Category: Hellenism | Publications

Expert from ‘Same Deep Water’ by Savvas Tsestos Limnatitis

 

Returning home. Back to the birthplace of your ancestors. For some of us the place where we were born. Emotional. Standing at the airport, consumed by opposing emotions. Joy and sorrow. In equal measures. Joy for finally converting an old dream into reality. Happy to be stepping on home soil. Happy to be home. At last. But sorrow also. Sorrow of the land we have just left behind. The land that has sheltered us, even nourished us. A home away from home. Sorrow also for what we face. The changes in the land we once knew so well. Changed beyond recognition. Tradition sacrificed in the altar of progress. Finally worry. Will we fit in? Will we be accepted and welcomed? Or will the hedge that was placed between us and our country of origin by the intervening years be too hard to uproot? Too hard to ignore? Casting us as foreigners once again, when all we wanted was to belong?

I can talk about it all day. I certainly have all the necessary experience to lament on the subject. I too was amongst those that made the giant leap back to my country. Cyprus to be precise. Alas, it was never meant to last. The stars weren’t aligned properly. The Gods never gave their blessings. Wrong timing. Six months after I arrived home, the crisis first started rearing its ugly head. A couple of years later, it had fully descended. Bring chaos and destruction with it. The island now a shadow of its former self. A relic. To be pitied. So we packed up and came back. To Australia. For better or for worse.

Instead of a lament, please allow me to share with you the first chapter of ‘Same Deep Water’. One of the books I have written, which I hope will come out sooner or later. Like me the protagonist returns to Cyprus after thirty years of total abandon. After thirty years of absence. Unlike me he is famous. A world renowned character, a pop and rock musician with The Crystal Ship. The band he formed in Scotland and which has seen him to the top of the world. Now it’s time to come back. In a way he is me. In a way he is looking through the country of his birth through my eyes. So enjoy. And forgive me. It is a rather long passage.

 

 

 

 

He reached over and pulled his camera from his bag, fixed on one of the two long lenses he always carried with him and aimed, his elbows leaning on the top bar of the railing for better support.

The boy was standing still and motionless at the edge of the pier, the sun’s distorted sphere diving into the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea framing his body, its rays of orange and red dissolving across the water. Suddenly he rose to his tip toes, body rigid and strong, hands risen high above his head, plunging himself forward, his reflection breaking the thin layers beneath way before his body did. Dangling from mid-air for a split of a second, body free and refusing to obey the rules of gravity, weightless, in a horizontal position. Now bringing his finger tips to his toes, body perfectly broken in two, turning and twisting around his axis, getting ready for the final thrust forward.

He snapped as the boy was reaching the upper layers of the sea’s liquid, sending ripples to wildly scatter in all directions, breaking the solitary and slow flow of the water. “Same deep blue waters as you”. Muttering to himself, slightly altering the lyrics of the song. “Better this way” he thought. Indeed the waters around here were if not deep at least deep blue. Perhaps not as clear as those one can find in the Greek islands, not even close to those of Paphos of Ayia Napa. Not by a long stretch of the imagination they weren’t. But he was content. Perhaps because he was born here; he grew up in this small city that had once appeared so big to him. Even now that the city has expanded almost to double of the size it was when he had left, Limassol was nothing more but a provincial town, barely bigger than a village.

But it has the sea washing away at its feet, the cool breeze of the Mediterranean shafting through the city entwined with the air from the Troodos Mountains that loomed over it, large and captivating, keeping a watchful eye over things. Ah, the sea, the Mediterranean Sea. It always had a strange allure to him, dragging him into her bosom, squeezing him tight closer and closer to her body. He remembers traversing up and down the coast line of his birthplace on a funny looking bicycle, searching for opportunities to practice his diving techniques, looking for piers empty enough to train in peace and quiet. Back flips and forward thrusts, pirouettes, showing off, hungry for attention.

And Cyprus. His homeland, his motherland. A pebble, carelessly tossed away by the hand of one of the gods of Mount Olympus, finally landing on the crossroads between west and east, north and south. Most definitely not Middle Eastern, yet not quite European either; swinging in between, forever cursed to live dangling in the middle of two opposites, both dragging and calling her to their embrace and protective, extended arms. Never able to decide, never settling, always and forever free in spirit but slave to her own whims, ‘benefactors’ and enemies. Making the best of both worlds, suffering by their worst, full of contradictions, full of charm. Beautiful yet wild, ravaged by a throng of invaders, never learning from the past, giving too much away, falling for every pretty stranger that came her way. Cyprus, a land blessed and cursed in equal measures.

