E.U. NATIONALS must know the difference between Kolodja (marrow) and Vazania (aubergine) if they want to get the vote.
Two weeks ago, I had already done as the Sunday Mail suggested last week (‘So you want to get the vote’, September 10), and submitted a downloaded and completed form to my local district officer by post and not by hand, since I have been in possession of a pink slip and ID card for the past three years.
I was surprised to receive a telephone call early this Monday morning, while strolling along a deserted Ledra Street, asking me to present myself and further documents, proof of ID and private residence electricity and telephone bills, etc. to the district officer in person.
Why I wondered, since all they needed to do was to check the central computer to confirm my existence against the details entered upon the form and then post an officially stamped electoral card with photo attached (they keep a stock of your passport photos when you apply for an ID card) to my home address as indicated on the aforementioned form.
I repaired forthwith to my home and collected the required documents before reluctantly visiting that hell hole of an office block, known locally as the traffic warden’s nightmare – cars parked anyhow and everywhere along this cul de sac, delivery lorries off-loading in the middle of Alkaeos street (All Chaos street in reality) and the district office less easily accessed than the front door of the Presidential Palace. There is no street nameplate or sign at the entry claiming it to be the Engomi Municipal Council – all I could find affixed to the wall at head height and hidden behind a shrub was the nameplate, District Office in embossed gold lettering.
The jovial receptionist, sipping a drink and nattering with a compatriot, remembered me from previous visits, the planning department, the ID card issuing department, the cashier’s office, the issue of birth/death certificates and other matters. He pointed me in the right direction, first floor, room number 112.
I was confronted by many Turkish speaking citizens on their way out; so many of them that I couldn’t help wondering which of the municipal council candidates had successfully solicited their interest in our local elections. I was told that they’d come down from the north in search of ID cards.
After 32 years of separation, two generations almost, I asked how we, in the south, could possible confirm the true identity and origins of these northerners, their children and probably grandchildren; it seemed to me to be a recipe for aiding and abetting illegal immigrants from the mainland. I received a shrug of indifference in response and climbed the stairs in search of room 112.
I was requested to sit and wait in this partially sunlit room, dust-laden curtains drawn tight across nine-tenths of the window, a 30-year-old floor standing a/c unit, puffing at full blast into those 12 metres square. Two secretaries sat at their wide and overcrowded desks, busily verifying, on their obsolete looking computers, other applicants’ forms before registering them on the electoral roll. A further two younger secretaries were sat side by side on low chairs with innumerable dossiers stacked on their laps, ticking off names from a handheld list. It all seemed so disorganised and untidy and I couldn’t help remarking on the disparity between these pigeon hole, appalling office conditions at Engomi Town Hall and the open plan luxury of Strovolos Town hall, the Ministry of Finance and other equally fortunate departments.
At midday (I’d been kept waiting half an hour by then), the secretary dealing with document verification told one of the younger secretaries to fetch a snack and drink. She then telephoned her grocer and asked him to save her a nice Kolodji and some Vazania. On replacing the receiver, her mobile rang. The caller turned out to be a member of her family asking mummy what she was intending to cook for dinner that evening. While chatting on the phone, a colleague waltzed into the room. The secretary greeted him with open arms and then handed him her mobile, saying to the caller, ‘You’d never guess who’s just turned up!’
I was eventually requested to present my documents, asked to fill out yet another form and then after agreeing with her that making moussaka is a lot of work, was led along the corridor to the head of department’s office for document ratification.
His office and outer office, in which sat two secretaries at empty desks beaming broad smiles and busily chatting, were spacious and luxurious by comparison.
While giving my documents cursory glances and asking me embarrassing questions, like: Why had I waited three years before registering, the origins of my parents, and what had I been doing in Nicosia for all that time, we were interrupted by a beautiful young lady carrying a clipboard. She was greeted like a long lost relative; she was in fact the head’s niece, recently employed by the administration, and was tripping around all departments, jotting down notes and learning the ropes. He invited her to sit, chatting to her throughout while he scrawled his signature at the bottom of the form.
I was quickly sent packing, with him adding, “we give the Pontians the vote, why not you?”
On my return to 112, I interrupted the four secretaries busily discussing the best way to cook Moussaka; the correct proportions of marrow to aubergine, whether a hint of garlic should be added to the mince and onions, how finely to slice the potatoes….
I told them that placing sliced potato above the mince was the Cypriot way; the Greeks don’t include this vegetable in their recipe. But the Greek recipe was far too oily, one of them said.
I proffered my documents and was told to return to collect my electoral card during the first week of November.
The moral of the story is that if you wish to get anything done on this island, make sure you know something about its cuisine and pray that a beautiful girl turns up unexpectedly in the head’s office while he is purportedly ratifying your documents.
