The Little White Donkey

Spanish Fire

2012-02-13T18:19:00.000+02:00

As I mentioned in aJanuary 'Things Around Me', our house gets cold in the winter. Wehave the radiator-running woodburner downstairs and an open fireupstairs, but the open fire is not very efficient. Best Belovedloves it, I believe, for the psychological aspect: the Lord of theManor in his Great Hall. When lit and roaring, it's an impressivesight... But I digress. Over these last few cold weeks, the house has been decidedly chilly,especially upstairs where the radiators really don't get much abovelukewarm because the system is just too big for the fire.

Since the start of the cold snap, we have wrangled for hoursabout heating the upstairs: BB went to see Chris Hadjipetrou atThermodynamics on the Polis road who had sold us the other twowoodburners in the house, and Chris advocated putting one of his big burners in the open fireplace, but nothing he hadwould fit without knocking out what was already built and although BBand I might fight over his fireplace, we agreed that unless somethingfit without alteration, that idea was a non-starter.

“But we could installanother fire,” my husband suggested. I cast an eye over the room,checking out the corners he had indicated as possible locations or envisaging a sexy Scandinavian in-the-round number in the centre of theliving room, and finally said: “Yes, we could. Right behind mydesk.” Our house might be aboutto become a Thermodynamics Alternate Showroom, but at least I wouldbe able to work at my desk in the winter without two jumpers, woolly socks and slipper boots.

Chris had severalmodels that would work, so we settled on Tessa from the Spanishcompany Rocal – slightly raised, glass doors on three sides. BBand Chris discussed price to include installation, construction of aplasterboard backing with spotlights, and the moving of someelectrical points, and settled on a delivery date.

Last week a large whitevan drew up at the front door and Don and Wayne, familiar from the installations of our other fireplaces, began setting up. They were done within the day, and blessings on them, swept up every mote of dust and picked up every scrap of packing, leaving the room spick and span.

We couldn't lightTessa the first night as the cement was still curing on the chimney, but we did the second and felt a difference inthe room. She is pleasant looking, easy to clean, and a joy to workin front of – and since BB provides all the wood from our treedemolition with his trusty chainsaw – cheap to run.

But I still felt coldupstairs. Was our top floor simply too big and lofty to heat at all?

The answer cameSaturday.

“Manamou,” BestBeloved said to me mid-morning. “Come here.” He was standing atthe kitchen sink, and he pointed up to the left, where the larder andkitchen walls converge. “Does that hole go to the outside?”

He had been standing atthe sink, and hearing sparrows, had looked up, thinking that a birdor two had got into the house. Only then had he noticed that wherethe massive beams meet the wall, there seemed to be a space. Somehapless builder had never filled between the ceiling joists and thewall, and because of the darkness and natural colour of the wood andthe angle of the ceiling, we had never noticed.

We collected the longladder and he climbed up to see. Sure enough a space below theceiling measuring fifteen by thirty centimetres has sucked out heatand let cold into our house for the last five winters.

BB called thecontractor – who's also, luckily, a friend – and he sent somebuilders around the next day while the plaster board guys were doingthe fire surround. The hole has now been filled and painted, andwhen I walked into the house that evening, Tessa had been going foran hour or so and the upstairs was actually warm. Not just 'notcold', but honest-to-goodness warm.

Glad we got thatsorted!

Unfortunately there are'During' but no 'After' pictures -- yet. Our plasterboard finisher is areal anachronism – a perfectionist who cares about the quality ofhis finished product. He is having trouble with a section of work,and will not sign off on it until it meets his specs. I grumbledabout that at first: although Mr Mattheas cleans up after himself (a great selling point for Thermodynamics as most local workmen leave all their litter behind them), a fine layer of plaster dust from his re-sandings has been in thisroom for the last few days and he will not finish until tomorrow orafter. Then I realised how lucky I am to have a craftsman who caresabout his work and will strive to get it right: I haven't seen oneof those for a while and will trade a bit of dust for the cost anddisruption of repairing a bodge any day.

Going Bananas

2012-02-06T11:19:00.001+02:00

Best Beloved has a cousin who grows bananas, and last week he was kind enough to give us some. Not a few, not a hand, a whole freakin' tree's worth... Now I'm not knocking this: Cypriots are truly generous, especially with what they produce. We get tons of yoghurt, anari, peanuts, citrus, and other things from relatives, and it is very welcome. I try and keep up in mango and plum season, and with my offerings of hand cream, etc.

But when someone gives you around 150 unripe bananas, whaddaya do???

Well, I started out putting some sugar solution in the stem 'to make them ripen evenly' according to BB (who had initially said when I had asked, open-mouthed, what do do with them 'Put them in the compost, if you want!'). For want of a better place, I put them in the Back Kitchen -- on a par with the basement for organisation -- and kept a beady eye out for the next few days.

They did, indeed, change from green to yellow. Then, alarmingly, their skins began to split.

I knew that it was time to start using them, so I made banana bread. I googled the recipe, used the first that showed up, and tweaked it by adding cardamon and walnuts. That took care of nine bananas... except that, although yellow and with splitting skins, they are still a little hard. When I put them in the Kitchen Aid and turned in to the lowest setting, bananas -- whole and parts thereof -- erupted from the bowl and whizzed around the room. I returned them to the bowl and held a tea-towel around it, mashing this time without hazard...

Turned out tasty. Now, what to do with the rest? Muffins, pancakes, more bread -- for the freezer this time -- gifts for friends, and if the worst comes to the worst, the compost is always just 30 steps away!

Recycling Wine Bottles

2012-02-03T11:37:00.002+02:00

When he was abouttwelve, my older brother discovered a new source of income: he spenthours cutting wine bottles into drinking glasses. Some of thesestayed in the family, others were made into sets of matching colourand size and either given away as presents or sold. They werepractical, cheap, and tough, and making them to sell taught him a lot.

About ten years ago,I'm sure that I saw an identical cutter in the catalogue from theCentre of Alternative Technology Eco Store in Wales, but my life was too busyfor me to even consider buying it, let alone embarking on the hassleof removing the labels from bottles, etching the cut, alternatelyheating it over a candle flame and rubbing it with an ice cube (andcleaning up the attendent mess); then, if the cut was a clean one,sanding the edge so that lips are not sliced to ribbons. Theprocess, I remembered, was not particularly profitable given the timespent, but it did assauge my parents' dismay at the throwing away ofthe quantity of bottles that they accumulated what with their ownconsumption and their entertaining.

So a year or so ago Idecided to find a cutter and start making glasses – or maybe turnthe project over to Zenon so that he could walk in his Uncle'sfootsteps. My first stop was the CAT catalogue. No sign of a bottlecutter. So I contacted CAT. “We have never had such a thing in ourshop.” Ebay? Nope. I had enough things to do, so I pursued thequest no further.

Until theIndestructables. Lots of ideas come from this magnificent website,and thank goodness I didn't un-sub from their mailing list when I dida mail clean-out some time back. Because about a month agoinstructions for making a bottle cutting jig showed up on theirweekly newsletter. The plans looked ok, but I didn't want to start a woodwork project just then. But I found thewebsite for Green Power Science, and, watching their video I decidedthat, though it was expensive ($45), I would buy their jig and trytheir technique -- using boiling and cold water alternately until a clean break occurs along the line of least resistance, the thin etched line in the glass. The international postage, at $23 felt steep, but Idecided to take the plunge.

It arrived ten dayslater in a box marked US Postage $11.39.

“Hmmm,” I thought,taking a deep breath and feeling a little 'had'. “Where's the $23in that?”

“Don't waste yourtime, Manamou,” Best Beloved said when I mentioned writing tocomplain. “They'll tell you that the rest of the shipping moneywent on the box and on someone to take it to the Post Office.” ButI persisted and wrote a polite note asking where the remaining $11.67was, then put it out of my mind and started cutting bottles.

My cutting was not verysuccessful. Unlike Dan Rojas, the man behind GPS, who gets a nearperfect cut with most of his bottles, none of my cuts were smooth,and most were unusable with downward cracks . The glass on some ofmine was thinner than on standard bottles, but the heavier bottles(champagne and proseco) cut much more evenly.

So, putting aside thecutter after some experimentation, I removed the labels from a hostof empties and planned a day on the learning curve for Wednesday. My lack of success had not discouraged me, I just figured that Ineeded to master technique, and to find which thickness of bottlescut best. A pleasant email from Denise Rojas told me that they wererefunding $8 to my PayPal account – the other $2 witheld to coverthe cost of the box (“Two dollars?” I thought. “More likenearly four where I learned to add...” But I decided to quit whileI was ahead, and sent her a nice note back thanking her and tellingher I was enjoying my cutter. Her response that evening was alongthe lines of “Nice to hear it, let me know if you need any morehelp.” So I congratulated myself on not having followed my firstinstinct and been nasty, but instead had laid the foundation for apostitive relationship...)

In the first light ofWednesday morning, I heard Stumpy miaowing outside the kitchenwindow, and, eschewing the door, I let him in the window –something that I almost never do. His front paw tangled with a stripof window draught-proofing that was on the sill awaitinginstallation, and that in turn, tangled in the jig. As I lifted thecat off the sill (he doesn't manage jumping from heights well as hehas only one front leg to absorb the shock), the whole lot crashed tothe ground. I picked it up, fed Stumpy, and forgot about it.

...Until everyone wasat school. With only the murmur of Galena's hoover downstairs andlunch in the oven, I sorted out all the clean new empties into bottleshapes and sizes, picked up the jig, and sat down to cut. Butinstead of a thin white line appearing on the glass where the wheelwas etching the line along which the break would happen, nothingappeared. Puzzled, I looked closer at the jig, and where the tinycutting wheel should have been caught between two edges, a gap mockedme. The wheel was gone, knocked out of place when the jig fell offthe sill that morning.

I felt ill. Sixtydollars gone because I'd done the cat a favour and let him in thewindow... Of course I looked on the floor, but I'd swept earlier,and Galena had hoovered the sweepings. Any other day and I wouldhave found it.

So I got back on theNet and emailed Denise... After all her last words had been “if youneed any more help.” “How much would it be,” I enquired. “For you to send me an extra cutting wheel?”

I haven't heard backyet. But in the meantime I've been back on Indestructables and foundseveral different plans for jigs that don't look that difficult afterall: $10 - $12 (make that 15 Euros, probably, given that things aredearer hear) and an hour or two's work.

Time to rethink bottlecutting. Meanwhile I will take my more successful attempts up to Turtle and Moon Studio where Lise has glass grinding equipment: I tried paper, but although it smoothed the clean cuts well, it is not able to clean up the jagged edges. Watch this space for developments!

O Xeros Potamos -- 'The Dry River'?

2012-01-27T10:59:00.001+02:00

This morning when I went to make breakfast at six, I saw that we were out of milk so I set out in the car for the nearest place that would be open, the Market at Mandria Junction. Crossing the bridge over the river below the dam, I realised that something had changed. Instead of the usual dark chasm of earth and rock, the space below the span was white and swirling, and even though there was not light enough to see, I knew that the dam had overflowed and that the river was coming down.

A few hours later, I set out under (relatively) clear skies to have a look... Along with, it seemed, the rest of Paphos and his donkey.

First stop was the river side, where I joined an elderly gent who was videoing from his phone.

"O Xeros Potamos?" I asked him. "The 'Dry River'? That's its name, right?" I asked him in Greek. He snorted. "That's what they say!" Then shook his head in wonder... "Πολύ νερό, πολύ νερό..." A lot of water, yes indeedy!

Atop the dam, the populace and the press was out in force. Even when the hail began. The Highway Department has blocked ingress from one side of the dam, but a steady stream of cars, icecream vans, fruit sellers, and donut and snack vans kept arriving from the other side, parking, leaving, hooting... The buying, selling, photographing, laughing, continued unabated.

"Κοίτα! Ξανά χαλάζει! (Look! Its hailing again!) yelled one man, grinning, and turned his face to the sky. Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and hailstones gathered in the folds of my jacket.

By this time my shoes were wet and my jeans soaked to the knee. I decided that I had had enough and ran for the car.

Asprokremnos Dam

2012-01-25T12:26:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, Leo did nothave a tennis lesson: as soon as we reached the court the rainstarted again, so his teacher shrugged, pointed at the sky with itscomplement of lowering grey clouds, and waved goodbye.

“Can we check out thedam and see if it's overflowing yet?” Leo asked. So to assuage hisdisappointment (Leo loves tennis – a passion I cannot find it inmyself to share) we headed for Asprokremnos on our way home.

It seems like a lot ofPaphiots had the same idea: both the ice-cream van (“Mum, who intheir right mind would buy an ice cream on a day like today?” Pause. “On second thoughts, I would. Can I have an ice cream?” “Are you in your right mind, Leo?” “No!” “Well, no. Sorry.”) and the loukomades van were there, as well as a number ofpeople who, like us, parked on the dam wall to look over the side andcheer on the water level.

I only had my phonecamera, and that was a little wet, so the pictures are a little...lumpy.

The rain continued alllast night and was still falling when I went to collect Galena theCleaner at seven-thirty this morning. I didn't want to come back onthe motorway, so we mosey-ed back on the old road, and just beforethe dam turn-off I said: “Let's go and see if it's full yet.”

This morning therewere more people than last night – and the ice cream van was stillthere! A man from a blue pick-up truck and I found ourselvesside-by-side looking at the water, now only half a metre below thespillway lip. “Another day or two?” I said in Greek. “Nah,”he answered. “Later today!” It was on the tip of my tongue toask him if he wanted to put twenty Euros on the question, but I wastoo shy. Chances are, we would have had a good laugh over it, but Ididn't want to seem too forward.

As I dived back intothe car (the sky was chucking down cats and dogs and I didn't have ajacket on), even more people arrived to look at the spectacle. Iguess there's nothing much to do around our neck of the woods whenit's pouring with rain just before eight on a mid-week morning.

Natural Skin Care -- for Pennies, not Pounds

2012-01-22T12:43:00.000+02:00

Abouttwelve years ago, working from intuition rather than recipe, I made abeeswax and olive oil handcream and gave it to my Ukranian cleaninglady whose husband's hands had chapped badly and cracked from hisjob in construction. I didn't think about it again untilsome time late last summer when Galena casually mentioned to me thatthey had never found anything nearly as good in any shop. Andshortly after that (synchronicity at work!) while looking at one of my favourite blogs, Root Simple, I found the recipe for an olive oil - beeswax cream that Ihad to try.

I assembled the ingredients and equipment, and in less than half an hour I had six 125 ml pots of light, pleasantly scented and easily absorbed hand or body cream. I gave Galena someand she was happy. And over the next few days the idea for myChristmas gifts took root and I trawled the Net finding more recipesfor skin cream and lip balm (always in use in our house and soexpensive at 5-7 Euros for four grams – never mind the ingredientswhich include mineral oil and parabens). The kitchen, throughoutNovember and December, became a lab as I experimented with thebalance of ingredients for natural salves and also for scented drawer sachets and potpourri. I decided that my Christmas gifts for the extended familywould be mint lip balms and 'spicy aroma sachets' for the men, andluxury natural hand creams and 'floral and musk aroma sachets' forthe women.

SaintBasil's Day (January 1, the traditional day in Cyprus for theexchange of gifts) came, and we went as usual to Mili and Phil's forthe Big Family Feed. Our presents -- Zenon had made everyone tie-dye t-shirts and Leo had baked for each household a batch of either brownies or chocolate chip cookies -- were added to the pile of gifts surrounding the tree in the corner, and after the meal, distributionbegan. Zenon's and Leo's contributions were a real hit; minerequired more explanation, but once it became clear that Ihad made them from natural ingredients and carefully researchedcombinations of scents, enthusiasm flowed, especially from Sil andBridie. The men of the family were a little more skeptical, but atleast if the sachets don't end up scenting their drawers or softeningtheir lips, chances are that wives and girlfriends will find a usefor them.

Ihad no feedback for a while. Then, last weekend Best Beloved wasover at Bill's house and Sil told him how thrilled she was with theChristmas Cream. “I had horrible rough patches on my hands,” shetold him. “But now they're completely gone! Is Asproulla going to be making any more soon?”

WhenI went to see Auntie Maroulla last week, I took a jar from a laterbatch that I had made. It seemed a poor exchange: 125 ml of creamfor one carrier bag bursting with mandarins, another that overflowedwith peanuts, yet a third full of black-eyed peas, and half a kilo offresh anari, not to mention the 10 kilos of mandoras that I pickedfrom the orchard on the way out, but Maroulla has a truly loving andgenerous heart and does not keep score.

Twodays later I had a report from BB who had been to his mother's forcoffee. “Maroulla gave some of the cream to her daughter'sfather-in-law who had cut his fingertip while pruning and nothingseemed to help. Well apparently it's better now, so everyone wantsto know if you sell the creams, or if you can give them the recipe. Please go and see my mother and sort it out...” So I went over toMili's and invited her to come and see how it's done and yesterdayafternoon we had a cream making party.