Shame filling up his lungs, overflowing and gushing out from his pores. Shame for what though? His delinquent lifestyle? No, that was not it. After all everybody knew that drug use and abuse was part and parcel of the rock and roll lifestyle. Megalomania and “don’t-give-a-fuck” attitude; hedonism; plunging to the lowest of lows one minute, elevated to the skies above the next; all were part of the deal, it just came with the territory; there was no escaping the traps.

(He wondered if he could turn himself into the person he once was. That naïve, starry-eyed young man, barely an adult but not a child anymore, standing on the tarmac of the airport waiting to embark on the first plane out of tiny, claustrophobic Cyprus and into the promised land that was England).

Anyway that was all behind him. Packed up and locked away, never to see the light of day again. Not a matter to be questioned or doubted; he was adamant about it. After all it has been close to a decade since he had last felt the need to curl up and bury himself deep into the embrace of a substance, giving himself whole to it, surrendering without a fight to its strange and destructive pathos. Close to a decade since he walked into a kitchen, grabbed his sharpest butcher’s pallet and with a single sweeping move cut of all ties with the past. Threw them all in the dustbin to be taken away by the garbage men the following morning: gone were the excesses and abuses of yore, gone too the erratic behaviour, the insulation, the hiding behind an image. Free at last. Free to stand at the edge of a rocky mountain and shut out for the world to hear: “I am done with it. Gone and dusted the prick I have been carrying with me, an extra weight on my back for so long”. No more drugs and alcohol, no more wild parties and hopping from bed to bed; no more egotistical approaches to anything that truly mattered. Gone was the meanness and the meaningless sway of his unabashed mood swings. “I am me again. Lord – wherever You are, whoever You are- please forgive your wayward son”.

One vice he had struggled with -and finally gave up on trying to eradicate- was smoking. These days he had taken on to using pure, clean tobacco, which he rolled whenever the need arose. He loved the feel of the cigarette being created in his fingertips, he loved laying back, taking long inhales, letting the smoke penetrate his lungs, then gently pushing it out, watching circles form and then dissolve into thin air, feeling like Lucky Luke shooting at his own shadow, sitting on top of the world, lazily examining people walk up and down, indifferent to him and his existence.

Music was obviously a different obstacle he had neither the power nor the will to be done with; music did not simply occupy its own planet, but also its own dimension. He lived music, he breathed music; it was his connection with reality and his escape, its release from the confines of mundane comings and goings. In short, it was his life. To turn his back on music, to give it completely up, equalled cutting off his left arm and feeding it to his dog and cats. Impossible. Unfathomable. Incomprehensible.

Yet something had to change. So he changed his modus operandi. These days you were more likely to find him at “Thalassa”, the chain of restaurants he had opened first in Glasgow, then London and Edinburgh, serving mainly Cypriot delicacies to the hungry masses. (grilling sieftalies over the charcoal, threating souvlakia on their skewers, watching over the souvla while it turned on its foukou, making sure it came out succulent and tender, ready to be consumed, baking flaounes at Easter, koulourakia at Christmas, keeping traditions alive, passing them on ) than on a stage or in a studio. He still played live; but his appearances were sporadic, and not in proper music venues with their pomposity and extravagance, or in pubs with the constant smell of urine and sweat filling up the air with its horrible odour. These days he much more fancied specially adjusted churches, fronting well-drilled, slimmed-down units with just his voice and guitar, an upright bass, a piano and a gently stroked drum kit, occasionally joined by violin, perhaps a viola, a lap-steel, a trombone, a saxophone. Likewise, the change of attitude and the shifting of the balance was also reflected in his recorded output. Dispensing with the heavily distorted guitar licks of his early years, the throbbing bass lines and the incestuous thrashing of the drums, he had implemented in their place gently finger-picking, horn sections and eerie, softly sang, almost spoken words, occasionally dropping down to hushed whispers, lazy drum patterns, melodious bass, each song wringing out with transient tenderness rather than the frenzied urgency of his earlier work. Naturally, the approach to lyric writing had done an about-face, dealing with nostalgia rather than dreams wasted or unreachable, pushing back any notion of art-school frustrations, polemic visions or cranked-up declarations of disillusionment and dislodgement, replacing them with tales of ordinary madness and of a life lived not in approximate measures but in full-throttled, hands-on, sometimes exuberant, other times not-so-eager, morose and heavyhearted experience.

