Things I hate about Cyprus

Right...here it is. I'll try to keep the rant to a minimum. (Following on from 'Things I love...')

1) Class mobility

Especially in the countryside, where an up-to-recently peasant class has quickly transformed into a middle class. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you say. However, the problem is that what makes the hitherto peasants middle class are simply more material possessions. No cultural/spiritual progress has taken place, and in a way, this is much worse, as at least the peasantry had an organic relationship with the land. Its children have 4x4 BMW's and houses with two kitchens (a Cypriot first?). Our grandmothers raised 7 children while working in the fields. Their grandchildren employ Vietnamese servants and hire limos for their children's birthdays (this last one I was told, never witnessed, thankfully).

2) Racism, xenophobia, a swing to the right

The direct consequence of the Cypriots' newfound affluence and material cornucopia is a certain insecurity and fear of losing their prized possessions. Enter fear of: gypsies, foreigners, asylum seekers, the EU, Greece. Add to that the perennial fear of Turks, Brits and Americans and society is shaping up nicely for ghetto-ing its 'lesser' members. Even people who used to be left-wing-and still pretend to be-have developed right-wing, xenophobic ideas (sorry Omonoia fans, the Che Guevara t-shirt is simply not enough)

3) Land for sale

The same people who fear foreigners are more than happy to reap the benefits of globalisation and the EU. Example: what was until recently a rural landscape was largely carved up by 'developers' who built huge complexes of villas for the well-off Brits and Russians who fancy a house in the sun. This is all built and supported by Sri Lankan and Syrian builders, Vietnamese au pairs and servants, Ukranian, Belarussian sex slaves, Bulgarian farm hands, Polish hotel workers and so on. On top of that, people are xenophobic, because the people who do the dirty jobs for pittance are visible. Have cake/eat cake? That is the question. My dream is that one day we will tear down villas with our bare hands in order to plant potatoes again in order to survive. I can dream, right?

4) Individualistic realism/Realistic individualism

The fact that most people are looking after no. 1 without consideration for anyone else. Driving through Frenaros, I saw a car parked on a pavement (common practice). The problem was that a lady on a wheelchair had to get into the road to get through. Fucking barbaric. The examples are endless.

5) Being cosy: bad for reunification

Many Greek Cypriots find the current political situation rather cosy, and would secretly prefer it to remain like this or even be formalised with two independent states. The reason, product of years of brainwashing and material insecurity, is a lack of interest in living with the Turkish Cypriots. I suspect the latter don't feel very differently.

6) The obliteration of farming

The EU told us to stop growing things and buy them from other countries. So now we have Argentinian oranges, whereas in the years before 1974 Famagusta hosted an orange festival. And farmers gave their land to 'developers'.

7) The complete politicisation of heritage

See number 8 here. The Turkish-Cypriot Department of Antiquities will simply not put a padlock on this beautiful medieval Armenian church, just because it's not their heritage (their words). Medieval heritage, especially Frankish and Venetian, is simply not highlighted, in case someone thinks the island is not thoroughly Greek/Turkish.

8) Inadequate or non-existent public transport

The only people who walk in Cyprus are tourists and the previously-mentioned foreign workers. They often die on the streets, as there are many areas without proper pavements. People drive everywhere, no matter the distance.

9) The Greek-ification of Greek-Cypriot TV

By this I mean that our newsreaders, sports commentators and advert producers feel that they have to imitate Greek as spoken in Athens, even suppressing the Cypriots' ability to pronounce harder sounds so that they sound more 'Greek'. It sounds just stupid, as if forcing everyone in the UK to sound like the Queen. Fuck that. Be natural. We are Cypriots.

Things I love about Cyprus

Every time I go back to Cyprus for holidays (and to see family) I have to readjust to life there, even if it's just for a few days. It goes without saying that the differences with the UK are fairly sharp. Some things I have to revert to, some others are totally new. However, I always find things I love, new and old, discovered and re-discovered. And of course, things I absolutely hate. Here we'll deal with the nice things, because they matter more.

1) The light

You forget how brightly the sun shines. The photographs are easily over-exposed, and everything is awash with sunlight

2) The sunsets

Sunsets in Cyprus are exceptional. The sun shines red, illuminating the barley fields and painting purple the few clouds that always seem to appear above Pentadaktylos, the northern mountain range.

