Border hopping in Cyprus (part 2): Varosha, exploring the ghost town that was once the favourite resort of Europe’s jet-set

Hidden behind a barricade in Northern Cyprus lies Varosha, once a glamorous resort town on the Mediterranean coast, now a haunting ghost town frozen in time. We unravel Varosha’s secrets, confront the conflicting emotions of curiosity and guilt, navigate the geopolitical complexities and contemplate the ethical implications of visiting a place where lives were abruptly disrupted.

Almost (accidentally) into Varosha

At the end of Palm Beach, a fence separated the beach from the Varosha district. Tourists were walking on the other side. We had already spent some time in medieval Famagusta, the city the Turks call Gazimağusa. Despite the towering presence of Varosha, the former resort town now crumbling under the weight of history, we didn’t actually know we could visit. Access to Varosha had long been prohibited under United Nations rules and online sources contradicted each other.

But now I saw tourists on the other side of the fence. Paddling through the water, I passed the fence. A guard immediately stepped towards me and firmly summoned me to return to my side.

“But what about those other people?” I asked and pointed at the tourists. He signalled for me to enter by another route. “Along the asphalt”, he said.

“Aha, so I need to pay to get in?”

“Nope, it’s free.” He made a movement as if he was pressing a people counter. The reopening of Varosha is a prestige project for the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. It likes to impress with visitor numbers. ‘Already 400.000 people visited Varosha’, we read on local news sites.

From glamorous resort to ghost town

On the morning of July 20, 1974, Turkish tanks rolled into the streets of Varosha. The resort was known as the Saint-Tropez of its time back then, a seaside town where everything revolved around seeing and being seen. Where the greats, the Brigitte Bardots and Elizabeths Taylors, merrily parked their shapely butts on beach chairs. On John F Kennedy Avenue, the boulevard running parallel to the beach, one luxury hotel sat next to the other. When the tanks came, the 40.000 inhabitants left in a rush. To the cities in the south, for fear of a massacre.

[In a previous blog post about border hopping in Cyprus, we explained the geopolitical tensions.]

Breakfast remained untouched on many tables. Taking over the main tourist destination, a gold mine for the Cypriot state, the Turks hoped to pile so much pressure on the Greek Cypriots that they’d have to give in to their demands. That did not happen. Instead, Varosha turned into a ghost town. Pots, carelessly left on kitchen fires, boiled over. In the garages of car dealers, the latest models from 1974 slowly gathered dust, transforming into oldtimers in slow motion. Years after the invasion, people still saw light bulbs burning through the windows of vacant buildings.

Angry Ottoman

A day after I illegally entered through the water, we decided to visit Varosha using the official route. Beyond the people counter. Varosha is now called Maraş. At the entrance, Turks with big moustaches rented rickety bicycles. We walked towards the beach – the other side of the fence so familiar to me. Whilst we drank coffee, bought from a little stall, one tourist group after another walked past the ribbon condoning off half the width of the beach. People roamed the length of the beach, past decaying hotels. That seemed completely okay, so we also ventured for a small walk. Halfway through the beach, I ignored the red warning signs and dove into a side street. Windows of hairdressing salons were smashed, weeds broke open the asphalt of the sidewalks and palm trees grew in hotel lobbies. It looked like a scene from a first-person shooter.

I was far from the first to enter the forbidden zone of Varosha. Not far from here, Paul Dobraszczyk, a British academic, climbed through a hole in a fence. He stepped, as Cal Flyn described it in her book Islands of Abandonment, into “a portal in a different world. He entered open doors and found himself in high-ceilinged rooms where paint flaked like petals onto hardwood floors; in the mall, where trees growing from the shopfronts stretched their thin limbs up towards the skylights. (…) From somewhere outside, not far away he heard the call to prayer in Gazimağusa, and allowed himself to listen, to coexist in both places at once.”

***

I didn’t stay long. I sprinted back to the beach and, together with Anete, headed back to the ‘legal’ part of the beach, the part where tourists were allowed to drink coffee. We still had a hundred yards to walk when a human pit bull started barking at us. He hadn’t seen me venture into town, that’s for sure, only saw us walking on the beach and decided to yell at us. “Faster, faster,” he bawled. Since we were already on our way back anyway, I thought that was an excessive order. I am not a monkey in the zoo who dances on command, hence I refused to speed up my pace. It made him furious. Steam blew from his ears, his face turned red. At some point, I thought he’d pull out an Ottoman scimitar. “You were trespassing,” he honked. Saliva escaped from his mouth. “Why aren’t you listening?”

“Calm down, bro,” I replied. I pointed at the sand, which looked like a herd of wildebeest had run over it. “Look at those footprints, everyone walks on the beach here.” In the meantime, I understood the reason for his anger. A group of tourists was following him. By ignoring his order, I had undermined his authority as a guide and had publicly insulted him. “STOP YELLING!!!” he snorted. His face turned from bright red to white-hot. “Or I’ll call the police and have you kicked out of Maraş!”

“Evicting people is what you lot like doing, huh?” I asked. As I walked away, I heard his head explode.

Is it ethical to visit Varosha?

The next day, we rented bicycles to explore deeper into the ghost town. This is only possible along a number of streets, which also lead straight through the UN post. One of the permitted routes directed us to Maraş Plajı, the beach of Maraş, where enterprising locals rented out beach chairs, sold beers and snacks, and pretended that nothing unusual ever happened there. You could convince yourself of that for a short time. After all, the appeal of Varosha still remained – the colours of the Mediterranean Sea and those of the sky blended seamlessly into each other, all dreamy soft pastels.

But reality also hits hard – it’s rather difficult to enjoy the beauty when you know the history. When you wonder how all those people have fared. Mr Papadopoulos from the souvenir stall. The owner of Michael’s Bar. The taxi drivers cruising down Kennedy Avenue looking for customers. The locals making lace, grilling steaks or shaking cocktails for Brigitte Bardot. Their ghosts linger. Because of that eerie past, every visit remains a disturbing experience – exhibitionist, almost pervert, as if you’re peering into lives on pause, abruptly cut in half. Varosha, the former jewel of the Mediterranean, was now crumbling.

The Turks – through Erdogan, among others – still use Varosha as a geopolitical pawn. By allowing tourists in, they turned the resort into a theme park, a mix between Chernobyl and Doel. And we do realise our indignation is hypocritical, as we, eager visitors, contributed to that perversion. This is surely something to consider if you’re planning to visit.