Let's Go Outside

It’s been a fun few days for the Lundies here at Akrotiri, with an inordinate amount of time spent, “al-fresco”, under the still clear, starry skies of Cyprus.
Earlier this week, we were treated to the Flamingo Theatre’s fabulous rendition of “Allo-Allo”. For those not old enough to remember, this was a BBC comedy aired in the 1980s which depicted the trials and tribulations of the residents of wartime France. It was a tremendously popular show, and the cast and crew at Akrotiri certainly did it justice. Despite being in the sticky heat of a Cyprus summer evening, the audience were soon transported to the humble establishment of downtrodden café owner, Rene Artois, an illusion made all the more credible by the fact that the seating was laid out around café-style tables and the audience were encouraged to bring along their own picnics. The show itself rattled along fabulously with outstanding performances from the café owner, a man with a life complicated by not only two mistresses and a suspicious yet frustrated wife, but by double dealings with the Nazis and the French Resistance, not to mention the problems associated with the hiding of two British Airman and the smuggled painting of “The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies” which had been incredulously concealed within a large sausage.
I do feel it a little unfair to single out individual actors amongst such a stellar and hard-working cast, however special commendation must go to the characters of Officer Crabtree (“that stupid Englishman who thinks he can speak French”) for a very polished delivery of some cracking double-entendres, vaguely disguised as French mispronunciations; also to Michelle of “la Resistance” whose spectacular costume changes from Spy to Call-Girl to Nun did not once soften the impact of her legendary catchphrase: “Listen carefully, I shall say zis only once”. Some tremendously overboard farcical performances were executed by the likes of the Italian peacock, Captain Bertorelli, the incompetent Nazi officers and the fabulously leggy Helga, whose swastika-adorned cami-knickers caused quite a stir amongst some onlookers.
Credit must also go to the backstage crew who conjured up a fantastic and authentic set from almost nothing and to the costume artists who worked hard to obtain the superb outfits in time. I have it on good authority that a brief check of the internet history of the costume and props manager might raise a few eyebrows. They would have to do a bit of explaining as to why they needed to place orders for Nazi uniforms, handcuffs, blow-up dolls and cami-knickers!
Anyway, hearty congratulations to all involved and a “break a leg” for the next two additional performances next week hastily scheduled due to popular demand!
Our second outdoors venture was in a much less civilised, but no less enjoyable vein. Last Saturday, the Lundie Clan joined twenty or so other families for an overnight camping adventure at the Happy Valley camping ground in Episkopi garrison. The weekend was a venture organised by Akrotiri Ladies Events and proved to be not only fun-packed but grime-filled in the way only “roughing it” in a dusty wooded area can be.
Following a hearty lunch in a local cafeteria, a convoy of happy campers drove their way to the picturesque beach-side site to be greeted not by a village of neatly arranged and sophisticated tents but by stacks of folded green canvas. Our first challenge of the day was the erection of our temporary homes. Not for us the ultra-light, easily assembled, modern, waterproof domes of the contemporary tent-dweller – oh no! The canvas monstrosities that we were faced with were the old style military style 9x9s, the like of which I’m sure I had only previously seen on the label of a bottle of ‘Camp Coffee Essence’ popular during times of the Boer War! I can only say that 30+ degree heat and high humidity is not conducive to attacking the conundrum of interlocking poles and heaving dusty, stubborn sheets of military issue canvas over a frame, which you hope vaguely, resembles a shelter for the night. Once that challenge has been met, the next endurance trial involved entering the newly erected sweat-box in order to fathom out exactly how to fold out the camp beds whilst disentangling oneself from the mass of mosquito netting that seems to adhere itself to your sweaty, exposed flesh.Of course, eventually, after much huffing and heaving, and re-organising when we discovered we had built our tent inside out, we stood back and, exhausted yet proudly, surveyed our handiwork, eagerly anticipating the forthcoming day’s events.
The first activity of the day was the treasure hunt, which had been kindly and expertly organised for us. This involved pairing up with another family and following clues and a map in order to collect tokens from various key points around the campsite. Having teamed up with the family of the Station Commander and being married to a Customs Officer who amongst his duties was required to patrol the very area in which we were hunting, I was pretty confident that victory was imminent. Dear reader, I was wrong. It turns out that the removal of an official uniform renders both family heads incapable of determining east from west, and, as we passed the same clue-post for the third time, hopes of success were fading. So we did the honourable thing – ducked into the beachside café for a sneaky coffee and cake and sent the kids to steal the answers off their friends in other teams.
Once all errant families were gathered back, it was time for a brief raffle and dinner. The food was provided by the local CESSAC caterers who arrived in a van loaded with sausages, burgers, nuggets, potatoes, salad and all the trimmings. I suspect that they also added to the authenticity of the experience but unleashing a legion of wasps that seemed to home in the moment the first tin-foil pack was unwrapped. Still, that’s part of the joy of camping isn’t it?
