What's In A Name?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Nicosia, Cyprus
Nicosia isn't actually called Nicosia at all because nothing is ever bloody simple in Cyprus. Even though pretty much everyone refers to it as Nicosia, the newer road signs and maps om the Greek side label it as Λευκωσία / Lefkosia. That, as you can imagine, can get pretty fucking confusing for someone who has just moved to the island and has the sense of direction of a tool designed to loosen nuts. And the reason we're confused with the two place names, one place? Hellenisation. Yeah I had to look it up, basically it means "making shit Greek." You'll thank me when it comes up in the pub quiz.
Let's backtrack.

So, you remember in the last post I told you about Richard the Lionheart whipping the Byzantines and taking control of Cyprus? Well it wasn't because he wanted it, it was simply because the emperor took his sister and wife hostage which is generally considered in civilised circles to be antagonistic and not the done thing so of course ol' Richard removed the island from his clutches and promptly sold it to the Knights Templar. Now, either they couldn't pay him for it so he took it back and sold it to Guy of Lusignan, or the Templars sold it to Guy, I'm not sure as I found two accounts. But whatever, Cyprus ended up in the hands of this French speaking dude. Lefkosia, as it was called at the time, had been the capital city since around 647 when the Byzantines moved inland to protect themselves from the Arab raiders who were sacking the coastal cities. It remained the capital under the Lusignan dynasty, but the name was changed to Nicosia on account of it being more French and shit.

This island's entire history is a fucking soap opera.

After I'd spent a bit of time mincing around Kantara Castle, I picked the girls up from the beach and we headed to Lefkoşa. No history lesson, it's just the Turkish name for the world's last divided capital and whilst I'm not too sure how proud you should be of that fact but at least it gives the Greek Cypriots an excuse to commission a random monument consisting of Greek letters and metal poles which look like they were left over from some other perhaps more impressive monument. Or some scaffolding. Whatever.The capital is also where the Green Line which cuts the city in half is at its thinnest. It's only about 3 metres and the UN call it Spear Alley because the two sides used to tie knives to broom handles and try and stab each other with them. Is it wrong that I had to suppress a snigger when I learnt this particular snippet of infomation? The imagery is hilarious. I'm going straight to hell.  

When me, Loody and Shupiwe rocked up we entered from the Turkish side which involved negotiating some tiny fucking streets to park the car. Holy fuck, that stressed me! I can't park a fucking bicycle, never mind a vehicle in narrow roads with no clear concept of one way and a general free for all parking policy. Eventually we found a place to leave the car, thankfully before I ended up curled up in the foot well weeping, and went to find a feed. Shups didn't want to check out the Greek side, Loody did but agreed there was probably not enough time and I was too traumatised by the idea of having to find our way back out of the city when the streets wanted to eat my car and the maps were clearly lying to us.

I'd been to the Greek side before with Abi when she came over to visit back in January but I never got around to taking time out of my busy schedule of staring at the wall and scratching my arse to write it up. It's everything you'd expect from a modern European capital city, with its busy high streets and shops containing shiny things, and restaurants and cafes with international cuisine. Even the narrow streets within the epic Venetian walls are lined with colourful souvenir shops should you have an overwhelming urge to buy a postcard that you'll beat home because Cypriot mail would be faster if it was delivered by a crippled camel, or a fridge magnet because everyone knows someone who collects fridge magnets, or tiny sample sized bottle of zivania which is probably illegal to fly home anyways under the carriage of dangerous goods act.
We crossed over to the Turkish side at the pedestrian crossing, had a cup of Turkish tea and a large quantity of sugar to make the tea palatable in a lovely, small area which clearly catered to tourists just on the other side of the crossing before heading further into the city and that's when you start noticing the differences between the two sides.There are less shops and the streets and buildings are that little less maintained, it's a bit like stepping back in time. The people on this side seem to be friendlier too, always keen to help a lost stranger, and whilst the tourist maps we got from the tourist information shop ignored the southern part of the city, the maps dotted around the roads next to the blue line which marked the city walk showed both sides of the Green Line.

Back to the present, and the three of us found a large square with one of the columns from Salamis that the Venetians took as a symbol of power and a heap of cafes where you can chill out, eat a kebab, smoke a shisha or sip an Efes beer so that's pretty much what happened until it was time to go. Oh yeah, and getting over the border is a typical pain in the arse. You'll undoubtedly rock up to a border crossing, brimming with pride that you managed to find it without having a minor breakdown until you step out of the car clutching your passport only to be handed a map by an amused looking guard with directions to the border crossing you're meant to be at.

*rolls eyes*

After a mini road trip through the city, round some corners, hanging out of the window asking random passers by if we were in fact going the right way, we finally made it over the border and beelined back to Xylofagou.

I tell you what, though; Northern Cyprus? So totally worth the hassle.
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