Summer turned into wet winter; winter into a glorious, wildflowery spring; spring into the first scorches of summer – and just like that, time crept up on us, classes ended, exams were taken, and it was time to leave this radiant place we have truly come to think of as home.
We fell in love with Crete. Really, like you fall and, more importantly, stay in love with a person. We were infatuated at first, then had many quarrels with her, saw her ugly sides, felt the cold of her bad shoulder; then we made up, were kissed by her sun, ate her stuffed zucchini flowers, swam in her Libyan sea, danced and sang and played as her sun rose – and did it all over again. We really became members of our small village’s community, and that of the city below. Ana began speaking rustic Greek with a Cretan-Brazilian accent. The daily joys and sheer quality of life started really overwhelming the bureaucratic hellishness of living in Greece.
So I started seriously thinking about becoming a citizen, doing the obligatory military service (which for me, as an American-born Greekling, would only be three months’ worth), getting us the necessary papers, and making a go of it for the long haul. I spent months hanging around government offices and making phone calls in an attempt to learn exactly what I had to do in order to complete the process, tracked down and gathered all the necessary documents – birth, marriage, baptism records stretching back in time to my great-grandfather, who was born on the island of Cephallonia in 1878 – and checked and double-checked with my local bureaucrat to make sure I was doing everything right. I even called the central office in Athens to make sure. Yes, they assured me, all is as our colleague in Rethymno says.
And so came the day when I went to hand everything in. And, as you’ve probably guessed, there and then I learned, when the attendant happened to double-check something in the giant book of draconian Greek immigration laws, that all I had been told was wrong. That due to my particular status the citizenship process must be initiated from my American city of permanent residence through the local consulate. That I have to go in person several times over a year or so with witnesses testifying to blah blah blah. And so on. In other words, ton poulo. And the best part: If you’re not out of the country by the end of June, Mr. League, you will be seized by the federal police and forcibly made to serve in the army for a year.
As you can imagine, I was shocked, and made various attempts to begin sentences starting with “But I was told that…” I was met with indifferent shrugs and “You should have asked so-and-so.” But I did! “Then so-and-so.” But I did! “Then such-and-such.” But I did! I did! “Eh, too bad. NEXT!”
So we had to pack it up and move it out, on pretty short notice. Okay, I could have spent my year’s salary at the music school on a lawyer, to research the hell out of the whole affair. But I fell prey to my rearing in a country with some measure of efficiency in the public service sector, and made the fatal mistake of actually trusting those people to do their jobs. I overlooked the fact that most of them got said jobs because they are the child, cousin, nephew, or mistress of someone owed political favors, that they receive no training, stay at the office for an average of three hours a day, do no actual work, and want the job in the first place only because according to Greek law public servants can’t be fired.
Not that I’m bitter. Oh, I was. Was I ever. But at this point we’re looking forward to returning to Boston, for various reasons.
The last several weeks have been a blur of constant movement, travel and change, as will be the next few. I’m writing this from Maestro Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport in Rio de Janeiro (an ironic homage to one of Brazil’s most beloved musicians, who was mortally afraid of airplanes). We are in the middle of what may be the most complicated move of my life, which is saying something. Our worldly possessions are spread between three continents; I’m on my way to play at a festival in the Turkish-occupied northern part of Cyprus (which I’ll write about once it’s happened, since it’s a historic event and pretty interesting), then back to Brazil for two days, then finally back to sunny Boston via an eleven-hour layover in Santiago de Chile (that’s what you get for traveling on redeemed miles).
We came to Brazil for Ana’s father’s 60th birthday, which was great, as Brazil mostly is.
Despite the sickening poverty, inequality, corruption, and racism, it’s a vibrant, welcoming, love-saturated country full of the most genuinely friendly people I’ve ever met. And, best of all, I got hugged by a tree sloth. Unfortunately our camera broke, so I can’t provide any photos of the experience. Rest assured it was darn cute.