Needless to say, the press had a field day with this supposedly change of heart, this backflip he had mastered. Not that it worried him much. It actually didn’t affect him at all. And anyway he had stopped reading the press a long time ago, considering a huge part of the journalistic fraternity to be little more than spoiled children, failures when it came to the nitty-gritty, incapable to comprehend even the simplest of facts and figures. “Phhhh! What would they know anyway?” he used to say to anyone that pointed out the latest report that painted a picture of him as a recluse, even a misanthrope. ‘They will never understand even if the truth stares them in the eye. I am made of the earth, and to the earth I will return one day”. Always moving on. Walking, not jumping, over hurdles. Too insignificant, too minuscule to be of any relevance, a threat to his progression as a human being.

And he was most happy when in Thalassa. His baby, his creation, every last detail worked over with great scrutiny and attention to detail in his head, consuming him whole, taking him away from the world he had known for so long, the paths he had walked down on, the spaces he had occupied. Thalassa for obvious reasons. Thalassa because of the Mediterranean, his Mediterranean, the place of his childhood dreams and of his teenage explorations, the Mediterranean that still occupied, was always going to occupy a special place in his heart. Thalassa. Deep and blue, full of wonders and surprises, the froth of its waves washing secrets to the shore, laying them on the rocks and on the sand, then pulling them back, teasing and tantalizing, laughing to the faces of those that think they can get to know her better, be on talking terms with her. Mediterranean so welcoming, but also so unforgiving and fierce when annoyed, a true lady, a temptress, a tempestuous woman, a sorcerer.

Thalassa also because the water had always been such a big part of his existence. Crossing the channel to get to France and to the rapturous reception his music always received there. Flying over the Atlantic, finally landing in the U.S of A. in vain attempts to break the American market and become a king amongst kings, a pilferer of the land of plenty. Canoeing and paddling down the Amazon River, a guide in tow, looking for the lost tribes forgotten by civilization and its advancements. Or simply splashing about the swimming pools of plush hotels, hotels reserved for the rich and famous, hotels in exotic Bali and Fiji, surrounded by poverty and despair in The Caribbean or the faux bijou shine of the Cote D’Azur.

Anyway he was home now. Nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him. Not here. Not in Cyprus. He could breathe again. Afraid of nothing and no one.

Only the shame. Deep-rooted and profound, exhilarated now he was walking on home soil again. Even the reasons of this heartfelt embarrassment that was by now frothing up inside him, fermenting and coming up to the surface with increased force, were becoming clearer by the minute. He always had his suspicions. Now he was sure. It all boiled down to abandonment. On his behalf. Turning his back to the place that had fathered him. Rejecting all that it had taught him. Running away with tail between legs, as if trying to escape from a particularly horrid nightmare. Yet what was bagging him was the fear of not being understood if he had tried to explain his reasons, if he had reached deep into his soul and pulled out all the answers that would prove his innocence. At least cut him some slack, rid him of some of the burden.

It was simple really. At least to him anyway. He wouldn’t have been able to detach himself once we was re-introduced to a much more simple way of life. Not better, not without any worries. Just more simple. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why. People here knew how to live their lives. Taking in the good with the bad. The happiness with the misery. Surviving one invader after another. Living to tell the tale, a testament to resolution, a fine example of a life cursed by both gods residing in the skies above and demons of the underworld.

But thirty whole years? Thirty years of indifference and total abandon? Now that was really pushing leniency to its limits. And after a certain time any excuses that would have explained become obsolete, irrelevant and useless. Thirty years of traversing the globe, going to every dingy, backwoods place imaginable, to every God forsaken village, snapping away, documenting the life of the desolate, the down-trodden and war-torn, the luck less, then exhibiting his findings back home in Glasgow and London, some even creeping in to the background of his lyrics.

And Cyprus? Nowhere to be seen in the whole quotation; not a footnote, not a passing mention, an exclamation mark, a mere comma or something, anything, in the overall scheme of things. Zilch, a big round zero.

Sure, as he had heard the country has come a long way since the dark days of the summer of 1974, when an ominous wind flew over the island bringing with it the masses of an invading army, parachutes falling down from the sky like rain on a hot summer’s day, tanks crushing everything in their forward thrust, soldiers everywhere, marching against freedom, faces expressionless, eyes wide and drunk from the cascading victory. Sure, progress has reigned over this tiny piece of land, progressing in leaps and bounds, closely followed by a certain affluence and wealth, built on the island’s allure as a tourist destination; and where the sun shines permanently over the horizon, it most certainly equals an invasion of a different kind: the advancement of the blond, blue-eyed Vikings from the north, eagerly, desperately seeking for a place under the sphere of day, the promise of a suntan always dangling before their eyes, luring them back to Cyprus again and again.

