Cyprus in Ruins

On an island where every promontory seems to shoulder the romantic ruin of an ancient age, one courtyard of orderly Roman columns and crumbling stone baths sprawls across 16 centuries to a shore where modern beach-goers bob like corks in a buoyant Mediterranean.

Among the remnants of at least a dozen different histories, this site at Salamis may be the most dramatic site on Cyprus. And most of the island’s population has been kept from seeing it for more than 20 years.

Cyprus is an adventure split in two: Clambering over the stones of the Bronze Age city of Salamis is an experience denied to the Greek Cypriots of the island’s southern half, just as access to nearly as glorious relics of the western half--the arches of Kourion, the Tombs of the Kings in Paphos, the Byzantine-frescoed churches of the Troodos Mountains--are off-limits to the Turks of the east.

Turkey’s invasion of Cyprus in 1974 created the island’s current divide between two Mediterranean cultures technically at war and very much at odds. But it picks up from a trading back and forth of Cyprus that goes back through hundreds of remakings over thousands of years.

Every empire to spread across the Mediterranean--the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Crusaders, the Ottomans, the Venetians and undoubtedly some others in between--has battled for claim to Cyprus, an island gateway between Europe and the Middle East. Each age has left behind its rich remains, like the sea foam marking Mediterranean high tide.

By the time I reached the seaside columns and baths of Salamis, I’d visited the sea-sprayed rocks where one version of Greek legend places Aphrodite’s birth, the spooky preserved tombs of the Ptolemies, the Byzantine church where Lazarus spent his extended life, the 7th century tomb where Muhammad’s aunt was buried, the Crusader castle where Richard the Lion-Hearted was wed, the dramatically crumbling Gothic churches of once-Venetian Famagusta, and the mountain village of lace makers where Leonardo da Vinci once bought an altar cloth and gave rise to 500 years of “Leonardo Lace” souvenirs.

Only a traveler from elsewhere can cross the sandbagged Green Line from the Greek side to the Turkish to see both sides of the island revered for centuries as the birthplace of the Greek goddess of love, but historically just as hospitable to her mythological husband, the god of war.

I crossed the chasm between cultures the only place one can, in Nicosia--which since the fall of the Berlin Wall is the only divided capital city in the world.

I signed a guard station’s entry book as if visiting an office building, and with my shoes crunching a pebbly path, I strode alone past a former luxury hotel where United Nations soldiers had hung their laundry off cement balconies. Another sentry warned me not to take photographs as I gaped at Cyprus’ most contemporary ruins--sandstone-colored houses left roofless since the Turkish advance, the blue sky visible through the glassless second-story windows.

The Greek side of Cyprus, where 80% of the population lives, is still a thriving, varied country. Balancing the hectic beach-side cities are rustic mountainside towns, which help Cyprus produce more wine per capita than any place in the world. Vineyards seem to sprout on virtually every spare acre of sloping land, even behind the convenience stores. During grape harvests, road signs caution drivers: “Warning: Grape Juice on Road.”

The Turkish side, from which Cypriot Greeks fled after the invasion, covers one-third of the island but two-thirds of the former tourist attractions and beaches. The sites now rarely attract foreign visitors because the occupying government is not recognized by any other country, and day passes from Nicosia are the only legal entry. The Turkish side is more sparse and run down--symbolized by the once-thriving border city of Varosha, now empty except for troop patrols.

In a kind of cultural standoff, the Turks have renamed the towns--Gazimagusta for Famagusta, Girne for Kyrenia, and so on, while the Greeks have relabeled local foods normally associated with Turkey: Cyprus Delight, Cyprus coffee.

My arrival on Cyprus wasn’t auspicious: My flight landed in Larnaca at 2 a.m., my rental car was nowhere to be found and no one at the family-run inn in the mountains where I planned to stay answered the phone. So I booked myself near the airport in the Princess Beach hotel, the most attractive of a string of serviceable high-rises. In the morning, my first dip in the Mediterranean proved to be just the restorative a weary airplane traveler needs--I floated in the gently rocking water without effort, almost forgetting the ambitious itinerary through history I had planned.

But I had some serious wandering to do, and I finally began heading west from Larnaca and backward in time. While still in the city, I saw elaborate iron doors gracing putty-colored buildings in various states of repair. An 8-year-old boy named Anas charged admission to the abandoned 16th century Grand Mosque while his grandfather played backgammon across the street. From the top of the narrow minaret--Anas demonstrated how to climb it--one can look down on an Ottoman fort and the tree-lined harbor. And down the street, the heavy 10th century Byzantine church of Ayos Lazarus--adorned with a graceful 19th century square Italian campanile--marks the site of Lazarus’ ministry after Christ resurrected him, according to the Bible.

Just outside of town is a holy site of the Koran, an oasis of cypresses amid the salt marsh that surrounds the domed Tekke of Hala Sultan (Monastery of the Holy Lady). Inside is the 7th century tomb of Prophet Muhammad’s aunt--the most revered Muslim site on Cyprus, though now inaccessible to Turkish Muslims. Just to the north, an Ottoman aqueduct surfaces in a gully along the highway, to be fleetingly glimpsed like wildlife running for cover.

So far I’d laid eyes on four different ages, and I was still within sight of the airport.