3) The smell of the evening dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields

Sorry, I can't possibly describe this. I guess you'll just have to travel there

4) The fact that fresh and locally produced fruit and veg are (still) easily available

Despite the best efforts of Carrefour and Alpha Mega with their Peruvian grapes and Kenyan onions

5) The beaches

But then again, I'm biased...

6) People's attitude to children

People don't disapprove and tut whenever you take your toddler to a restaurant or a museum like they do in the UK. People in Cyprus love children, and it's very relaxing. Brits, especially older people (shockingly, as they should know better) always show their disapproval with this expression they make, the one where they look at you and quickly turn away. I've had this in restaurants and also places like National Trust properties. In addition, in Cyprus people don't believe in the whole 'strict routine for children' nonsense. Nobody forces their kids to sleep at 6pm.

7) The fact that you can (still) escape

Despite its small size, Cyprus still has some beautiful, undiscovered spots which I cannot reveal here. All the 'development' couldn't ruin the countryside. And it's all within an hour's drive.

8) The history

I am stunned by it every time. The Cypriots' (both Greek and Turkish) fixation with their respective Hellenistic/Byzantine and Ottoman 'pasts' means that the island's huge medieval, Frankish and Venetian heritage is largely unexplored, under-promoted and relatively hard to find. And when you do find it, it is simply spectacular. Limassol Castle houses one of the best museums (in terms of content rather than presentation) of 'Crusader Cyprus'. Famagusta, due to decades of political limbo and neglect, is a rough diamond half buried in the sand (as the name Ammochostos suggests). The old town was one of the richest cities in Christendom in the 14th century and it shows. Its Gothic architecture and Venetian ruins are simply impossible to fathom. And yet we're fixated with Hellenistic...

Did I mention the smell of the dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields? OK then...

See also: things I hate...

Nutters I have known #1: the Basque

According to Will Self, 70% of the world's nutters are in University in some shape or form. In a way it makes sense. Universities are inhabited by people who spend lifetimes focusing on something so small and intricate, that they often lose any sense of reality. Communication with the environment becomes a burden rather than necessity. Wearing white socks with sandals all of a sudden sounds like a good idea. But that's not to say these people are bona fide nutters. They are simply eccentric. But the most eccentric of these most definitely strayed into nutter territory. This series of blog posts is dedicated to these weird and wonderful (when they are not your flatmates) people.

Being a student and then working at Universities since 1993, you understand that I have had way more than my fair share of nutters. Maybe I am one of them myself. Memory is a tricky thing, it makes you think of them in better colours than you really should. You need to really rake your brains to re-discover the fury you felt at the time, so that you depict them fairly and accurately.

#1: the Basque scientist

The one who by far takes the biscuit, the top prize, was a flatmate of ours called 'Juana'. The Mrs-Blackbeard-to-be and myself lived in this extremely cold and damp flat at the top floor of a lovely Victorian house. The house being lovely made up for the rotting windows and the extreme cold. Or so she says.

Juana was a Basque student in Engineering, doing research on something I never quite understood. She went on to get a research post, working in the lab. In any case, she was one of the most driven uni-nutters I have ever known. She had an Italian boyfriend who visited weekends and was a half-nutter himself, but we'll deal with him later.

Here are some of Juana's traits:

