tekke revealed that the mosque was built in 648 AD on the spot where Umm Haram died when she fell off her mule during the siege of Larnaca in one of the first Arab raids on the island over a decade after the death of the prophet. According to tradition, Umm Haram was related to the prophet Mohammed himself. Grand Chalif Moavia, who was taking part in the expedition, immediately ordered the construction of a mosque on the spot. During the era of the Ottomans, a mosque complex was more fully developed around the tomb of Umm Haram. It was further reconstructed and developed in the 18th century under the guidance of a dervish called Sheikh Hassan. During the Ottoman Empire, Ottoman-flagged ships would hang their flags at half mast when off the shores of Larnaca and salute Hala Sultan with cannon shots. As a result of the site being located in the Greek non-Muslim section of the divided island, pilgrimage visits to the site are now infrequent.
After more than an hour on foot trudging along the roadside, with nothing but the birds and the occasional swish of a passing car to distract me from rising concerns about whether I was on the right track, I passed over the crest of a hill amid a thicket of bushes and trees to behold, as in the ceremonial unfolding of the hand-woven tapestry, the magnificent sight of Larnaca’s great salt lake in the near distance, less than a kilometer away at its nearest shore beyond the crest of the hill. The serene vision of hoards of pink flamingos gathered together in silence in the middle of the sky-blue lake filled my soul with a sense of peace-fulness that only the images of Mother Nature can induce. Between the shim-mering light of the blue lake, in reflection of the heavens above, and the muted elegance of the white buildings of the city of Larnaca I could see on the horizon beyond the shore, I felt a sense of wonder and joy that my destiny had brought me to this point. There in the distance, on the other side of the lake, possibly two to three kilometers away from my present vantage point, stood the ancient mosque with its domed roof and distinctive minaret reaching heavenwards as it has done over the centuries dating back into the millennia. Quiet, serene, it seemed to be suspended in mid-air, defying the laws of nature, and giving re-membrance to a past that will never return, looking faraway and seductive in the curving arm of the lake. My destination was well within reach and my step, though weary, began to take on new life to match the determination in my heart, as though I were walking in my sleep and nothing in wakeful conscious-ness could stop me.
The final several kilometers of my pilgrimage seemed like a walk across the waters, moving forward to my destination, now clearly in sight, defying the laws of gravity in my own right, my feet rising off the ground as though by levitation. In the distance, the symbolic image of the mosque, surrounded as it was by a regiment of cypress and evergreen trees, approaches me like an old friend as I draw near in this moment of heightened presence, the mosque itself with its traditional Islamic architecture appears shrouded with the wisdom of timelessness that spans the ages.
As I approached the ancient mosque enclosure, I was greeted by a number of interested cats who stood and stretch at my arrival, fluffy and fat, whose com-ical faces stared at me boldly in various attitudes of inquiry, but I was in no mood for their questions. There is a beauty to mystery that needs no answers as I surrender myself to the ambiance of the inner sanctuary. Leaving the cats behind but making a mental note to engage with them upon my departure, I entered the mosque to make my salaams. There were a number of other people, seemingly tourists, gazing about the place looking a little bewildered as though not sure how to behave, taking no especial notice of me as I quietly moved off to sit and take some rest by a pillar after the long walk from the city and around the lake. In coming home, one does not need to take notice of the surroundings as if for the first time. I soon realize I have the place to myself, well, almost to myself, considering the presence of the tomb of Umm Haram in an enclosure in the back of the mosque. I had made my ablutions in advance of entry, so I took advantage of the moment to say the noontime prayer, in addition to the two prostrations one makes upon entering any mosque for the first time.
The Prophet himself encouraged the faithful to visit the tombs of those who have passed on to the other world. In this tradition, I have visited a number of famous tombs of saints and walis in various Islamic countries over the years, to send my salaams and pray the al-Fatihah over their graves. I remembering sitting quietly in the tomb enclosure of the Sayyidna Hussein Mosque in Cairo, one of the most sacred Islamic sites in the country, which houses the tomb of ibn al-Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed. The place was thronged with worshippers visiting the tomb of the beloved Sheikh, some of the worshippers actually crawling up the grill fencing around the tomb enclosure in a frenzy of spiritual emotion. Then, I recall the visit to the tomb of the Prophet himself in Madinah, buried in the Grand Mosque where he lived and died, an encounter so filled with sacred emotion that I will never forget the experience and will take it to my own grave.
