A Kayak Napa

I'm beginning to understand the love of water that nautical types have.

Perhaps not quite the reaction you'd expect whilst largin' it in Ayia Napa, Cyprus. Most reports talk of this small town as the "New Ibiza" -Dance capital of Europe for Garage worshippers.

So here I am, paddling my ocean kayak round the sea caves, somewhere off Grecian Bay. Out of view of the garishly-clad tourists, flipping themselves every half-hour within a soupcon of well-done, the sea is calm, clear and tranquil. The occasional snorkeller or tourist boat does little to spoil the overall scene; while the jet-skis churn up their white plumes half a mile off shore. Their faint buzzing to and fro like bees, forever leaving and returning to the hive. It's close on 35 degrees - it feels it - and I can't help but wonder if everyone that conquers the sea feels the same sense of satisfaction. I circle and wave to the swarthy skipper of a nearby anchored yacht - he grins back in the dozy afternoon shade. For a split moment, I am a pirate, and his "ship" is my unsuspecting prey...

By day, Ayia Napa is like any other tourist resort for sun-seekers. Golden sand, rows of tightly packed holidaymakers tanning to impress. The hotels are ugly - but I'm not here to look at the hotels - and their air-conditioned rooms are an essential haven.

Situated toward the east of Cyprus, and not far from the Turkish area, Ayia Napa isn't best situated for exploring the island. You'd be best placed further along the coast - Limassol - for such pursuits. But there are some local villages that offer cheaper shopping, and splendid views to be had from Capo Greco - just a few miles up the road. Walking is not an option however - not in this heat - and car hire, with insurance, is affordable- though you pay extra for air-conditioning. Scrimp on this at your peril.

By night, Ayia Napa is not ordinary. And it is not for the faint-hearted. The regime is straightforward: eat at nine, find a bar at eleven, hit the clubs. The bars stop their music, and then their drinks somewhere between one and two, so that's when those who are warming up, are swarming up to the clubs. Bed?... what's that?

On the stroll into town my companion points out an "English" bar that did good steak last year. We poke our noses in, and the owner, a stout well-worn local, remembers last year's patronage and welcomes us as if we are his prodigal children. One chicken and one pork kebab later we are sorely disappointed. I ask him about his food and his business. He is a local farmer and the lack of rain for the last three years has made farming a struggle. He tells me he has "downgraded" his menu, so that it appeals to the younger up-fer-it types who now frequent this place. He is glad the way the town has changed, because without it, he couldn't pay his bills. And he proudly gestures towards his nine year old daughter as if to make a point. We begin to leave, but courteously accept a lemon liqueur on the house. It's sweet and sticky - at least things can only get better.

We continue our townward stroll, dodging the dishevelled and incomplete pavements. They bemuse me; and they will probably claim me on the way back, if I return tipsy.

Finally, "The Square" - odd, because it isn't square, and even moreso, because it's co-located with a ruined monastery. It's quite a sight and sound to behold. It creates a sense of dizziness and disorientation the moment you stand still - far better to keep moving, pushing past hot bodies. It is a melee, a crowd, a huge crowd, crushed, standing, drinking, chatting - indeed shouting - over the pounding sub-bass of the surrounding bars. Each establishment is competing to see whose PAwill distort first - don't even try to pick out a tune. Too noisy to think, but if you stop and allow yourself to feel for a moment, then you will sense you're at the centre of an ants' nest. Utter chaos on the surface, and yet everyone with a purpose - lines of ants pushing their way through the mass, forging onwards - and not a drop of beer spilt! My colleague turns to me and shouts: "Every time I come here, I lose my faith in mankind and the future of the planet". In a subconscious way I understand exactly, but I quickly turn and say "Don't you get it!? That's the point. While the rest of us are saving the planet, we keep all these people busy here!...". Perhaps we're getting old.

Bar after bar runs some kind of alcoholic promotion - buy one, get one free. Buy one, get two free. The most impressive was buy two, get ten free! Ten what? I'm not sure, but it was sweet and sticky, and very dilute - unlike the local beer, KEO, which was surprisingly pleasant, and pleasantly cheap. The number one premise here seems DRINK. And presumably inebriation is what seduces us into the night clubs - after all there's nothing overtly memorable about the music that's the mainstay of this place: UK Garage playing master to House. All the clubs promote "big-name" DJ's making appearances, but personally I don't get too worked up - I just keep reminiscing of my hospital radio days.

