Yesterday began nicely, a swift meeting in the morning, followed by breakfast, book and a fag on the sunny balcony. Mess about with information for an hour, then i made my first excursion into the city!
I clocked that there aren't many punky hippies in Nicosia, i must have stood out a bit in my denim hotpants and pink leopard print leggings, (i opted sensibly away from the fish nets). Within 20 minutes i'd resourced the extra lead required, and so onto some exploring i went. I walked along the walled part of south/Greek Nicosia, found an eccentric fella fixing small motors. His work shop was incredible. At least a dozen cats and kittens amongst a vast collection of antique machine workings. I offered him some figs, definitly ripe as they were just oozing syrup from their holes.
Onwards with my tourist camera in hand, I had a field day with the decay, like a Mediterranean Berlin. Anarchy and UN signs once posted with fresh hope, abandoned and decaying around the perimeters.
It maybe a bit like permaculture, the edges between one crop and another are fertile yet chaotic. Perhaps this is the flavour of my natural territory.
Knowing the border had been opened 4 months ago, i was keen to get stamped at the check point. Over staffed by uniforms who had a confident resonance silently saying - 'i get paid for this - easy life'.
Then i was in, into Turkish Nicosia. The first street was a bit crap, catering for the types of tourist who don't really want more than a street to explore.
My amazing afternnon away from the intensity and choas of base, bloomed. At the shop where i bought rizla, i shared my first Turkish coffee followed by ice cold water with the owner. An ex division one footballer for a previously unified Cyprus. (That sentance should probably contain more capital letters - i don't know much about football).
Hours rolled deliciously passed, with street kids, ancient houses, old guys sat outside watching the tele inside. Perhaps i should have said no to some of those coffees. But each coffee was a chance to share a families hospitality. A woman gave me some small flowers sewn together, a fresh incense to wear. I drew pictures and exchanged Turkish for English words. Mar haba is hello. Gunes said ganesh is sun.
All within the settings of beautiful crumbling old houses, and oil drum barricades.
My small town friendliness took a nose dive as it became dark. Streets were mainly populated by geezers, young Wham types. I can handle the magnum sorts, but the Wham types were a bit different. I kept getting cornered by a Turkish Nigel Havers on a red scooter. I craved a cafe and a cheese toastie. (Is Breville an international word?) But every cafe entrance was teeming with Wham to middle Magnums, catching my eye and swaggering towards me. Found some boy pants - surfer clobber, these gave me some protection, but definately time to go, except i lost my bearings quite considerably, walked miles to regain myself, and missed the bus back to base. Each bus stop populated by geezers using similar phrases, phrases that went along with Magnums getting their wallets out. Mmm. Exit, exit. And so, i walked 10 kilometres home.
The next day was fuelled by massive coffee wrongness, only tempered by another coffee. At base the boat passengers were training for the voyage. Stories from their past, getting shot, arrested, witnessing families having their homes demolished -and chaining themselves by the neck to delay demolition, getting beaten, blatant rasism and injustice. And this room of people want to go back. Nutters.
I drifted in and out of hearing, particularly when banter got super political - (i like the human tales). Then i left to compute more information. But the stories, and the anticipation of more potentially horrible and full on stories penetrated me. Tears came frequently.
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