• She was so extremely stingy that she often ate food way past its sell-by date. On one occasion she got poisoning from expired prawns
• In order to save money, she took a bus day ticket, went into town, loaded herself with groceries from the open market, came home, dumped the bags, got on the bus again, went to the big supermarket and returned with another load of groceries
• the above visits happened on Fridays, because that's when said supermarket had loads of 'reduced' items-hence the expired stuff
• she bought food for 8 people from the market (5 pineapples for a pound, 3 melons for 50p, that kind of thing). As it was impossible for any human being to consume so much food in a week, most of it lay rotten in the fridge or in the fruit basket
• she refused to pay with a card at the supermarket, because "the black man at the checkout may memorise my card number". Her words, not mine.
• She was paid for a 9-5 job at the lab, but she woke up at 6, went for a swim, started work at 7 and came home at 7. 12 hours. She also went weekends. She slept at 8.
• So that she wouldn't spend money, she made a pot of coffee in the morning, put it in a plastic container, and re-heated it in the microwave at work
• She would have a tub of double cream on its own as dessert. (I suspect she thought it was some kind of yoghurt)
• When the boyfriend came for the weekend, after dinner she'd order him to their room for a 15-minute sex session after dinner. She then slept and he sat with us to watch TV. He liked Van Damme films. We didn't.
• On Sunday mornings she woke up, filled up a huge pot full of dry chick-peas and water, put it on the fire and then went back to bed. The chickpeas needed a good 2 hours of boiling. She did this so the boyfriend could take some boiled chick peas back with him. He also carried his dirty clothes with him on the train so she'd wash them for him.
• Although she lived with us for more than 2 years, she never got used to the idea of having a cat in the house. He constantly startled her, and she reacted like this.
• She ate so much pre-prepared food that she often blocked the toilet with her stools. She then spent hours locked up in the loo, hopelessly trying to unblock the toilet with bleach and huffing at it. She never used the toilet brush. When I told her that she could, she was offended.
• She often tried to burn us down by forgetting the stove on.
• A colleague of hers broke up with her boyfriend. Juana thought that she was a slut because she'd had an ex-boyfriend-in her mind, you're only supposed to have the one, marry him and have his babies.

I was very happy when she eventually moved out.

The dream of the spherical goddess

Ever since I hurt my ankle and gave up football, 18 months ago, I have been wanting nothing more than to kick a ball. It's as if my heart defies what the body knows: I've hurt both ankles twice. Last time it took me over a month to walk, and I can still feel that my ankle is weak, probably permanently. But I sometimes go to bed and the moment I close my eyes I make that killer pass from right-back all the way to the winger. It can't be helped. I've been playing the game ever since I can remember. Some of my first memories are of the World Cup of 1978, with that fantastic poster. I remember my dad going to the coffee house to watch games with the other men in Ayia Phyla, that's about it.

I even vaguely remember Aston Villa's 1982 European Cup win. But my first, big football memories were from the 1982 World Cup in Spain. The images flood back: naranjito, the mascot, the brilliance of Brazil with Socrates, Zico and Falcao. Everyone around me loved Brazil and wanted them to win it. But I somehow rooted for Italy. Our local grocer's was giving away world cup posters of teams, and I landed one of Italy, clad in their away white strip. It's funny, but that simple coincidence in the course of my childhood, one of many, has determined my support for a national team which never plays attractive football. And then there was Marco Tardelli. In the final against Germany he scored, and produced the most passionate celebration of all time: he turned and ran towards his team's bench, screaming 'goal' and crying tears of joy. That image has remained etched in my memory, the explanation to why football inexplicably becomes the passion for millions of people. That was it. I've been supporting Italy since.

As a player I was never great. When I was in school there were no real positions-everybody followed the ball, wherever that was, to form a huge scramble of feet, elbows and heads in search of the goddess. We used to play in a dusty field next to my mother's house, clouds of dust rising. I remember taking a bath afterwards, and the water turned red in the tub, the colour of the soil, blood from my knees. We'd have matches with teams from other neighbourhoods, with all the hostility seen in a Barcelona-Real Madrid classic.

A stint in the youth team of my village didn't really last all that long. I guess, as Roberto from Byzantium said to me once, "the mind is quicker than the body". He of course meant that we were getting old. I think it also means that some people can produce on the pitch something resembling the brilliance we saw on the screen. I couldn't. I was useful I guess. I could kick the ball, and as I grew older, I developed a good sense of positioning and passing, to compensate for my complete lack of pace and mobility. I also gradually developed the ability to pass and shoot with both feet, so I could play anywhere on the pitch. Except goal.

In the meantime I began to worship the divine ponytail, Roberto Baggio. He represented all I loved about football. Talent, commitment, work ethic, but most of all he was a sound character in a sport where these were rapidly disappearing. I started playing for the uni team as an undergrad, and then when I came to the UK I bumped into the Byzantine Roberto, another one who 'excelled' on the pitch after the age of 30. By then I'd moved to defence, using my 'wisdom' as a counter to the lack of physical condition. I began to play hard, but also developed my passing based on the Italian defenders who never ever hoofed the ball, but rather patiently brought it out and started counter-attacks. I hated giving the ball away more than anything. Roberto, like his Buddhist namesake, played in attack. His 'genio Italiano' as Captain Steve called it, served him well, and he went on to score goal after goal for our struggling team. Bizzarely I never scored, not even when we (rarely) came up against teams considerably weaker than ours whom we thumped. And then, when I went to Italy for Roberto's wedding, I bagged the perfect hat-trick in a match among his friends the night before his big day. I bagged one with the right foot, a screamer with my left, and a header in the first half. And that was the last time I scored.