In the bars there's a wider aural selection, with some M.O.R Pop, and a smattering of R&B, Hip Hop. I even saw an Irish Folk Pub: but there were more people in the band than in the pub. What you won't find isJungle, that's for sure. We were laughed at when we asked. For a trek through the 80's and 90's, take a trip to the pinkly-neoned Jasmin Bar; where the cockney gaffer sings along, takes his top off and encourages his punters to dance on the bar and tables. And remember, someone just ate their food on that table! "Oy Oyyyyyyy!"

Before the rush (at 4am) - we head over to River Reggae club to wind down. This outdoor bar sports palm trees, mellow music, and a u-shaped swimming pool. Additional entertainment is in the form of a large 'telephone pole' strapped across one end of the pool. It begs drunken males to attempt to cross, and impress the onlookers by remaining dry. On my first attempt, my weary dancing legs are so pathetic, I can barely balance a few seconds. Amazingly, soaking wet underwear, four in the morning, and it still feels warm. This is sufficient to encourage a second and no-less foolish attempt! Within a metre of completing my challenge and suddenly I feel unsteady, and so I leap for home, onto the slippery tiles of the pool edge. It's a lesson well-learnt in impressing onlookers. I slip backwards, and crack my head down on the poolside. I'm sure eighty-thousand people go "oooohhhh". Next thing, I hear twinkling and some bloke is pulling me up saying "YOU DIDN'T WANT TO DO THAT!". How astute. I wibble gratefully.

River Reggae is a compelling way to spend the last few hours of darkness, despite the inherent perils of beams, concrete pool edges, water, alcohol and exuberance. It transports you to some kind of state of mind, where nothing matters, and time is irrelevant. My kind of holiday.

...After a pause, this pirate grins back. Capture will be another day - it's addictive out here on the water - I will be back! For now I must seek some shade, water and factor 60. I weave among the lilos, with their roasted occupants meandering on the tide, and head beachwards. I must build my strength for tonight's trip into town...

© august 2000

The Meaning of Life

You ask me about life. I've never thought about it - there is no time for thinking, only surviving. I've known death as much as life. Two years ago my husband was killed in the mountains by men with guns. No-one knows why he was shot in the head. But the mountain areas are dangerous. Not just the guns, but the volcanoes and earthquakes too, so we keep away.

Meet Camila, my daughter. There are 5 of us in the family now, and she is the oldest. So I must teach her all there is to know. She will have to take over the family if I fall sick or am unable to work to keep them.

Most days she comes with me to the plantation, where we pick the fruits of the arabica tree to make your coffee. It is unforgiving work; high on the slopes in the heat of the midday sun, it is exhausting and unrewarding. If the harvest is good, together, we can usually earn enough to feed the family. Most of the women from the village work there with me, and my second daughter, who is eleven, will soon be able to join us.

The man from the government said that what we do is important for our country. He would help us. But when the harvest fails, and we have no work, he and his help are nowhere to be seen. It is the same when we go to collect our wages from Miguel, the man who keeps the plantation. Sometimes he is unable to pay us. He says it's because the amount of coffee we grow varies, but the people who drink it always want the same. He talks about forces and markets, but all I know, these things make my family go hungry.

Miguel is a good man, but I am suspicious of the big man called The Exporter. He visits once a month in a large shiny car, and wears a lot of jewellery, especially for a man. Our nickname for him is The Wallet. He waves his hands unnecessarily, and I know he makes Miguel agree to arrangements he doesn't want. None of us trust The Wallet.

If I had the choice, this isn't how I would live. I'd prefer not to leave my children behind each day with my mother, for she is frail. I would like to make clothes and baskets to sell at the market. That way I could stay at home, and be sure of a regular income. Maybe even enough to by some picture books for my children. But for as long as I am unable to purchase the raw materials, it remains a dream. It would cost me over 5 dollars to get started, and it is impossible for me to save that much money.

I've heard that sometimes it is possible to borrow the money. There are people from other countries who will lend families like mine the money. It's hard to believe it is true. Is there no catch? We are used to people who squander money. The man from the Government is one of them. The rumour is that the coffee we pick goes towards paying the debt of our country. But Miguel says that for every dollar of debt, we have to pay twice, four, maybe ten times as much back, and still the debt stays. How can this be? I don't know. But I trust Miguel. And perhaps not everyone is bad.

I must be going soon. You can see all around that our homes have been destroyed, and there is much to be done. The worst storms we can ever remember came this year and washed our dwellings away. Mine stood over there, by the river bank. I managed to rescue my husband's clothes, my bible, and my children. We're safe now, that's what matters.

You ask me about life. Well, I suppose it is beginning anew. Death nearly took us in the night, but we refuse to give up that easily. We refuse. Things won't get worse, only better. Isn't that something to grasp onto? There is no time for thinking, but I think we are surviving.