But what did that mean exactly? Did it signify a seizure of dreaming, an end to the all-encompassing desire to return to one’s place of birth, not allowed to trawl anymore the streets of their youth, memories hidden behind every nook and cranny, peering at those that cared to look beyond the obvious? Did it preclude a willingness to evade the voices of ancestors, running away from them, hands over ears, mouths dry and tight from screaming pleads of resolute abandonment?

Not at all. People still have the right to feel cheated out of their livelihoods, they are still allowed to miss and dream about, to make plans for their troubled land, they retain not so much the right but the obligation not to forget. Irrespective of how fat wallets have become, overflowing with cold, hard cash. Irrespective of how full and fat stomachs are these days or how contempt people appeared to be with the current status quo.

He was here now. Intent, convinced to do whatever possible to redeem himself for spending thirty odd years in the wilderness, thirty odd years in a self-imposed exile. He had his plans. Nothing he could talk about. Not yet. Not until they moved from the embryonic stages. Not until they could take their first baby steps, unguided and unprotected. All he could divulge at this stage is that he would put his mastery of the guitar and the photographic camera at work. Either separately or in combination. Too early to tell. He needed more time. And time was the one thing he felt deep in his heart was the single, more precious thing he had to offer. He would give it up. Along with whatever else it took. Anything to be forgiven. Anything to redeem himself. Anything and everything.

 

The sun had reached the pinnacle of its daily trajectory. It was now sitting, plush and comfortable on its throne, resting for a couple of seconds/ Re adjusting and getting ready to heed the demands of nature and start his long, slow descent back to its resting place.. He walked out of Larnaca airport right in the peak of the midday heat, the sun lashing at him, mercilessly administrating blows to his body, his head, his torso, his back, sending sweat down on his spine and on to his buttocks, making him uncomfortable, his movements now restricted and heavy. But he soldiered on, heading for the taxi stand. Incognito, trying not to draw attention. Dressed in a plain white silk shirt, plain green jeans and a pair of brown loafers. A stranger amongst strangers, nameless and undetected. The heat of Cyprus was something he had forgotten, having now grown used to Glasgow’s consistently cool to cold weather, with rain almost constantly drizzling over the city. Dirt caked, stuck on walls brown in anticipation of light, the infrequent interventions of the sun always welcomed and eagerly anticipated. Warming bones, warming hearts, giving the city a chance to breathe freely.

The airport itself hasn’t changed much since he last stood there, walking down its corridors all those years ago. Still the same ramshackle structure, rather lacklustre and plain, tiny in size. You still had to wait for the bus to take you to customs when you disembarked, the sun quick to greet you once you set your feet on Cypriot soil. The same bored officials, often too busy enjoying a coffee or reading the morning papers to pay any real attention to the scenes that unfolded before them, letting the throng of tourists to ease themselves in the new reality of their surroundings. But clean. Very clean. Obsessively so. Proud people the Cypriots. And he should know; he was after all one of them. No matter how many years he had stayed away, no matter how hard he tried to disappear into the unknowingness of the big city he now called home. Proud, headstrong, nothing short of stubborn. And a clean freak. Just like his mother. He remembered his mother with a broom in one hand, a mop in the other, a cleaning cloth thrown over her shoulder, always cleaning, always sweeping and mopping, washing, dusting, arranging and re-arranging furniture and displays. Watering, pruning and planting her garden and her beloved roses. He would be in her arms. Soon.

He got in the back seat of the first free taxi he could find and ordered the driver to head for Limassol. His gaze fixed on the surrounding areas, noting how much Larnaca had grown since the last time he was there. Houses built everywhere, filling every previously empty space. White washed and serene. No brown brick in sight, no ceramic tiles on roofs; flat as a young girl’s chest, perfect for a roof top party. It didn’t take long for the city to vanish behind them, to be replaced by the majesty of the open country side. The earth dismembered, its intestines put out in the sun to dehydrate. Be rid of any fluid retention. Dry and cracked. Just bushes and shrubs here and there, grass light brown, dead trees, protruding from its insides, breaking the scenery in half. Another anomaly to what he was used to. Glasgow with its lush greenery and its ornate gardens, its parks bursting with life, hymns to creation, paying their respects, heads bowed and lowered to Mother Nature itself.

