Don’t stray too far from paradise
After two months of working in dry-as-dust, brain-deadening Kuwait (no drinking, no free-thinking), I landed at Larnaca and I wanted to kiss the ground. And I would have if there hadn’t been an equally eager crowd of fellow passengers behind me, all champing at the bit to find the nearest bar. “Thank God I’m back in civilisation!” I effused to the customs agent. “Where’s the wine?”
He answered with a beautiful smile, “Right through those doors, my friend. It’s waiting for you.”
If in September I had asked that question upon arrival in Kuwait, even in a jocular way, I might still be in chains on the floor of a fetid dungeon.
Over the years I’ve complained, as all of us expats have, about Cyprus. How it’s difficult to get anything done here unless you know someone. How the average Cypriot feels no obligation to keep his or her word. How Cypriots don’t respect the concept of the queue, the concept of democracy, really, or the notion that all humans, no matter their skin colour, have the same basic rights. I’ve whinged with the best of them about the almost ludicrous corruption, old-boyism and nepotism that’s ingrained in Cypriot society. Shall I bother to mention the driving habits? The outrageous parking stories. Have you got a couple of hours?
I’m here to confess, however, after a relatively short stay in the Middle East, that we’ve got it damned good in Cyprus. It may not be the home of the brave, but it’s very much the land of the free. Compared to so-called free societies, such as the UK or the US, Cyprus comes out ahead in terms of personal liberties.
In Cyprus, if I want to enjoy a swim in the sea, I simply get in my car, drive until I find a spot I like, park anywhere (okay, probably not on the actual steps of someone’s house), walk to the water and jump in. If I want to bring a picnic, drink a beer or some wine, if I want to have a pizza delivered, I can do it right on the beach and no one will bother me. I could probably strip naked, paint my body blue, sing the entire Uzbek national anthem and light flares in my hair and nobody would stop me. If they did call the police, I’d mention my brother-in-law’s cousin, three times removed, who is a traffic warden in Ziyi, and we’d all have a good laugh and go across the street for souvla.
Shall we attempt the beach in, say, New York? Up before the crack of dawn, get in the queue for petrol, hit the ATM for a ransomer’s cache of cash, drive for at least two hours in smog-bound, bumper-to-bumper traffic, get pulled over, verbally abused and ticketed $150 for a not-bright-enough tail light, wait in sweltering heat for space at the beach parking lot, shell out half a day’s pay for the privilege, set up two alarm systems and perhaps some claymores to protect my car, wedge my way between blaring boombox parties to a few square inches of unshaded sand, then dodge the effluvia and stray batches of medical waste bobbing among the waves as I sidestroke out a few metres, only to have a fascist lifeguard bullhorn me back to the strand because I’m swimming out too far, or, in his opinion, the waves are too high.
We won’t even mention California, which has some beautiful beaches, most of which are very private and patrolled by high-tech security firms. They say Blackwater is getting into the market.
In Cyprus, thanks to the low population, and the general phobia of “long” car rides – going from Limassol to Nicosia is considered a journey no less taxing than Marco Polo’s trans-Europe, trans-Asia expedition to China – you can often find the road all to yourself once you leave the city.
It’s pleasant to drive along the coast or in the mountains, listening to your music and just taking in the brilliant scenery. When you start to feel a bit peckish, you keep your eye out for a roadside taverna or, if you’re near the sea, a fish restaurant that’s built – albeit perhaps illegally – right on the beach. You won’t need a reservation. You won’t need a small bank loan or a second mortgage on your house to eat well, or even lavishly. You won’t have to pay a 300 percent mark-up on the wine. You’ll probably get little freebies delivered to your table, before and after, and end up with more food than you could eat in a weekend.
Or let’s say you stop in a village to stretch your legs and you ask directions of a woman carrying sacks of potatoes up the street. Better not offer to help her, or you’ll find yourself in her kitchen for the next two hours being stuffed with homemade food and good local wine until you’re comatose.
That’s the real Cyprus, and trust me, that’s what you’ll miss if you stray too far from paradise.