After food, the children were all presented with prizes for the treasure hunt, which included a bag of sweeties resulting in the inevitable sugar rush. Still the hazards were minimal, apart from a labyrinth of guy-ropes and fold-up chairs, so the parents cracked open the bottles and tinnies while the little darlings ran around in sugar-fuelled frenzies, gathering layers filth in the process.
For me, the highlight of the event was at sundown. Due to the Fun Police (aka the Health and Safety Executive) placing an embargo on campfires, many of us brought along solar lights and lanterns, so as the sun dropped behind the hills, the lights began to twinkle and glint. An unexpected treat was the ingenious idea of a couple of the campers to obtain a few box loads of Cyalume glow sticks to give to each of the children (and a few parents, too). It was an awesome sight to see hundreds of red, blue and green rods running round the camp attached to darkness-obscured little people. In the nearby football field, a large number of children took it upon themselves to hurl the glow-sticks high in the air so that they momentarily resembled a fireworks display. My only reservations were that the campsite was directly under the flight path of RAF Akrotiri air terminal, just a few miles away, and I hoped that the pilot of the inbound trooper did not confuse the football field with the red-lit runway. Still, the arrival of a Boeing would probably only have added to the party atmosphere!
As the night quietened down and some of the younger children were put to bed, we were joined by a guitarist for a traditional sing-song. The evening started off hopefully but soon degenerated to a raucous alcohol-fuelled Karaoke session as the wine and vodka flowed liberally and inhibitions loosened. There’s nothing quite like the acoustics of a large, wooded valley to give a hearty rendition of Tom Jones’ Delilah that added ‘pizzazz’….and I can only offer my shamefaced apologies to the nearby residents of quarters in Episkopi, amongst, whom, I have been informed, resides the Commander of British Forces, Cyprus.
I would so like to report that a sound, peaceful sleep was had by all, but, certainly in my case, that was not true. The camp beds are probably adequate for fit young soldiers but for a lady of ample frame who is wont to hog an entire double bed given the opportunity they did not suffice. Furthermore, in my naivety, I had only brought a thin covering sheet, unaware that, despite the high temperatures during the day, the balminess subsided to chilly dampness in the small hours. For a few hours I lay under the canvas listening to some unidentified beastie crawl along the branches of the trees above us and occasionally drop seed pods onto the roof, no doubt to maliciously remind me that I was surrounded on all points by creatures intent on biting me, stinging me or crawling under my sheets and doing unspeakable mischief’s. And then, my bladder began to twitch, no doubt aggravated by the cold. It was at the point, with a sinking heart that I realised that the tents did not come with an en-suite facility. After what seemed like a lifetime of leg crossing and wriggling I resigned myself to the fact that a trip to the toilet block was necessary and so I donned my shoes (having shone a torch inside first to ensure no scorpions had opted to make a home there) and trudged to the loos.
It was at this time that I was fortunately re-acquainted with the joys of camping, especially in Cyprus where the risk of rain is minimal and clouds are a rarity. Looking up at the night sky, unbleached by street lights, I saw a spectacular array of stars and found myself gazing up for hours at the glittering canvas of constellations, some sights of which I had never witnessed on UK nights. Suddenly the discomfort of the accommodation faded into significance. Inspired by the solitude, silence and awesome beauty of my surroundings, I found myself taking a walk to the nearby beach and lying on a sunbed, the only living being on that stretch of coast flanked by golden cliffs, watching the sun crawl up the sky from the horizon and gently fill the sky with light, changing the sea from a misty pale blue to sparkling azure. It was truly a “champagne moment” and one I will never forget.
Of course, all good things must come to an end, and with the dawn came the chattering dawn chorus and the ensuing bustle of children waking up their somewhat hangover and aching parents. The campsite slowly drew itself to life, and several scenes from “Dawn of the Dead” were called to mind as I watched my fellow adult campers emerge reluctantly from their tents and drag their camp-bed battered bodies to the toilet block. Once ablutions had been completed, it was time to clean up the site and take down the tents. Thankfully it was a far less complicated affair and we were all awarded with pre-ordered slap-up full breakfast at the beachside café. Also laid on were beach activities including banana boat rides for all who still had the energy to participate. I dread to think of the slick that must have formed on the water as hoards of dust and mud-ridden children splashed around in the sea in lieu of a decent bath.Arriving home later that day, the shower I took could not have been better if I had been handed the loofah by Brad Pitt, and my bed never felt so comfortable. That said, we all had the most amazing time and I’m incredibly grateful for the tireless and dedicated souls that gave up their spare time to make it possible. I’m definitely up for doing it again, although before then you may well find me surfing in Amazon for self-erecting tents and luxury air-beds!