Islands, Ironies, and the Quest for a Visa
8 CYPRUS
120
Km – 8 Days
14
September – 22 September 2007
FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER
Prelude
Cyprus
appeared like a reward: an island, a slower pace, maybe even a bed. After weeks
of momentum, I imagined calm cycling, simple borders, and minimal paperwork—a
bold fantasy, in retrospect. With renewed hope and absolutely no understanding
of the political situation, I rolled off the ferry ready for rest, resolution,
and whatever plot twist came next.
14 September – Girne
Vidmantas kindly offered me his house
while he was away. I accepted immediately — after weeks of camping, a real bed
feels like winning the lottery.
Cyprus is the third‑largest island in
the Mediterranean and politically complicated. The Republic controls the south
and west; the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus controls the north; and a UN
buffer zone slices through the middle. I stayed in the north because visas are
a thing.
15 September – Girne (Kyrenia)
I attempted to get a Syrian visa, but
the embassy was in the Greek-controlled south, which I couldn’t enter. After
exhausting all options, I got a leg wax and pedicure instead. Sometimes
diplomacy requires self-care.
16–17 September – Girne
I explored the coast by bicycle.
Cyprus was mountainous, arid, and beautiful, though new developments were
threatening turtle nesting sites. I spent another day trying to contact the Syrian
Embassy. No luck. I decided to try my luck at the border instead.
18 September – Girne to Kaplica (60
kilometres)
I thanked Vidmantas and headed toward
Famagusta. By late afternoon, I found a beach bar with a restaurant and decided
it was perfect for camping. September meant only a few tourists remained —
mostly pale Brits in Union Jack swimsuits. A cultural experience.
19 September – Kaplica to Famagusta (60
kilometres)
I cycled over a mountain first thing
in the morning — an aggressive way to start the day. I chose a hotel near the
harbour for convenience, as the ferry to Turkey supposedly left at 8:30 a.m.
Famagusta was fascinating, with
Venetian walls and ancient ruins. I wandered for hours and collected mosquito
bites like souvenirs.
20 September – Famagusta – Mersin – By
Ferry
I arrived at the harbour early, only
to learn the ferry left at 8:30 p.m., not a.m. Classic.
I spent the day exploring the Salamis
Ruins, dating back to the 11th century BC. Later, I met two Nepali cyclists who
were travelling the world. I suspected they used public transport more than
bicycles, but kept this observation to myself.
21 September – Mersin to Atakia (By
Bus)
The ferry was a rust bucket, but it
floated, which was all I required. A man fell overboard during the night, but
the crew rescued him impressively quickly. I slept lightly after that.
The Nepali guys and I took a bus to
Atakia. We stayed at Sister Barbara’s. During the night, one of the Nepali men
fondled my breast. I yelled, grabbed my things, and moved to a locked
dormitory. The little bastard.
The next morning, I packed up and
cycled to the Syrian border, grateful not to see them again.
22 September – Atakia, Turkey to Aleppo,
Syria (110 kilometres)
At the border, I met four British
motorbike riders heading to South Africa. They introduced me to Ahmed, a tour
guide who helped them get Syrian visas. He guided me through the paperwork and
disappeared. Three hours later, I had a visa. Miracles happen.
Cycling into Syria felt like entering
another world — conservative, ancient, desert-scape, and culturally rich.
Archaeological finds date habitation back to 700,000 years.
The road passed through cotton fields
and typical Syrian communities with mosques, markets, and courtyard homes that
looked modest on the outside but luxurious inside. I fell in love with the
architecture and vowed to build a courtyard home one day.
Cyprus gave
me a real bed, a political headache, and a ferry schedule that boldly rejected
the concept of time.