When we had finished, BB mentioned that Maroulla, (older than Mili by nearly a decade) recalls their mother making the almost the same cream for universal family use, although Mili has no memory of it. "Now we have to bring 'foreign experts'," he said. "To remind us how we used to do things a generation ago!"

***

As abasic recipe and for method, I use Root Simple's Olive Oil Whip (backin November I had bought Making It: Radical Home Ec for a Post-Industrial World and had started working on many of Kelly Coyne and Eric Knutzen's ideas and recipes – thereis also a Kindle edition, for those of you who read on Kindle) but with a tweak to include coconutoil (I find that one part coconut oil, one part beeswax, two partsolive oil works nicely for the right consistency), Vitamin E capsulesas an anti-oxidant, and essential oil for scent. We have boatloadsof oil from past years' harvests, and I buy pure (though not organic) beeswax from thelocal ecclesiastical candle maker. The dearest ingredient is theorganic coconut oil from the health food shop. Lip balm uses thesame ingredients but a slightly different method and works out atcents, rather than Euros per gram for all-natural ingredients. Anyone wanting natural skin care on a budget should really check outRoot Simple, A Sonoma Garden, and other blogs, books, andpublications dedicated to natural living. Like me, you might not want store-bought again.

Wise-Eyed Fishing Boat, Pomos

2012-01-18T19:40:00.001+02:00

The prompt from The Gallery this week was 'Eyes'

Soon after I bought mydigital SLR, a Nikon D-80, my family and I went for a day trip to thenorthwest area of Cyprus near the village of Pomos. Pomos has awonderful restaurant set high on a bluff above the small shelter forfishing boats. You can bet that your lunch is fresh!

On the way to the beachwe walked around the tiny harbour, watching men repair their nets anddodging children who ran with icecream cones in hand.

This boat reminded me of the children's book TheStory About Ping, the tale of a duckling who lived with his motherand father and brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousinsaboard a 'Wise-Eyed Boat' on the Yangtze River.

Far from having aduckling in mind, the boat's owner was probably taking precautionsagainst the Evil Eye in a custom that has long predated Christ inthese parts. You'll often see eyes on boats here, but usuallythey're smaller and a single eye is more common than a pair.

Please follow the link at the top of the post to enjoy others' work on the same theme. Why not join in, too?

Daisies, Pearls, and Mushrooms – Adventures in Language Learning

2012-01-17T13:14:00.002+02:00

Shortly after I beganGreek lessons, I arrived at my mother-in-law's house and asked wheremy rooster was. Somewhat baffled – probably because although shehas a rooster, I don't – she told me that he was in the cage. Isaid that I had something to tell him when he came out. Because myin-laws have always regarded me as a somewhat bizaare addition to thefamily to be humoured rather than confronted, she played along andsaid something like 'ok, but that probably won't be for a while'.

“Why?” I asked.

“That's where helives... Has always lived...” Which is fine – for a rooster. Except that I hadn't meant to ask for my rooster, I was looking forPhil. But the word for father-in-law, 'petheros', had becomeentangled in my newmother-newlanguage-newcountry brain stew combowith the word for rooster, 'petinos'.

Similarly, I once toldher I was going to the 'man-seller' ('anthropoleio' – no such thingexists, of course; slavery being a thing of the past, but an'anthropoleio' would mean 'man-seller') for a bouquet instead of tothe flower shop ('anthopoleio') and that I was cooking a suburb ofNicosia ('Lakatamia') for lunch with beans instead of chard('lakana'). An Irish friend once told her mother-in-law that shewould prefer some winter (she mixed up 'himo', juice, with 'himona', winter) to a glass of grass ('krassidi' as opposed to 'krassi'meaning wine)... The stories are legion: any readers with storiesof their own of language misunderstanding in multi-lingualhouseholds, please share them in the comments section...

Mili and I often bondover language issues. She recalls the time that she urged anAnglophone friend not to pick fruit 'before it's raped', and alwayshas to think twice before talking about heavenly bodies: she'slikely to call them 'stairs'.

When Li'l Bro andBridie visit, talk always turns to languages because they're bothinterpreters. Two weeks ago, I came into the house singing, while LBwas sipping wine with Best Beloved at the kitchen table. “Thenmporo”, I warbled. “Na se psegaso, prospatho...” And I sawLB's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “'I can't spray you'?” heasked. “Are you sure about that?”

I had started having tomaster the vocabulary for sustainable agriculture about the time thatNotis Sfakianakis' album 'Enthymio' was popular, and one of theoft-played songs included the lines that translate to “I can'tforget you, (though) I try.” Trouble is, 'xehaso' (the subjunctiveof 'forget') sounds very similar to 'psegaso' (the subjunctive of'spray'). Of course I had known, but the idea at the time ofserenading my trees and vegetables to confirm that they would be allowed to grow naturally was too good to pass up. The song remains forever in my mindlinked to organic agriculture, and thus I continue to sing it – atleast around Asproulla-friendly personnel.

“Ah, yes,” Milimused in a mixture of Greek and English as we sat on her porch adecade-and-a-half ago. “We call these mistakes 'margaritaria'('pearls') because they're treasures!” I looked out onto thespring-carpeted field nearby and saw daisies 'margaritas' and thoughtthat the conversation had turned again to flowers – where it hadbeen a few minutes before. Gamely we struggled on, with me talkingabout flowers and her talking about pearls... until somebody broughtin a basket of mushrooms. “Manitaria!” She exclaimed. And beganrhapsodising about mushrooms. About that time I realised that shehadn't been talking about daisies in the first place...

Things are better now,but Best Beloved and Sophia still nearly pee themselves over my Greekmistakes, and Teacher Kyriaki manages to keep a polite straight face: she's too professional to lose it even when I really drop a clanger.

'Homage to Catalunya'

2011-12-16T14:37:00.000+02:00

Last week Best Belovedswept me out of my bucholic Paphos existence, down the motorway toLarnaca, aboard Ryanair's flight to Girona on the Costa Brava andinto the Anba Deluxe B&B in central Barcelona. He did thisdespite my protests and churlish sulks (after nearly eithteen yearstogether he has developed a leather hide, immune to my behaviouralquirks and difficulties) and with the active connivance of Sophia whoinsisted that looking after the Littles for three days would not be aproblem.

I admit: I didn't wantto go. The thought of eight hours travelling for three nights andtwo days away put me off, and I hate driving and flying more witheach passing year. Call it age or timidity, but both scare me todeath. OK. Call me chicken.

He ignored my tantrumsand booked anyway, assiduously researching wine shops and restaurantsand sending me a booking form for a cooking workshop. Amid mygrumblings last Thursday evening, he loaded me into the car, handedme the keys, and said “Let's go.”

I expected the drive tobe a nightmare. It wasn't. I expected Ryanair to be shabby, late,and awful. It wasn't – packed to the gills, yes; charging forextras like the Light Brigade, yes; comfortable, no – but whatairline is these days, except maybe, Emirates? We landed nearmidnight at Girona in a chilly mist and walked from the plane througha miasma of cow smells (I love walking from the plane like in the olddays – it gives a whole new set of images about the country thatyou are entering – the plumeria smell mixed with rain and jet fuelin Honolulu, the dust in Israel, the pollution in Cairo, the goatscent that used to greet travellers in Larnaca before Cyprus got'civilised' and acquired jetways), to the courtesy bus that took usto the airport hotel.

The next day we bussedinto Barcelona and walked the couple of hundred metres to ouraccomodation. Leaving our bags we started our on foot exploration ofthe city centre, its plazas, its tapas bars and its shops. I had theLumix with me, and BB was patient but I was far too excited toconcentrate on photography. Wide avenues, narrow streets, trees,shops, vistas, squares, crowds. I was a boondocker, asticks-dweller, in one of Europe's major cities, and I'm sure itshowed. We lunched on tapas, and later stopped by Picasso'shang-out, the Four Cats – but couldn't get a table for coffee. Aheavenly dinner came with a Michelin star – the tasting menu atSauc – where I tried sea snails and learned that evenMichelin-starred chefs cannot make cauliflower palatable. Thedessert (chocolate brownie) came embellished with gold leaf. Westaggered back to Anba, replete.

Saturday wasdedicated to wine shopping and cooking class. BB found his wine shopand made his purchases, and we killed an hour or so in a quiet cafebefore heading to class at Espai Boisa, a relatively new concept runby Venezuelan Claudia and her Catalan husband Pep which strives tomake available – to visitors and residents alike – fresh,seasonal, organic ingredients and the instruction and space to turnthem into wonderful meals. Together with California web-designerJoe, and Ohio lawyers Jill and Jeff, we made lunch of a sparklinggazpacho, a Catalan tortilla with eggs, onions, and potatoes, a saladof marinated peppers and eggplants, a paella with elements of surf(clams, mussels, and shrimps) and turf (traditional Catalan porksausage), and a typical flan. We also consumed several bottles oflocal cava and wine, and listened to Venezuelan chef Alejandraexpound on everything from the importance of organic agriculture andingredients, to the state of her home country, to the evening's matchbetween Madrid Real and Barcelona. Sparkling, vivacious,well-informed, and with graceful technique, she guided us through themeal and sat with us while we ate before leaving on her motorcycle to'teach a cooking class'.

Any of my loyal readersplanning a trip to Barcelona? I cannot recommend Espai Boisa enough. Not only do they teach cooking workshops, they also do catering andfood and wine appreciation evenings with a range of differentcuisines. Multilingual, young, passionate about what they do,Claudia, Pep, and Alejandra are a real asset to the cultural life ofthe city.

The walk back to Anbatook us about an hour, and after a short rest, we plunged again intothe heaving streets. I had seen some shoes that I wanted, and Iwanted to take BB to the artisan cheese and sausage stalls that I haddiscovered the evening before. We crisscrossed the old city forhours, sometimes in narrow lanes, sometimes jostling along the Ramblawith Christmas revellers and football fans. At sometime aroundeleven – early for Barcelona – we returned to the B&B andtucked ourselves into bed.

The next morning, therewasn't time for much. A leisurely breakfast, the packing of oursmall bags, a walk through the winter sunshine to the park near thebus station where we sat and read until it was time to return to theairport. A winding down.

We didn't do thetouristy things – the almost obligatory visit to the SagradaFamilia Cathedral or any of the museums or parks – there simply wasnot enough time to savour them. But now I know what to visit if –when – we go back: Gaudi's work is too crazy to miss..

The plane left ontime and arrived in Larnaca early, BB drove us home, and I returnedto my peaceful existence as a housewife and mother in rural Cyprus. Blessings on two friends who took the Littles Saturday night andSunday, blessings on my Big Ones for looking after everything in ourabsence, and blessings on Best Beloved for ignoring my bad behaviourand taking me anyway.

Sophia and the Thai Cookbook

2011-12-05T08:42:00.001+02:00

A few Saturdays agoSophia, sitting at the kitchen table drinking morning tea, gesturedat the cookbook shelf saying: “Mum, please put that Thai cookbookaway. It reminds me of the lovely food that we had at the Chilli Padin England last month...” And I said: “Well, why don't you havea look through it and see if there's anything you'd fancy making?”

“Is it that easy?”she asked. “Can we get the stuff here?” Sophia has neverdisplayed culinary tendencies – or even interests – before,although left with detailed instructions, she has been known toproduce a roast chicken in my absence.

Mili had given me thebook, Stylish Thai in Minutes, several Christmases ago, and althoughI had flipped through it drooling slightly, I had never used it.

She took it down fromthe shelf and quickly established that we had 'the stuff'for Barbequed Prawns on Lemongrass, “If,” she continued “I canuse a griddle and don't have to light the foukou.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is indeed possible.”

So we had prawns onlemongrass skewers (“I am never harvesting lemongrass again!” sheharumphed, emerging from our clump with cuts to face and hands fromthe razor-edged blades) for brunch that day. A few days later, theboys being at school and Best Beloved at work, she produced friedmeatballs with a tasty blend of fish sauce, coriander, onion and garlic in addition to minced beef (“These are just Thai keftedes!”) for our midmorningsnack. And now that I have found Spring Roll wrappers, I'm sure weare on our way to something else.

“I'm not quite readyto start on the main courses yet,” she said. That's ok, Sophia. We're all enjoying the appetisers...

The Gallery: My Kitchen

2011-12-01T07:05:00.001+02:00

This week, the Gallery's prompt is 'My Kitchen'. Please follow the link to see how other Gallery members interpreted the theme.

***

My friend Cleo cameover one morning for some baking. She and her four children and meand my two younger ones made plain rolls, olive rolls, and somewonderful cheesy pull-aparts with a filling loosely based on therecipe from Greek-Canadian food blogger Peter Minakis – butincorporating some of my mother-in-law's jewel-like cherry tomatoes.

I love the hands-onaspect of breadmaking, the texture and feel of kneading, the smell ofrising dough. For kneading technique, we freely adopted our own takefrom Martin Bertinet's Dough, which incorporates a lot of banging ofdough onto the table.

It is one of myfavourite kitchen memories, and I'm glad that I had my trusty littleLumix on hand to record it.

Cleo and her family are leaving to return to the UK on Monday, and we will miss them.

It's Raining!

2011-11-15T11:00:00.001+02:00

And the system isworking – or seems to be from what I can see...

Best Beloved took aweekend last month and we connected all the tanks together at thebottom, leaving a reserve of about four tons should there be a needfor firefighting – not that four tons would make a big difference,but having a reserve also helps with cleaning and leaves room forsediment to settle out. We cut a hole for the outlet to which we canconnect a portable electric pump (we looked at a permanent solarpump, but it was not cost effective), and connected a tap.

And then my dearhusband climbed a ladder and installed air locks on the top of eachtank. And then my dear husband fell off the ladder... Yes, he did,from right at the top of the tank – about 2.3 metres up. And he'sa big man, so when he falls it is with a thump. A large black bruisegraced his hip for ten days, and he felt distinctly like he neededrealignment, but there was no permanent damage.

After that came thedifficult part: connecting the guttering to the tanks. We used 63mm hose – and fortunately we had enough lying around that we didnot have to buy it – and created a sloping route for the water toflow from the collection/filter tanks that contain gravel and arepositioned under the downspouts, over the outside steps, and into thetanks. The hose is heavy and hard to force into the connectingpieces, and two of the connections were in places where BB could getno leverage at all. Watching him, I was terrified that he would fallagain because he had to balance high on the ladder that was in turnbalanced on the stairs – and both hands were occupied with forcingthe hose into the join.

Ugghh!! We were bothglad when it was over. It's butt-ugly (no pun intended), so we will need to do some plantings to disguise, or at least soften the starkness. But first let's see how it works.

Rain has fallensteadily since Saturday afternoon, and the gutters have been doingtheir job. Standing beside the big tank, I can hear the satisfyingdrumming of water falling steadily inside, but the tanks have not yetfilled to the reserve level, as when I open the tap at the end oftank four, nothing comes out.

Olives 2011

2011-11-07T14:46:00.000+02:00

I took the olives this morning. We have far fewer trees than two years ago, and this time of the year no longer holds the stress of years past. It could almost have been called a doddle ...

The picking was a bit of a rush job as I wasn't planning to pick for another fortnight. Then I noticed that much of the fruit had begun to change colour from green to purple, and the ones that I was going to use for eating either needed collecting or nets under them, and I knew that a decision had to be made... But next weekend Best Beloved is away in London, and it's Leo's ninth birthday party. NOT a good scenario for an olive harvest.

So I put Alex and Leo to collecting the fat black ones that will be stored in brine, and while they were doing that, my brother-in-law came by to show us the new gadget that he had brought for harvesting his grove: a whirly picking machine that runs off the battery of the tractor.

Alex kinda liked the idea of using that, and he managed to get his friend to come and help. "Don't start the job if you think you might not finish it," I warned them. "It needs to be done by Sunday so that I can take them to Anogira on Monday and we're first through the press." Although Oleastro, the olive plantation and mill in Anogira village is organic, they handle other people's olives which aren't, so to keep the label 'Certified Organic Cold Pressed', I need to be first through in the morning.

They assured me that they would finish, and indeed they were by yesterday at around four.

This morning I loaded up the Land Rover, and after everyone had gone to school and Sophia had arranged a lift to her first set of entrance exams (terrible mother that I am, I had forgotten them!) at her old school, I set off through the beautiful morning.

Some serious fires burned on the slopes up to Anogira last summer. Huge tracts of scrub were reduced to charred sticks and timber, and several houses and livestock corrals were saved either through the luck of a shifting breeze or the tenacity of residents and firefighters. Burns stopped almost literally at the walls. Must have been seriously scary.

I arrived at eight, put my 161 kilos of olives through the mill, and emerged an hour and a half later with 30 litres of oil. That should see us through the year.

The man who arrived just after me outs his olives into the
hopper.

Anogira is the only press in Cyprus that uses millstones
to grind the olives. They also have a museum and a
small cafe.

