red rocky land

At sunset we drove out to the tip of the Karpasian Peninsula. As I stood under the blushing sky, the sound of waves and flags snapping, I oriented my body towards the border between Hatay and Syria, my feet pointing with the spear of red rocky land. Thoughts swelled, running like a tide, with the consistency of sea foam.

I might never get to see the place where my father was born. The little Syrian border town with the hospital named after his father—he was a doctor there— the dusty streets where my grandmother bought chocolate from a Turkish bakkal on the other side— I had planned to see it all with my Tante Leyla before the war. It was supposed to be during an April.

I inhaled deeply, wondering if the scent on the wind was edged in Syria or Turkey.



On our drive back to the hotel, the radio began spattering in Arabic.
The only words I understood were 'Daesh' and 'bomb'.

yellow grass, mediterranean blue

Before leaving Turkey we decided to take a four day trip to Cyprus, knowing that it might be a while before we would be so close to the island again. Since flights from Istanbul only fly directly to Northern Cyprus, and are a far cheaper option than the journey to Larnaca, our choice on which part to visit was made simple.



I had been to Limassol and Nicosia in my childhood, and the only real memory I have of the trip was the clarity of the sea and the patterns on its submerged rocks, ever-changing shapes made by golden sunlight twisted by waves. I remember how some of my aunties and cousins fled to the island during the war in Lebanon, and lived there for a time.



Northern Cyprus was always a bit of a mystery. No one I knew ever spoke about it except to claim that it was run-down, dirty, and rough; that its inhabitants were as one person put it (to my disappointment and shock), "behind". I don't know why their perceptions were so negatively coloured, but I ignored them, eager to see for myself what it was really like.

I admit that I have read so little about the history of Cyprus, but I have gathered that as in much of the region's history, it was violent, bloody, and heartbreaking— divided land, divided people, exiles and refugees, homes taken. There was a lot I saw on this trip that unsettled me, but rather than focusing on the negative, I would like to express how beautiful Cyprus is, and how lovely the people on both sides are.



As it was summer, the grasses had dried a beautiful ochre, and the sea was a deep blue. The relentless drone of cicadas pulled the very thoughts from my mind, and the air smelled of earth and salt.

inexplicable things

salty lips

When faced with the choice between swimming in the sea and taking a cable car up snowy Mount Olympos, I chose the sea. Salt on my lips, that invigorating chill on my limbs— definitely better than a 55 lira trip up a tourist trap. After lazily drying off in the sun, I treated myself to a yummy lunch of pan-fried trout and some çay.

from orchard to sea

After settling into our tiny wooden bungalow at the very chill and funky Bayram's, Molly and I decided to take a walk to the beach to see how far away it was. The cool breeze brought salt and the heavenly scent of orange blossoms, and the sun was warm enough to make us forget the rainy grey city we left behind. We set out down the road, cameras in hand, thankful for the sun.

To get to the beach, one must pay a very affordable three lira, as the area is a major historical site full of hidden Hellenic, Roman and Genoese ruins. We decided to wander off the main path into the woods to quickly scout out some of the crumbling structures and found ourselves in the most beautiful little orchard, dotted with flaming red poppies. I felt like a little girl again— exploring, inspecting and marvelling. Honeybees and unrecognisable beetles caught my eye, and the rustling of an animal in the brush conjured up images of mythical beasts in my mind. I was slightly disappointed to discover that it was just a very determined-looking chicken.

Hello, Mediterranean.