Well, I suppose this is the end of the current phase of my blogging career, since technically I’m not in the eastern Mediterranean anymore. But who knows…
Thanks for reading!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Walkin' the Green Line
A few years ago, my friend and frequent collaborator Mehmet Ali Sanlikol called me up to discuss some ideas about a project exploring the Greek and Turkish music traditions of his homeland, Cyprus. With recent political developments suggesting that a peaceful solution to the conflict between the two groups there may not be an impossibility, the time seemed appropriate; so we did a lot of research, picked a repertoire, put together a concert, and eventually made a recording in Boston (featuring a Greek Cypriot violinist, Theodoulos Vakanas). The disc, which as far as we know is the very first collaboration between Greek and Turkish Cypriots playing music from both traditions, was released early this year on Turkey’s Kalan Records, and you can check it out here: http://www.dunyainc.org.
Mehmet sent me an e-mail a few months ago announcing that we had been invited to perform at a festival in Famagusta in Northern Cyprus, and I was intrigued by the possibility of traveling to this officially non-existent nation. Since it was created by the invasion and occupation of the Turkish army, the expulsion of the Greek population, and the confiscation of their property, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is condemned by the international community and is only recognized by – guess who? – Turkey, on which it depends for just about everything that English tourists can’t provide. There’s all kinds of information out there about the recent history of this troubled island, and since I’m not a scholar on the subject I probably shouldn’t say much more about it; but basically the majority Greek population of the island wanted to unite with Greece, the minority Turkish population understandably disagreed, partisan violence and a Greek military coup ensued, the Turkish army invaded, and now there’s a UN-patrolled no man’s land separating the Turkish non-state to the north (37% of the island) and the Greek republic (a recent EU member) to the south.
There are all kinds of complexities inherent in visiting Cyprus; Turkish citizens aren’t allowed to enter the Greek side, and anyone with a stamp in their passport from the Turkish North is barred from entering Greece (so most people, including yours truly, have their tourist visas stamped on a piece of paper instead). For obvious reasons, one can only enter Northern Cyprus via Turkey. This meant a complicated journey for me, since by the time the gig was confirmed we had already finalized our plans to move out of our Cretan home and spend a few weeks in Brazil visiting with family before making the move back to Boston. So I boarded a plane in Belo Horizonte one chilly July morning, and thirty-two hours and three connections later stepped out onto the sweltering tarmac of the officially non-existent Lefkosa International Airport.
My first impressions of Northern Cyprus were about what I expected of a country cut off from the rest of the world – everything was a bit dingy and beat-up, looking like it was bought second-hand a decade or so ago. The guy at passport control asked if I wanted a stamp in my passport or on a piece of paper, without me even bringing it up, which I found pretty telling. The heat and humidity were truly oppressive – I think I can say, after spending four days there, that it’s the hottest place I’ve ever been. I later learned that Famagusta (which isn’t the “real” name of the place, but a Frankish corruption of the Greek toponym Ammochostos, or “buried in the sand”) is renowned for having the stickiest climate on the island.
The performance, which took place in the ancient Roman theatre by the sea, went well, despite our relative lack of group rehearsal (I arrived at midnight on a Tuesday and the performance was the next evening), and was met with an enthusiastic response. The audience was rather small – which, quite frankly, I expected, considering the somewhat controversial nature of the event (even though it was officially advertised in a way that downplayed the Greek component) – but mobbed Mehmet after the show with their congratulations, and their expressions of gratitude to all of us were truly heartfelt.