And now I just watch. I thought of taking up coaching. Archery. Something. But nothing is like it. No matter how many hours I play the guitar, the buzz is never the same.

Clubs and national teams I love and have loved

Anagennisi Deryneias (home club)

Omonoia Nicosia

Nea Salamis Famagusta

Italy 1982

Argentina 1986

Soviet Union, World Cup 1986 and European Cup 1988

Yugoslavia 1990

The miracle of Denmark, 1992

Romania 1994

The wonderful Czechs, 1996

Mexico 1998

Players/icons

Marco Tardelli

Diego Maradona

Georghe Hagi

Hristo Stoickov

Roberto Baggio

I am sure Roberto will remind me the ones I forgot...

Dedicated to Eduardo Galeano, whose writings on the goddess are the best tribute to the passion.

Πηλά τζιαι ρόφκια (μέρος Β')

(συνέχεια από το Α')

Άμαν τζιαι εφκήκεν ο ήλιος για τα καλά, τζιαι η φύση γυρόν τους ήταν πιον όξυπνη, εσηκωστήκαν σιγά-σιγά τζιαι εμπήκαν πιο μέσα στο περβόλιν. Ερέξαν που μες τα δεντρά ως την άλλην άκραν του περβολιού, εγυρίσαν τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν που μες το περβόλιν, φακκώντας παλαμάκια, σφυρίζοντας τζιαι πετάσσοντας μέσα-μέσα καμιάν πέτραν ποτζιεί-ποδά για να φαράσουν τα πουλιά να πετήσουν προς τες ελιές που είχαν στημένα τα βερκά τους. Την ίδιαν ώραν, είχαν τζιαι τον νουν τους άμπα τζιαι δουν τίποτε που εμπορούσαν να παίξουν με τα λάστιχα τους. Ο Αγγελής είδεν έναν αμπελοπούλλιν πας το κλωνίν μιας ελιάς. Εσημάθκιασεν με το λάστιχον τζιαι ξαπόλησεν το αλλά εν το κούτσιησεν. Έφερεν το λάστιχο στο στόμαν του, έφτυσεν μέσα αλλό έναν βούκκον σκάγια τζιαι εσυνέχισεν με το φάραμαν.

Άμαν εφτάσαν πάλαι στο τέλος του περβολιού, τζιαμαί που εκάθουνταν πριν, εκάτσαν πάλαι πουκάστην τερατσιάν τζιαι αννοίξαν τες τσέντες τους. «Ελπίζω να έφερες κανέναν χαλλούμιν ποτζιείνα της μάνας σου» είπεν ο Παράσκος του Αγγελή. «Ακατάγνωτα, εν κάμνουμεν δίχα του» επολοήθηκεν του ο Αγγελής. Έφκαλεν που την τσένταν του το χαλλούμιν, λλίες ελιές, κανέναν-θκυό αγγουράκια τζιαι λλίον ψουμίν φρέσκον που έψησεν η στετέ του, ούλλα τυλιμένα σε μιαν μαντηλιάν της κουζίνας. Ο Παράσκος έφερεν τζιαι 2-3 αυκά βραστά τζιαι εμπουκκώσαν κάθοντας πουκάστην τερατσιάν, θωρώντας τον ουρανόν τζιαι παρατηρώντας τα πουλλούθκια. Ένας κουρκουτάς εθώρεν τους με περιέργειαν που μιαν τρύπαν στον κορμόν της τερατσιάς. Είδαν έναν μπουλούκκιν μαυρόπουλλους να πετούν ψηλά, προς τον νότον. Αχ τζιαι να πιάνναν κανέναν που τζιείνους, ήταν όμορφα πουλιά τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους ήταν πολλά γλυτζιήν. Αλλά είχαν άλλα πουλιά να πιάσουν προς το παρόν.