His concentration and insularity broken by the voice of the driver.

‘Excuse me sir but I think I know you’. Perfect English in a distinct Australian accent. ‘Are you who I think you are?’

‘I think you are making a mistake. I am no one special’.

‘Sorry to pester you, but I would recognise that earing anywhere’. His earing. He had forgotten about that. Custom made in the shape of Cyprus, dangling from his ear and giving his game away.

‘You are not a foreigner, are you?’

‘I guess you are right. I am not. I am local’. Switching to Greek, turning his head towards the window, trying to retain his anonymity for as long as possible. Surprising himself with the way Greek words were coming out of his mouth. Rapid, freely with no pauses, forming at his lips, jumping out,the thickness of his Cypriot accent lending more authenticity to his speech. ‘But I have been away for years.’

‘Then I am right, my suspicions are confirmed. You don’t happen to be Blackeyed Pete from the Crystal Ship, by any chance?’ Going at a hundred miles per hour, his motor mouth in overdrive, constantly switching between English and Greek. ‘Oh man, I used to collect all your records when I was young. Records, posters, memorabilia, you name it. I had it all. Wow! What an honour this is. I can hardly believe it. Your posters were all over my walls. Oh man, you can’t even begin to imagine how proud of being a Kypreo, a Cypriot you made me. Such an honour, such an honour’.

This part of the road he could not remember. Straight and wide-laned. Where were they anyway? ‘Pull over please’. Getting out of the car and climbing in the front seat. Happy to be with a fellow Cypriot. A chatter box at that too. ‘Petros Mavromatis. Blackeyed Pete is dead and buried. Please call me Petros’. The driver’s hand extended in a welcoming shake. ‘And I am Savvas. Savvas Tsestos to be precise’. ‘Nice to meet you Savvas. Can you tell me where we are exactly? I am kind of lost’. Looking outside the window, just in case he was making a mistake, eagerly hoping to spot some landmark that he could recognise. Nothing. Memory unable to respond.

‘Gosh man, you have missed quite a few episodes I see’. Pointing to the road ahead. ‘This my friend is the highway to Limassol. Built in the mid-eighties. How long you said you have been away?’

Embarrassed to admit it, he contemplated the idea of spewing forward a lie, but thought better of it and went straight for the truth. ‘Thirty odd years I am afraid. What can I say?’

‘Hey, no need to explain things to me. I know what xenitia, what living overseas away from your birthplace is like. It can suck you up and then spew you out like peeps of a grape. Broken and lost. A nobody. No past, future uncertain. Glad to be alive though and amongst your people. I know all that. I lived in Australia for twenty years’. Feeling closer to this robust man with dark Raybans obscuring his eyes, shirt unbutton to his navel. ‘Only been back for a few months. And since I have been away for so long I had to start from scratch. Back in Australia I was a quite well known – and highly respected, even if I do say so myself- journalist. Here? Again a nothing, a nobody. One door after another being shut at my face. Cliques everywhere. Closed societies, impenetrable circles, nepotism reigning supreme. Looks like we –they actually- have learned very little from our mistakes. So here I am driving a cab to make ends meets. A cab driver! Who? Me that I returned back home with so many dreams packed tight in my suitcases. Such is life I guess. Not that I am complaining. I should have seen it coming. I should have made a better man of myself down under, should have brought more cash with me. People would respect me more then. But hey, what the heck! Life is sweet here. Even beautiful’.

Petros was lost deep in his thoughts, going round and round a labyrinth with no way out, his guilt the only guiding light, the hand that pushed him onwards. A different man now. Resolved and adamant to change even more. All these years he had resigned himself to the life of a spectator. Watching from a distance. Safe on the stands. Cheering on and booing. But always that distance between him and where the real action unfolded ensuring not only his safety but his sanity as well. Refusing to get involved, refusing to participate, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him and lead him down alleyways dangerous and dark. Happy in his relative domesticity, happy to be living the life of a semi-god, loved by many, despised by more. So life rolled on unbridled and unrelenting, going about his routine as if it was the only thing that mattered, as if his existence was the only one with any real significance, the only path worth living.