Who can account for the feeling of sacred presence that one experiences when visiting the tombs of such holy men and women, I thought to myself as I stepped into the old enclosure of the tomb of Umm Haram, the saintly recipient of countless prayers and aspirations of the faithful, at rest there for nearly 15 centuries. In the traditional style of Islamic tombs of renown walis and saints, the wooden box serving as the resting place of the remains lies raised on a catafalque within a grilled-in enclosure, covered with a green cloth replete with the embroidered calligraphy of Quranic phrases and epithets. The body is placed with the head lying in the direction of Makkah. As I approached the viewing grill separating the living from the dead, feeling slightly in awe to be standing in front of the remains and in a place of such a personage who has remained in state during the inevitable progression of time over the centuries, I placed my forehead on the cool smoothness of the iron grill, recreating for a moment in my mind the chill of death that was in the air and offered my humble prayers, called doa in Arabic, for the salvation of her soul, although truth to tell, it is perhaps my own soul that will be needing prayers for salvation. In such instances, it is perhaps more for oneself that one is praying than for the dearly departed who are already deep within the timelessness of eternity. Will people offer prayers for my soul 15 centuries after my demise? Who knows if time is but an instant and eternity the eternal now? Without recourse to an answer, I quickly noted a curious smell of perfume, strong and distinctive, that seemed to emanate from the cold shadows of the grave. Now that’s strange, I thought, even if a little thrilling. Without lingering, I moved to the right to circumambulate the four corners or meridians of the tomb, as is the custom, offering further prayers at each step of the way. At the fourth and final station, again, I felt assaulted with an increasing feeling of alarm, by a surging smell of otherworldly perfume float-ing up from the dark shadows. Who can say for sure the origin of such smells, although Islamic traditions refer to scent, particularly heavenly scents, being representative of human spirits, the Arabic word of smell having root connec-tions linguistically with the word for both “breath” and “spirit”. None the wiser but dreamily at peace, I returned to the central nave of the mosque feeling curi-ously uplifted as the day began to melt away.
I decided to take advantage of the moment and spend more time in the mosque before returning to my hotel in the city, to complete full circle my day-long pilgrimage. Returning to the central enclosure, I settled down onto the oriental carpets strewn across the floor with a copy of the Quran in the original Arabic. As I read through the verses, suddenly, I heard the rustle of clothing and the mumbling of Quranic epi-thets in Arabic blow into the mosque with the winter wind. Ma’sha’-Lla (by Allah’s will), I heard someone exclaim, al-humdu-lil-Llah (all praise be to Allah) and various other phrases well known and used by all Muslims, even non-Arabic speakers. I looked around and saw a father with two young teenage sons entering the mosque and looking around with great interest. They were not your typical tourists and were certainly not from Cyprus; that much I could guess. They quickly grouped themselves together in front of the mihrab, or sacred niche, that indicates the direction of the Kaaba in the Grand Mosque in Makkah, although the mosque itself is always situated in the direction of Makkah. I resumed my Quranic recitation, lost once again in the sublime river of revelatory words and soon realized that I was alone in the mosque, feeling slight disappointed that my fellow Muslims didn’t come over to greet me with their salaams before taking their leave.
In retrospect, I imagined that the father of the two sons had second thoughts about the person he had seen in the mosque sitting on a prayer carpet off to the side reading the Quran. I suspect he couldn’t quite place me. I was alone there, clearly Muslim since I was reading the Quran, but sitting in a basically dysfunc-tional mosque in the Greek Cypriot side of the island of Cyprus that receives very few Muslim visitors since the division of the island. With a trim, white beard and the face of an old man, alas my balding crown conveniently covered with a woolen golf cap. I could have been anyone from anywhere. I was wearing a stylish dress coat hand-made from wool in the cloth bazaars of Peshawar near the Khyber Pass in Northern Pakistan. Who am I, he might have asked? I certainly wasn’t your open-mouthed, gap-toothed tourist from the States wearing a tropical shirt with Bermuda shorts; but I am in some ways quintessentially American, even though I converted to Islam nearly 40 years ago. For all the father and his two sons knew, I might have been a beggar, sitting cross-legged in a corner lost in dreamy expectation.