Andreas starts my olives' oil.

The two guys behind me in the queue. The mill was quieter
this year than last -- maybe it's still early.

The Tanks Arrived!

2011-10-17T18:05:00.000+03:00

They came on Friday morning at about 11, trundling down the hill on a truck followed by a small crane. And without much ceremony the crane hoisted them out and positioned them on the concrete pad at the bottom of the slope beside the house. Alex did not come home after school, and stayed out with friends until late in the evening. When he staggered in, somewhat the worse for wear, he thought that we had been occupied by an Alien Force. Too many computer games, obviously...

On Saturday and Sunday Best Beloved, with some help from me from time to time, constructed the hose system that will carry the rain from the initial filter tanks into the storage tanks. We are still missing some parts, but I will buy those this week and hopefully we will finish the job this weekend and start catching the rain!

Rainwater Catchment System

2011-09-11T12:42:00.000+03:00

At long last we are in the process of installing something that I have wanted for ages: a serious rainwater collection system. How I regret not researching water conservation better when we were building this house! Retrofitting is so much harder than building to design... Where were my braincells when Best Beloved was urging me to 'really think about what you want and how we can include it, because making changes later will be hard, if not impossible'.

Leo and I (see his feet sticking out? He's holding the flange
inside the barrel while I tighten the outside) experiment with
creating a filtration barrel. The barrel will be contain a layer
of stones and gravel, and will filter debris from the water after
the initial 20 minutes of rain have cleared the roof of dust and
bird poop. The final version will have the outlet emerging
from the bottom of the barrel rather than the side.

...But that's another story... Mea culpa, he was right.

Water conservation is not high in Best Beloved's agenda. He believes that rain should be allowed to run off the roof, soak into the earth, and recharge the water table 'in its natural cycle'. I agree, but think that that rain should be made to do as many things as possible before being allowed to slink off underground and run to the sea. And that in a country as dry as Cyprus (Paphos regional rainfall is 50 centimetres per year – almost all of it falling between the months of April and November), it should be everyone's responsibility to catch rainwater and use it instead of relying on the dams and the – often antiquated – village cisterns and delivery systems. Add to our arid conditions the fact that tens of thousands of people have moved here over the last few decades with their requirements for swimming pools, lawns, and manicured golf courses, and you will see that the strain placed on our water sources and the conventional management practices, is growing every year.

Hence my mania for water storage and recycling.

Best Beloved, I reasoned, wants a swimming pool in the future. Maybe we can create some kind of rainwater natural pool..? (Impractical, it turns out, thanks to the harshness of our climate and the total lack of experience in the matter in Cyprus. There are a few in Israel, but we were unwilling to gamble on the expense of creating one here and ascending the learning curve on our own.) Maybe at least we can catch the same quantity that we would use in a pool and recycle it back into domestic and garden use? That is a distinct possibility – and more.

Strangely Cyprus, despite hosting seminars for our neighbours the Israelis, Jordanians, and Palestinians to learn about rainwater recycling togther on neutral territory, has no initiatives of its own for catching rainwater – or, novel concept, for collecting and sharing water and knowlege with our Turkish Cypriot bretheren. If the Israelis, Palestinians, and Jordanians can combine their interest and expertise and weave their shared experience into another strand which strengthens the possibility of peace between them, why can't we? But that, too, is another story for another day...

Over the last year or so I have been researching madly: reading books and contacting experts as far-flung as Israel, Australia, India, and Arizona. Following raincatcher guru Brad Lancaster's instructions, I have improved the land's ability to retain water by constructing berms and mulched basins around the fruit trees, the olives, and any other plants, and have been looking at the house and pondering how to use our enormous roof area (132+ square metres on the main structure alone) to maximise water collection.

D-Rain tanks seemed to be one possible solution, with the siting of a massive underground tank at the bottom of the driveway, but a quote from the German company that produces them was prohibitively expensive – and that was before we had even included the local construction costs.

Only the main part of the roof will be guttered. Collection/
filtration tanks will stand at both ends of the house, sending
the collected rainwater to the large holding tanks on either
side.

The catchment for the main part of the house – excluding the verandahs and the roofs of the lower rooms – is around 66 tons, using the figure of 50 centimetres of rainfall per year. Siting of tanks and positioning catchment systems took hours of pondering and discussion spread over a couple of weeks, and here, BB's clarity of thought won out over my unreasoned vision. “We'll put the first tanks on the lower terrace of the slope on the kids' side of the house,” he said. “And depending on how well the system works, we'll bring a digger next year, level parts of the other side, and put in some more there.” Meanwhile, we would install guttering on the upper roof (the lower, verandah roof does not have sufficient height to allow for a collection/filter tank underneath with enough slope to run off to the holding tanks. Most of the run-off from the verandahs and lower roofs is already channelled into garden beds and the area where eventually the pool and lower garden will be landscaped, and that which isn't accounted for will be easy to deal with at a later date.

The 2.4 x 11m terrace which will hold the first installment of
four 8-ton rainwater holding tanks for use in the garden.

I checked several websites for tank manufacturers. Varelplast in Larnaca makes twenty-ton tanks, but they are too big to put on the side terrace, so we have opted for an in-line connection of four eight-ton capacity polyethylene tanks from VitaPlast in Nicosia. An English company, DrainTech came out from Paphos to give me a quote for heavy duty PVC guttering, but their price was double that of a Cypriot company's aluminium work – which seems to do a fine job directing the water from Phil and Mili's roof – so we're going with Windorama. They are coming to do the work while Sophia and I are in the UK inspecting boarding schools for next year.

Best Beloved and I worked out a gravel filter system for the initial collection tanks, and he has arranged for several local craftsmen to create the structures that will hold them and install them in our absence: frames for the big blue barrels and galvanised archways to carry the downspouts from the guttering over the walkways and into the big tanks.

The blue filtration barrel is not in its final position. The first
array of tanks will be on the terrace below the fig tree, and the
pool will ultimately be in the flat area in front of the van.

I can't believe that we are finally doing this... Oh, Asproulla of Little Faith, didn't he promise you at the end of last summer that we would do it before this winter? And has he ever broken a promise?

Watch this space for updates!

Shoes -- for The Gallery

2011-09-10T11:28:00.000+03:00

I do quite a bit of photography at the Paphos-area community art studio, Turtle and Moon, which is run by my friend, Lise. My children do art classes there, I facilitated a creative writing workshop there, and something creative is always going on. It's a place where I like to have my camera to hand.

Most of the pictures I take are of artists or artwork -- the majority shot on or above table level. But it's always worth sneaking a peek below. Shoes, and how people wear them (or don't) are a source of endless fascination for me.

Paphos Water Park

2011-09-03T19:35:00.000+03:00

Today saw the Little Ones and me 'Follow the Frog' as the marketing slogan urges, and make the annual pilgrimage to the Paphos Waterpark. Like the once-in-a-summer trip to the fun-fair, the waterpark excursion is one that I dread, but that I arrange because it brings so much pleasure to my children.

I resent the cost. Adults (that's anyone over 12) pay 29 Euros each, children (3-12) pay 15 Euros, infants enter for free – and that's the off-season rate in September! No food or drink may be brought in, and the price of a meal is high – 12-15 Euros for a burger, chips, drink, and ice-cream. For us to go as a family costs an arm and a leg, so it was with relief that I heard first Best Beloved, then Alex, then Sophia, express no desire to go.

Zenon, Leo, and I arrived at the gates just as they opened at ten this morning with our bags including some water smuggled from home, set up camp under the trees, and spent the rest of the day there.

I am not into places like this. I hate the rides: whizzing down water chutes, spinning through Black Holes, climbing volcanoes that spout water? Not my thing. Floating down the Lazy River in a big yellow ring or splashing in the kiddie pool (the kiddie slide is about the fastest I can cope with) is about my speed, but anything else – forget it. I hate the smell of suncream and the sight of oiled up, sweaty, roasted skin... And queueing for twenty minutes in the sun? No freakin' way...

But when we arrived, I realised that my days of having to deal with all of that is over. I no longer have to follow the Little Ones around and deal with crowds, sunburn, and feeling ill on water-slides: Zeen and Leo can both swim, are big enough to look after themselves, and don't want Mum around twittering at them to 'be careful'! They dumped their towels and sandals and rushed off leaving me to contemplate a whole day's chance to read in the shade: ok, it came with a hefty price tag for entrance and meal, but on balance, my kids had a great time being completely engaged and active – no sitting at the computer or in front of the tv, no bickering, no fights that needed defusing... And Sophia and I spend that much on a morning of 'female bonding' with pedicures, lunch, and such.

I made forays out from under my tree to go with the Boys from time to time to watch them on a ride, or to take pictures. Leo loves the Lily Pads, and Zenon was keen to try diving. Zenon and I shared a ride in a double ring down the Lazy River, and I remembered taking both boys when they were babies (has the waterpark really been open that long?) Leo and I had lunch together, and Zenon went off by himself to eat at a later stage. We shared icecream and sips from the clandestine water bottle.

The lifeguards shooed us out as they started shutting down the pumps at 5 p.m. By then, Leo's teeth were chattering, and even Zenon had had enough. I had made it through the whole of The Way of the Warrior – book one of the Young Samurai series in which Zenon is currently immersed. He had made friends with a boy from England who is leaving tonight but hopes to come back for a visit next year. They traded telephone numbers, and each family headed to its separate car

Next year I will not dread the ritual nearly as much -- might even find myself looking forward to it!

Pets -- for 'Gallery'

2011-09-01T11:28:00.000+03:00

Over the years here we have had several dogs as I've mentioned elsewhere in these pages. Sputnik has been with us since we found him in June – a starveling staggering along beside the road. Since, he's gained hugely in weight, confidence, and personality.

Stumpy, our long-cherished three-legged cat, still has no idea why we introduced this bumptious canine into his heretofore peaceful routine. And still has no time for him, rebuffing every good-natured Sputnik overture with a hiss and a slash of his remaining front leg – generally a failure as he can't keep his balance and ends up on his face.

Lucky, on the other hand, is delighted to have a playmate and takes no account of their size difference when she pummels, chases, and plays with him.

Sputnik amuses us endlessly with his snores, his outre sleeping positions, his engaging expressions. He guards our house from snakes and feral dogs, plumbers, gamekeepers, and men who come to measure for guttering. Best Beloved (in typical grumpy Cypriot fashion) still can't figure out what posessed me to stop the car and pick him up; but even he, I suspect, enjoys Sputnik from time to time.

Little Bird Overhead

2011-08-31T09:39:00.000+03:00

A familiar clatter echoed around the valley just after dawn this morning: the Electricity Authority Little Bird was cleaning the pylons. Twice a year all the pylons are cleaned with a high pressure hose, but this is the first time I have managed to photograph it.

Note: CLOUDS in the sky (I was even wearing long pants and a t-shirt with sleeves!). Autumn is on the way...

Nabbed by the National Guard

2011-08-29T17:37:00.000+03:00

Well the Army found Alex on Friday.

Most lads get their papers at age sixteen, and since he had made it to seventeen and a half without their being served, we were wondering if somehow he had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps the host of irregularities attending his birth (mixed parentage, unwed parents, no number on his birth certificate, no baptism (previously only Orthodox boys served), parents moved district in early childhood) had led to his somehow evading the system – and since it is the obligation of the State to serve the papers than for the boys to volunteer, we thought that he might just be blessed with the choice of whether or not to don a uniform and pick up a rifle (there is no chance of non-combattant status in the Cyprus National Guard) when he finished school.

I had rather mixed feelings about this choice, and knew that should he face it, he would have to make it alone. On the one hand, I am a pacifist and hate the thought of my sons serving as conscripts in an army – as well as resenting the fact that the two years that the Army takes (and in many cases wastes with endless guard duty rather than taking the opportunity for serious training and creativity within either a military or a community service sphere) are two that would otherwise be spent in the enthusiasm of youth's creativity, curiosity, passion. On the other, I recognise the Army as almost a rite of passage for Cypriot men. If someone doesn't do it, everyone thinks 'Lucky Sod!', but they also realise that that individual has missed out on an experience that nearly everyone else endures – a bonding, for better or for worse... So I had resolved to stand well back and let him make his own choices within the embrace of parental support.

But a phone call from the police on Friday changed all that. The Army had been looking for Alex for weeks in Nicosia and had finally found him through a relative in the police with the same surname; he had to report to the 'Army Office' to sign his papers and provide reason for any possible deferrment within the next fifteen days, or he would be conscripted in January.

We went this morning to the government building, found the Army Office, and spoke to a corporal behind the desk. “Where do you go to school?” she enquired when he said that he had spoken to the police. When he told her, she sighed: “You pay all that money for a private school, and they don't get the papers right with us, ever!” He filled out his form, signed it, and she explained that we had to have a letter from the school by December saying that he was enrolled for this year – which corresponds to the Third year of Lyceum. Next year, when he will be finishing his A-Levels and school is not mandatory, he will need another letter and proof of fees paid.

“Typical!” Alex snorted when we got into the car. “You remember N, the kid who was like the unofficial student council, the liason last year when there was all the trouble (our school has undergone a series of upheavals in the last few years culminating in total shake-ups, take-downs, and seismic changes)? He was in a similar situation. Told the Army he was at my school, the Army called for verification, and the school said he wasn't a student. He couldn't finish his A-levels and he's doing his two years now...” I don't know what N's story was – except that he is indeed a gun-bunny these days rather than the A student that he was – but I suspect that his parents (like many at our school) had not paid this year's deposit because they wanted to see what all the changes would bring before committing to another year – and thus the school, with no reason to protect N, simply said that he was not enrolled.

We went to the school, and requested the verification of Alex's being a student, and the Director explained that he never filled out the Army forms. “I can't,” he said. “It's a violation of the state's privacy laws to give details of my students to anyone, even the government!”

That may be true, but at least he could have let parents know that the papers had been served so that they had the choice of whether or not to fill them out, avoiding a last-minute scramble! All of Alex's other friends from school have already either gone into the Army – being a year ahead, are foreigners who are exempt, or are girls.

Mataro Morning

2011-08-20T09:34:00.000+03:00

Yesterday was the turn of the mataro grapes to be picked, and because the 'Gast Arbeiter' as Best Beloved jokingly calls his Austrian nephew – his key assistant in the vinyard – has returned home for a camping trip, the family was out in force. Even Sputnik was in the field by six a.m.

BB's back problems, and the short stature of the mataro vines, meant that BB supervised and everyone else picked. Leo and Zenon, once we managed to press their enthusiasm buttons, proved adept.

First we removed the netting that protects the berry clusters from sparrows, then we went down the rows of vines snipping away the bunches. We separated the grapes into Alpha and Beta qualities: the Alpha for immediate processing and the Beta for a few days' drying in the sun before pressing (BB is endeavoring to make a vin doux paille, and for that the grapes need to be slightly raisinated).

Blessings on BB's new machinery, the destemming and crushing was done in less than an hour, and the mataro has started it's journey from 'vine to wine' in one of the steel tanks in the basement. Its next stage is to ferment in open steel tanks for a week or so, with BB or me pressing down the grapes several times a day to ensure that no crusty cap forms on the top of the grapes, and that all get an equal chance at fermentation.

I returned to the field after all the grapes were picked because the mango season has just started. The troops were clamouring for breakfast, and I was hungry too. What better than a fig and mango smoothie?

Black & White

2011-08-18T10:29:00.000+03:00

I'm trying something new here, linking to a blog called The Gallery which I found through another Cyprus blog, Emma's A Matter of Choice. So The Little White Donkey will continue to chronicle the ups and downs of Family Life in Rural Cyprus (as it says in my header), but will also be navigating other photographic routes as well...

The Gallery's prompt this week was Black & White...

***

Yioti, my friend's son, had his fifth birthday party thirteen years ago, and his mother made him a number cake -- chocolate, with smarties. Yioti's older brother is looking on in the snake t-shirt, and the little girl in the middle is my daughter. The lady at the side is another friend.

How time passes -- how things remain the same! Sophia is planning to go to England for her A-Level studies next year. Yioti came by for a meal last night during a brief break in his mandatory Army service, Stelios was here over the weekend -- also on a break from the Army. Six months ago, my middle son celebrated his 11th birthday, and the same characters were in shot -- but it wasn't a black and white picture, so we'll have to wait for a new prompt to see that one!

A Day Out at Lara

2011-08-17T09:24:00.000+03:00

Caught up in the business of living here in Cyprus I forget, often, just how wonderful a place it can be.

Yesterday we spent the day at Lara. It was Li'l Bro and the Cousins' Last Day (Bridie left to go back to work last week), and they had planned to visit Lara Bay in the afternoon, inviting Alex and Sophia to go with them.

I rarely get to Lara, the turtle nesting beach half way up the Akamas Peninsula. Getting there takes an hour, and the beach is sandy – a fine, dark sand that gets everywhere and sticks to everything – and I usually have too many other things to get through. But when Leo asked mid-morning with a winning expression “Couldn't you take us, too?”, I folded up the day's To Do list that I had just finished, and started making a picnic.