Εποσπαστήκαν που το μπούκκωμαν, εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προσεχτικά προς τες ελιές τους. Που μακρά εμπορούσαν να δουν ότι είχαν πιαστεί λλία πουλλούθκια, αλλά εκοντέψαν σιγά-σιγά άμπα τζιαι φαράσουν άλλα που ήταν κόμα μες τα δεντρά. Ο Παράσκος είδεν μιαν τζίηκλαν πιασμένην πας σ’εναν βερκίν τζιαι εβούρησεν να την πιάσει άμπα τζιαι καταφέρει τα τζιαι φύει. Εφκήκαν πας τα δεντρά τους τζιαι εσυνάξαν γλήορα ότι επιάσαν: αμπελοπούλια, κοτσιηνολαίμηες, μούγιους, κοτσιηνονούρες, δακκαννούρες. Ο Αγγελής έβαλεν ούλλα τα πουλλούθκια που ετρώαν σπόρους μες το κλουβούιν του: κανέναν-θκυό ζαρτηλούθκια, έναν τσακρίν τζιαι θκυό κουτσομουττούθκια. Ότι έτρωεν σπόρους εκρατούσαν το για το κλουβίν, τζιαι κάποια ήταν πολλά πολύτιμα για την ομορκιάν τους τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους, όπως τα ζαρτήλια τζιαι τα κουτσομουττούθκια. Τα άλλα πουλλούθκια επνίαν τα, τζιείνα ήταν να καταλήξουν στο τραπέζιν.

Εστραφήκαν πίσω στην τερατσιάν τους να πνάσουν. Αφήκαν το κλουβούιν με τα ζωντανά πουλιά πουκάστες ελιές για να φέρουν άλλα με το κελάηδημαν τους. Εκάτσαν λλίην ώραν τζιαμαί αλλά εβαρεθήκαν να κάθουνται ύστερα που λλίον. Ο Παράσκος ήβρεν έναν ττενεκκούιν αγιωμένον τζιαι εκούμπησεν το χαμαί, μπροστά που την τερατσιάν. Ο Αγγελής μεμιάς εκατάλαβεν το παιχνίδιν. Εσταθήκαν τζιαι οι θκυό λλία μέτρα που το δεντρόν τζιαι αρκέψαν να το σημαθκιάζουν με πέτρες μέστα λάστιχα τους. Μετά που θκυο-τρείς απόπειρες, εκούτσιησεν το ο Αγγελής. Το ττενεκκούιν έκαμεν έναν κούφκιον ήχον τζιαι πετάχτηκεν κανέναν μέτρον πιο τζιει. Εξαναστήσαν το τζιαι αρκέψαν ξανά π’αρκής. Ούλλα ήταν τσιάττισμαν για λλόου τους.

Μετά που λλίην ώραν, είπαν να ξαναπάν στα βερκά τους. Αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προς τα δεντρά σιγά-σιγά, αλλά η ησυχία εταράχτηκεν που την τσιριλιάν του Παράσκου που έδειχνεν με το δάχτυλον προς τες ελιές: «Μαυρότζιηκλα, μαυρότζιηκλα!» Ο Αγγελής εξαπόλησεν ότι εβάσταν τζιαιμαί που ήταν τζιαι αντάκωσεν του βούρου, φτάνοντας στο δεντρόν μετά που εκουτσούφλησεν τζι έππεσεν μες το φρεσκοκαμωμένον χωράφιν. Εφκήκεν γλήορα πας το δεντρόν τζιαι έφτασεν πας το κλωνίν που ήταν πιασμένον το πουλλίν. Έπιασεν το απαλά-απαλά με το δεξίν του, κρατώντας το βερκίν με τ’αριστερόν, ξικολλώντας το σιγά-σιγά να μεν του χαλάσει τα φτερά του. Εβάσταν το σαννα τζιαι ήταν το πιο εύθραυστο κομμάτιν πορσελάνη στον κόσμον. Ένιωθεν την καρκιάν του να χτυπά γλήορα τζιαι δυνατά. Εκατέβηκεν σιγά σιγά που το δεντρόν, κρατώντας προσεκτικά το πουλλίν. Αγαπούσαν πολλά τες μαυρότζιηκλες, γιατί εν επιάνναν συχνά τζιαι εκελαηδούσαν πολλά όμορφα. Εκαθάρισεν την κόλλαν που τα ποούθκια της με λλίον νερόν τζιαι έβαλεν την μες το κλουβίν.