The fluid rhythm to my intonations of the sacred verses was interrupted by a shadow that crossed the page of the holy book. When I finished intoning the verse and looked up, I saw the father of the boys looking down at me with fold-ed hands across his chest and a benevolent smile, made slightly goofy looking because he was missing several front teeth. He had no doubt left the mosque and then had second thoughts about returning to greet the stranger. “Salam aleykum,” (peace be upon you) he said.
“Aleykum as-salam,” I replied in the traditional Islamic greeting conveyed by all Muslims among themselves. I stared up at this imposing figure, dressed in black shirt and slacks and wrapped in a flaming red cashmere sweater. “Come and sit down with me for a few minutes,” I encouraged him with a gesture and a smile.
He immediately knelt on the carpet next to me and warmly shook my hand with his two hands. This was not an unusual experience for me. As an American Muslim, I am often approached by the Muslims when they see me praying or sitting in a mosque, particularly in the more crowded cities such as Tunis or Cairo. In Istanbul, Turkey, I remember being approached in the famed Blue Mosque by three brothers who struck up a delightful conversation with me in various languages such as Arabic and German, including hand signs. Before I knew what was happening, they had brought their sister out from behind the shadows of a pillar to introduce me. Not long thereafter, I politely but firmly declined a proposal of marriage.
In this instance, I immediately noticed, as my new friend continued to cling to my hand in a kind of everlasting handshake, that there was a piece of paper now resting bizarrely in the palm of my hand. Whatever might that be, I thought quickly to myself as we exchanged pleasantries, a piece of paper, a secret message, a lottery ticket. I was tempted to pull my hand away, but reluctant to do so. The Muslims often like to extend the embrace of a handshake as a form of en-dearment and I did not want to be the first to break the feelings of good will that were being conveyed.
“Where do you come from,” he finally asked, a burning question no doubt that he was curious to have answered.
“I come from the US,” I replied, “from Boston. Where are you from?” I asked, although I thought I knew already the answer. Clearly, he was not an Arab, but with his dark swarthy hair and sculptured beard, he wasn’t far from coming from the region of the Middle East. There was an intensity to his gaze that was slightly disarming.
“I come from Pakistan,” he told me. I soon found out that he came from a small town outside of Lahore in the Punjab. He was living now with his family in Vienna, Austria.
“And what do you do,” I asked.
“I have various interests,” he replied evasively, as though reluctant to say more fully what those interests were. “I travel a lot all across the world,”
“You are a rich businessman,” I joked and he smiled knowingly.
I finally withdraw my hand to see what lay burning a hole inside my palm. To my surprise, I saw a 50 Euro note, feeling suddenly like a beggar after all.
He smiled sheepishly. “You can buy yourself a couple of nice dinners.” In-deed, I thought, but said in a whisper and a shake of the head, “No, no, I can’t take this.” I looked down again at the money in disbelief. “Please, I mean this sincerely; this is from the heart,” he added to encourage me to accept.
“I am sorry,” I said shaking my head again.
“I will put it in the donation box of the mosque in the memory of your name,”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s an excellent idea.” He made motions to rise and take his leave. “I will not forget you. I will re-member this moment for my entire life.” He added dreamy-eyed, “Imagine I met you like this in this mosque.”
I looked at him feeling equally amazed, though perhaps for different reasons. “I will also remember you,” I said with deep sincerity, putting my hand on my heart in the traditional salutation of farewell. When I looked up, he was gone and so was the moment, dropped back into the well of time.
Not long thereafter, I closed the book and kissed the Holy Quran. I said the mid-afternoon prayer and bid farewell to Umm Haram eternally at rest in the ancient mausoleum behind the mosque, once again taking note of the heavenly scent that emanated curiously from the tomb as a sign of some kind of lingering spiritual presence. As I turned the corner of the outer courtyard and walked through the gate of the mosque enclosure, I noticed once again the large family of cats lazing around in various attitudes of repose; their eyes, however, ex-pressed an eerie quality of vigilance, as though they had been guarding the premises from unwanted intruders for centuries. These mugs know something I don’t know, I thought to myself, with their complacent smiles hidden within their frozen faces and their knowing stares sitting comfortably behind lidded brows. Apparently, I passed their inspection, since none of them moved a muscle and continued to gaze at me, through me, and beyond me as though in meditation of the great mysteries of life, without a care or interest in the mere mortal in their midst. I had best leave them to their duties, all tucked up within themselves in deep concentration, as they surveyed the area and surrounding countryside.