Into the coolers and dry bag went tuna salad, tzatziki, hummous, cherry tomatoes from Yiayia, fresh figs, passion fruits, pitta breads and the loaf that I had just baked, as well as the sponge cake that Zenon made yesterday. I found the old table cloths to sit on and rooted out the picnic plates, knives, and forks. Then made two litres of ice tea, got juice out of the fridge, and called the Big Ones to load the Land Rover. We were at the beach by one.

I looked at the number of cars parked around the access point, and my heart sank. 'We must be mad. It will be a zoo down there,' I thought. 'Imagine planning a trip to Lara Beach on the sixteenth of August, the high point of Cypriot summer holidays..'

Oh, Asproulla of Little Faith!

I had forgotten how huge the beach is: an arc of at least seven hundred metres, it is also at least fifteen metres wide. The expanse of sand swallowed the hundreds of people with ease, and we found a spot at the bottom of the slope, far from our nearest neighbours and close -- but not too close -- to a marked turtle nest. All along the sand people were playing raquetball, building sand castles, enjoying the day. A fresh breeze came off the water. The Big Ones and Philipp set up the umbrellas, then dashed to the water.

“The sea's not like Petra here,” Li'l Bro reminded me. “Which has been uncomfortably fresh these last few days. Here you sweat when you swim!”

He wasn't kidding. The water was like a bath. Shallow and sandy, perfect for wallowing. There were ripples, not waves, and I floated like a starfish and felt all sorts of tensions that I didn't know I had just drift away.

After a while, everyone settled down to eat the sandwiches that Mili had made and the picnic that I had brought, then the Big Ones and Philipp went off to jump off the seven metre rocks at the headland, Li'l Bro took off for two hours of snorkelling, and I stayed under the umbrellas watching the Littles and Timi paly out an endless sand fight.

Bliss! I read, wallowed, day-dreamed... Where did the day go? The Big Ones returned for chicken fights – no pictures of that as I participated – and before we knew it the shadows were lengthening and the time had come to pack up the gear, slog uphill through the heavy sand, and drive back to the Last Supper as Li'l Bro had dubbed the evening planned by Mili and Phil to mark their youngest son and his children's final evening.

I looked at myself in the mirror somewhat ruefully that evening: although I had never actually sunbathed, the glare from sand and water had burned me a delicate pinkish tomato colour. 'Oh well,' I thought, spraying myself thoroughly with Aloe Vera. 'I guess I'll get a tan after all this summer!'

Sunday Morning Hunters

2011-08-14T12:04:00.000+03:00

Last Sunday morning the tinkling of bells outside our window woke Best Beloved and me simultaneously at about a quarter to six. BB pulled on some clothes, opened the French doors, and went outside on the verandah.

“Re Fileh! (Hey Friend!)” I heard him shout. “ Call off your dogs, please!” The man answered something that I couldn't hear, and BB responded “Yeah, well if my hobby was playing the bagpipes, how would you feel if I brought the instrument to outside your house at this time on a Sunday morning and started playing?” He came back to bed, but the tinkling continued, and two minutes later I saw a huge hound on the wall, a scant two metres from our window. “There's always the rifle,” BB said with a sigh. And got out of bed again.

I heard him go upstairs to the kitchen, take the air rifle down from the top of the dresser and pull the handle back to cock and load it. I heard the back door open. “I told you before...” he shouted. “Now call off your dogs!” There followed a hasty series of shouts and whistles, and the tinkling began fading into the distance. Then I heard a shot as BB cleared the rifle, and his steps came down again.

“He was too far away to see that it wasn't much of a weapon," BB said. “But I think he got the message.”

Our house looks over a valley where a seasonal creek straggles on its route to the sea. We own one side of the hill – a wild place where gorse blooms in brilliant yellow thickets through winter and spring, and wild olive, lentisk, and juniper are a haven for hares, foxes, birds, snakes and other wild life. A cousin owns the other side, and except that it's somewhat barer as she allows the goat flocks to pass through in the spring and autumn it has the same character. The whole valley is barred to hunters, both during the hunting seasons and outside: it is one of the respite places where hare and wild birds can raise their young unmolested – to keep their numbers flourishing for the areas where hunters are allowed to pursue and shoot them.

But it's a convenient valley – largely unpopulated, close to town, between two villages and near the main road, and hunters are constantly 'exercising' their dogs here (spot the difference between 'exercising' and 'training'.. I can't, especially as a pack – sometimes the men 'exercise' as many as eight hounds at a time, and when such a pack starts a hare, both dogs and men follow in full cry) in vioation of the regulations and the posted signs. The hare usually escapes -- and I love seeing them outwit a pack of dogs -- but the stress will often cause pregnant does to miscarry, hence the total ban on hunting dogs in this valley.

In past years Best Beloved has put calls through to the Game Service, and when one of their armed mobile patrols has been in the area, the wardens have arrived in time to serve summons and hefty fines on the violators. One morning a while back I watched as two wardens (their AK47s discreetly out of sight) argued and negotiated with one recalcitrant hunter who refused for ten minutes to come and take his ticket. Only the threat of confiscation of his pick-up truck – Game Wardens throughout the EU have considerable confiscation powers, including of a vehicle and any equipment suspected of being involved in a violation – induced him to come and collect his fine notification. But the service manpower is stretched thin, and rather than call the wardens, it can be easier to deal with the situation 'in-house'.

This morning Best Beloved was off from 0530 picking the next round of grapes, and I was sound asleep when the barking of dogs and the shouting of men insinuated itself into one of my dreams. Waking, I found that the barking and the shouting was no dream, and that several men and a pack of dogs was just outside my window.

Then I heard Mili's voice.

This time there was no “Re Fileh, please remove your dogs!” Mili was a Cypriot matriarch in full spate, and she reached back into her village childhood and dredged up colourful epithets and threats that (according to Sophia, whom I met ten minutes later on the steps) had men and dogs beating a hasty retreat. I heard the piping voice of a child, then Mili shouting again (“Yeah, they had a kid with them,” Sophia told me. “And I felt really bad for Yiayia because he was being rude and swearing, but she just gave it right back to him, saying that she'd call the police and game service, and that she'd poison their dogs – and even if Yiayia wouldn't, most Cypriots would and these guys really don't want to risk that! Hunting dogs are expensive...”), then silence.

Go, Mili. Between BB's rifle and her threats of poison, maybe we've seen the last of the hunters. They can't risk poison, and they don't know that we wouldn't use it as it is a common (if unfortunate) Cypriot country method of dealing with problem animals. Someone (probably a hunter jealous of another hunter's dogs) laid poison on our land two years ago and both Lucky I and Lizzie were casualties – Lucky I lived up to her name as her suffering was spotted by Li'l Bro and he whisked her to a vet in time, but Lizzie didn't make it.

I just wish that I'd been able to understand her tirade. I'm sure it had plenty of colourful vocabulary that I won't learn from Kyriaki when Sophia and I resume Greek lessons in September.

Pressing Shiraz

2011-08-07T15:23:00.000+03:00

After five days on its skins – only four of them spent fermenting – the Shiraz was ready for pressing this morning and Philip and I helped Best Beloved play with one of his new toys. Some vinyards leave wine fermenting on its skins for up to several months, but because our difficult weather conditions can give rise to harsh overtones in the finished wine, BB wanted to press this morning.

Prior to the new toys' arrival last week, we had always pressed using a diddy little thing that took only a couple of litres at a time, and then we had to strain the results through a muslin sock. Those days are long past, and “Ooooh! I like it...” BB said when we had poured about 20 litres of must into the press, built up to the screw thread with bricks and blocks (the press is designed for at least 40 litres of must so we had to make up the difference in space in order to engage the screw thread), and figured out how to operate the ratchet mechanism for maximum pressure with minimum effort.

Separating the free-running juice from the skins.

Shiraz has a beautiful colour.

Oooops. Small spill...

Pressed juice that will be more tannic is
fermented separately in a gallon jug.

We had a small mishap, but after only an hour and a half of comparatively easy work we had separated the free-run or lightly pressed juice for fermentation in the stainless steel tank from the pressed juice which can be added at later date after a separate fermentation if the wine needs more tanin.

Family Wedding -- Part II

2011-08-06T16:05:00.000+03:00

At some point last winter or during the spring, plans for Li'l Bro and Bridie's wedding began firming up. It would be at Phil and Mili's – the civil ceremony in the formal seating area at the front and the feast on the spacious back lawn. Guests would be only immediate family and very few close friends. There would be no catering: decoration, food, and drink would all be taken care of 'in-house' – Sil would look to the tables and flowers, Mili would cook, Best Beloved was to provide champagne, and I was to make enough cheesecake for 'about thirty people'...

Every detail came under the microscope, was disected and discussed. “Do nothing without consulting us,” Li'l Bro and Bridie repeated, mantra-like. When Mili wanted to add pasticcio to the menu she was told firmly “We don't like it, we don't want it!”

Mili and Sil preparing vegetarian koupepia -- stuffed vine leaves.

“But the others...” she began.

“What others?” interrupted Lil Bro. “This is our wedding and we'll have what we want. I don't care about the others – there'll be plenty of other dishes for them to choose from.”

Ten days before the ceremony Bridie's family arrived from Belgium. Her father, mother, three sisters, and one sister's partner and child were to stay in a rented house not far from the village, and wanted to combine the wedding with a two-week holiday on the island. Five days before the ceremony we had a dinner on the lawn 'dress rehearsal' so that everyone could get acquainted before the big day. The food was wonderful, and Phil's skill at public relations ensured that nearly everyone was dancing before the evening ended. Our diverse families seemed to blend swimmingly – little Diego, Bridie's nephew, kicking a football around with Zenon and Leo and conversations in French, Spanish, Greek, and English erupting apace around the long tables on the grass.

The Day drew closer. Stress mounted. I steered pretty clear. I had my orders – cheesecake for thirty, and the photography. I stood by ready to help where needed, stocked up on Philadelphia cream cheese, checked that my camera batteries were charged, and watched the show. Although both Li'l Bro and Bridie had said that they would prefer no wedding gifts, I went by Lemba Pottery – source of all gifts for the last fifteen years – and picked out some nice stoneware for the Happy Couple.

On Tuesday, Bridie and I took ourselves off to the spa at the Columbia Beach Resort for an afternoon of relaxation, reflexology, and pedicure – a chance for some sisterly bonding and the perfect escape from last minute pre-nuptial stress. Tuesday evening I made the cheesecake, but “I had to do it in one big dish,” I told Li'l Bro and Bridie with trepidation. “People will have to scoop out their portions as I don't trust it not to fall apart, freestanding...” They assured me that scooping rather than neat separate slices would not be a problem. “It's family and best friends, Asproulla, they said. “No-one will care if the cheesecake's not in perfect slices...”

All was in place for Wednesday. Last minute spats about who was making what on the menu were smoothed over. I found smart, casual (clean and ironed!) clothes for the Little Ones, discouraged the Big Ones from wearing black, tried and rejected several sets of clothes myself – had to be smart, but not too restrictive for the photography, and arrived next door just as the first guests – lifelong friends of Li'l Bro drew up at the door.

Sil preparing the tables.

Phil preparing the souvla.

Phil greets Bridie's family.

Right on time the ladies from the municipality arrived to conduct the ceremony. Not only were the setting and the weather perfect, but both the preamble and the vows were much more elegant than those of the old formula.

“You (names of bride and groom) know that by your simultaneous consent which is given publicly and formally in my presence and in the presence of the persons now here, accept each other as your lawful spouse and with the confirmation of that fact by your signature you contract a lawful marriage...”

After receiving a short warning against committing bigamy, Li'l Bro and Bridie repeated their vows – LB solemnly, Bridie with some humorous ripostes: “I call upon all persons here present to witness that I accept you as my lawful spouse to love and to share with you as from this day, moments of joy and sorrow, wealth and poverty, happiness and unhappiness, throughout our life until death do separate us.”

“As from this moment,” Katerina-the-official intoned. “I pronounce you man and wife. You are joined together by your free consent in matrimony, and you owe each other love, fidelity, and respect throughout your life. This marriage constitutes the fulfillment of your life and links your destinies on good and rainy days, in happiness and unhappiness, in wealth and poverty until death do separate you.

Vows exchanged...

Diego plays...

Kisses and applause...

“On the basis of equality you should face together all the problems and all the difficulties of life. Together you should shoulder all the burdens of marriage, each one according to your capabilities. You have both the right and obligation to take care of the upbringing and education of your children so that they may become useful and good citizens and free personalities.”

Their marriage was that simple, and that beautiful. Rings and kisses were exchanged, champagne corks popped, Diego played an air on his violin, and we all ajourned to feast around the beautifully appointed tables, finding our seats by the hand-lettered stones that marked each place.

I missed the speeches (can you believe it?) having chosen just that moment to run home for the cheesecake in its glass dish and the jug of raspberry sauce. But they were that pithy that by the time I returned a scant five minutes later, toasts had been drunk and the serious business of eating and drinking was well underway.

Bridie and her father.

The buffet...

The toasts...

The setting...

The feast...

The cake...

Dancing followed dessert – the bride and groom first on the 'raised dance floor' of the back patio, then a blend of boogies and Greek dances until Bridie's parents – her father is in poor health – wrapped it up and left at 11.30, and the other guests – with the drive to Nicosia before them – left as well. “I never imagined it could be done this way!” the Best Man told LB as he was taking his leave. “If only I'd have known, do you think we would have had the usual wedding?” All those miles of hand-shakes, the hours of standing could not be compared to something as simple and beautiful as this.

The dancing...

I saw no tears at this wedding – though there may have been a few shed from happiness – but the smiles? There were more than enough to spread around.

Family Wedding -- Part 1

2011-08-06T11:10:00.000+03:00

Earlier this week my brother-in-law married. He lives in Austria and his bride (Chilean by birth, Belgian by asylum) lives in Brussles – so it was natural that he marry in Cyprus. More specifically in the back yard of my in-laws' home here just outside Paphos.

A quick break for Family Identification (do I sound like an American television station from the '80s?). My Father-in-Law is 'Phil'. My mother-in-law is 'Mili'. My husband is Best Beloved. His younger brother is 'Bill' and Bill's wife is 'Sil' (yes, the -'il' suffix stands for 'in-law'. Clever, no?) So, I'll designate Youngest Brother (No, not as Yob!) as Li'l Bro, and his wife will get the Irish moniker Bridie. That way, we all know they're married. Li'l Bro has two teenage sons, Philip and Timi who, like my children, play themselves.

Li'l Bro and Bridie have been an item for a few years now, but it was only during the last six months that they decided to 'tie-the-knot', and to tie it here, in Phil and Mili's garden, during the holiday season that was convenient for all concerned.

***

Another quick aside to glance at the usual structure of Cypriot weddings. Most occur in Church, in a ritual that takes upwards of an hour and is linguistically incomprehensible to anyone who is not familiar with Katharevousa, the liturgical language of the Greek and Cypriot Orthodox Church. Village weddings have elaborate preparations leading up to the arrival of the church which includes the dressing of the bride, the shaving of the groom, and the preparation of the marriage bed, but modern urban weddings generally skip those steps.

A reception (300 guests is considered 'small', 500-1,000 people counts as 'average', 2,000+ is a good turn-out) usually takes place in one of the hotels or large restaurants depending on the depth of the pockets of the hosts. It used to be in the town square, but modernisation has put paid to that except in close-knit village communities where everyone turns out to help: one of the nicest weddings I ever attended was that of one of BB's cousins in the Plateia of Mandria, with the whole village in attendence and a genuine warmth and interest in the happiness and welfare of the couple. At these receptions bride, groom, and both sets of parents stand, sometimes for hours, accepting hand shakes, good wishes – and piles of 'fakkelakia', the little white envelopes that each contain anything from twenty to well over one hundred euros, depending on the relationship between couple and guest.

The flesh pressing is generally followed by a buffet meal where the menu follows a predictable pattern, and only the quality varies depending on the 'toniness' of hotel or restaurant. A selection of salads (tahini, taramasalata, tzatziki, and village salad); kleftiko, or baked lamb and potatoes (originally baked for a day in clay ovens, these days more often foil wrapped and cooked in the kitchen, although a surprising number of mobile kleftiko ovens are hauled around on the backs of trucks to cater for weddings and other community functions); pasticcio (the Cypriot version of lasagne); stifado, a beef stew; some form of chicken, either souvla or baked; and rice, potatoes, or bulghur wheat. Desserts generally include cream caramel, jelly, wedding cake, and platters of fresh seasonal fruit. Every guest takes away a little wrapped sweet, often containing almonds.