Σιγά-σιγά ήρτεν η ώρα να συνάξουν τα βερκά τους τζιαι να παν έσσω. Τα πουλλούθκια μες το κλουβίν εθέλαν σάσμαν. Αρκέψαν το σύναμαν, με την αντίθετη πορείαν που εκάμαν το πρωίν. Εσυνάαν, ετυλίαν τζιαι εβάλλαν τες μάτσες μιαν-μιαν μες τες κουκκουρκές τους. Άμαν ο Παράσκος ήταν πας τη δεύτερην του ελιάν, άκουσεν έναν φτερούγισμαν βαρετόν πουπάνω του τζιαι είδεν την νοσσιάν νου γερατζιού να κάμνει κατά το δεντρόν στο τέλος της σειράς. Είδεν το τζιαι ο Αγγελής. Αρκέψαν να φωνάζουν πέρκι φοηθεί τζιαι φύει αλλά τίποτε. Το γεράτζιν έσσιησεν τζιαι έκατσεν πας σ’έναν βερκίν που ήταν πιασμένος ένας μούγιος. Άρπαξεν το πουλλίν τζιαι πέτησεν, παίρνοντας τζιαι το βερκίν μιτά του.

Εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους, εχτός που το χασημιόν βερκίν του Παράσκου, τζιαι εσαστήκαν να στραφούν έσσω. Ήταν μετά το μεσομέριν τζιαι αρκέψαν να πεινούν. Ο Παράσκος εφιλοσόφησεν το πράμαν: «Ε, νομίζω το γεράτζιην εκέρτησεν τον μούγιον, παίζει τζιαι τζιείνον το ίδιον παιγνίν με μας». «Ναι, μεν έσιεις παράπονον. Ρίζει περίτου που λλόου μας πας τα πετούμενα τ’ουρανού», απάντησεν ο Αγγελής. Περπατώντας προς το περβόλιν με την τερατσιάν, οι μιτσιοί εσταματήσαν τζιαι συνάξαν λλία ρόφκια. Εκάτσαν πουκάτω που την τερατσιάν τους, εκόψαν τα, εγλύψαν το ζουμίν που έτρεξεν μες τα σιέρκα τους, τζιαι εφάν τα λαίμαργα. Θέλεις ήταν η ώρα, η πείνα τους, ο ήλιος που έλαμπεν μεσοούρανα, τζιείντα ρόφκια ήταν τα καλλύττερα που εφάν.

(φώτο δαμαί)

Πηλά τζιαι Ρόφκια

(Translation of mud and pomegranates part I)

Ο Αγγελής επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα άξιππα, σάννα τζιαι θώρεν όρομαν. Εκοίταξεν το ξυπνητήριν. Η ώρα εν ήταν ακόμα τρεισήμισυ το πρωί. Το ξυπνητήριν ήταν να παίξει η ώρα τέσσερις αλλά που την ανυπομονησίαν του ένωσεν πιο πριν τζιαι ξύπνησεν. Οι Κυριακές ήταν οι καλλύττερες μέρες-έν είχεν σκολείον τζιαι εμπορούσεν να κάμει ότι έθελεν, συνήθως να παίξει μάππαν ή να πάει τζυνήιν. Εσηκώστηκεν, εφόρησεν την παλιάν στολήν του τζιυρού του που τον τζιαιρόν που ήταν έφεδρος, έναν πράσινον παλλιοτρικόν με τρύπες, κλάτσες χοντρές. Ήπιεν στα γλήορα έναν ποτήριν γάλαν, βλέποντας πόξω που το παράθυρον. Ήταν ακόμα πισσούριν. Εφόρησεν τον σάκκον του, τες ποΐνες του, άρπαξεν την τσένταν του τζιαι εγύρισεν το κλειδίν τζιαι έφκηκεν έξω μες τον ψόφον του πρωινού.

