CYPRUS: HIKING IN THE FORGOTTEN NORTH
Alistair Fraser
Daily telegraph
2:04PM BST 23/06/2008
UK
Three decades of isolation have left their mark on Turkish Cyprus,
but Alistair Fraser finds simple pleasures mean much more.
The habour at Kyrenia About 20 minutes into our first walk in North
Cyprus, I began to wonder if I was having an entirely authentic hiking
experience – fitting, I suppose, as we weren’t in an entirely authentic
country. I wouldn’t have minded the clammy shirt and grit in my boot
had our stony path been miles from anywhere, but so far we had been
walking parallel to a perfectly decent mountain road. Getting off
the beaten track is fine, but when the beaten track is deserted and
10 yards away, why twist an ankle slithering about on shingle? We’d
still be able to see the jagged Kyrenia range; the Mediterranean
would be just as visible; and all those plants scratching my calves
could be admired from a respectable distance.
Then again, if we’d stuck to the road, we’d have missed Nathan’s
near-death experience.
Before we five hikers had set off, Gizer, our Turkish Cypriot guide,
warned us about the island’s three types of snake. One was black
and harmless; another mildly poisonous; but the snub-nosed viper was
deadly. Don’t worry, though, said Gizer, they’re rare and we won’t
see one.
"Snake!" said Nathan minutes later in a surprisingly high voice for
a strapping lad from Cumbria. "What kind is it?" We gathered round
to peer at a little beige thing, about 9in long and no thicker than
my thumb. "It’s, um, it’s… hmm," said Gizer, sounding a little
flustered. "It’s a baby snub-nosed viper," he declared at last, and
we all stepped back. Still, this was more like it. A proper hiking
adventure. Even better, we soon veered away from the road and into
the hills.
The morning air was warm and still and as the path led us higher
we fell into a companionable rhythm, catching glimpses through the
trees of the sparkling sea far below and enjoying a profound silence
broken only by the crunch of dead pine needles beneath our feet and
the wheeze of old lungs sucking in air.
After a tasty picnic, we came across the ruins of Sourp Magar,
a monastery used by the island’s Armenian community from the 14th
century but abandoned when 40,000 Turkish troops landed on Cyprus in
1974. An orange tree in full blossom grew where the entrance hall
had once stood. In a quiet corner, a startled wild cat ran off,
leaving her six kittens shivering with fright.
Watching her flee reminded me of how the Armenians must have felt
in the Seventies as their old persecutors approached. Turkey said
that its troops had gone in to prevent an imminent attempt by Athens
to take Cyprus under Greek rule. Nonsense, said Greece, it was an
invasion. The rest of the world agreed with Greece and refuses to
recognise the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus.
Inevitably tourism suffers as a result. No ferry can land in the north
and direct flights are impossible, so most visitors endure a three-hour
wait in transit at Istanbul airport. Much of the countryside is in the
hands of the military and out of bounds. Unregulated house-building
scars the landscape.
The government’s reputation for corruption doesn’t help, and with no
extradition treaties in place, it’s a haven for crooks on the run.
On the up side, for visitors at least, it’s a tranquil destination,
with pretty harbour towns such as Girne, attractive hillside villages
like Bellapais (former home to the writer Lawrence Durrell), more
archaeological sites than it knows what to do with, miles of unspoilt
beaches and none of the problems associated with Greek Cyprus, such
as out-of-control British squaddies and resorts like Aya Napa.
The north, though, receives little aid from anyone other than Turkey,
so inevitably it looks a little rough around the edges. Its contrast
with the prosperous south was evident the next day, when we wandered
around the historic quarter of Nicosia, the world’s only divided
capital city. From the roof terrace of the unlovely Saray Hotel we
could easily see the difference – on this side, the buildings were
old and run-down, while across the Green Line was a sea of modern
glass and concrete.
But with so little money available, everything seems authentic and
few things are tarted up for tourists. This was especially true of the
Belediye bazaar. Round the back of the market, near a butcher’s stall,
I came across an old supermarket trolley full of recently severed
rams’ heads. When I took out my camera, an old man nearby put down
his glass of tea and rearranged the heads into a more pleasing tableau.
Feeling peckish, I headed for the Buyuk Han, or Great Inn. This
handsome, sandstone building was built by the Ottomans in the 16th
century as a sort of medieval motel for merchants. They parked their
camels in stables that are now cafés and galleries and slept above
them in rooms more recently converted into artists’ workshops.
The Buyuk Han is one of the few restored monuments in North
Cyprus, as money from Turkey is used for mundane projects such
as road-building. This means numerous archaeological sites are
largely untouched and unprotected, so later on there was nothing to
stop us clambering all over the precious ruins of Ayia Trias, near
Sipahi. Cultural vandals had already visited the site at Salamis,
near Famagusta, where all the Roman statues are headless, thanks to
Victorian treasure seekers. This unrestricted access was thrilling
yet depressing.
But not half so depressing as the "ghost town" of Famagusta. In 1974,
Turkish troops confiscated roughly six square miles of property,
including a long coastline and several dozen seaside hotels, which
now look like a time-frozen cross between Seventies Benidorm and
war-torn Beirut.
But as we drove up into the Karpas Peninsula, we left behind both the
mess made by politicians and the arid central plain. On the peninsula
you’ll find green and rolling hills and remote, sandy beaches where at
night in July and August you can watch loggerhead turtles hatching. The
peninsula is also home to wild donkeys, abandoned when their Greek
owners fled south.
Cyprus’s ethnic separation is not total, as I discovered that night at
the small village of Dipkarpas, where several Greek families still live
peaceably with their Turkish neighbours. After dining in the village
restaurant on plates of meze followed by a choice of grilled fish or
kebabs, we drank beer before going to sleep in honey-coloured cottages.
Next morning, Gizer drove along empty roads flanked by fields of
swaying corn before stopping in the middle of nowhere. A 10-minute
walk down a rough track and over a ridge took us to a wide, sandy
beach. Apart from a set of large animal prints – made by a donkey,
perhaps – the shoreline looked as if it had never been visited. I
took off my sandals, closed my eyes and, with the sun on my face,
allowed the gentle sound of breaking waves to guide me as I strolled
along the shore.
It was a blissfully serene few moments, only slightly spoilt when I
felt the squelch of warm donkey poo between my toes. Now that’s what
I call an authentic walking experience.
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