Weddings play an important role in the society, community, and family here. The gatherings are so large because traditionally everyone needs to come and meet everyone else: in a conservative, primarily agricultural society, such family events were the only times that a whole clan gathered and distant cousins could meet and renew old family ties. It was also an occasion to form bonds between the partners' families, and in a community where family links are prized as business connections or for job introductions, knowing who ones 'singenis' or relatives were could be a lifeline. A large gathering is also an essential economic start for a newly married couple: each guest brings money – and every couple hopes to recoup the cost of their wedding by inviting sufficient well-wishers. This may sound cynical, but it's true, and will be openly admitted. An invite to a wedding is also a tacit contract: I will come to your children's weddings and support them, and you are expected to come to mine... In a society that has moved as rapidly as Cyprus has down the materialism highway in the two decades that I have lived here, this has burgeoned into weddings becoming ever more sumptuous social occasions, and expectations becoming ever grander.

When Best Beloved and I wed, back in the early nineties, we bucked the general trend and opted for the gradually-gaining-in-popularity civil wedding, and really rocked the boat by insisting on only twenty-five guests joining us for an evening meal at a Nicosia restaurant. Mili was distressed (“We could have had a small gathering, only 300 or so close friends and family!”), but Phil supported me (“Think of Asproulla's side, only one sister coming! How will she feel surrounded by hundreds of strangers at her wedding, all speaking a language that she doesn't understand?”) I have always blessed him for that.

So we were married by the then-Mayor of Nicosia, Lellos Dimitriades in his city-centre office with only about fifteen attendees (remember, Lee?) in a quick ceremony in English where I didn't have to promise to 'honour and obey' and BB didn't have to say he'd always 'love and cherish' me. There was something about forsaking all others and poverty and wealth and sickness and health, but it was all rather bog standard. He wore a suit, I wore a pale pink party dress from the 1950's that I had picked up in a Galway charity shop. We both said 'I do!' with smiling enthusiasm, then we were driven off in a friends BMW to the Nicosia Hilton leaving 18-month old Alex in the care of my friend Rosemary for the night. Dinner was happily casual, nice food, pleasant music, good company – and several of our guests said 'Your wedding was much nicer than mine, and far less exhausting!'

***

But I digress... Suffice to say that to break the mould of Cypriot custom and invite only a few friends is unusual, and that although civil weddings are now much more common than they were a decade and a half ago, to have a civil wedding in your parents' yard is to really go out on a limb of originality. Stay tuned for the next post...

Crushing Shiraz

2011-08-02T11:34:00.000+03:00

I used to dread the start of the wine-making year. Not involved in the actual grape-picking, I used to wait at home until Best Beloved arrived with the boxes of grapes and then sit and help de-stem and sort the grapes. I actively dislike no jobs in the house, garden, or field except this one. The sorting of the grapes into spoiled and usable, and the removal of stems, spiders, and bad fruit is tedious, slow, sticky. Hours hunched on a hard seat left my bum and back aching and my temper raw – how much worse for Best Beloved with his bad back, I could only guess, for he's not a whinger. The thought of this job has been hanging over me for the last few months, made worse by the fact that we have less help this year since the disappearance of Ha. Less help translates into more hours for me, I thought.

So I knew a shiver of delight last week when BB announced that he was heading for Limassol to buy 'a machine to help with the wine-making'. Foolish Asproulla! “No de-stemming this year?” I yelped with delight. Delight swiftly crushed. “A press for squashing,” came the answer. I assumed (what I hoped was) a winning expression: “But darling, we've fewer hands this year, and I dread the sorting-cleaning part of the job...” I tried to keep the hope alive in my eyes and the whine out of my voice “And we have more grapes than ever!”

So BB returned a few hours later with some new toys and a lighter chequebook, and this morning when we crushed the Shiraz, we got to play.

Because we have several different varieties of grape that BB blends for a unique taste and quality, we need to pick at different times. The Shiraz is ready first: higher in sugar than the Cabernet Sauvingan or the Grenache, and if it is left too long it will impart a caramel fruitiness that BB is trying to avoid. He tests daily for sugar content and pH from the moment that the grapes begin to truly ripen, and had decided that today was D-Day. Luckily this co-incided with the arrival of teenage cousins from Austria on their summer break, so BB and Cousin Philip headed to the vines just as dawn brightened the sky.

We had set up most of the aparatus yesterday: a scrubbed-out (by Leo with tremendous enthusiasm) plastic tank rested on Sophia's old desk, the stainless tank was cleaned and awaiting its crushed contents. The new de-stemming machine only needed to be lifted atop the tank, plugged in, filled – and all of the previous years' torture would be relegated to the realm of 'Remember when...' stories.

Alex and I were waiting for the grapes' arrival – only about 30 kilos came in four boxes. Stricter application of sulpher by BB meant that none were spoiled and manual sorting was unneccessary, so together we all lifted the new machine to its perch. Philip and Alex passed up the boxes, Best Beloved dumped in the berries and pressed the 'On' button. Paddles turned, wheels whirred, juice and skins dropped into the tank and stems shot out of the end of the hopper. In fifteen minutes the job was done and Leo washed his feet and climbed into the tank to do some final squashing. Even Sputnik enjoyed himself – he has a sweet tooth for fruit, and will carry around a single cherry or a piece of apple for hours – so he was in his element with stray grapes.

In previous years, hunched around boxes and bins, we would have gone through several relays of frappes, several fights between fractious little ones, several recitations of The Man From Snowy River, innumerable renditions of songs old and new, this year we finished inside an hour, despite a thorough cleaning of the machine... I suppose that you could have called our old way a 'bonding' experience (or 'bondage' depending on how you looked at it) but it would often be nearly lunch time before we had done the same job. Recovery would take the rest of the afternoon. I have no nostalgia for the past regarding this, and even find mayself looking forward to next week's crushing – we need to tweak the system a little so that the tank doesn't have to be emptied by bucket and ladle, but I'm sure we'll come up with something.

Life With Power Cuts

2011-07-23T09:42:00.000+03:00

We are extremely fortunate: for whatever reason – and I've heard several ranging from our proximity to the airport to our being 'on the same loop' as the wind turbines, to our community's being too small – we have suffered no power cuts. The lights went out briefly on the day of the explosion and again for half an hour the following Thursday, but other than that we have had constant power, unlike most other residents of Cyprus. Best Beloved is fortunate, too. His home/office lies between the American and Russian and close to the Egyptian embassy, and he has not had any cuts, either.

But most of the rest of Cyprus is without power for at least one (and sometimes two or three) two-hour periods every day. And in the current temperatures and humidity levels, that can be terribly uncomfortable – or merely inconvenient... depending on how you live.

When I was first here, in 1990, many more of the houses were old – with massive walls and relatively little glass. Lots of the small businesses relied on balance scales, and May saw the start of 'summer hours' that lasted until October. Shops and offices opened seven 'til one every day, and again from four p.m. until seven. People worked around their environment, and yes, the summer heat and humidity could be taxing, and the pace of life was slow.

Modernisation brought architecture that paid no heed to local conditions: concrete and glass structures that became greenhouses the moment the sun hit at eight in the morning until well after dark, it brought a dependence on electronic stock control and cash machines, and it brought no standardisation of hours. Businesses opened when they wanted, worked through 'siesta time' and closed at five or six thanks to the miracle of air-conditioning. And home computers and limitless t.v. opportunities mean that, instead of socialising with neighbours, adults and children were more likely to spend longer indoors glued to a GoggleBox of one kind or another.

The explosion on July 11 turned all of that on its head. Even if we did lose power along with everyone else, it would not inconvenience us much. We built our house of mud-brick and shaded all the windows with roof overhangs. Although fans help keep it cool, without them inside temperatures are a long way from unbearable. The fridge and freezer would be our vulnerable points, and we would have to plan meals around hours when we could use the oven (the unpredicatbility of the cuts are one of the things which make them maddening for those enduring them – so many friends have said 'I'd just got the pizza ready and the power went off!' or 'The joint was halfway through cooking, and we had no electricity for the next three hours...'). Other than that the loss of the computers and DVD player would be the worst that we would face, and then I would just have to put my Mommy Creativity hat on... or head for the beach.

Others are not so lucky. For people with compromised health, for the elderly, for families in small apartments dependent on airconditioning, the lack of power is more than a mild inconvenience. For office and shop workers in fancy new buildings, the working day becomes untenable. For businesses as small as our local health food shop or as large as the Paphos Mall, stock control has become massively more complicated: everything must be written by hand and entered into the computers later. Banks close during the cuts – and the employees congregate outside in the shade. Petrol stations shut down. Mili and I took Lucky to be spayed, and fortunately the vet's operating theatre had big windows – when the power went out, he just went on snipping and stitching. Hospitals, of course, have back-up generators... but they are not sufficient to run the aircon in non-vital areas, and when I went for an appointment the other day, doctors, nurses, receptionists, and patients alike worked or sat, limp-clothed and sweaty, sighing and fanning themselves with whatever came to hand.

I think that no-one realised how absolutely dependent we are on an uninterrupted supply of electricity to make modern life in this climate bearable, and to sustain the pace that we have gradually assumed to 'keep up with' the rest of Europe, and to live 'in the style to which we have become accustomed'.

On a brighter note, a friend in another town reports a surge in community feeling. 'No longer do we sit inside, cut off from our neighbours,' she said. 'People come out at dusk. The barbeques are fired up, neighbours gather for a beer together, children play in the street...' If every cloud has a silver lining, this must be it – a sense that people, neighbours, family, friends, are in this together – and for the long haul (the Electricity Authority, although it has been buying power from the North, and has borrowed emergency generators from good neighbours Greece and Israel, but is predicting that this situation could last for at least six months until the generators at Vassiliko are fixed and running again). Maybe it will also raise the awareness of the need for more environmentally suitable architecture for both home and work environments... We'll just have to see.

Heat and Unrest

2011-07-15T14:11:00.000+03:00

With several consecutive nights of demonstrations outside the Presidential Palace behind them, police in Nicosia have spent today supervising the clearing of ornamental rocks from the big roundabout in front of the Palace gates. People here are angry. They are calling for the President's resignation as it becomes more and more evident that not only the National Guard was aware of and counselling the removal of the 2000 tonnes of explosives that took out the Navy base and the power station on Monday, but also the Ministers of Justice, Commerce, Defense, Foreign Affairs, and Finance – as well as two high ranking people from the President's office -- all of whom had surely submitted minutes of meetings and reports as to the seriousness of the situation.

But Mr Christofias has yet to offer an apology, or an explanation for the government's continued inaction. And he is sure to duck any responsibility (such is the nature of corruption and cronyism in a society as small and interrelated as ours) – though he has promised 'A thorough investigation and full accountability.' He had a 'conversation' with the Attorney General the other day.. A chat, I imagine, in which the two discussed how the president might best be exculpated. Nothing like the criminal investigation that should be taking place.

Meanwhile more details are emerging as to the actual events. The base commander, realising the dangers posed by the poorly stored ammunition following some minor explosions of the detonators within the containers last week, organised an exercise that got all personell off-post. The officers, NCOs and conscripts were sleeping under canvas some distance away – and probably cursing their CO for the heat and inconvenience. When the fire broke out in the early hours of Monday morning, the commander orderd that the sentries leave their posts, and dismissing his own driver ('Where shall we go sir? How can we leave the base unguarded?' they asked. But 'Go to the others, go somewhere, just get the hell out of here!' he answered) went with his commander, a senior NCO, and the 19-year-old twin conscripts who were manning the base firefighting apparatus, to assist the fire crews in putting out the brush fire. The driver, on his way out of the gate after collecting something from his office was caught in the blast but survived. Of the base, nothing is left but a huge crater.

The commander had also had the presence of mind to send part of the fire crew to warn the power station, and to block the road to the arriving shift. A friend of Best Beloved's got to work there shortly after seven to find a scene reminiscent of a war zone.

'But if they knew that it was going to blow, why didn't the commanders leave too?' Alex asked last night. 'They could have saved themselves...'

'Because it was their job,' we answered. 'There was still the possibilty of putting out the fire, of saving the base and the power station – and as long as that possibilty existed, they had to go. Even knowing that they were probably not going to make it, trying was their duty. And knowing that the young brothers with them were probably going to die too, they still had to try. That's what it means to lead, to take responsibility – whatever the consequences.'

The last few days have been full of funerals. S has been to three, including those of the twins: 'These are my friends, guys my age, guys who got drunk and joked, guys I had push-up competitions with... Another friend is lying in hospital with no eyes and half his brain gone. We all feel bad: our officers are telling us that these guys were heroes -- maybe so, but they're still dead.' The funerals have been marked by anger, but also by dignity. And underlying the sadness and bitterness is a fear for the future: Cypriots were feeling fairly comfortable, despite the recession. Now, with 60% of our electrical generating power knocked out, with rolling power and water cuts affecting pretty much everyone, the economy is set to take a heavy blow. Small businesses are losing money, people can't use the banks, the supermarkets are dark, hot, running on a skeleton staff. Traffic lights stop working as the power once again shuts down... It will be a long road back.

Amendment to Explosion at Mari

2011-07-12T18:57:00.000+03:00

Apparently, the National Guard is now saying that all 98 containers at the ammo dump went up yesterday, leaving a truly enormous crater (and solving the disposal problem). I had wondered how only two had -- but that's what all the news sources were saying. Thanks to Sue in Larnaca for putting me right to that.

Shortly after I hit 'publish' for the last blog post, I thought of a better title: Why Politicians Should Not Be Allowed to Make Military Decisions...

Explosion at Mari

2011-07-12T15:38:00.000+03:00

Yesterday morning at around six two containers of ammunition – part of a stockpile of 98 containers confiscated in 2009 from an Iranian ship heading for Syria – exploded at the navy base near Zygi. Twelve men were killed: the Commandant of the Navy, the commander of the base, an NCO from OYK (the Cyprus SEALS), twin brothers doing their national service, and six firefighters who were part of a crew that had been called out to deal with a brushfire an hour and a half earlier. The base was destroyed, and the new power station next door – responsible for delivering 40% of the Republic's power – was so badly damaged that it will have to be rebuilt, and much of the island was without power yesterday. The airports and hospitals ran on emergency generators and the desalination plants have been switched off. Nearby houses and villages were extensively damaged. Sixty-two people were injured: two remain critical.

The explosion was about 50 miles from us, and we didn't hear it. We had a short powercut in the immediate aftermath, and a haze of smoke reached us at about 10 a.m. Other than that, so far we are unaffected.

Rumour control worked overtime yesterday, but today some things about the case seem to have crystallised. The Defense Minister and the head of the National Guard have resigned. The President has sent his condolences to the families of the dead. Funerals are happening today. The National Guard is busy building firebreaks around all its bases and ammunition facilities.

The Cyprus Customs seized and impounded the cargo of the Cypriot-flagged vessel following the urgings of the American and Israeli governments, and against the wishes of the National Guard leadership who insisted at the time that they lacked the facilities to store the munitions, stored them at the Evangelis Florakis Naval Base at Mari. American, British, and German offers to remove, store, or help destroy the munitions were refused as the Cypriot government did not want to upset negotiations with the Syrians. Despite numerous reports from the Base Commander and other senior officers stating that the containers were deteriorating and that urgent action needed to be taken, nothing was done. And a brush fire, so common during these hot summer days, triggered a catastrophe – the only possible consolation being that, but for the integrity of the base commander (who ordered hundreds of conscripts packed into trucks and evacuated rather than sending them out to fight the fire) and the early hour (a nearly empty motorway rather than one packed with commuters), could have been so very much worse.

As usual, in a community as small as Cyprus, everyone is either affected by an event like this or knows someone who is. Our family got off lightly: Best Beloved's brother was due at the base for training with OYK at 0700 – he arrived an hour after the blast and spent the day there cleaning up. BB himself drove past on the smoke-shrouded, debris-strewn motorway on his way to work at 0730. Stelios, the Big Ones' friend, nearly finished now with his military service, had trained with OYK: one of his instructors and two of his friends are dead.

'It's a wake-up call for all those guys who think they're safe doing National Service here,' said Sophia at lunch today. 'This is Cyprus. It's supposed to be safe here to be in the army... It's not like we've got wars or anything. They're all crapping themselves now, digging trenches round the bases and making sure that everything's properly stored...' I don't agree. The army has plenty of ways to hurt you in peacetime, and incompetant politicians can hurt us in war or in peace.

What I'm left wondering – and no pundit that I've read has taken on this question – is what happens now with the other 96 containers? They're presumably still in the same place, still sealed, still exposed to the summer sun, and even more unstable than ever... 'Budget cuts', according to the press, was the reason that funds were denied to build any sort of a shelter. Let's hope that the budget can stretch to safe and efficient disposal before another avoidable tragedy strikes.

Gone To Soldiers, (Almost) Every One

2011-07-11T21:56:00.000+03:00

When Cypriot males reach eighteen years, they are required to perform military service. Last year saw the first wave of the Big Ones' friends leaving for military service: Stelios went to the navy and did his training as a marine to guard one of the missile bases agaist seaborne attack (in theory, anyway), and Yiannis went off to the commandos – to do whatever commandos do.