And always the same question going by unasked, the same subject that was never breached. As if the mere mention of it was enough to tip the scales against him, leaving him stranded in no man’s land, lost in a sea of uncertainty, decisions never implemented. And it hurt. It cut through his flesh, stabbing and piercing his soul. It hurt more because it was a pain he couldn’t share. No, he had to go through the process all by his own, swim through the turbulent waters in long, slow strokes, stretching his arms up ahead and pulling back the water,

He was here now. He was home. Finally. Unquestionably. He had reached his shore, the same shore that for years seemed so distant, a flickering light far, far away. Home. Where he belonged, where he could finally be himself, happy to be amongst his peers, his people, his family. Extended family. Not in a hurry to leave. Not again. Not for any prolonged periods of time anyway. He would leave the care of Thalassa to his nephew and niece. A good lad with a strong head on his shoulders. A great lass, down to earth and capable of mucg more than running a restaurant. He would leave the running and taking care of the business to them, and he would supervise from a distance. Emails and stuff. Easy really. A bullet proof plan.

As for the music? He had plans for that too. Not ready to give it up, not ready to walk away. But things had to change. His modus operandi and all that. His approach and his output. Taking in more Cypriot elements and influences, repackaging and presenting it to the outside world. Drawing attention to its rich tradition. Even if he had to use his connections to throw the doors wide open, even if he had to strap on a placard around his neck and walk down the streets of London, Glasgow, Manchester, Liverpool, Paris, New York, Berlin, Rome, Madrid and Tokyo to advertise his wares. But not as Blackeyed Pete. As Petros Mavromattis. Himself, his true self, who he really was, who has been for years hiding behind his rock and roll persona, images so important in the music industry. If people didn’t like it, if they couldn’t comprehend his intentions, so be it. This time the game was going to be played on his terms and his rules. No questions about that. File closed. Moving on.

Meantime he was coaxing his thoughts commanding them to gather, instructing them to concentrate on the bigger picture. But to no avail. Savvas sitting next to him, behind the wheel of the taxi that was delivering him home, was unstoppable, administrating one advice after another, delivering his views, his banter filling in the gaps in Petros’ lacklustre knowledge on all things Cyprus.

-So what brings you back after all these years? If you don’t mind me asking of course.

-You know what Savvas? I am not quite sure myself. Just this constant nagging feeling that I had to come back. Like I said, don’t ask me why. I am still trying to figure it out myself.

-It’s called nostos my friend. Not sure if there is a similar word in the English vocabulary. A sense of homecoming, returning back to your roots. Coming back to where you truly belong.

-Nostos! I like the sound of that. Thanks Savvas, you have just given me an idea. Thank you very much.

-Let me guess. You will use it for your next project, won’t you? It sounds like a plan to me. Anyway, I hope you are not expecting to find the same Cyprus as the one you had left behind. Things have changed in the meantime. For better or worse they have. For one thing prosperity is now the norm in our island.

-Yes, I have noticed the mansions on the hills, the big houses scattered everywhere. What about people though? Have they changed too?

-Have they? Well, I think they have. Not that they would admit it. One thing is for certain: almost everyone here is preoccupied with money: how much property they have, how fat their wallets, how big their bank balances and all that. They are still very competitive. Who has the bigger house? Who drives the faster car? What is the most exotic place for holidays? Whose wife wears the most expensive jewellery, whose wife shops from the lushest boutique, uses the most fashionable hairdresser, how many Fillipino maids and servants do they employ? Which master sleeps with their maid, how much have they paid to use the services of tall Russian girls in the cabarets? Do you remember how the cabarets used to be? Dark places with bored, topless Thai girls. Well, you can forget all about that. Russian women are all the rage these days. Tall with long legs and more robust breasts, small as pears but firm as well. If you are interested a mate of mine runs one of those places. Anything your heart desires. Around 140 euros a pop. 140 for a night in paradise, between the legs of a northern beauty. What else can you ask from your life?

-I think I might give that a miss. Getting too old for such excitement, if you catch my drift.

-No problem. I can get my hands on some Viagra, if that would help. Just joking Petros. I hate those places myself. I have been here for almost one year and have yet to visit one. I bet people think I am gay or something. Who cares though? Let them think what they like. A pity though. A pity to see the country descent into sleaziness, sex and money the only thing in people’s minds. Sad but true. But you know what? Cypriots are not that bad. Even if they can’t see it themselves, even if they don’t want to admit it. Macho men, men of the world, modern yet with backward ideals and believes. You try to make sense of that! I have given up trying to figure them out. I simply accept and try to look after myself and my family. But it’s worth trying to play on their philotimo, their love of honor. That they still have and in ample resource. Push the right buttons and the true Kypreoi, the true Cypriots appear before you. Ready to help you, ready to offer a hand. Their doors always open, their sense of philoxenia, of welcoming strangers into their abodes, unchanged, consistent and unaltered by the prevailing wealth and affluence.

