Border hopping in Cyprus (part 3): Nicosia, the last divided city in Europe

Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, is the last divided city in Europa – split between two communities, living side by side but with a border separating them.

Since 1989, when the Wall came down in Berlin, Nicosia has been Europe’s only divided capital. Walk from one side to the other and the world changes. Those who enter the Turkish north from the Greek south notice that the sidewalks are suddenly more crooked.

In the north of Nicosia (or Lefkoşa in Turkish), you find a taste of Turkey – kebab shacks, small shops, and the hustle and bustle of a bazaar. The call to prayer lures people to churches that have been converted into mosques. North Nicosia oozes the kind of pleasant chaos we commonly associate with travelling outside of Europe. On the Greek side, tavernas serve tzatziki and souvlaki and the smell of freshly baked olive and halloumi bread wafts from bakery doors. Bells sound from orthodox churches, buildings no Greek can pass without making a cross. On one thing people on both sides can agree – coffee should be strong and served regularly.

***

Having arrived from Famagusta, we explored the north first. A Turkish Couchsurfing host took us around the cute Samanbahçe houses, the first social housing in Cyprus. We also visited the Büyük Han – once a caravansarai, an inn where travellers could rest, now a hub of small souvenir stalls. Our host, however, could not enter the south of Nicosia. He had arrived directly from mainland Turkey – a border violation in the eyes of the Greeks.

We walked into the Greek side without him. In Leda Street, underneath a mosaic that read ‘peace’, a man sat talking on his phone. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. During the turbulent 1960s and 70s, Leda Street was known as the “Murder Mile”, where Greek-Cypriot fundamentalists carried out terrorist attacks against British soldiers. This heightened tension would eventually lead to an Athens-backed coup attempt and the subsequent Turkish invasion of the island. Nowadays, Leda Street is the place to be to enjoy ice cream.

A walk along the Green Line: exploring the border in Nicosia

In Nicosia, the Green Line cuts through the city like an open wound, a wound that still festers from time to time. Hopefully, it can heal one day. From the Greek part, you can see a huge Turkish flag perched on a mountainside, a thinly disguised middle finger to the south. I have a thing for borders, though – the weirder, the better. And so we make a walk along the border in Nicosia, turn into roads that dead-end on oil barrels and barbed wires, and stroll past bullet-riddled buildings, sandbags and decaying guard posts. Taking photos is not allowed. When I secretly snap a shot, a border guard shushes us away. When we find a craft brewery next to the Green Line – owned by a Czech, so it’s a Czech point for beer – we sit down and drink. Make beer, not borders.

Immigrants and animals

The situation in Nicosia has far-reaching consequences. North Cyprus profiles itself as an education hub for developing countries, attracting talent from Asia and Africa. Some of these students, however, have different motives – they see North Cyprus as a springboard into Europe. Encouraged by smugglers, three Cameroonians crawled over a wall and jumped into the buffer zone in May 2021, convinced they had entered the EU. They had not. Stuck in the buffer zone, the three had nowhere to go. Cyprus didn’t want to grant them asylum, afraid it would inspire others to take the same route. As more and more smugglers are trying to get refugees into Europe via Cyprus, the EU’s easternmost member, some whisper it’s a deliberate strategy by the Turks to pile on the pressure.

Fortunately, there are also positive effects. In the excellent Islands of Abandonment, Cal Flyn describes how in 2008 a group of scientists – seven Greek Cypriots, seven Turkish Cypriots – started researching the biodiversity in the buffer zone. Cyprus is densely populated, but nature has been given space again in the Green Line. In villages, Cyprus mouflon, a wild sheep that only lives on this island, used abandoned buildings to shelter from the sun and winter storms. The biologists also found bard owls, foxes, falcons and rare plants. They counted 358 species of plants, 100 species of birds, 20 species of reptiles and amphibians and 18 species of mammals. A lack of people removes threats and turns the buffer zone into a no man’s land, a kind of nature reserve.

Border madness in Nicosia, part one: fucked by the Turks

After our border walk, we entered the Turkish side of Nicosia again. The customs officer asked how long we wanted to stay. The question caught us unawares. No one had asked when we first entered North Cyprus two weeks earlier and, besides, EU citizens could stay in North Cyprus for up to 90 days. We didn’t know yet, but didn’t want to sound too eager either, so I said: “Oh, about a week or so.”