Last week saw another wave of friends shaving their heads and going 'to the KEN' – as basic training is known by its acronym for The Centre of New Recruits' Training. Yioti also opted for the navy: he wants to retake his exams to get a higher mark and figures that between pulling guard shifts he can swot his physics and computer studies, Nick is probably heading for the infantry, Tzirkalis wants to be a driver, Dinos has chosen the navy... and Joey, whose ambition for the last three years of technical college has been to be a chef, is headed for the catering corps.

Alex still has two years before his enlistment starts: because he repeated a year of kindergarten (don't ask!), he is a year behind anyway, and because he is taking A Levels he has Grade 13 to complete instead of finishing at Grade 12. This means that most of his friends will have finished their service by the time he joins up, but he doesn't seem to fussed about that. He wants to join the commandos ('At least I'll stay fit, be kept busy, and learn something,' he said. 'Rather than being bored to death pulling endless guard duty or sitting up on some Godforsaken Observation Post on the Green Line!') and is hoping that his less-than-perfect eyesight doesn't disqualify him.

It seems such a short time ago that my friends and I were sipping coffee at a mother and toddler morning discussing army service and how we hoped that the Situation would have been resolved by the time our sons reached conscription age. Now for me, that's unlikely – with Alex, at least (maybe by the time Leo's eighteen, ten years from now, conscription will have ended) – and for my friends, impossible.

And where would the Cyprus National Guard be without the soldiers' mothers? There are no washing machines on the bases ('We washed everything by hand!' said Best Beloved, who did his service in the early '80s), so mums collect the laundry. The food is pretty bad: 'Mystery Meat stew,' said Stelios. 'You learned not to ask what was in it!' so mums bring home-cooked meals (hopefully Joey will change that for his fellow soldiers). Many conscripts don't yet have their driving licenses, let alone a car (and the stipend they receive will in no way stretch to a taxi), so mums living within ten miles of their sons' bases are constantly driving their offspring on and of post at odd hours.

Ah well, it's all part and parcel of living here. It will be our turn soon.

Gone To Soldiers, (Almost) Every One

2011-07-11T21:52:00.000+03:00

Ah well, it's all part and parcel of living here. It will be our turn soon.

Art With Auntie

2011-06-26T18:09:00.000+03:00

When my children hear that Auntie Ruth is due to visit, their eyes light up. A well regarded artist at home in Baltimore, Ruth also teaches workshops in art history and technique in the US and in Spain where she spends the early weeks of the summer. She always brings materials and new ideas, and both the Little Ones and the Big Ones get creative during her time with us.

Several years ago, she introduced them to making pictures with oil pastels, and this summer has added twig and ink drawing to the morning activities.

Summer Lunches

2011-06-26T17:34:00.000+03:00

My sister Ruth is here. She usually arrives this time of the year for a week or two, and it's always good to see her. She has lived in Baltimore, on the east coast of the US, for the last thirty-one years, but has a small flat in Chinchon just outside Madrid where she spends the early summer before visiting us in June then spending some time with our older brother on the west coast of Ireland.

She comes bearing family news – of all of us far-flung siblings, Ruth is the only one who keeps in touch with everyone, ideas to keep the Little Ones entertained during the increasingly hot days, and a light vegetarian habit that gets me eating the way that I prefer to.

“You must give me the recipe for this talatouri (as the Cypriots call tzatziki),” she said as we sat down a little after noon today surrounded by bowls and dishes containing the hummous and talatouri that I had just made, the beetroot that I had pickled according to my Greek and Cypriot food blog friend Ivy's recipe (beetroots roasted until soft then peeled and preserved in half-and-half balsamic and red-wine vinegar and a little salt), and the sliced tomato and cucumber that sat dewily on a small plate.

So I did. It's not difficult, and it's certainly tasty – given extra zing by the garlic that I had pulled out of the earth only last night and the cucumbers just plucked from the vine: take half a kilo of strained yoghurt and empty it into a bowl (glass looks nice, or a pretty dark, glossy blue). Grate two cucumbers and squeeze out the excess water. Add them, and a tablespoon of dried mint, to the yoghurt. Finely mince some garlic (I used about a quarter of a clove), add a small glug of olive oil, and a few twists of the salt grinder. Mix well and taste. If you like it, it's good. If not, add what's missing – a little more garlic or salt, probably.

I heated some Paphos pitta-breads – much fluffier than those found in other parts of Cyprus – and that was lunch. Yesterday we had some garden zucchinis fried with scrambled eggs (take two medium zucchinis and slice them finely with a sharp knife or mandoline, fry them in butter until they colour. Meanwhile, break four eggs in a bowl and beat them with a little milk. When the zucchinis are slightly brown, add the eggs and let them all scramble softly together with a few twists of the salt and pepper grinder. Serve hot.) which went beautifully with a village salad of tomato, cucumber, and pepper chunks sprinkled with crumbled feta and a scattering of oregano leaves.

In a little while I will go out the the garden and pick parsley for Best Beloved to take to Nicosia. Somewhat anaemic because of his Thalassaemia gene, he craves parsley, and will devour taboulleh, the Lebanese salad made with mint, parsley, bulghur wheat, and tomato, by the bucket. I usually make him some on Monday morning, and tomorrow will make enough for us to enjoy as well.

I can't wait for the aubergines to be ready with their endless possibilities for dips, salads, and fritters.

Updates -- On All Fronts

2011-06-21T14:48:00.000+03:00

School is really over! Alex finished his last IGCSE yesterday at noon, and with a flying leap vaulted over the wall, yelling 'I'm free!' We're looking around for work for him at local garden centres and restaurants, and are arranging his Provisional Driving License and a set of lessons. He has been promised my car, if his IGCSE average was B. Results come in at the end of August -- in the meantime we are all trying to forget about it.

Sophia finished Friday, and with a huge sigh said: 'Well that's that! No more going back there...' She is taking a week off before diving into her distance learning IGCSE's and hopes that she scored well enough on the exams that she just took to get into the schools for which we have applied in the UK. The results of those come out July 4, and we will duly send them off as well as making plans for a week's visit to England at the end of September. She is highly motivated, and I think will do well.

Leo & Theodoros baking carob cookies.

Zenon and Leo finished in the middle of last week and are having a good time. Both have projects to work on and friends to play with, so most days see them either at friends' houses, or with friends around here. A mate of Leo's from school was over and they were making carob cookies today -- turned out delicious! I know that some parents dread the holidays, I thrive on them...

House works...

At long last I have persuaded Best Beloved that SOMETHING Had To Be Done About The Floors Downstairs. When we were building, I had wanted concrete. My dad's house in Hawaii had a concrete living room floor. It was beautiful: a mellow golden colour with weathered brick lines to discourage cracks. The Turkish-Cypriot house in Agios Ioannis that we rent has a concrete floor, smooth, mottled, and coloured with ochre. I wanted something similar for here.

Trouble is, no-one knows how to do plain, polished concrete floors... Believe it or not. And we ended up with an ugly patchwork that BB decided -- against my and a friend's strong counsel -- to paint. Disaster: flaking, ugly, difficult to clean. I have been lobbying with increasing stridency for a change, and he finally caved.

The Corridor Before...

Sophia's Flaking Floor

Leo Helps Tile His Room

The Corridor During.

We chose black granite for the corridor, and grey tiles for the bedrooms.

For the last week the house has been full of misplaced furniture (as each bedroom has been done at a time), dust, and the whine of the angle-grinder. We are almost on the home stretch. The five bedrooms have been done -- just in time for my sister's arrival this evening. The guest bathroom has been done with pebble panels, and now the downstairs corridor is slowly being covered with black. I got really cold feet over the corridor: the granite would be too dark ("It will be like descending to the Abyss down there, Manamou!"), it would show every speck of dust, it would look like crap and I would never be able to change it... But I think it's beginning to look really nice. The next few days will tell.

The Irish Satellite...

Will Try to Enter for Companionship...

For some reason Leo cannot get his tongue around the name 'Sputnik' and instead insists on calling our latest family member 'Spud Mick'... But whatever we call him, the Small Golden One has morphed from a Shivering Emaciated Wreck that peed himself if we so much as looked at him into a Happy Little Being who bounces around the garden and verandah, comes (mostly) when he's called, pees and poops (mostly) in his toilet spot near the old goat shed, and stretches out through the heat of the day in a doorway to catch any available breeze.

Training -- Mili came to learn how to cope with Lucky

Training -- Leo is the most dedicated of us all

A dog trainer paid us a visit one afternoon last week and gave us some tips on training him which I implement when I take him for his walks. Leo is is most loyal supporter -- taking him for 'potty walks' every hour of the day, cutting up treats, and teaching him to 'sit' on command. Lucky, of course, is wildly enthusiastic at the presence of another canine about the place, but must be very jealous to see him wandering free. Sophia takes both dogs for a run every evening, and reports that Lucky's rambunctiousness is as ill-contained as ever, but that Sputnik, although only about one-eighth her size, is learning to hold his own.

And So it Goes

2011-06-21T13:07:00.000+03:00

In the confusion of exams, the end of school, and work going on in the house, I have not been able to add the Coda to the last post. Anyone following the Syrian situation will have probably seen that the Gay Girl in Damascus was actually the creation of a straight man in Edinburgh. He has apologised for misleading the world, but said that he did it with the Best of Intentions. Well, as my Sainted Dad used to say, the Road to Hell is paved with those, and let's only hope that he did no harm to anyone, though many 'on the ground' disagree...

To add a bizarre twist to the story, though, one of 'Amina's long-term contacts in the lesbian blogosphere was also a straight man! Both had been running their Internet personalities for some time, and both had taken in vast numbers of people...

'Amina' impressed me: I liked her take on politics, admired her courage, and enjoyed her writing. Like many other people, I feel betrayed by the hoax, and disturbed by the distraction that it has created in a real, often life-and-death situation.

Additionally, I have to wonder at the voyeurism (is that the word I want?) that drives straight men to create on-line lesbian personnae to the depth of detail and emotion that these two men did.

Thought for Amina

2011-06-07T13:29:00.000+03:00

Last time The Little White Donkey strayed from the humdrum of my header 'family life in rural Cyprus' was during the Gaza War. It's straying again – off the beaten path and into the murky territory of neighbouring lands and neighbouring struggles – because this morning, in my dawn skim of the International Press, I saw that Amina Abdullah Araf al Omari (The 'Gay Girl in Damascus' whose daily posts have been one of the links between the people of Syria and the outside world) was yesterday taken into custody by armed men whose car had an Assad sticker.

As yet her family have not posted word of her whereabouts or well-being. They are working and praying for her speedy release, and taking comfort in the idea that, had the regime wanted her dead, they would have killed her already. Perhaps her dual nationality – she holds American as well as Syrian citizenship – and the recent wide readership of her blog will act as shields.

Amina knew the risks. In her recent posts she has described the precautions that she and her father have been taking in case they were detained.

I have thought about her all morning. As I cleaned the house, watered the garden, walked the dog, not far from my thoughts were the hideous thoughts that a brave woman who wanted to be free in a free society (read her words from two days ago, people!) and was willing to risk all for it is enduring pain and fear – if not agony and terror – only one hundred and fifty miles away. The same sun that shines on me, here, in the tranquility of my rural home and family, is shining on her. The same breeze blowing on my cheeks will soon rustle the cypresses outside Damascus. The clouds that sail by, will soon sail over her – and over the hundreds of others like her... but the others are faceless, nameless, because they don't write blogs that 1,000 people follow.

I don't know how the New Middle East will look, J – to answer the question you asked on a discussion list this morning. How can Assad think to retain power now – yet he tries? I don't think that Syria will sink to a morass of corruption, or become a fundamentalist hotspot like Iran. My optimism, and belief in the hundreds of thousands like Amina who want to shake off the repression of generations and take their place in the modern world, won't permit me to think it.

But it is my fervent wish that Amina is here to see it, to share it, and to delight in it.

2011-06-01T15:46:00.000+03:00

We seem, in the immortal words of Obi-Wan Kenobi to have, yet again, collected 'another pathetic life form'. In almost exactly the same spot where I picked up Lizzie, I saw an emaciated golden canine puppy-form staggering along the tarmac under the sun. Alex and Sophia were with me.

'Why are you slowing down?'

'He's not going to last out there...'

So I turned around at the dam – where we found the injured horse, remember – and drove back to little Sputnik.

I put my flashers on to warn other traffic, but my heart was in my mouth to be stopped in the middle of the road – the more so when Sophia got out to collect the puppy, and he, seeking shade, dived under the car. He was too afraid to come to her, terrified to let her approach; but I had to pull off the road and managed to not run him over. Too weak to flee, he peed all over Sophia when she managed to catch him.

'Little Sputnik,' she crooned when he was safely inside.

So we took him home and gave him some water and a little food. He's curled up now, by the back door, pencil of a tail fluttering when someone approaches, and little murmers of excitement and pleasure that he is too weak to fully express.

What to do? I have no time in these manic last weeks to walk Lucky, let alone take on another dog, and Best Beloved will roll his eyes to see him. 'If the cat objects,' Sophia announced. 'He'll have to go!' and although I can hardly see Stumpy protesting with a banner, a puppy is a definite blight on a crippled cat's patch.

In the mean time, he's staying – skin and bone, floppy ears, eyes bright with hope and all. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Spider- Catcher Extraordinaire

2011-05-31T21:25:00.000+03:00

What would I do without my daughter, Sophia 'Spider-Catcher'? I was just putting Leo to bed: “Pick up your dirty clothes and put them in the washing pile, and take that”, I pointed to a towel that lurked damply in a corner, “and put it in the bathroom.”

Leo did as he was told and a large grey tarantula (or 'migal', I think they're called here – anyway it was a couple of inches across and all legs and hair) landed from the towel with an almost audible 'plop' on the floor.

I don't like big spiders. Unable to stop, I once drove the pot-holed dual carriageway from the Golan Heights to Damascus in the dark, a large spider patrolling the van's windscreen in front of me. Ducking my head, I managed to keep it in sight, backlit by the headlights of oncoming vehicles, and only when we arrived at the Damascus campground could Barbie, my travelling companion, and I try and catch it. No way were we going to sleep with that monster. We lost it in the van's bookshelves, and ate dinner with a weather eye cocked. Only as we were about to sleep did it reveal itself, an inch or two from Barbie's nose. She, fortunately, was made of sterner stuff than I, and managed to corner it in a glass, slide stiff paper underneath it, and fling it out of the van's sliding door – only to have it jump on her and run up her arm before it disappeared forever.

Sophia is also made of sterner stuff than I and has several times come to my rescue when a big spider has found itself near me. They seem to like damp laundry, especially towels. More than once, while picking up the laundry by the back door, I have had a big migal fall out of the pile. Early one school morning two years ago, it happened just before everyone was supposed to get up. I screamed from surprise and pain (it was the period when my hip was giving me real gip, and the sideways twisting leap that I performed in the pre-dawn gloom was guaranteed to hurt). Sophia heard my yell and turned over sleepily thinking 'Alex will sort it out, he's nearer!' When evidentally no help came from the gallant Alex, Sophia dashed outside to find me crouched and groaning, pointing at the offending arachnid. She promptly dropped a laundry basket on it, earning a reprimand from me... From then on, like Barbie, she scoops them up tenderly with a glass and a sheet of card and carries them far from the house.

Last winter, while taking a shower when the kids were at school, I reached for the soap and thought 'That's odd: one of the kids has left one of the plastic spiders from the Early Learning Centre in the soap dish...' only when I touched it and it moved did I realise that the creature under my hand was, in fact, real. I continued my shower, gaze fixed on the soap dish, but when I returned to remove it, the spider had vanished. For the next week I conducted myself with great trepidation in the bathroom – carefully inspecting all towels, face cloths, soap, and such. But it never revealed itself again.

So this evening, when Leo and I froze staring at the creature on the floor, I yelled for Sophia and she came, glass and card in hand. This spider did not go gently, however. S/he seemed to fancy Leo's room and only after much persuasion with the card and a wand from a box of magic tricks would consent to be lured into a position where Sophia could lower the glass over her/his body without trapping the great hairy legs.

Sophia's language was colourful -- a steady stream of epithets mixed with cajoling encouragement. Study of Shakespeare seems to be paying off.

Visit to Crete

2011-05-29T18:13:00.001+03:00

Despite how much I love my family, and despite the fact that I do enjoy my life, sometimes it's great to get away...

I just spent three days in the Cretan town, Chania, sitting in on Part of Stella Johnson's Documentary Photography workshop. The workshop ran for five days, but I only managed three -- driving to Larnaca, boarding Aegean's flight for Heraklion, landing to find two bus loads of riot police outside the airport (expecting me, were they?), taking the three hour bus trip to Chania and finally checking in to the wonderful Porto del Colombo hotel in the old city.

My mornings were spent shooting, editing, and in class seeing the other students' work and sharing critiques. All together there were five American students and between three and five local teaching assistants who helped with translations and introductions and organised locations for the students to shoot -- a leather factory, the gypsy encampment, the market.

