CYPRUS is only three-hours-and-a-bit flying time from the Gulf region and in the taxi from Larnaca Airport, it seemed like the old routine ’Please turn on the a/c’, the exact same instruction I had given in the car taking us to Dubai International Airport.
For some inane reason the taxi drivers in Dubai, and now Cyprus, refuse to use the air conditioning. I think it’s because they all drive in shirtsleeves. I suggest to the cabbie he should wear a jacket so his passengers could have some cool air, but he ignores me.
Switching to our own vehicle, we long for Dubai’s valet parking tradition as we search for a spot in a chock-a-block car park near the seafront, but at least the parking is free of charge.
We’ve been visiting the same harbour caf – it’s not really posh enough to call a restaurant – in Paphos for 23 years and the waiter recognises us as we approach, pointing to our favourite seats, which are on the very edge of the boulevard.
The prices are higher. The Cypriots blame the increase on their entry into the Eurozone but perhaps it’s the result of the past year’s worldwide inflation. The old Cypriot pounds my husband found in a summer blazer could not be used, as they have now been withdrawn from circulation. We’ll keep them as souvenirs of another age.
The waiter leaves the bill in the circular plastic eggcup and we note that, despite the euros, the Cypriots still state the meal and drinks prices’ equivalent in pounds – and it’s still pretty cheap.
We watch the tourists walking past, the ‘gofars’ trying to persuade them to try their restaurant: the newly-arrived pink Brits in their just-purchased three-quarter-length slacks, high-heeled wives pushing modern jet-age prams, the elderly retirees smilingly willing to be coaxed to stay and have refreshments, the suntanned Greeks visiting relatives, sharing a fish meze amid the bouzouki music.
A local resident in scuba-diving gear hurries by, probably an instructor of the nearby diving school. A blond German couple in shorts look athletic enough to have walked from the nearest hotel, some three kilometres away, taking photographs from their mobile phones. A group of young European men, each holding a giant icecream, saunters by heading for their sailing yacht anchored in the shadow of the old Ottoman fort.
A fellow guest at the next table tells me it’s been a slow season but it’s picking up. His generic comment looks on the mark as I read that tourism, which makes up 18 per cent of GDP, ended a 14-month slump in March 2010 and by May was showing a showing a rise in arrivals. Average daily spend by vacationers in Cyprus was €68 ($83.5), with the frugal British spending only €51 ($62.3), but then Cypriots are just happy they are beginning to return for the UK is the biggest market for tourists, followed by Germany and Greece. We had noticed that there were fewer red-plated tourist cars than normal – in Cyprus the residents have yellow number plates and the tourists, with their rental cars, red plates, which probably is the reason locals are so patient when visitors lose their way.
It’s pitch dark when we drive back to the house in the foothills of the Troodos Mountains and we miss the golden lights and razzmatazz of Dubai, but enjoy the peacefulness and lack of wailing police sirens.
The following morning I watch the sun rise, the poplar trees now reaching the roofs of villages on the horizon. On the other side, the Mediterranean shimmers and the stranded cargo boat is still perched precariously on the rocks. A large white cruise ship passes by and, if I used my binoculars, I would be able to see passengers sunning themselves on deck. But I’m too lazy to go inside for I’m enjoying my book.
A gheko lurks near the geraniums, bees buzz, the bright red hibiscus are in bloom, scores of them, and the yellow roses, looking incongruously out of place at the base of the 20-ft-high palm, which was only 12 inches tall when I planted it, are a happy reminder that we are still in the Middle East region, despite the claims of Eurovision.
We note that there are a number of ‘for sale’ signs on nearby houses, said to be reduced by 40 per cent. The number of houses built in Cyprus has shrunk form 600,000 in 2008 to 200,000 in 2009 – ‘but it could be worse, look at Greece’ says the owner of ‘our’ leather shop.
But we note the Cyprus economy seems to be fairly healthy, for the estate agents who used to drive around on motor scooters now have Mercedes and BMWs.
Cyprus always seems to be coming up with new attractions for visitors – paintball, go karts and now Paphos, I hear, is going to make the whole town wi-fi accessible.
But, if like me, you prefer non-internet activities, it’s always possible to find the ubiquitous car-boot sales. We visit the Duck Pond Market on Tomb of the Kings Road and buy Tibetan bling jewellery for daughters, nieces and granddaughters.
The currency exchange office advertises in English , German and now Russian, indicative of the mixture of visitors.
And, despite the downturn, our favourite pizza joint ‘Fat Mammas’ was full as usual and the waiters and waitresses have introduced a song-and-dance routine between services.
I am not sure if the volcanic ash cloud reached the Med, but the temperature went down so we did not have to repeat our a/c request to the cabbie on the way home, so it seems every cloud, even a volcanic one, has a silver lining.
By Jonna Simon