Daughter of the Winds (6 page)

A thought struck me and I kicked off my shoes and walked toward a tall square structure at the back of the beach with a bright blue
‘Boat Hire’ sign. The sand was still cool under my hot feet and it shifted underneath me with every sliding step. Its golden ripples absorbed the energy I was putting into my progress so that I seemed to be making little headway.

“
Kalimera
.” I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head, forcing my hair off my face. “Do you have any boat trips to Varosha today?” I asked rather too loudly and over-enunciated so that the shirtless, sculpted man-child in front of me could understand. I flashed my best smile and allowed my eyes to hover over his well-toned abs for just a moment too long. He looked back at me with a hint of amusement in his sable eyes. Oh Lord, he probably thought I was flirting with him. I guessed I was nearly twice his age, which made me feel desperately old. What age did a woman have to be before she was considered a cougar?

“
Good morning. Yes I do. The next excursion is in approximately half an hour.” He pointed at the handwritten sign to his right with the times of each boat trip clearly marked. Now I looked like an illiterate idiot as well as a cougar. My face started to prickle with the heat of my embarrassment. I thought about cutting my losses and beating a hasty retreat but the lure of Varosha was too strong.

“
Right, yes, I can see that. Could I book a place on that trip please? The name’s Leni Jeffries. Thank you. I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” I said, trying to maintain some air of control in the face of the Adonis whose grasp of English was as good, if not better, than mine.

I turned with as much dignity as I could muster and headed back up the beach towards the car-hire shop.
Fearing he was watching me I forgot how to walk. I lifted my knees too high, wiggled my hindquarters too much and generally stumbled away from him in dismay.

Stopping to put my shoes back on I pushed open the stiff glass door of the hire shop.
“
Kalimera
.”

“
Kalimera
, how can we help you today?”

“
I would like to hire a car please.”

“
Of course, take a seat.”

“
Thank you.”

“
This is a list of the classes of vehicles we stock. Are you wanting something in particular?”

“
Yes.” I looked at the list in front of me. I wanted a manual gear stick, small car but big enough to keep me safe if anyone crashed into me and, most importantly of all, air conditioning. I surveyed the list. Nissans seemed to be popular here. Nissan Note, Nissan Almera or perhaps I’d go a little wild and get a Suzuki soft-top jeep for thirty-three euros a day. So no one was more surprised than me when I said, “I’d like to hire a moped please.”

A voice in my head was screaming at me
,
What the hell are you doing? Do you know how dangerous these things are? You’ve never ridden one in your life!
The decision was such a bold one for me that adrenaline sped through my heart, causing it to thunder unnaturally loudly. Emboldened by the rashness of my actions I felt invigorated, as if something deep inside me had been woken up. Just as I tried to pinpoint the feeling it was lost to me and I was left staring down at a single key on an oblong key ring.

I was still shaking a little when I joined the boat trip with the keys to my
shiny cream moped in my bag. The exhilaration of my newfound bravery battled with my ‘head girl’ disapproval at my rashness as I settled into the boat, stifling an inappropriate giggle. There were only four other people on the boat with me. I didn’t pay much attention to the two couples but said the usual polite “Hello” and then took a seat towards the front of the small, brightly-painted wooden boat, next to the scuffed green cool-box. I sat alone, so very alone, and looked down at my wedding band. Just the mere presence of these two couples highlighted my solitude. I’d never been on holiday by myself before. I’d been on some solo work assignments but I usually managed to take Dom along with me. I’d never undertaken anything of such life-altering significance before without someone holding my hand.

Almost before I blinked
, Famagusta’s Ghost Town appeared apologetically ahead of us like it had been caught doing something it shouldn’t have. At this distance it looked like a normal resort that had become a little rundown and dishevelled. Imposing hotels stood to attention facing the sea, ready for inspection. But the eyes of these buildings were blank. There was no one sunbathing on the beach and the waters were devoid of swimmers. An eerie silence hung around the bay and a tremor trickled down my spine and caused me to shiver involuntarily. I waited for it to hit me – the recognition, the clarity – but there was nothing. The boat skipped its way from crest to white crest with occasional sprays of water sprinkling my cheeks and eyelids.

I focused intently on the horizon, unblinking, and clasped the side of the vessel with two hands.
Come on. This is where it all started. Shouldn’t I feel something? I would have settled for any feeling at all. Elation. Despair. Anything to suggest some attachment to the town in front of me. My breathing continued evenly, my heartbeat quiet and steady. I was still just me and Varosha was still just a Ghost Town.

Our young captain started his well-rehearsed soliloquy about
Varosha, which sounded straight out of a guidebook, and I half-listened to him as I scanned the horizon for clues that I feared wouldn’t be there.

“
This is Varosha, part of Famagusta known for its beauty. Famagusta was once a bustling and vibrant tourist destination for the rich and famous. In the early 1970s it was one of the most popular holiday destinations in the world. This hotel closest to us now is the Argo Hotel which was a favourite of all of the Hollywood stars in the 70s: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton....” His voice trailed off as he could list more if he wanted to. “Elizabeth Taylor was often to be seen here on the terrace sipping cocktails wearing elaborate kaftans and headscarves. Unfortunately the lucrative and bustling world of Hollywood and tourism ended abruptly in the summer of 1974 when the Turkish people attacked the peaceful Greek citizens of Cyprus and forced them from their homes.”

I looked then into the unmistakably biased eyes of our lecturer.
His English was perfect but his understanding of the facts had a certain Greek slant.

