Bikepacking Cyprus: From Plan A to Plan Z

It’s four in the afternoon, and it starts raining cats and dogs. We see a church, but it’s not a good place to camp. There’s no flat surface, and the porch is tiny. Next to it, there’s a single house, ramshackle and with poor lighting, that appears to be a bar since there’s a sign that says “wifi.” We enter cautiously and are immediately enveloped in smoke while several men turn around to ask us, “Where are you going? “Some play backgammon, surely the legacy of the years the island was under the British. In a corner, a monk with prayer beads in a meditative state looks into infinity. We approach the wood stove to dry off and warm up while an older woman serves us two hot Nescafés.

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It keeps raining and raining, and bit by bit, it starts getting dark. Time goes by, and it seems like everybody inside the bar has grown used to our presence. One of them, looking grumpy, probably losing the backgammon game, calls from the other side of the room, asking where we are from and where we will sleep. We reply that we will camp nearby. He says, “My house. Free.” Ricard and I look at each other, and it does not take much to make up our minds. A few minutes later, we follow an old jeep down the hill. We can’t see very far ahead, but he waits for us. Finally, the road flattens, and the house appears among the trees. A big white dog comes running and barking, enthusiastic to play. After some shouts, it runs off. We formally introduce ourselves.

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We are at Dimitris’s house, in Saint Nicholas village, and the overexuberant dog belongs to a neighbour. Dimitris shows us where we are going to sleep and where the bathroom is. It’s quite messy, but we manage to settle in and feel comfortable. He heats up a plate of trahana soup with halloumi cheese on a butane stove. The goaty smell of the soup is for braver stomachs, but luckily, it tastes milder. We warm up and spend the evening talking to him about life, his problems and concerns, family, Christmas traditions, and a long list of topics that are not so different from those at home.

It’s in this small village on the Greek side of the island country of Cyprus that Dimitris, a builder on the verge of retirement, opened the doors of his mountain home and taught us what hospitality meant. 

The following days, we continue cycling across the island, but the rain doesn’t stop, and we have to replan the route multiple times. But this time, we get it wrong: Our wheels will go neither forward nor backward. We are stuck. I try to clean our wheels with a stick. Our shoes are super muddy, with thick layers of gunk attached to the soles. We don’t know whether to trace our way back or continue with our bicycles on our backs. When the wheels finally touch the ground again, we’re exhausted, and I am freezing cold.

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This time of year, at about five o’clock, the sun disappears behind one of the surrounding mountains, and that time is almost upon us. We turn back, retrace our steps, and at the first village, Dörtyol, we see a porch with chairs in the middle of a small square. There’s a tap, and we’re desperate in case it pours down again tonight. We clean off the mud on our legs and pitch our tent. Pretty soon, a whole family from the house across the street is out in their coloured slippers, and they tell us in Turkish that we will get cold here and that we should come over and eat in their home. Initially, we refuse. We even show them the sleeping bags and stove we are carrying, but they don’t listen to our excuses. Instead, they usher us into their home. The youngest, Aycan, says two magic words: “du” and “kahve.” We know very few words in Turkish, but we’re sure they’re offering us a shower and coffee.

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I don’t hesitate and accept on behalf of both of us. The household machinery didn’t need much to get going. They prepare a bath with hot water, light the living room wood stove, and start cooking. They don’t know us at all, yet we’re already part of their family. We share a delightful evening and have a delicious dinner. With the help of Google Translate, we explain to them how we live, what we do, how much a house costs, and what our daily life is like. They tell us about their lives in return.

We thank them with a “teşekküle” and get ready to head to the tent. “What?! No way! It’s very cold!” they say. They’d already prepared a room for us, and the next morning, they are waiting for us for breakfast. Mohammet, Ayfer, and Aycan made us feel at home in the Turkish part of the island, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, recognized only by Turkey.

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Dimitris, Mohammet, Ayfer, and Aycan have shown us what hospitality is in its purest form, with nothing in return. They have shown no interest in political conflicts and, in different ways but with the same sentiment, have expressed that all human beings come into this world the same and should continue living that way for the rest of their lives. Beautiful.

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We still need several more days to complete the loop around the spectacular island, but the weather does not want to give us a break. It seems this corner of the world wants to put us to the test. We thought we’d cycle at the leisurely pace of the Mediterranean and make our way without too many headaches. But plans A, B, and C all eventually end up being plan Z.

Rain every day has made the trails a sea of mud. The climb up Olympus, the highest peak of the island in the Troodos Mountains, has to be left for another occasion due to inclement weather. The shenanigans of the Turkish Cypriot army closed a number of trails to the public. And a busted stove has left us to a couple of improvised dinners on cold and damp nights. At times, the trip is really frustrating—one mishap after another, after another. 

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Still, these days have brought us back to life, to the essence we so quickly lose while in the hamster wheel of modern-day living. The Greek coffee that’s given so spontaneously by a Greek girl in a tiny shop in the mountains that warms our hands and hearts. That shelter in a small Orthodox chapel lit by four candles, which makes us feel lucky and reflect on what it really means in life to have a roof over your head. That sunny day enabled us to see, with a different perspective, the sea from Cape Zafer Burnu, the northeasternmost point of the island. And above all, the encounters with Dimitris, Mohammet, Ayfer, and Aycan. Taken together, all these different moments truly make us (re)connect with life.

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