“You have ten days”, the customs officer muttered. Still, no alarm bells off in my head. Surely, he couldn’t unilaterally change his country’s visa regulations, right?

Almost two weeks later, after spending most of our time in Kyrenia, we returned to Nicosia on a Saturday. We were staying on the Turkish side and wanted to visit a museum on the Greek side. So, we headed to the border crossing again. The place was bustling with day-trippers seeking cheap entertainment in the Turkish north. We presented ourselves to the Turkish border guard, who studied us with seriousness.

“Do you live in North Cyprus?” he growled.

“No, we are just regular travellers”, I replied.

“But you have overstayed by two days.”

“That can’t be”, I feigned indignation. “Ninety days ago, we weren’t even in Cyprus yet, let alone in North Cyprus. How could we have overstayed?”

“You were given ten days, and you stayed twelve.”

***

EU residents were allowed to stay in North Cyprus for up to 90 days. But, it turned out, it all depended on the mood of the person at the counter. If they woke up on the wrong side of the bed, you could be in trouble. (We later found out we were just unlucky, as this situation was highly rare. When we afterwards met a Turkish Cypriot in a craft beer bar – yes, you can possibly spot a trend – he apologised profusely on behalf of his country.)

The border guard even brought in the officer who had issued our visa twelve days earlier. He claimed we had told him we would take a flight from North Cyprus, a completely fabricated story. Nevertheless, we had no choice but to endure the bureaucratic purgatory. It meant paying a fine of over 300 lira (around 20 euros) for each day we had overstayed. Of course, paying the fine wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. We had to go to another border post, elsewhere in Nicosia, which wasn’t accessible on foot. So, we ended up wasting even more hard-earned cash on a taxi ride. At the other border post, it became evident once again why semi-legitimate countries engage in such practices. Paying the simple fine required the involvement of at least half a dozen officers and a stack of paperwork – a thinly veiled way of employing people.

Border madness in Nicosia, part one: fucked by the Greeks

In this saga of border madness, it was only fair that the Greeks had their turn to bamboozle us. Two days later, a Greek Cypriot customs pulled a truck on us, evening the score to 1-1. We had left our Airbnb early that morning – not only to anticipate any issues at the border but also because I wanted to see a different crossing point. The border crossing at the Leda Palace Hotel is the one where you can walk through the buffer zone over the longest distance. We passed the iconic hotel, standing tall yet devoid of guests – except for the occasional visits by UN members and dignitaries. Unfortunately, time pressure prevented us from enjoying a cup of coffee at the Home for Cooperation, a community centre in the middle of no man’s land that aims to bring people together and foster unity between North and South.

We passed the Turkish border officers without difficulty. The Greek Cypriot, however, demanded our vaccination passes – two days earlier, he hadn’t even glanced at them. Mine had expired a month prior, exactly seven months after my last shot, but I had a negative test result in hand. The customs officer adjusted his glasses, looked again at my vaccination certificate, then looked at me and started counting: “August, September, October…”

“Yes, I know it’s been more than seven months, but I’ve taken a rapid test”, I quickly interjected and slid the test result paper towards him. The officer glanced at the paper, then at me, and started counting again. “This test is more than 48 hours old. Didn’t they tell you on the other side?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “No, of course not! They don’t care over there!”

***

To be fair to the customs officer, it was true. North and South Cyprus, we had noticed, were polar opposites when it came to Covid measures and their enforcement. In the north, we could enter anywhere without a second thought. In the south, however, even a visit to a local grocery store felt like going through airport security. This customs officer was unyielding – he wouldn’t make an exception even for his own grandmother, let alone a foreigner who had the audacity to visit those “dogs” from the north. There was no choice but to turn back and search for a testing centre.

As we were on a tight schedule, needing to make the bus to Paphos, I asked the man if he knew where I could find a pharmacy to get an antigen test done. He looked daggers at me: “Are you crazy? I haven’t been on the other side since 1974.” Perhaps it will still take a while before the wound is healed.