Έμπηκεν μες την παράγκαν τζιαι μετά που λλίον έφκηκεν με την κουκκουρκάν του τζιαι έναν κλουβούιν στο σιέριν. Εκρέμμασεν την κουκκουρκάν πας τον ώμον του τζιαι ίσιωσεν κατά την άλλην μερκάν της γειτονιάς να εύρει τον φίλον του τον Παράσκον. Ο Παράσκος ακόμα εν ήταν τζιαμαί, μάλλον ήταν ναν στην ώραν του-εν θα επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα του νωρίς όπως έκαμεν τζιείνος. Έκατσεν πας το σιμιντιρούιν τζιαι είδεν γυρόν-γυρόν. Η γειτονιά ήταν ακόμα αμίλητη, ακίνητη. Τα περίτου φώτα ήταν σβηστά, εχτός που κανέναν-θκυο, τζιείνων των άτυχων που έπρεπεν να σηκωστούν νωρίς να παν δουλειάν. Έκατσεν τζιαμαί τζιαι απορρόφησεν το παγωμένον πρωίν του Οχτώβρη, τα τελευταία της αστρόλουστης νύχτας, την γλυτζειάν μυρωθκιάν του γιασεμιού. Αγάπαν πολλά τζιείντην εποχήν, που το καλοτζιαίριν ακόμα εποκράτεν, αλλά άρκεφκεν ο σιειμώνας σιγά-σιγά να κοντέφκει, σαν νοικάρης ανυπόμονος να μπεί στο σπίτιν.

Ήταν χαμένος μες τες σκέψεις του τζιαι η φωνή του Παράσκου αντελόσσιασεν τον. «Ίνταμπου ρε Αγγελή; Ονειρέφκεσαι πάλαι; Εν θα πιάμεν τίποτε έτσι!» «Έσιει ώρες που σε καρτερώ ρε αμπάλατε», επολοήθην ο Αγγελής, προσπαθώντας να ξυπνήσει που τες σκέψεις του. Ο Παράσκος εκουβάλαν την δικήν του κουκκουρκάν, έτοιμος τζιαι σε μεγάλα κκέφκια. Εφύαν που τον κύριον δρόμον τζιαι επιάσαν έναν μονοπατούιν που επήαιννεν προς τα χωράφκια. Το πισσούριν εκατάπιεν τους, αλλά εξέραν πολλά καλά που επηαίνναν. Τζιείντην στράταν εκάμαν την πολλές φορές τζιαι εξέραν την με τα μμάθκια κλειστά. Εσυνεχίσαν να πειράζουν ο ένας τον άλλον για κάμποσην ώραν, όμως τα παιχνίθκια τους σιγά σιγά ελλιάναν τζιαι εσσιέπασεν τα τζιαι τζιείνα η νύχτα αφήννοντας τους μόνους τους με τες σκέψεις τους. Ήταν έναν όμορφον πρωίν, ο αέρας ήταν γλυτζιής τζιαι ήταν χαρούμενοι.

Σιγά σιγά ερέξαν που τα πηλωμένα μονοπάθκια προς το τέλος του χωρκού που επηαίνναν συνήθως για τζυνήιν. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Μάστρε Κογκολή με τες αρχαίες ελιές, τόσον παλιές που εν εκάμναν πιον ελιές. Είχαν συγκεκριμένα δεντρά για τα βερκά τους, ο καθένας τα δικά του-τζιαμαί τα εβάλλαν κάθε φορά τζιαι εξέραν τα κλωνίν-κλωνίν. Τα δεντρά ήταν πανάρχαια, με κορμούς κούφκιους, σαν να τζιαι ήταν κάμαρες σε σπίτιν, τζιαι τζιειμέσα επαίζαν χωστόν τζιαι πόλεμον με τους φίλους τους. Κάποτε ο Μάστρε Κογκολής άφηννεν την μούλαν του διμμένην πας το δεντρόν, τζιαι επαίζαν τζιαι μιτά της τους κκάουμποϋς.