I took leave of the mosque to make my 6 kilometer trek back into the city of Larnaca. Needless to say, the walk back to the city was less onerous than before. Just before heading back over the final ridge that would take me out of sight of the great Salt Lake full of nesting flamingos and wild ducks, I took one last glance back at the Hala Sultan Tekke, to bid my final salaams, a sight eternally beautiful with the serene minaret pointing heavenward in salutation to the Divinity, like the Arabic letter alif. Beyond the mosque, I catch a glimpse of my old friends, the stately windmills, in the distance perched on the hills like flamingos in their own patient way, looking demure and maiden-like, turning slowly in the east wind in response to the natural elements and making their own form of praise. I could now follow the route home to my hotel and knew what to expect in-between, lightening the burden somehow. I still had reserves of energy to take me to places on foot that I needed to go, and if I timed it right, I would be back onto the boardwalk of Larnaca by late afternoon to have my leisurely Nescafe frappe in one of the seaside cafes, one final time before leaving the country for good.
That evening, I managed to find a Greek Taverna off the beaten tourist track, a small restaurant just outside of the main part of Larnaca along the coast. A short 10-minute walk past the frothy white night surf making its way to shore in slow motion brought me to the porch of an inviting restaurant with checker-board cloth table cloths, filled with local Greek Cypriots, a far cry from the likes of MacDonalds and Fridays that I might have stumbled into if I hadn’t been more ambitious in my search for something more genuine. I checked the menu illuminated by a small yellow light behind glass. Prices were reasonable; nearly three times less than what I would have paid on the main promenade of the town. I noted a meat broth soup advertised as home-made, a village salad, pick-led calf’s head that I figured I would pass on, but walked through the front door when I saw an enticing entre of beef and lamb meat stewed in their own juices with carrots, garlic, potatoes and other spices. It was New Year’s Eve and the place was full of life with not a tourist in sight. From the window beside my table, I could see the rising moon climbing out of the Mediterranean sea like a hand-carved pumpkin with a sad face. The light of the moon cast a silvery sword against the blackness of the night-time sea, as if the face of the moon had cast a bright pathway for me to walk into its beating heart, nature’s arrow of luminescence that filled my mind with dreams of the new year and what it would bring.
The following evening, the memories are still fresh and will no doubt linger awhile as the sleek, powerful jet roars down the runway and lifts off effortlessly into the heavens: The modern-day port with its ugly cranes, the sleek windmills silently turning in the wind, the forgotten port town in the Turkish North still protected by an aging castle, the ghost monks of Bellapais Abbey whose whispers tell their own tale, the second tomb of Lazarus resting finally in eternity, the ancient majesty of the 7th century mosque with the spirit of Umm Haram whose lingering perfume give evidence of her beloved spirit hovering in the eternal darkness. I glance out the window of the plane one final time as it makes its slow lumbering ascent into the darkness. I see the delicate necklace of light that Larnaca has become, shining brightly one final time along the neck of the coast before fading into the shadows of memory and the eternal mystery of the dark night.
Working in Dubai, I touched down there once at the airport for an hour, I can see why you would want to get away from that stark environment on your holiday periods. I envy your ability to travel so far and experience so many environments and cultures… And your facility with language and history that assists you on your travels. I love the detail and felicity with which you report your experiences. It is obvious you are a consummate teacher of writing.
As I read, I learned. I didn't know that Cyprus was divided. I always thought it was part of Greece. But then, I'm not much of a student of Mediterranean culture and history. I've only been to Egypt. Although I missed fabulous, inexpensive trips to Spain and Italy during my early academic career because the organizers couldn't fill the charter planes. I had the same fun with taxis when I traveled. I always found it easier to travel the way the people did. Asking hotels to arrange transportation always was very expensive compared to the streets. I guess I was lucky never to be cheated.
Personal journals are full of potential, waiting for you to add the color! Pages for you to fill in the blanks with tidbits and trivia about New Hampshire
US State Journals, pages for you to fill in the blanks.
Nurture your creativity with My Indiana Journal, an interactive journal designed to spark your imagination and self-motivation
"The statues of Savannah's Monument Square are silent. The statue of the solemn girl in Bonaventure Cemetery—made famous in John Berendt's blockbuster book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—can't speak. Only Savannah's literary monuments can g
