Cyprus: Back to the Great Divide

Partly to mock nationalism, partly because of hunger but mainly just coincidence, we munched on Doritos ala Turca chips in a park by a fenced border between Turkish Lefkosa and Greek Nicosia. We peered over to another side, a side that my fiancée Zeynep has to travel 1000 kilometers in a completely other direction just to enter. Signs for parking in Greek and English, tidier streets with palms, people in an EU country walking around speaking a totally different language. It seems like looking through a portal into another world where you helplessly wonder how it could have been different. It’s a division between two ethnic groups that’s coming up on a sad 40-year anniversary.

Nearly four years ago I blogged about a visit to Turkey’s “banana republic”. Not a lot has changed since then in Lefkosa, so I won’t comment on the sites except to say I still find it to be one of the most underrated small cities I’ve ever been to.

Fast forward, then, to two days later visiting Maras, a militarized ghost town. Varosha, as it’s still known, once a chic Mediterranean playground, now the domain of rats, weeds, a blistering Cyprus sun and the occasional bored Turkish soldier telling tourists not to take photos. The Greeks claim Turkey dangles the town over the Greek Cypriots as a bargaining chip for a future reconciliation between the two sides that doesn’t seem like it will materialize.

Meanwhile, back at my fiancée’s cousin’s house in a new suburban district of Lefkosa.

“Can you travel to the other side?”

“Yes, of course,” says my fiancée’s cousin’s husband, a native of northern Cyprus. “Oh, but there must be a limit, you know, do you have to come back before nightfall or something?”

“No, I can stay for a week…a month…whatever I want,” said the bank IT professional.  I was surprised. I thought it was a no go for Turkish Cypriots as well.

But he doesn’t, of course he won’t, he’s been able to travel freely to the other side, a birthright given to every native born Turk Cypriot. I used to just assume that the northern Cypriots were barred from the south because of what I thought was obvious: a back door escape to greener EU pastures. And although I’ve overheard that an average of one person per week illegally tries to escape through the UN demilitarized zone to the south side, Turks certainly going there in droves, not like they did to London or Australia decades ago.

A friend of my fiancee’s, Koray, works in a multi-cultural environment on the Greek side, commuting to and from his home in Lefkosa, claims the only hassle is crossing the border. “Many Many turkish cypriots (apparently not preferring to cross to south) I met, once I told them that I work in the south, happened to ask me if it is safe to park and leave my car at work, or whether the Greek Cypriot police creates trouble at check points, etc.” Other than the border, he has found his work experience pleasant.

Koray believes the best solution is reunification. After all, he points out, the south calls the shots when it comes to the island. And, even with the discovery of natural gas fields in the eastern Mediterranean, the island’s future doesn’t look good, as whether some of the gas will be refined on the island is a long-shot challenged by opposition from Turkey.

“Turkey should revise its political approach on the (Cyprus) problem,” he notes.

Not Seen as the Saviors

Fanning the flames of ethnic nationalism are places like the not so subtly named “Museum of Barbarism” in downtown Lefkosa, a not so subtle memorial of inter-ethnic violence. The one sided portrayal of Greek irregulars shooting up innocent Turks is a narrative put on a pedestal by Turkey. It’s good to have monuments to atrocities, but not when they are blatantly one sided. One friend of Zeynep’s I spoke to even claimed that it was likely have Turks themselves who committed atrocities that took place against the family that once lived in the house turned museum.

Living in mainland Turkey, it’s easy to believe that Turkey is the benevolent big brother, the hero saving the Cypriot damsel in distress from fascist Greeks in 1974 to save their brothers, but the karasakallar (literally the “black beards”, a slightly pejorative nickname for mainland Turks) are not really seen that way, even if the same Turkish products — from furniture to soap operas — are consumed there.

There is some resentment toward Turks, and the “oh those Turks always messing things up” sentiment can be felt. Turkish Cypriots feel they are puppets of Ankara, which callously casts its will over a region that, paradoxically, Turkey and only Turkey recognizes as an independent country. While Turkish Cypriots understandably resent the fact that the Greek side is an EU country and was accepted easily with little international inquisition, there is roughly an equal amount of resentment toward Turkey for meddling and gumming up hope of reconciliation in the near future.

So…Then…Grab a Mountain Bike!

None of that means much to the traveller if you don’t want it to. Cyprus doesn’t have that

politically steeped atmosphere that a visitor to Israel, for example, notices more easily. And, thanks to Tugberk, one can explore the outdoor splendor of northern Cyprus: mountains to sea, all in a half a day, to escape some of the lesser aspects of northern Cyprus life.

Tugberk is a 1990 beat-up-four-by-four-driving, gruff outdoorsy young man who runs Agama Outdoor and invited us on an exploratory mountain biking test tour that he plans to offer during high season from the snazzy Korineum Golf & Beach Resort, which about a 20 minute drive east of Girne, the capital of northern Cyprus tourism.

Tugberk, through his outdoor adventure company, was piloting a new mountain bike tour. A group of about 10 were driven up about 1000 meters, new Trek bikes in tow, above the once-Greek village of Esentepe. We rode along a ridgeline, blue skies blue sea to the left and the central Cyprus plain to the right. Heaven on an 18-degree day. Nothing too challenging.

Then things started to get tricky with a steep decent that required summoning all my meager mountain biking muscle memory from childhood. Thanks to the kind help of Gary, a Canadian of Turk Cypriot decent who has retired to a tiny village on the island, and some patience, we learned some finer points of real mountain biking. After descending the soft sand stone hillsides and into British retiree country by the sea, we rested in a small bay. There, wind and water have carved giant rocks into smooth long shapes paralleling the coastline. We continued along the old coast road, past thickets, grasses, rocky beaches and Mediterranean McVillas.

We were picked up along the new coast highway in the afternoon, exhausted but content with getting a little fortuitous January sun and a little grit on our socks and shoes.

But outdoor adventure companies aside, one mustn’t forget that casinos are largely what turns the wheel of northern Cyprus. It’s the land of cheap booze and smokes for mainland Turks, throw in some blackjack tables and the ruling AK Party seems much farther than an hour plane ride away.

With that in mind, later that night we stopped an old college friend of Zeynep’s (she went to school at Girne American University) at Merit Park, a monstrous casino, a nugget of faux Monte Carlo about 10 km west of the Girne center. It rises suddenly alongside shoddy cinder block homes and modest storefronts. Going from mountain biking to four-star resort and casino, sitting on a VIP balcony sipping Johnny Walker Black, it was easy to forget that once upon a time, 40 years ago, Brits, Greeks and Turks alike may have been mingling in a similarly swank resort casino, thinking the high-rolling façade will last forever.