Loving the Alien

In my last entry I spoke of adapting to and embracing Military Life when my family and I moved to RAF Akrotiri in 2007. When we first entered the system, it became very apparent that we had to urgently and adeptly learn a new language. I’m not talking about Greek, as spoken by the locals here, what I’m referring to is MOD-Speak.This is a curious form of Olde English designed to baffle and confound, no doubt a form of anti-espionage tactics, and mainly consists of anacronyms and abbreviations, peppered with a healthy dose of metaphors. It also appears that most military personnel, not content with the names their parents no doubt carefully chose, prefer to answer to nicknames, even when being addressed formally. I found it most confusing to be greeted with phrases such as “Nobby, the 2IC of the REME has gone AWOL” actually translated as “Major Clarke, the deputy officer of the Royal and Electrical and Mechanical Engineers appears to be skiving off”. And in my past life living with civilians, the only ‘BFG’ I was aware of was Roald Dahl’s Big Friendly Giant. But, eventually, I found my ear adapting to this foreign gibberish, and I even dared to dabble in returning a few phrases myself.
Ironically, living in Cyprus, the one language I have failed to master is Greek. Much to my shame, after residing here for almost four years, my bi-lingual abilities extend only as far as ‘please’, ‘thank-you’, ‘excuse me’ and a swear word which comes in very handy when some idiot cuts you up on the roundabout in his BMW (most effectively executed with a universally recognised hand gesture). For most of my language failings I fully accept the blame, however, part of the problem is compounded by the fact that 99% of Cypriots have a very good command of the English language. The Cypriots in general are a wonderful and very quirky race of people. They have always extended, at least on the face of it, a very warm welcome to a bunch of eccentric foreigners who have occupied and isolated some large tracts of land on this beautiful island. Admittedly, the British presence has generated a good amount of employment and revenue for the Cypriot people, however we must never forget that the island belongs to them and they were here with their trading routes, stunning architecture and sophisticated education systems while we still trying to work out how climb down out of the deciduous forests.
One of my first encounters with some of the ‘locals’ was just a few days after arriving at Akrotiri, and was quite a memorable one. I was pottering about in my kitchen when there was a knock at the door and I found, waiting on the doorstep, two swarthy boiler-suited gentlemen brandishing rakes. The elder of the two, pushed a cigar to the corner of his mouth and grumbled, “we here to clear garden”. So, dutifully, I showed them to the back gate and indicated that they should get on with what was required. Returning to my kitchen I busied myself with the chores to the background noise of hedge clippers and strimmers. All of a sudden there was a tap at the window and the younger of the men, shouted through the fly screen “You take clothes off?”.
Naturally I froze on the spot, aghast, wondering what to do next. Obviously sensing my confusion the young gardener repeated the question “You take clothes off, please?”. At this point I was struggling to maintain eye contact in an assertive manner whilst backing carefully towards the knife drawer when suddenly my gaze caught the young man’s pointing hand. His arm was stretched in the direction of my washing line, gaily adorned with clean clothes which the considerate young man had concluded would be dirtied by the dust generated by the garden clearance. I breathed a sudden sigh of relief and the ensuing hysterical laughing that emanated from me probably only confirmed the Cypriot belief that the British are not just eccentric but positively bonkers.
From thereon, I embarked upon my journey of discovery of the lovely people of Cyprus. Some conclusions I have drawn in my 44-month investigation so far include the following:Cypriots are incredibly laid-back individuals, whose sense of time and urgency are the polar opposites of the MOD’s pressing deadlines. There is a concept here of ‘Cyprus Time’, which on average is usually at least one hour, and more frequently one day or more, behind any allocated appointment or booking. The locals have a much-used phrase: “Siga-Siga”, whose literal translation means “slowly, slowly” but it is more accurately interpreted as “whatever”, “whenever” or the literate expression of the shoulder-shrug. The job will be done, just not when you expect it.
The one exception to the chilled-out attitude of the locals is when they get behind the wheel of a car. For some reason, the act of placing the key in the ignition can transform a placid, relaxed individual into an impatient, near-homicidal maniac, for whom any obstacle on the road, be it a line of traffic, a tractor, a herd of goats or an old lady on the zebra crossing, proves to be no obstacle at all. The art of overtaking in Cyprus is best achieved on blind bend, whilst conversing on a mobile phone and drinking an ice-cold frappe.
The Cypriots have an unprecedented love of the mobile phone, yet seem to have still to grasp the concept that these telephones have a sophisticated and highly sensitive microphone. Most conversations overheard are experienced at a high decibel level and, to the untrained ear, sound remarkably similar to a violent domestic incident. This scenario is in fact very rare and most of the shouting and wild gesticulation is of a genial nature.
In Cyprus, as in many Mediterranean countries, the OId Lady rules supreme. Unlike in the UK, where the majority of our Senior Citizens are treated with a shameful disdain and neglect, in Cyprus, the older matriarchs are proffered the utmost respect. It appears to be an unwritten rule that the longer one exists on the earth the more one feels entitled to have things your own way. This rule applies most profoundly in supermarket queues. No matter how long you have waited at the delicatessen to be served your halloumi and tahini dip, if an Old Lady is within twenty feet of the queue’s end, she will feel fully entitled to elbow , shuffle and viciously handbag her way to the front, reducing even the most assertive grown men to submission. Any individual who attempts to usurp this power ploy will be greeted with disapproving stares, teeth-sucking and badly veiled envy. It is best to concede defeat in this case and hope that these women are working solo.
Continuing with the shops and supermarkets theme, I need to touch on the Cypriot shopkeepers overwhelming generosity and touchy-feeliness when it comes to the presence of children, particular those who look obviously ‘foreign’. My two red-haired, pale-skinned children learned very early on in our tour here that an endearing smile and a cutely tilted head was very often enough to obtain them freebies and/or sweeties in the majority of shopping outlets. The same applied to restaurants and cafes where lollipops and ice creams flowed bountifully at the flick of an auburn curl. It took a little longer for me to shake my reserved British sensibilities and conclude that the touching, hair-stroking and even kissing of strangers’ children was a form of compliment and not the pre-emptive strike of the ‘paedos’ that the British tabloids would have us believe lurk on every corner.
So there we have it, a capsule view of living ‘amongst the natives’. In conclusion, I have to say I find the Cypriots to be a wonderful, warm and fascinating bunch of people whose quirks and foibles only add to the richness of our experience so far here in Cyprus. I am proud to call some of the Cypriots working at Akrotiri my friends and hope to remain so for many years to come.