-But overall?

-Overall this is still a great country to live in. A great place to raise your kids. Here they can be free to wander around, through their bags in a corner when they come home from school and then take off to play with their friends. Still a relatively safe place. At least you don’t have to constantly petrified something bad is going to happen to them.

Half dozing off, letting the man continue in his monologue, his gaze taking in the monotonous landscape with its endless array of barren fields, lonesome carob trees with big, strong trunks, their foliage complemented by long, brown, weird-looking, horn-like pods. He looked it up on the internet, using his Blackberry device. Nothing much really. Just the usual scientific specifications. He was tempted to google Limassol and see what the city looked like now. But he refrained. Better to find out by himself. And anyway, they should be getting close now to his birthplace. Better not ruin the surprise.

-Not that people appreciate what they have. To me it looks like they have lost any faith not only in government but the country as a whole itself. And while I can understand, even share, the annoyance with governing bodies and their inability to run the country without the ever present power of nepotism getting in the way of progress, it still baffles me why are they so dead set against the country itself. Not a day goes by when someone doesn’t ask me the same question. The one I have heard so many times it has gone well past the point of being annoying.

Climbing over a hill, the car was now perched on a higher plane, giving them ample glimpses of the expanded city, nestled upon the foot of the mountains, holiday apartments and hotels protruding from the harsh land on his left, mansions on the right, most with their own swimming pools, all double-storeyed and immense, sparse but manicured gardens wrapped around the properties, palm trees commanding a huge part of the landscape. Could it be? But didn’t they just go past the Vasilikos Power Station? Didn’t they just leave behind them Governor’s Beach? Surely there something else at play here.

The voice of the driver brought him back to earth, severely cutting his ties with dream land, making him land back down to earth with a loud thud.

-And this my friend is Limassol.

It can’t be. It’s just not possible. Quick estimation. The city, his city, his birthplace, Limassol, his beloved Limassol must have doubled in size since he last traversed its coast, driving around the city and its peripherals for one last time before he headed for Larnaca where a plane was waiting to take him away, take him to a faraway land where the sun never shone, where the cold had long seeped through people’s bodies and had settled in their hearts. A drop had already formed in the corner of his eye. He ignored it, didn’t bother to brush it away. Tears of joy cascading now down his cheeks, running down his neck, leaving marks on his shirt. Tears well earned, tears both cleansing and pleasurable, his hypothalamus losing control. Handing over the reins to his emotions, now bubbling inside him and rushing to the surface. Now he was certain. He was finally home.

Savvas outstretched hand patting him on the shoulder.

-Cry my friend, cry to your heart’s content. Let the tears flow, let them rid you of your guilt, let them wash away those feelings of abandonment. I should know; I cried too when I first saw Limassol extending its welcoming embrace, calling me to her bosom. Only natural I think. After all these years of being away. This is where we belong Petros. This is the only place where we can feel complete and content. This is home.

Home. Home, sweet home. It felt good to hear that word. He tried uttering it.

-I am home again. Spiti mou.

It felt even better to say it, felt better to feel the words form at the tip of his tongue, then parachuting into oblivion, their meaning and importance vibrating through his head, leaving their indelible marks on his psyche.

-Welcome home, Blackeyed Pete. Enjoy your stay.

Not hearing anything. Not anymore. Consumed by emotions. Transported to a higher plain, as the car slowly veered to the left, finally leaving the freeway behind, going down side streets, heading for the hotel, driving down the promenade by the water.

-Anyway, as I was saying, the Cypriots have lost their way amongst all the wealth that has descended on the island. Every second person I meet asks me why did I leave the security of Australia for the adventure and unpredictability of Cyprus. And when I ask them what are they still doing here, why don’t they pack up and leave and go overseas, I get the same standard response. As if someone has photo-copied it and distributed it to every unsatisfied Cypriot. ‘Oh no, I can’t live away from Cyprus. This is my country, my home’. As if it’s not my country and my home. Know what I mean? As if you and I are obliged to leave away from her. Anyway, you will soon find out what I am talking about.

God, where did all these hotels sprang from? His eyes running from one building to the other, taking in their splendour and the whole gamut of their five star magnificence. Savvas again quick with the provision of answers.