I have to say that the festival treated us really well – aside from the standard amenities of transportation, meals, and accommodations, they really went out of their way to make it possible for us to get to know the northern part of the island, giving us several extra nights in the hotel and even providing a van and driver to take us around to various places of interest. These included Mehmet’s ancestral village on the northern tip of the island, the divided capital of Lefkosa/Lefkosia/Nikosia, and the old city of Famagusta. Much of what I saw reminded me of other places I’ve visited in either Greece or Turkey, albeit much less well maintained and even somewhat deserted. After being somewhat creeped out by the omnipresence in Turkey of pictures and statues of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of the modern Turkish state (you can barely turn your head without coming face to face with the guy, no matter where you go), his relative absence in Cyprus was refreshing. One feature that stands out, in both Famagusta and Lefkosa, is the large number of imposing French gothic cathedrals (built in the wake of Guy Lusignan’s purchase of the island from the Templars in 1192) – nearly all of which were converted to mosques by the conquering Ottomans in the sixteenth century. St. Nicholas Cathedral (AKA Lala Mustafa Pasha Mosque) in Famagusta, its gargoyles and gothic windows flanked by minarets and palm trees, is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.
We all agreed – the two Turkish percussionists and local boy Mehmet included – that the overall vibe was really strange and not a little uncomfortable. I’m sure this was partly due to the fact that our hotel was itself a bizarre place, featuring a sleazy casino (they’re illegal in the Greek South, so they’re everywhere in the North), prostitutes, panpipe versions of Mariah Carey songs pumped over the PA day and night, an elevator that broke on several occasions, trapping people inside, and staff and management ranging from indifferent (“no, you may not have another towel”) to belligerent (we were sitting on the hotel’s private beach when a non-guest tried to come for a swim; the security guard grabbed at him and when he resisted hit him in the face, producing a noise worthy of a Batman comic.). But the most unsettling thing by far was the hotel’s proximity – about five meters – to Marash, the former resort area that was abandoned during the violence of the Turkish invasion in 1974 and is now a ghost town of crumbling hotels and restaurants. These dangerously teetering buildings loom pale and spectral behind the barbed-wire fence that separates this UN-patrolled buffer zone from the English and Turkish tourists sunning themselves on the beach and splashing around in the tepid sea. When I arrived it was night, so I didn’t realize the extent of the area; but the next day I saw it up close and was really impressed by the desolation. So that's what war zones look like.
Unfortunately my camera broke before we left Greece, so I wasn’t able to take any pictures of these things, nor the sloth that I got to hug in Brazil (which is really a shame), so that’s why there’s no visual evidence on display here aside from the words on your screen. But hell, that’s the way they used to do it, and if it was good enough for Mark Twain and Herodotus, it’s damn well good enough for me.
Mehmet sent me an e-mail a few months ago announcing that we had been invited to perform at a festival in Famagusta in Northern Cyprus, and I was intrigued by the possibility of traveling to this officially non-existent nation. Since it was created by the invasion and occupation of the Turkish army, the expulsion of the Greek population, and the confiscation of their property, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is condemned by the international community and is only recognized by – guess who? – Turkey, on which it depends for just about everything that English tourists can’t provide. There’s all kinds of information out there about the recent history of this troubled island, and since I’m not a scholar on the subject I probably shouldn’t say much more about it; but basically the majority Greek population of the island wanted to unite with Greece, the minority Turkish population understandably disagreed, partisan violence and a Greek military coup ensued, the Turkish army invaded, and now there’s a UN-patrolled no man’s land separating the Turkish non-state to the north (37% of the island) and the Greek republic (a recent EU member) to the south.
There are all kinds of complexities inherent in visiting Cyprus; Turkish citizens aren’t allowed to enter the Greek side, and anyone with a stamp in their passport from the Turkish North is barred from entering Greece (so most people, including yours truly, have their tourist visas stamped on a piece of paper instead). For obvious reasons, one can only enter Northern Cyprus via Turkey. This meant a complicated journey for me, since by the time the gig was confirmed we had already finalized our plans to move out of our Cretan home and spend a few weeks in Brazil visiting with family before making the move back to Boston. So I boarded a plane in Belo Horizonte one chilly July morning, and thirty-two hours and three connections later stepped out onto the sweltering tarmac of the officially non-existent Lefkosa International Airport.
