Seeing cars…
When it comes to buying a car in Cyprus, it is still a man’s world
Not being a driver, I’ve never really thought much about buying a car. To me, a consummate pedestrian and patron of Nicosia Bus Co, cars are merely annoying things that disturb a good walk, much like ants, though admittedly with more potential to do me harm (I have yet to be mown down by an irate arthropod).
However, the whole issue of buying a new car was recently brought to my attention when my close friend, Emma, decided a new car was the order of the day, and asked me to accompany her to various showrooms.
Let me explain about Emma: this is a woman who knew how to change a tyre by the age of five; who would be at home discussing torque with Jeremy Clarkson and who prepares more thoroughly for each retail experience than NASA prepared for their mission to Mars. This is a girl who knows her stuff. While I flip through Hello, Emma studies What Car. “Ooo! Fergie in a red mini, that’s so wrong!” I cry, pointing out the offending skirt. “A Mini?” says Emma, her interest piqued, “not at her size, the road holding’s not good enough.” I begin to wonder what earthly use I could be in a showroom, but the die is cast and off we go, stats at the ready.
The first showroom is closed. It’s a Saturday morning, and we do have a viewing appointment. Clearly they don’t need our business. Or maybe the sight of Emma walking purposefully up the driveway armed with brochures, statistics and a businesslike smile has caused the salesmen to lock up shop and quiver behind the 4 by 4s. Undeterred, we light up and wait for someone to appear. Nobody ever does.
The next showroom, in the interests of fairness, shall remain anonymous. “The new Zoom 500 has a top speed of 230 and washes all the dishes while you wait,” (or words to that effect) Emma informs me. We walk in.
I immediately feel out of place. Pierced 18 year olds sporting ripped jeans and Beckham tattoos slobber over zippy red sports numbers. Hairy farmers with bulging biceps and B.O.
have brought the whole family to see the new diplocambino. Kids with severe ADHD clamber in and out of the driver’s seat, while Mummy unpacks a sustaining picnic on a salesman’s desk. A near-lethal koupepia gets hurled my way, and I nearly bolt. Emma advocates decorum; this is her domain – just wait till I get her shivering in the front row of a fashion show.
A salesman notices us: “Two girls!” I can hear him thinking. “I can take Svetlana to Greece on the commission!” He oozes over. I clock the shiny grey suit, mustard tie and predatory smile. I’m not sure I’m going to like this.
“I’m interested in the new Zoom 500,” smiles Emma. “Does it have ESP or standard ABS?”
“It comes in pink, it’s very pretty,” says Mr Sleaze, ignoring the question and clearly out to make a quick buck from these two fragile females.
“So what’s the bhp at 6,000rpm?”
“It comes in pink,” he reiterates, wondering if maybe this won’t be as easy as he thought.
Emma asks about the efficiency of the single pantograph wiper in inclement weather.
“Pink!” squeaks Mr S, hopelessly lost among her superior knowledge of his own product. He’s wondering if Svetlana will be happy with a couple of weeks in Paphos.
I decide to save the poor man and ask about the cupholders. He breathes a sigh of relief, and spends the next hour trying to sell a car to a woman with no licence and no money, while Emma finds out what she needs to know from a handy brochure.
We leave. “Hmmm,” I venture as we drive off.
“It’s a great car,” says Emma, “but would you really patronise them if they really patronise you?” I sort this out in my head, and agree. I think we’ve just entered the male arena and thrown down the gauntlet.
Stop two is a big dealership which apparently does a good number in sporty models. We are in fact driving a hired car of their brand to get us around. We can’t actually figure out how to work the childlock, but that’s not going stop Emma.
The showroom is empty apart from an elderly man scratching his stomach and gazing out of the window. Probably dreaming of Svetlana I think, scarred by the previous encounter. However, he’s quite helpful. He shows us round, happy to answer all of Emma’s questions. After our experience with macho salesman number one, things are looking up. Then it comes to finance.
“And who will guarentee your loan?” he smiles. “Your husband?” Emma explains she is unmarried. The smile slips a little. “Your father?” Emma’s father lives abroad. “Your brother?” he asks, desperately.
On the way out, Emma asks him how to work the childlock on our hire car. It’s his brand, he should know. He doesn’t.
By stop number three, we’re running out of options, thwarted by macho attitude at all turns. Luckily, we meet George. While the other salesmen were busy being trained by Chauvinists R Us, young George was clearly studying Respect For Women 101. He’s helpful, honest and well-informed. He offers us an immediate test drive, exhorting Emma to 60 miles an hour over the speed bumps to test the excellent suspension. We zoom round corners on two wheels. They discuss multi-mode manual transmission at 100 miles an hour, while I whimper quietly in the back seat, dreading the emergency stop and trying to find the ashtray.
Back in the showroom, I realise test driving a car is like having sex for the first time: it’s fast and bumpy, and great fun once it’s over. The owner drops in to see that we are being well taken care of. Drinks are proffered, a finance plan (bereft of patriarchal implications) is agreed, and all is well.
As a single woman, buying a car in Cyprus is on a par with trying to join the wrestling team or run for President. My eyes have been well and truly opened. If this is still a man’s world, then Cyprus is a superpower. Thankfully, if you go to the right places, sex isn’t an issue. It’s finding the right place that’s hard. At the risk of losing my life savings to the law, I won’t divulge exactly where we went.
Though it’s worth adding that Emma is now the proud owner of a Toyota (in red, not pink), and I’m taking driving lessons – from a woman.