-Russians. They have descended upon the island like a locust plague. They literally own this country by own. Remember the houses we saw perched up on the hills? Russian adobes too. Quite frankly if it wasn’t for Russians and their injection of cash, Cyprus would have long been gone and finished. It’s our fate I guess; to be under the thumb of one powerhouse after another. Enough with the history lessons though. Can I ask you something?

-Fire away my friend.

– Look, I can tell you follow football. Something about you. The question is though, who is your favourite team?

-Have a guess. Go on. Give it a shot.

A smile now forming on his face. And chills running down his back. Remembering AEL, his AEL, the lions of Limassol. Remembering a poster that he recently saw on the internet. A poster that said it all really. ‘AEL. The only reason for repatriation’. So true, so bloody true! AEL. Athlitiki Enosi Lemesou. Athletic Union of Limassol. He was dying to see the boys in yellow and blue take on the field. Dying to stand amongst the fans and scream his lungs out. AEL, the only connection – apart from his parents- to Cyprus. He was there when they raised the cup high in the air in 1985, 1987 and 1989, he was there when they lost the final in 1988. He was there when they got relegated, there for every victory and every loss. Perhaps not in body. But certainly in spirit, crying, laughing, screaming, elated or distressed, happy or sorrowful.

-Please tell me you are one of us. Please tell me you are a lion too.

-Spot on Savvas. Yes, my choices of colours have always been yellow and blue.

-See? I could tell you were a top bloke. We should catch up sometime. Have a beer, watch the game, you know, the usual.

-That sounds great man. Let’s do it soon. By now they had reached Petros’ final destination. Or better, the place he would be calling home for the next few months, at least for as long as summer was still reigning supreme. Until he sorted out everything that needed sorting. Until he was certain his original plans of making Limassol his base were finally confirmed, no longer doubts roaming his thoughts, running around in his mind unbridled, further confusing his already undecided mind. The Varonos complex. Mere metres from the beach. Right in the hub of the city’s tourist area in Yermasogia, offering close proximity to restaurants, cafes, bars and discos. Not that he planned on spending much time locked between four walls. Outdoors and beneath the clear blue sky or the canopy of stars is what he had more in mind.

The Varonos complex of apartments. White washed and clean, a single row of orange running across the facade of the building breaking the monotony. Not that new but not old either. Not too plush yet not too shabby. Perfect for want he wanted. To retain his anonymity, to remain incognito, free to come and go as he pleased. No obligations, no fears, no concerns. Free as a bird, a seagull traversing the waterfront.

He said goodbye to Savvas, refusing his offer to carry his luggage into reception. He could do that himself, no sweat. Surprised to see a blonde, blue eyed girl behind the counter. He had had enough with Northerners. All he wanted to see were people with an olive complexion. Even more surprised to find out her English were rudimentary, her Greek non-existent. Savvas was right. Those bloody Russians were everything. The price one has to pay for progress. Oh well. He paid for a month in advance, organised a hire car to be delivered soon -a red Honda HRV, the idea being he would have gone down dirt tracks in the mountains- climbed in the lifts, pressed the button for the 4th floor and off he went.

Once inside his double bedroom apartment he threw his luggage on the sofa and headed for the balcony, no time to waste checking furniture and decorations, not even time to relax. Pushing the door open he walked out to the balcony and stood holding on to the railing less than 25 metres from the water’s edge, 25 metres where those miniscule waves came to land on the dark brown sand, destroying sand castles, washing at the feet of passer-by. Taking the deep blue that unfolded in front of him, letting the sea breeze fill up his lungs, letting the water extend its invitation to take a dive, to splash around, to be merry, a child again.

And that is precisely how he felt: a child. A rebellious, adventures, naughty little kid that has found the perfect opportunity to escape his mother’s loosened grip and was ready to explore his surroundings, unobstructed and unhampered, only to find out things in the big world outside his carefully sealed space were not exactly as the fairy tales told it. A child lost and crying who has spotted his parents running around wild and worried, calling out his name and desperation. A child who was ready to spread his wings and fly back to the safety of his coup. A little, lost, unprotected child indeed.

 

Meantime back at the pier the boy had stopped practising his diving techniques. Joined by a group of similarly aged boys, they were all bombing the water, jumping with feet first, splashing around, wrestling in the sea, chasing each other on the pier. Time to go anyway. He had things to do, things he couldn’t, wouldn’t postpone any longer. He packed his camera in its bag, carefully stashing away the lenses in their compartment and headed back to his car. Soon he would be in his mother’s arms. Crying on her shoulders.

 

PHOTO AND COVER DESIGN BY SAVVAS TSESTOS LIMNATITIS