This was Stella's fourth Crete workshop: I first met her four years ago when I took a Magic Moment class with Costa Manos, and last year I was also able to attend part of her workshop. She is a wonderful teacher -- warm and encouraging, positive and constructive. I feel that I made some good progress in my work.

The most important place that I photographed was the cemetary. Stella and I had been together last year, but both of us had felt intimidated by the loaded situation there. This year I was determined to get something from it, and was rewarded. As I wandered the aisles, photographing the different graves, their inscriptions, their mementoes, I wondered how to discreetly include the black-clad relatives who came to clean and sweep their loved-one's tomb. I stopped at the memorial to one young man and was exploring different visual ideas when his mother arrived with fresh flowers and candles. Mortified, I asked if she minded my photography, and she said not at all, and to continue... The experience was a gift.

The whole workshop was a gift -- of learning, of cameraderie, of good food and raki, of intense concentration... Thank-you to all who combined your energies to make it all possible.

Bottling

2011-05-02T10:41:00.000+03:00

In the beginning... there was the winery: ready for the bottling, older vintages 'wracked and stacked...'

Production line in progress...

Yesterday we bottled the 2010 vintage of 'Chateau de Petit Ane Blanc'. It was a rather special event: unlike other years, when Best Beloved has used grapes from others' vinyards to make up barrel quantity, last year's harvest was all our own certified organic grapes. It was a smaller harvest – only 100 litres: fifty litres 'A' -quality, fifty litres 'B'- which had been patiently waiting in their stainless steel tanks in the basement winery for their descent into glass.

The night before, Le Sommelier arrived from Nicosia with wife and Littles-Aged son in tow. A good dinner was had by all, including my brother-in-law and his Intended over from Continental Europe (one lives in Vienna, one lives in Brussles). I baked salmon in foil and served it with dill butter, steamed baby potatoes, a tabbouleh and a green salad and followed that up with a pannacotta with forest-fruit sauce, and we were all tucked into bed by twelve.

We started at about eleven the next morning, LS filling bottles, BB corking them, Alex wiping them off and putting them in their appointed spots. Then friend Charis arrived with wife and Toddler son in tow and began filling bottles from the other tank, ably assisted by Toddler. Wives and I were fluid elements in the production line variously collecting bottles, rinsing them, opening packets and photographing the proceedings. Toward the end we ran out of bottles and I made a frantic circuit of the house rounding up the empty wine bottles that we have stashed in the bedrooms as water containers.

By one we had finished and cleaned up. Lunch was the remains of the salmon mashed with cream cheese, capers, lemon juice and pepper on brown toast, fresh asparagus, and for the non-pescavores cold roast beef sliced 'waffer-theen'.

'I think the wine is good', BB said to me last night. 'And LS thinks so, too. You can usually tell when he thinks its good because he doesn't say much...'

Best Beloved has put so much work into this -- hours of planting, weeding, pruning, tying up, harvesting, pressing... fiddling! Endless thought and research, endless consideration of the whys, hows, and wherefores of the making of good wine. The 2008 wine was lovely: complex and spicy -- and it received good reviews from People Who Know About Wine. Two thousand nine I liked less and I think BB liked it less, too.

I can't wait to see how this one turns out.

New vintages A- and B- qualities, and time to rest and enjoy the view... (why did this caption turn blue???)

Easter Prep

2011-04-20T15:51:00.000+03:00

Flaouna baking time is here again! Except for last year, when Marios was too little to really participate, Kay has always made flaounes with me. First with Alex and Sophia 'helping', lately with Zenon and Leo helping. So it seemed perfectly natural, now that Marios is a little bigger, to give her a call last week and suggest a morning's baking followed by egg tree making and a dog walk.

She arrived at just after nine and by ten we had a production line going: making the dough, leaving it to rise while we made the filling, then rolling each flaouna, filling it, painting with egg, and finally cooking tray after tray.

Time constraints mean that the egg tree is for another day, but we made several dozen flaounes (hers with raisins, mine with hash seeds) and walked Lucky along the dam.

The Turning of the Seasons, the Turning of the Years

2011-04-18T18:03:00.000+03:00

We are leaving spring behind and roaring, full throttle, into summer.

Every year the change in seasons happens this way: for the first half of April we cruise through a beautiful honeymoon spring, green grass, bright flowers, air crisp enough morning and evening to make long sleeves and a sweatshirt neccessary. The butter can stay out of the fridge in its butterdish, and retain the perfect consistency for spreading. Then around the middle of the month, the season shifts into higher gear. Overnight the grain ripens and the flowers die. Shorts and sandals come out of the closets, doors and windows stay open all day. One starts to avoid the sunshine. The butter sags into a golden pool and, if not refrigerated during the day, gets a rancid tang very quickly.

Yesterday we celebrated Zenon's birthday. He invited a crowd of friends and most of their parents joined us as well. Best Beloved did a simple meal of pork, lamb, and chicken souvla. There were hummous and grilled halloumi for the vegetarian contingent, and a massive salad. Cake and jelly followed the games, then the children dispersed to bike races, lego building, and table tennis – which the adults soon joined. Everyone left by dark, and BB and I cleaned up then sat sipping white wine on the verandah.

I guess I've been doing birthday parties – an average of two or three a year – for seventeen years now. And as I looked around the gathered well-wishers, I saw some of the same faces that appear in pictures taken more than a decade ago. Stelios is about to finish his army service now. Yioti is about to do his A-Levels. I have pictures of Yiotis's fifth birthday party, with several of the same characters gathered around his chocolate cake as were gathered around Zenon's yesterday. Maybe that's because Lisa's and my kids grew up side-by-side... But it's been a while since all her big boys were here, and as she said yesterday, as we watched them scoffing cake and jelly with the same enthusiasm that they showed twelve years ago “They don't get any smaller, and they take up So Much Space!”

Little People parties are dominated by Pass the Parcel and Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Sophia's last one – when she turned fourteen (she couldn't decide what to do last year, so opted for nothing) – was a tea party, complete with crustless sandwiches, elegant cups and saucers, and trifle... and head banging rock and roll or heavy metal rumbling from the nether regions both before and after the meal. Leo's is a winter birthday, and the weather is often too bad to spend it outdoors, but Zenon's is the perfect opportunity for outdoor games. Last year we had water ballon wars with washable dye. All the invitations included the admonition to 'wear old clothes' – not a usual warning on a Cypriot invite.

Next weekend belongs to Easter, and the spate of parties and feasting that accompany the major festival of the Orthodox year. I'll shun the bangers and bonfire of Saturday night: custom is that the whole village goes for the Midnight Service, shares a light from the Paschal Candle, and witnesses the celebration of the Risen Christ. The Pagan side of me enjoys the fire and the concept of the gathering, but in practice I usually avoid it – I hate the firecrackers, and don't enjoy the religion.

The Big Ones have friends in the village now to hang out with, and will surely go. BB or his parents may take the Littles.

Then it's back to school – revising and GCSE's for Alex, end of term exams for Sophia, the Three R's for the Littles. After that? The long, glorious ten weeks of summer holidays.

Roll on!

On Making Dogs and Small Boys Happy

2011-04-17T14:53:00.001+03:00

Another Facebook-inspired note today...

A friend posted the other day something like 'forget the gym, get a dog', and that caused me to reflect on our current situation.

We have been dogless since late last summer when our dear stray, Lizzie, who had found a home with us but a few brief months, ate poison probably spread on our land by a hunter jealous of another hunter's dogs. But Mili has a dog... Her pet Lucky died after a twelve-year innings, and was replaced in short order by a spirited puppy late last October. I had my doubts about this Lucky. I knew that it would grow into a big dog – she has, and she's still growing. I feel that it's desperately unfair to fit a big dog into a small pen. And, Mili is no spring chicken (she'll be seventy next month) and is neither as spry nor as strong as she used to be. The combination was not promising.

Sure enough, Milli tries to take Lucky II for walks twice a day, but they are pitifully short for an energetic, long-legged youngster. And seeing Lucky shut up, hour after hour, day after day does my heart and my temper no good at all.

So I take Lucky for walks. Not every day, but at least five times a week I take her out for an hour or so over the dam, down to the – thankfullly defunct – motorcycle piste, along the valley, or through the fields. Usually I can get one of the boys to come with me: Leo came the other day, and we walked the edge of the plateau – Lucky porpoising through the weeds, wheat, barley and flowers in the fallow pastureland, only the points of her ears and the tips of her waving tail visible above the green, yellow, purple and scarlet all around. Even Leo found some of the greenery head-high, and plunged with small-boy abandon after the dog and the ball that she was alternately clutching and tossing into the air.

Today was Zenon's eleventh birthday and his gift from his father and me was a bike. This is a honey of a bike – his first with gears – and he was desperate to try it. So this evening, with all other chores and driving jobs dispensed with, I suggested that he come with me and Lucky down to the dam. “We'll go along the wall this time, not over the tracks and the fields, and you can try the new bike properly.”

His face lit immediately, and he hurried to find his shoes, collect the dog from her pen, and help me get the bike into the Landrover. It's so big that we had to take the wheel off, and we fussed and pushed, and all the while Lucky II panted her excited doggy breath into the back of the car. Job done, Zenon climbed into the back beside the dog and we set off on the short journey.

By the time we got to our usual parking place, the light was golden and the shadows long. We unloaded bike and dog and set off. There and back, I walked a mile, the silver and light blue water, it's level almost to full (I remember so well two years ago when the high-water mark showed livid, way above the stagnant ooze that lapped the hillsides and damwall) meeting the green and dappled hillsides; EasyJet landing from Gatwick; the windmills turning against the sky. Boy and dog must have covered five miles: I was only a quarter of the way across when they reached the end and started back towards me. Then circling me, they headed back the way they had come – Zenon feeling his way up and down the gears and bouncing over the speed bumps and Lucky running alongside, tongue hanging, eyes laughing, tail wagging 'This-beats-those-sedate-promenades-with Mili-hands-down!' written all over her face. Mutt that she is, her chassis is a little crooked and she can't run a straight line to save her life.

By the time we returned, dusk had fallen and Zenon took Lucky back to her cage for her dinner.

Best Beloved turned our spare room into a gym last month, with the purchase of a treadmill, an elliptical machine, a rower, and a set of weights. Most weekday mornings, I do 15 minutes on the elliptical (it tells me that I have covered something over a mile with a resistance of 9 – whatever that means), and about 50 sit-ups. I simply do not have time to take Lucky out, so I resort to the gym.

But evenings are a different matter. Evenings now, for a while I forget the chores, forget the hassle, just get a boy, get the dog, and get outside.

What I was Thinking About While Planting This Morning

2011-04-13T10:45:00.000+03:00

Something happened yesterday that made me sad.

I was doing my skim through Facebook and came on the following, posted by one of my friends from High School: “Apparently, Glenn Beck says that only hookers use Planned Parenthood. Guess that makes me and all the other people who have ever used PPs vast array of services hookers. Cross post if you are a hooker according to Beck too.” I had used PP – gratefully -- in my youth, thought 'What a ridiculous thing to say!' and without too much thought, posted it to my status bar. Over the next 24 hours, that comment generated more responses than any that I have ever made.

A friend in Maine explained some of the background to the quotation (which I will not post here. It's easy enough to find on the Net if you want to listen), and suggested that GB doesn't necessarily believe what he says, but thrives on OTT controversial statements, and I accept that that maybe true. I don't know him or his background from Adam. (Note to readers: I have not lived in the USA for two decades, plus. I am not familiar with talk show hosts or other popular personalities, and know that commenting on another culture whose nuances are unfamiliar, is done at the commenter's peril. There be Dragons! But I digress.) I replied that I was unfamiliar with the man in question and had probably passed on the equivalent of a Chinese Whisper. Within minutes, a friend in Florida posted the link to the comment, and I listened to what was actually said.

I felt ill almost immediately. It was so full of negativity and toxic energy. So belittle-ing of others who don't share his views. Maybe that's how 'entertainment' works these days, and I am so isolated on my Mediterranean seaside plateau that the world has left me behind... 'Hookers' are only ones that will miss Planned Parenthood should it be cut from existence.... Abortions are treated as a joke... Fundamental women's health services are ridiculed...

I've never hooked. And I'm pretty sure that none of the women who stepped up and posted beside me have, either. I see nothing wrong with the job itself, but deplore the misery and exploitation that so often serve as prostitution's hand-maidens. I have had an abortion. I lived in a country where contraception was illegal, a doctor who mentioned abortion as an option could be prosecuted, and women who found themselves in the 'family way' were forced abroad, into 'unwed mothers' homes', or gave birth alone in fields -- and died. It was not a joke, and I will bet a fortune on the notion that no-one who has had an abortion and no-one who provides them treats them as a joke. For me it was a time of misery, pain, and depression – and I was fortunate to have the support of my family. How infinitely awful for those who must endure them alone or under a cloud of disapproval.

What struck me most about that little soundbite was the lack of compassion. Maybe he really is a cuddly grandpa who puts all that callousness on for effect. That idea in itself led me to two further images: I, after using natural cleaners for so long, can no longer walk the the supermarket's chemical detergent aisles without developing a headache and sensitive eyes – yet other shoppers have no problem, and a frog can allegedly stay happily in slowly heating water until it boils to death. What's the cumulative cultural effect of that aural toxicity on those who hear it daily?

A dog-eared copy on the following was posted on the door on the Big One's nursery school fifteen years ago. I have never forgotten it.

Children Learn What They Live

By Dorothy Law Nolte, PhD

If a child lives with criticism,

A child learns to condemn

If a child lives with hostility,

A child learns to fight

If a child lives with ridicule,

A child learns to be shy

If a child lives with shame,

A child learns to feel guilty

If a child lives with tolerance,

A child learns to be patient.

If a child lives with encouragement,

A child learns confidence.

If a child lives with praise,

A child learns to appreciate.

If a child lives with fairness,

A child learns justice.

If a child lives with security,

A child learns to have faith.

If a child lives with approval,

A child learns self-esteem.

If a child lives with acceptance and friendship,

A child learns to find love in the world.

That time of the Year Again

2011-03-30T14:16:00.001+03:00

The whole nationalist/religious thing just hit me full on with the Littles' school assembly for the combined Get Rid of the Turks and Kick Out The English days which fall a week apart every year. March 25 is the anniversary of the Greek rebellion against the Ottomans in 1821, and April 1 is the anniversary of the beginning of the Struggle for Independence in Cyprus in 1955. I seem to remember that in previous years and other schools the assemblies were separate, but for the last two years Kouklia has combined them in a heaping jumble of 'Hurray for Greece!', 'Freedom or Death!' and 'With God on Our Side!' that is spoon-fed to children from nursery school up. Try a little hate and xenophobia before lunch, guys. But as my Sainted Father used to say 'Please don't confuse me with the facts!'

Under the former Head, assemblies were kept short and low tech, focussed on the students and their abilities and accomplishments: the reason for the assembly was almost peripheral in his day. But now, it seems to be 'We have Power Point and we're going to use it!' and 'We have an electric keyboard, so we'll play it loudly, even as it drowns the children's singing!' and 'Never mind if we have to fiddle with the mikes and they deliver ear-splitting bursts of feedback, lets use them!' I left after an hour and a half to go home and cook: the children were bored and restless and the parents were yawning and looking at their watches. Even the young actors and actresses couldn't wait to leave.

Oh the endless need to pick at hate! Does it make one prouder to be Cypriot when one endlessly hears and rehashes the miseries and injustices that one and one's people – and other people of a different race but who speak the same language and worship god in the same way – have had to endure? Isn't there a better way to engender pride in your people, your country, your tribe, race, family than to dwell on the hateful shortcomings of others?

As I said to K, the Belgian mother of Zenon's best friend, 'It's as if we, children in Europe 20 years after the end of the Second World War, kept festering the wounds of the German Occupation and the Blitz. As if the Germans reminded us each February, and re-enacted in every school the firebombing of Dresden, sparing tots none of the grisliest details...' as our children every year re-enact the horrible death of Grigoris Afxentiou – leaving out the inconvenient possibility that he may well have been betrayed by Grivas.

But maybe that's where the rub lies: because for Cyprus it has not been 'Eleftheria y Thanatos'; Cypriots were denied the choice of 'Freedom or Death'. The betrayal and dismemberment of this island lives still, and festers – in the endlessly played Blame Game of the Cyprus Problem, in the government's cynical manipulation of the families of the Missing, in the shelter and silence offered those who committed heinous crimes against neighbours during the dark days of the coup. What are the stages of grieving again? Denial, I remember, is the first...

And meanwhile, these fourth and fifth-graders, professing pride in their Greekness, shuffle to the microphone, their shirts untucked, their sneakers at odds with their grey trousers, the elastic supporting the tie of one who wore a t-shirt rather than a button-down stark against his tanned neck...

Doesn't pride start at home? In your appearance, in your school work, in the way you present yourself?