Τζιείντο πρωίν έν είχεν με μούλαν με Κογκολήν. Τα κοπέλλια εκινούνταν όσον γλήορα εμπορούσαν μέσα που τα ολοκότσιηνα πυλά. Επήαν ο καθένας στα δεντρά του. Ο Αγγελής έφκαλεν μιαν μάτσαν βερκά που την κουκκουρκάν τζιαι έβαλεν την πας σ’εναν κλωνίν στο πρώτον δεντρόν. Εφκήκεν σβέλτα πας το δεντρόν, με τες ποΐνες του να γλιάζουν πας τον αρχαίον κορμόν. Άμαν έφκηκεν τζιαι επάταν καλά, άρπαξεν την μάτσαν τζιαι έβαλεν την νάκραν του πρώτου βερκού στο στόμαν του, εκράταν την μάτσαν με το αριστερόν σιέριν τζιαι έκοψεν το βερκίν με το μασιαίριν που εβάσταν στο δεξίν, κόφκωντας προς τα έξω. Έστησεν το βερκίν σε έναν άννοιμαν των κλωνιών, να το θωρούν καλά τα πουλιά. Έστησεν ούλλην την μάτσαν τζιαι εκατέβηκεν, εφκήκεν το διπλανόν δεντρόν, τζιαι το πάραδιπλα ώσπου η κουκκουρκά εφκαίρωσεν. Έξι δεντρά, έξι μάτσες βερκά. Έβαλεν τα δαχτύλλια του μες το στόμαν τζιαι σφύρισεν κατά την μερκάν του Παράσκου. Ο Παράσκος εσφύρισεν τζιαι τζιείνος που την άλλην μερκάν του περβολιού. Ο Παράσκος έν εφτύχαν πολλά, έτσι που ήταν τζιαι λλίον σγούρτουλλος, τζιαι ο Αγγελής ετάνισεν του για να ποσπαστούν. Άψε-σβήσε εποσπάσαν τζιαι την κουκκουρκά του Παράσκου.

Εσυνάξαν ούλλα τους τα πράματα τζιαι αρκέψαν να περπατούν γλήορα, μακρυά που το περβολούιν, κατά την μερκάν νου άλλου καμιάν εκατοστήν μέτρα μακρυά. Έπρεπεν να ποσπαστούν τζιαι ναν μακρυά που τα βερκά πριν το χάραμαν, τζιαι ήδη άρκεψεν να φαίνεται ο ορίζοντας ολοκότσιηνος στην ανατολήν να μοιράζει την νύχταν στα θκυό. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Καννή τζιαι εκάτσαν χαμαί, με τη ράσιην τους να πνάζει πας τον κορμόν μιας τερατσιάς. Εν είχαν τίποτε να κάμουν εχτός που να περιμένουν. Εγείραν πας τον κορμόν τζιαι εκαμμίσαν αλλά η κρυάδα εξύπνησεν τους. Τα πρώτα πουλλούθκια αρκέψαν κελάηδημαν, τζιαι η πρωινή χορωδία άρκεψεν πρόβες.

(συνεχίζεται)

Cicely revisited: Northern Exposure 20 years later

I was very fond of Northern Exposure first time round. I was about 18 and it was shown on Cypriot TV (then with only 2 state channels) at obscure times. As an 18-year-old I probably connected with Ed, the half-Indian lad who's discovering himself and life around him, and has a keen interest in cinema. I also thought that Chris Stevens (played by John Corbett), the solitary, ex-con intellectual radio DJ, was the coolest thing ever and wanted to be him. Clever, good looking, he had a Harley. I loved the fact that everything around him, the seemingly simple, and at times downright brutal life in the countryside, always had a poetic and literary extension, two sides of the same coin.

The central story was of course the love tension between Joel Fleischman, the New York doctor 'exiled' in Alaska as 'payback' time for his scholarship and Maggie O'Connell, the local pilot/plumber/landlady (who I had a huuuuuge crush on). Other stories of course do exist, and Northern Exposure was written to bring out a warm, fuzzy feeling towards its characters and their problems.

Having discovered the joys of broadband, we decided to revisit the scene of the crime (Mrs Blackbeard is also a fan). I was a bit apprehensive about it, as revisiting usually ends up in disappointment. I always find that there was a reason I loved something when I was 18, and that reason simply does not exist anymore. I was worried that it would spoil my memory. I was wrong. Northern Exposure is not only as fresh as ever, but revisiting the characters and stories allows me to explore other, previously unseen dimensions which I hadn't noticed as a teenager.

For example, Chris Stevens, although cool and deep, is sometimes downright pretentious. Joel Fleischman can be a bit of an arse sometimes. Ed is rather slow. But apart from all these re-inventions of characters, based on our own life experience-something which severely tints our viewing glass-the story remains beautiful. Lovingly written, well executed, in a magnificent setting (it was filmed in the town of Roslyn, Washington State). The key messages are still there: our relationship with nature, the people around us, ourselves. I am wondering also what this journey says about ourselves. What do we learn by reinterpreting our past experiences? Is a story fixed or fluid? If you know, let me know please. In the meantime, I am enjoying it more than ever.