“
There is a fence around the town known as the ‘Buffer Zone’ or ‘Green Line’. People are prohibited from crossing this line. Clothes were left on the washing lines,” he continued, “cars are still parked in garages and electric light bulbs were left on until they finally burned out. The Turkish Army patrol the area but the Greek people are not allowed back into their homes.”

“
Why are they keeping the land?” asked the larger one of my male companions, seemingly genuinely interested.

“
They use it as a bargaining tool. They will give it back if we meet their demands. But to meet their demands would be to acknowledge them as an independent country, which we cannot do. Nobody except themselves and Turkey recognise Northern Cyprus as an independent country. The international community classes Northern Cyprus as occupied territory and it is widely accepted that they are guilty of genocide in the war following the invasion of 1974.”

Genocide is such a repulsive word.
I looked to the sleeping town. People had died here. Thousands of people were still missing but I hadn’t really considered them for longer than five minutes. I was ashamed at how self-obsessed I’d been.

“What a shame,” cooed the big man’s wife. “It looks so... What’s the word Barry? Forlorn.”

She was right
: it was an apt word for the sight in front of us. It was strange to see that time had stood still and I itched to walk up the beach and have a good nose around. There’s nothing more tantalising than the thought that you are the first person to set foot there in many years. It would be like unearthing a treasure of some sort. It might not be on a par with being the first person to explore the pyramids, but the treasure of a snapshot of history and of precious memories is more valuable than diamonds. What I wanted to discover was worth more than jewels: I was hoping to find myself.

“
Nature is gradually taking over Varosha,” our guide sighed. “Our once beautiful buildings are crumbling, the sea front is lapping at the bricks. Nature is the only one who is benefitting from this atrocity. Houses lie empty, gradually falling into a state of disrepair that they cannot return from. The curtains are falling from broken windows like yellow leaves in autumn. The only good thing about this town where nature reigns is that sea turtles now nest on the beaches in complete safety and the fishes thrive in these waters. In this at least, we can say that the Turks have not beaten us. Life will go on where Greek Cypriots can no longer live. We would rather the sea turtles made their homes on our beaches than have the Turkish pitch their beach umbrellas there.”

“How do you get in there?” I asked, interrupting our guide’s dramatic prose. All eyes turned to face me as if they’d forgotten my lurking presence. The question was greeted with silence so I tried another tactic.

“
I would like to find out more about it. My parents lived there in 1974. I imagine their apartment is still as they left it and I’m, y’know, well, a little bit curious, to say the least.” I attempted a weak smile and a careless shrug of my shoulders.

“
There is no way in,” our guide answered firmly. “There is a Turkish patrol to make sure than no one enters and they will shoot you if you are caught. Only Turkish Military and UN Patrols ever enter Varosha.”

I
’m not usually stubborn but I decided to try out my newfound rebellious streak.

“
I’ve seen photographs and videos on the Internet that were taken from within Varosha.” Pushing my point further, I continued, “And even from this distance I can see that the perimeter fence has been broken down over there.” All heads turned to look where I was pointing and one of the women said, “Oooh, Barry, she’s right.”

My face remained turned to our guide who, tellingly, hadn
’t moved an inch or allowed his eyes to wander. He knew exactly which part of the fence I was talking about, that much I was sure of. I fought the urge to look away or to apologise. I’d had enough of people pulling the wool over my eyes. The only way I was going to stop people walking all over me was to stop acting like a doormat.

Expressive dark eyes held my gaze without blinking and I swallowed too loudly.
I knew I wasn’t his favourite passenger. I half expected him to raise his voice at me in rebuke but instead, when he spoke, his voice was quieter and measured.

“
I’m sorry. Perhaps you do not understand. When I said there is no way in, I meant that it would be both illegal and unwise to attempt such a thing. That is not to say that there aren’t any stupid people out there with a death wish. However, I for one, would not attempt to cross the Green Line, nor would I advise you to do so.”

“
Really?” I pushed

“
Really.”

He continued as if we had not spoken.
“Even if a resolution was agreed tomorrow, these houses and hotels would have to be demolished and rebuilt before anyone could move into them again.”

“
Why is it a ghost town though?” asked Barry’s wife. “I mean, if the Turkish control it, why don’t they use it?”

“
Some of the buildings are used by the Turkish army but Varosha is protected by a UN resolution which states that the town can only be resettled by its original inhabitants. The inhabitants of Varosha were almost entirely Greek Cypriot. Unfortunately the Turkish are allowed to live in Greek houses in the North of the island and treat them as their own. They are allowed to pull down Greek churches to make way for Turkish hotels. The resolution does not stop this. “

We sat in silence for several minutes and though I thought that I could feel the you
ng man’s eyes on me I refused to let him draw my gaze. I felt that I had angered him somehow but I didn’t see why asking to get a closer look at the city could have had such an effect on him. Perhaps it suited him to portray the Ghost Town as an impenetrable fortress because it made his job as a tour guide all the more necessary.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we must now return to Fig Tree Bay.”

It wasn
’t enough. I hadn’t seen nearly enough. I hadn’t really seen anything. I was feeling frustrated but I would have to find another way in. I hadn’t come this far just to fall at the first hurdle. As the boat turned and started off in the direction that it had come from, I watched the hotels melting into a shimmering mirage behind us.

Back at the beach,
I hung back a little on the boat for all the others to disembark, pretending to have trouble locating my keys in my apple green bag. Inherent politeness overcoming his annoyance with me, the young man held out his hand to help me off the boat. Apparently he was a better person than me. I refused his assistance and managed to stumble from the boat into the shallow water all by myself.

“
I’m sorry if I angered you,” I stated without an abundance of sincerity.