The Green Line
by Adrian Phillips
I'm here to walk through the middle of the world's last divided capital. It's not green at all, the 'Green Line' that splits Nicosia; it's more typically grey, a fence of corrugated metal and barbed wire overlooked by the odd tired watchtower. It could have been called the 'Grey Line', I suppose, if the commander of a peace-keeping force in 1964 had used a lead pencil to draw the ceasefire line on a map of the city; however, it was a green pen that came to hand, and the name of the barrier separating the fighting Turkish and Greek Cypriot communities – a barrier that a decade later had extended across the whole island of Cyprus – has confused all but the colour-blind ever since.
I approach from the Greek Cypriot side of this Venetian-walled city. Southern Cyprus oozes wealth, a place of vibrant bars and miles of crowded beaches; each steamy summer, hordes of British and Irish holidaymakers arrive for their week's quota of indigestion and sore skin. The skyline here is jagged with the square-topped fingers of high-rise hotels. On my way up Ledra Street, I pass polished boutiques showcasing shiny shoes and tailored suits; smartly dressed mime artists entertains the strolling throngs. I'm ten metres from the tense meeting point of the city's halves. Now five metres. The two blue-capped soldiers stop mid sentence and look across at me. 'Good morning', one of them says, with a nod, and turns back to his friend. And then I've crossed the line and slipped through to the northern side.
OK, so this isn't quite the daring raid it might have been. Earlier this year the metal sheet that for so long severed Ledra Street's head from its tail was dismantled, opening the central thoroughfare to citizens from both sides. This breach of the Green Line at the city's heart was richly symbolic of fresh hope for reunification of the island. But, for all its promise of reconciliation, what Ledra Street most vividly reflects is glorious difference. The UN soldiers watch over a portal to another world. Move north of the checkpoint and the atmosphere changes in an instant as . you're greeted by stalls hawking cheap clothes that haven't been near a label. When North Cyprus declared its independence in 1983, only Turkey recognised its status, and since then the region has been starved of the investment enjoyed by the south. The result is a contrast to warm the tourist's heart, for in the place of swish hotels are rough edges, an air of yesteryear and a cultural exoticism that has bubbled and thickened through international isolation.
First stop is the Bandabulya Market. As I enter, I'm hit by the smell of spices and strong coffee. Oriental scarves and pairs of multi-coloured slippers clutter the stall-holders' tables, while wet thuds carry on the air as a butcher hacks at staring sheep heads before tossing them into a basket at his feet. Old men nurse cigarettes while pondering games of backgammon, and flustered pigeons seek an exit. This is a raw flavour of the East. Next to the market is the Selimiye Mosque; with its carved porch and vast west window, it has more than a whiff of a Gothic church about it. When the Ottomans captured Cyprus from the Venetians in 1571, they appropriated the 13th-century St Sophia Cathedral for their own worship. While they stripped it of all easily stripped Christian symbols – even opening graves and removing the bones – the structural basics remained. The result is a wonderful architectural mishmash of minarets and flying buttresses.
I need refreshment, and it's but a short hop to the Büyük Han ('Big Inn'). This square-shaped caravanserai was constructed in 1572 as a spot for merchants and other travellers to rest for the night. A gallery runs around the first floor, with arched doorways leading into 68 little rooms where the guests slept; each room had its own hearth to keep the cold at bay on winter nights, and charming pointed chimneys are ranged in pairs around the roof. In colonial times the British used the inn as a prison, but today traders sit inside selling woven carpets, paintings and other handmade crafts. It's not a bad place to work, looking over the open courtyard and its marble-pillared miniature mosque. The fountain underneath was used by travellers for their ritual pre-prayer ablutions, I take a seat at one of the courtyard cafÈs, order a plate of ravioli, and while away an hour watching a performance of traditional Turkish Cypriot shadow theatre.
I decide to round off the day by taking a different perspective. The Saray Hotel's chintzy restaurant-bar wouldn't be your first choice to eat, but it sits on the eighth floor and offers the best bird's-eye views in the north of Nicosia. The hotel dwarfs all other buildings in the vicinity, and below are stacked terracotta-tiled roofs and spiky minarets. By contrast, beyond the Green Line lies a congested bank of homogeneous white high rises. It's a telling sight. The cash-poor neighbour is rich in other ways; I only hope that the character remains when the barrier finally comes down.
I need refreshment, and it's but a short hop to the Büyük Han ('Big Inn'). This square-shaped caravanserai was constructed in 1572 as a spot for merchants and other travellers to rest for the night. A gallery runs around the first floor, with arched doorways leading into 68 little rooms where the guests slept; each room had its own hearth to keep the cold at bay on winter nights, and charming pointed chimneys are ranged in pairs around the roof. In colonial times the British used the inn as a prison, but today traders sit inside selling woven carpets, paintings and other handmade crafts. It's not a bad place to work, looking over the open courtyard and its marble-pillared miniature mosque. The fountain underneath was used by travellers for their ritual pre-prayer ablutions, I take a seat at one of the courtyard cafÈs, order a plate of ravioli, and while away an hour watching a performance of traditional Turkish Cypriot shadow theatre.
I decide to round off the day by taking a different perspective. The Saray Hotel's chintzy restaurant-bar wouldn't be your first choice to eat, but it sits on the eighth floor and offers the best bird's-eye views in the north of Nicosia. The hotel dwarfs all other buildings in the vicinity, and below are stacked terracotta-tiled roofs and spiky minarets. By contrast, beyond the Green Line lies a congested bank of homogeneous white high rises. It's a telling sight. The cash-poor neighbour is rich in other ways; I only hope that the character remains when the barrier finally comes down.
Useful Links
northyprus.cc – general tourist information