My first impressions of Northern Cyprus were about what I expected of a country cut off from the rest of the world – everything was a bit dingy and beat-up, looking like it was bought second-hand a decade or so ago. The guy at passport control asked if I wanted a stamp in my passport or on a piece of paper, without me even bringing it up, which I found pretty telling. The heat and humidity were truly oppressive – I think I can say, after spending four days there, that it’s the hottest place I’ve ever been. I later learned that Famagusta (which isn’t the “real” name of the place, but a Frankish corruption of the Greek toponym Ammochostos, or “buried in the sand”) is renowned for having the stickiest climate on the island.
The performance, which took place in the ancient Roman theatre by the sea, went well, despite our relative lack of group rehearsal (I arrived at midnight on a Tuesday and the performance was the next evening), and was met with an enthusiastic response. The audience was rather small – which, quite frankly, I expected, considering the somewhat controversial nature of the event (even though it was officially advertised in a way that downplayed the Greek component) – but mobbed Mehmet after the show with their congratulations, and their expressions of gratitude to all of us were truly heartfelt.
I have to say that the festival treated us really well – aside from the standard amenities of transportation, meals, and accommodations, they really went out of their way to make it possible for us to get to know the northern part of the island, giving us several extra nights in the hotel and even providing a van and driver to take us around to various places of interest. These included Mehmet’s ancestral village on the northern tip of the island, the divided capital of Lefkosa/Lefkosia/Nikosia, and the old city of Famagusta. Much of what I saw reminded me of other places I’ve visited in either Greece or Turkey, albeit much less well maintained and even somewhat deserted. After being somewhat creeped out by the omnipresence in Turkey of pictures and statues of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of the modern Turkish state (you can barely turn your head without coming face to face with the guy, no matter where you go), his relative absence in Cyprus was refreshing. One feature that stands out, in both Famagusta and Lefkosa, is the large number of imposing French gothic cathedrals (built in the wake of Guy Lusignan’s purchase of the island from the Templars in 1192) – nearly all of which were converted to mosques by the conquering Ottomans in the sixteenth century. St. Nicholas Cathedral (AKA Lala Mustafa Pasha Mosque) in Famagusta, its gargoyles and gothic windows flanked by minarets and palm trees, is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.
We all agreed – the two Turkish percussionists and local boy Mehmet included – that the overall vibe was really strange and not a little uncomfortable. I’m sure this was partly due to the fact that our hotel was itself a bizarre place, featuring a sleazy casino (they’re illegal in the Greek South, so they’re everywhere in the North), prostitutes, panpipe versions of Mariah Carey songs pumped over the PA day and night, an elevator that broke on several occasions, trapping people inside, and staff and management ranging from indifferent (“no, you may not have another towel”) to belligerent (we were sitting on the hotel’s private beach when a non-guest tried to come for a swim; the security guard grabbed at him and when he resisted hit him in the face, producing a noise worthy of a Batman comic.). But the most unsettling thing by far was the hotel’s proximity – about five meters – to Marash, the former resort area that was abandoned during the violence of the Turkish invasion in 1974 and is now a ghost town of crumbling hotels and restaurants. These dangerously teetering buildings loom pale and spectral behind the barbed-wire fence that separates this UN-patrolled buffer zone from the English and Turkish tourists sunning themselves on the beach and splashing around in the tepid sea. When I arrived it was night, so I didn’t realize the extent of the area; but the next day I saw it up close and was really impressed by the desolation. So that's what war zones look like.
Unfortunately my camera broke before we left Greece, so I wasn’t able to take any pictures of these things, nor the sloth that I got to hug in Brazil (which is really a shame), so that’s why there’s no visual evidence on display here aside from the words on your screen. But hell, that’s the way they used to do it, and if it was good enough for Mark Twain and Herodotus, it’s damn well good enough for me.
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