Farther along in the foothills of the inland Troodos mountains, I reached the village of Pano Lefkara, where I had meant to stay the first night. The village’s red roofs, nestled amid green slopes, are gathered around the twin towers of a church’s campanile and mosque’s minaret, from the days when Greeks and Turks lived side by side. Each daylight, a stream of buses break the calm of Pano Lefkara as they unload tourists looking to buy Da Vinci’s favorite lace from young women who sit sewing in the doorways of the shops that line half the streets.

My inn, the Lefkarama Village--which until the Hotel Agora opened last year was the only one in Pano Lefkara--is a historian’s delight. It is half 1,000-year-old stones and half new stucco, built around a circular 10th century chapel that once was the district’s only church. The vault and its cross were visible both from the street and the window of my modest room; the chapel is kept open every day and a priest comes once a year to hold services.

The intimacy of this chapel is outdone only by Pano Lefkara’s sidewalk sanctuary, a chapel the size of a public restroom built into the side of the village hall next to a telephone booth. The intensity of the gold-leaf icons lining the walls is unmatched by some of the grandest cathedrals in Europe; I crossed myself involuntarily, a gesture I wouldn’t have thought I knew how to make.

The next morning, I explored the emptier corners of the village, where the sunlight filtered down onto huge terra cotta wine pots sitting below shutters painted a faded sky-blue, remnants of the nationalist gesture of painting homes in the blue-and-white of the Greek flag. My innkeeper, Podromos Zacharias, explained the custom to me. He was among those Greeks who lost their homes in what became the Turkish side; he has not heard another word of it since.

I angled southwest toward the city of Limassol on the island’s southern shore. It featured a tacky commercial strip, but also is near the ancient cities of Amathus and Kourion and is the home of the Crusader fortress Limassol Castle. But the archeological jewel of the area is Kourion, where a restored Roman theater, Byzantine mosaics and a sprawling maze of arches, double arches and crumbling columns marking 1,900-year-old temple ruins all overlook the sea from the edge of 300-foot cliffs.

And the highlight of Kourion is the sanctuary of Apollo, where a pair of strangely archaic columns tower over a site that has stood in disarray since its partial destruction in an earthquake in AD 365, and which was itself a copy of a temple dating back to the 7th century BC.

Once, young men would fling themselves over the chalky cliffs as sacrifices; now, the beach below is one of the most picturesque in western Cyprus, not at all spoiled by the sprawling beach tavernas. My next hotel, the luxury Columbia Beach, past the end of the highway in Pissouri, had the best beach yet, and nearby was the best Cypriot food I’d had outside of New York City. My table at Yialos Taverna, loaded down with Greek mezes, fresh stuffed grape leaves, and swordfish spiced with tomatoes and onions, overlooked the restaurant’s own vineyard and beach from an outdoor terrace. Under the glint of the moon, two rocky escarpments made shadowy curves of the cove, and the lapping of the waves gently competed with the sound of Greek music.

From Pissouri, I reached my westernmost point in Paphos, where the embarrassment of historic riches included a 12th century monastery featuring monks’ quarters that were little more than caves with brilliant frescoes; a mixture of miraculously preserved mosaic mansion floors; the sprawling set of seaside colonnaded vaults that housed the leaders of the Ptolemaic government after the conquest of Alexander the Great; a pleasant seaside row of restaurants ending in an Ottoman fort, and a ruined Crusader castle--Saranta Kolones.

It was a scattering of Cyprus’ endless ages in a single city. And with only a day left, I finally headed north across the Green Line to see the Venetian walls of Nicosia and Famagusta, and wonder about the house where my Pano Lefkara innkeeper Podromos Zacharias used to live.

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GUIDEBOOK

Cyprus Checklist

Getting there: Out of LAX, there’s connecting service only on KLM, British Airways and LTU International Airways to Cyprus’ main airport in Larnaca on the Greek side, about a 10-hour flight; round-trip fare is about $2,170. You can fly for less by changing carriers. For example, take Swissair to Zurich, changing to Cyprus Airways to Larnaca for about $1,790 round trip..

A passport, but no visa, is required.

It is impossible to fly to the Turkish side except from within Turkey because no other government recognizes the Turkish occupation.

Crossings: From the Greek side, tourists can cross the Green Line in Nicosia by the United Nations post in the Ledra Palace Hotel--but only for daytime trips. Travelers must return to the Greek-side checkpoint by the designated time, which ranges from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m., or risk being denied reentry. Also, one’s actual passport must not be marked with a Turkish entry stamp; it must be done on a separate piece of paper, or reentry may be denied.

Taxi driver-guides wait by the Turkish checkpoint for tourists crossing from Greek Cyprus; about $80 (after bargaining) should buy a full day’s trip; less if you can spend only a few hours. Rental car offices also are nearby. There are two main choices for visiting, in addition to walking around northern Nicosia: east to Famagusta and Salamis and west to Kyrenia and St. Hilarion Castle. There is no access of any kind to the Greek side for travelers starting on the Turkish side.

Where to stay: Recommended: Columbia Pissouri Beach Hotel, Pissouri; telephone 011-357-5-221-201; rates $100-$200. Hotel Agora, Lefkara; tel. 011-357-4-342-901; rates $35-$45. Lefkarama Village Hotel, Lefkara; tel. 011-357-4-342-000; rates $30-$40. Princess Beach, Larnaca; tel. 011-357-4-645-500; rates $80-$120.

For more information: Cyprus Tourism Organization, 13 E. 40th St., 1st Floor, New York, NY 10016; tel. (212) 683-5280, fax (212) 683-5282.