It makes me want to weep, or to gnash my teeth with frustration, when my eight year old rushes up to me and says: Did I do well? I have to assure him that he was magnificent. And then later I have to wrestle with the questions: Did the Turks invade us, or we them? And why? And did it hurt Afxentiou when he burned like that? And were the English really horrible – because some of my friends are English -- and you were from there, weren't you?

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2011-03-03T09:26:00.000+02:00

Yesterday Best Beloved received a phone call from the Littles' headmaster. The teacher first explained that Leo was in detention because he had repeatedly left behind his books and pencils, and had neglected to remind me to sign things – all this despite my asking him each day morning and evening if all was in order with his papers, pens, and notebooks. Then, taking a breath, he plunged into the second reason for his call.

Zenon, he reported, had stood in front of the entire school, teachers, helpers, and local health inspector, and told them that the entire family except himself, were HIV positve and carried AIDS.

Was there any truth to this? The headmaster wanted to know...

Best Beloved assured him that there wasn't.

The conversation ended, and BB scratched his head, wondering if this were a new ploy of Zenon's to win attention and set himself apart from the crowd.

Then the penny dropped and BB called the headmaster back.

“I think,” he said. “With respect to our recent conversation, that Zenon was confused between HIV and the Thalassaemia trait. You see, I carry the trait, and while my wife does not, all of my children – except possibly Zenon – do.”

On Zenon's return, I quizzed him as to his remarks, and found that he had indeed confused the two conditions. I just hope that this is the end of the story – that some child has not gone and repeated the assertion at home, and that some parent does not insist that we all undergo tests and display the results on the school bulletin board as had to happen when a friend's child was rumoured to have TB.

Not that I am averse to being publicly tested, I just don't need the hassle right now.

Planting Vines

2011-02-23T12:37:00.000+02:00

I have no idea what's happening with the font and layout -- and now colour -- here. Maybe it's time to leave bloggspot? A new glitch seems to happen every time I try to post... :(

We spent last Saturday planting Grenache vines on the Turkish Cypriot field that the family rents. (Turkish Cypriot property is held in trust by the government. It can be rented, but cannot be bought, and what you rent cannot be substantially altered: a house cannot be added to or brought down and rebuilt, a field cannot be built on, etc. The plot of land adjoining the family land here in the village is divided among thirty-two people – all of them of unknown whereabouts, eight of them Turkish Cypriot. For administrative ease, the government have amalgamated it into one big plot which Phil rents and lets his sons use. The only way to change this status quo would be to have a forced sale which would cause a lot of palaver. At the moment, we are keeping the status quo.)

Best Beloved had ploughed the field parallel to the line of vines that he had planted last year, and had marked the spot for each new baby vine with some lime. Then he collected the tractor drill bit from Yiannakis in the village and we started at about ten in the morning, despite a filthy wind that gusted out of the south-east.

Best Beloved would drive the tractor, drop the drill, and make the initial hole, then go on to the next spot. The tricky aspect of it all was that a seam of bedrock underlies the soil anywhere from ten centimetres deep, so each hole had to be redrilled to make a 35mm diameter slot for each baby vine. Best Beloved is hoping that with the extra help through the seam of bedrock, the vines will flourish rather than languish like those planted more shallow atop the seam.

To drill that extra hole, BB had bought an electric Ryobi percussion drill – like a Kango but with a drilling as well as a hammer function. He and Alex (Alex had been watching Scarface the night before and enjoyed hefting the drill and announcing 'This is my little friend!' a la Al Pacino...

went along the line extending the holes. It was a heavy and tiring job: I tried it, but I found the weight of the drill and the torque a scary combination. BB insisted – rightly -- that I learn to use it, and I did drill about six holes (out of 110), but was not happy doing it.

Most of my time was spent clearing the holes in readiness for the drill, then dipping the vine sticks in rooting powder and inserting them in the holes along with a handful of organic fertiliser. Then filling the holes again.

Leo, as usual, was a great help, pitching in with enthusiasm wherever requested to help. His chief chuff of the day, though, was that – since I was working – he was the project photographer. He got to wear my D80 and shoot pictures with it! All the pictures here today are thanks to Leo.

We were stopped, twenty holes and half an hour, short of the end of the line by a shortfall in the electric line. The last fifty metre section of extension lead had blown its fuse, another one was not obtainable, and we had to knock off for the day.

Rain fell all of Sunday, and the next day the cycle of the week began again. Hopefully we will get the job done next Saturday.

Education, Anyone?

2011-02-07T19:48:00.000+02:00

I just collected the mail.

Among the prospectuses for UK boarding schools and Sixth Form colleges that were beginning to pile up in the box was a single glossy sheet that represented Alex and Sophia's school's annual recruitment drive and entrance exam announcement – obviously a mass mailing aimed at everyone with a P O box.

It's a small glossy sheet, English on one side, Greek on the other. The name of the school, the announcement of the entrance exam, with a date, and the slogan 'We don't just teach We (sic) educate!'

Bear in mind that the school teaches through English.

Under the date and the time of the proposed examination, the flyer announced 'Candidates will be tested on the school material that they have been teached.'

For all of you queuing up to join this wonderful establishment, registration is now open!

Ancient Greek and Government Sinecure

2011-01-29T20:19:00.000+02:00

Best Beloved has decided to learn Ancient Greek. He has wanted to for a long time – both for the academic exercise and in order to read the Classics in the original, and when I told him that Sophia's and my teacher does Ancient Greek as well as Modern, he asked me to arrange lessons for him.

His first class was yesterday, and I took my car to show him the way, planning to leave after the introductions – he had errands to do in town. But her mother, a sweet woman, insisted that I come and drink coffee, so I did.

We chatted quietly in the kitchen, as behind the curtain I could hear Best Beloved explaining to Kyriaki that although he was proficient in Modern Greek, he had no idea of grammar. “I know what a verb is,” I heard him tell her. “But not much else...”

Androulla and I chatted about various things, and I used the occasion to find out a bit more about our teacher. She's twenty-four, studied philology here and went to Germany for her Masters', and has a variety of students from the area, both children and adults, locals and foreigners. “But that's great!” I said. “Teaching every day like that, both here and in others' homes, she's doing very well. Why on earth would she want to start teaching in a school, especially considering that she could be sent anywhere – Larnaca, Polis...” Graduate teachers here have their name added to the government's master list. Sometimes they wait years to be called to a post. Often they change schools, even districts, every two years – seems like a nightmare to me.

“But she hasn't been picked yet,” her mother said. “Her name hasn't come up on the list...”

“She doesn't need to,” I said. “She's a good teacher, and with a steady clientele, she must make a good living.” Don't forget we're talking mother to mother here, gossiping comfortably in Greek and Cypriot dialect, in the cosy kitchen of a village house.

Her mother looked a bit shocked. “Oh no, Asproulla-mou,” she said, shaking her head. “The benefits... We all hope that she'll be called as soon as possible!” And then I remembered. The vast majority of Cypriots aspire to government jobs. Government work is work for life. It includes health insurance, long paid holidays, guaranteed promotion... and pensions.

“My brother and I worked out that if he were to work in the Private sector,” Best Beloved told me the other day. “He would have to work for one hundred and twenty years to receive the same pension that he gets after thirty in Government service.”

That's why our government is so inflated. Everyone wants to hop on board the gravy train. Few people want to take risks in the private sector – even the brightest chose 'security' over the creativity and risk of their own initiative.

Meanwhile, we are selfishly hoping that Kyriaki doesn't get called any time soon. Best Beloved's text books jostle mine on the table, and I enjoy calling him my 'co-nerd', Sophia's looking forward to Greek lessons for the first time in her life “because I'm actually learning something”, and I'm having a good time as well.

School Crisis

2011-01-26T18:07:00.000+02:00

School is once again at crisis point. The Big Ones are at a private English language school, and have been for the last five years. In that five years we have seen the head teacher change four times and the premises change three. We have stuck with the school for two reasons: there is little choice, we were holding out for the move to the new campus – hoping against hope that all the promises we had heard would be fulfilled.

Each year the fees have gone up. September 2010 saw Secondary moved to a private afternoon college's building because the Department of Education revoked the license due to unsuitable facilities. We watched the new school a-building down the road with scepticism and trepidation – how could it possibly be ready in time?

It was ready – well, sort of. Classes started in the building site, but there were no electricity, no internet, no blinds on the windows, and none of the whiteboards, computer facilities, science equipment that we had been promised. Chemicals for the science labs were ordered two years ago... but they haven't been paid for yet, so students learn their chemistry and physics 'theoretically', without ever performing experiments.

The last days of summer saw the students sweating in glare-boxes, and winter finds them shivering now that the 'solar gain' of this, Cyprus' first ecologically designed 'green' school, fails. A directive has come down 'No hoodies or sweatshirts, scarves, or non-uniform jumpers.' ('But it's cold and the uniform's inadequate!' the children wail.) Oh, and there's still no electricity apart from the generator: something about the Electricity Authority saying that the school must pay for a sub-station, or the Church (who own the site) saying that the school needs to pay more. So the bargaining continues. And, no, there's no transparency, either.

When time came to choose courses for this year, Alex, in his second year of GCSEs managed a workable schedule, and seems happy enough with his course load of maths, sciences, and ICT. Sophia, beginning her GCSE's, was unable to take French, art, or Greek due to scheduling SNAFUs. We have to do those subjects out of school hours because she enjoys them and thus excels. She is less fond of biology and economics – classes that she had to take because of the aforementioned SNAFUs – not because she doesn't like the subjects, but because the teachers are way below par. All last year's biology students – who scored A's and B's on their mock exams – received D's and F's on the real thing: a reflection of poor teaching, and the cause of much angst and devastation among parents and students.

“I started the year determined to work even if the teachers were incompetent,” Sophia said during a tempestuous family discussion last week. “But I can't because I simply don't have time.” Her other extracurricular activities include Taekwando and swimming. “Even if I see the past papers, I am simply not getting the kind of feedback to know if I'm doing the right kind of work!”

Then, one of her two good teachers left just before Christmas. Despite being a department head, he was still on a temporary contract; his wife, also a teacher, was verbally abused by the head of the Primary School; and his children were refused a discounted education despite both their parents being teachers. No wonder he took the High Road and elected to join the ranks of the unemployed when his wife was offered a first class teaching package in the Gulf. His replacement, a young woman, cannot hold a candle to him.

So I am off to see the headmaster this week. I like him and feel sorry for him: he seems like a capable, competent, hardworking and genuine man, but I think that he is being messed around by the directors and will probably not last even the two years that his predecessor managed. I'm going to complain – not because I believe that it will do any good, but because more voices of dissent need to be heard. Those of us who have stuck with the school are really fed up.

In the meantime, Sophia is investigating boarding schools in Britain, and salivating at what she sees. She cannot change for September 2011, but can apply for 2012 when the GCSE course is over. I had my doubts when she broached the subject of leaving, but when we discussed it in depth, I realised that her conclusions mirrored my own when I was fifteen and knew that I would have to leave Hawaii or sink academically, emotionally, and socially. I wound up at Madeira, and never regretted my decision.

Media Fast

2011-01-22T16:14:00.000+02:00

Friday is my media fast day. I don't use the computer on Fridays. However acute the temptation to check emails, read the newspaper, or research something, I resist.

The idea originated when we moved into this house and had no Internet. I used the Internet cafe in town and found that I had much more time to get things done at home. No excuse for procrastination lurked in the middle of the sitting room! Then our connection came through, and though I loudly advocated that we remain Internet-free, mine was a lone voice, and I recognised its futility.

I came across the idea of a media fast in Apartment Therapy, a website with something for everyone. My Fridays have been computer-free for about two months now, and it feels great.

Friday is also my no-gym day, so my 'doing' begins at 7.15 after I've put the Little Ones on the school bus at the end of the road. Yesterday was Friday, and I had got all the house cleaning done by Thursday and the garden was ready for weeding, so throughout the morning I alternated between yard work, laundry, cleaning the fireplaces and laying the fires, making olive bread and lemon rolls from Richard Bartinet's Dough.

(Did I remember to blog the news that we're off special diets? Although I heard from several reputable sources that blood tests can contradict bio-resonance for food intolerances, what swung my decision was that there had been no change in either of the Littles' 'symptoms': Zene's bowel problem remained, and Leo is as hyperactive as ever. Diet? What diet? “If it makes no difference,” D, my friendly neighbourhood child psychologist told me. “Don't do it!” Her own now-adult daughter is highly intolerant to many foods, yet her blood work and skin tests showed no allergies.)

Half an hour before the lunch onslaught began yesterday, I even found time to write. Usually my writing, such as it is, is crammed into a dawn half hour before the breakfast rush begins. On days when Best Beloved is not here, my phone alarm plays Lizst at 5.30 and I make coffee on the bedroom kettle and write until six, usually doing some sorts of warm-ups or prompts that I've found on creative writing websites – Writing Forward is a good one. Since I'm usually barely awake and suffering the dulling effects of the evening before's half-bottle of wine, some strange and straggly words often appear on the page.

“It's a great exercise, though,” my friend Lise told me when she suggested writing in the dawn. “It really clears your head out for the coming day.” And it's a great time to jot down dreams...

Another wonderful writing site that I've found recently is www.oneword.com. Check it out, it's truly addictive – and how I miss it on Fridays!

Blessed silence reigns during Friday mornings. The seething of something on the stove, the crackle and pop of the fireplace. I didn't get too much time to enjoy it before the Littles came rushing in to claim their lunch, but for the whole day I could enjoy the silence in my head: no emails to answer, no newspaper-inspired indignation. No Facebook updates...

Maybe I'll start fasting on Wednesdays, too.

Blog Trophy

2011-01-19T14:10:00.000+02:00

Well I'm chuffed.

A couple of hours ago I was busy cleaning the sitting room -- since we found that the in-laws loyal Vietnamese helper has been systematically stealing from us for the last couple of years, I'm not keen to get any more 'help' in -- when my new Mac (Santa was Very Good to me) went 'Ping!' to let me know that I have a message.

The South African website Expat Arrivals was telling me that I had won a blog trophy!

Being of suspicious nature, I didn't answer the email, but checked with the website (How many cyber-muggers have tried to get account details in the past posing as unfortunate Nigerians? What's to stop someone adopting the new ruse of an expat website?) and discovered that the message was legit... The LittleWhite Donkey did not manage to make the Top Ten expat blogs, but is swinging along in the short-list!

What a great way to start the year!

A Day of Baking in anticipation of the Morrow…

2010-12-24T14:40:00.000+02:00

I started out making pumpkin pie this morning… well, butternut squash pie, really. I know it’s not Christmas Fare. We don’t always play by the rules, Christmas being such a grafted on novelty to Cypriot culture and our family being such a hybrid blend. Besides that, I had a butternut languishing on the shelf, and Phil liked the pie last time I made it.

By the time that was out of the oven, the Christmas lunch starters were on the rise. Also not Christmas Fare, they are bread sticks from Richard Bertinet’s excellent book, Dough. I pitted olives, grated parmesan, gathered and chopped fresh herbs, then applied them to the dough that Leo had kneaded earlier, folded, cut, and twisted the sticks, put them for a second rise and then baked them… Lo and behold, appetiser and starter for lunch tomorrow… Done!

Poor Leo’s grasped the short straw with his no-gluten diet, so we dived into a recipe of gluten-free carob cookies. We were both a bit dubious of the blend of dried figs, almond flour, honey, vanilla, and butter, and it seemed to produce only a small amount, but I just took them out of the oven and Wowee!! Worth a try even if you’re gluten tolerant, and a super-super food.

This new diet thingie in our lives has led me down some interesting culinary roads and into some fantastic and inspiring blogs. I mean to post more in the new year, but the main thing I’ve learned (which many others have learned before me, but each has to travel their own path) is that substitutes DON’T work. Don’t think you can spend a fortune on gluten free flour or pasta and get the same result that you would with wheat… It doesn’t happen that way. People just say ‘Yuck! It doesn’t taste the same…’ Explore new cuisines instead: Asian food and Mexican are almost completely gluten free. It’s just hard work getting four children to stop resisting new tastes. From all of them, at least once, I’ve heard: ‘I don’t see why I should eat differently just because the others can’t eat what I want!’ Even Best Beloved, though he is the most innovative of us all, drew the line at a gluten free meal.

I did try blood tests for the Littles yesterday, just to see if the results tallied with the bioresonance – even though I have been warned that blood results ‘can give false negatives’. Stay tuned!

Best wishes to everyone for a happy Christmas and a peaceful, healthy, and prosperous 2011.

It’s Still Greek to Me (Though It’s Now Becoming a Little Clearer)

2010-12-01T12:15:00.000+02:00

Despite attending a fancy private school – with commensurately fancy fees – Sophia cannot take both A-Level Greek and GCSE History this year due to scheduling problems. Since she has an inspiring history teacher and the Greek Department is not to write home about, we opted to pursue Greek lessons privately. She speaks Cypriot dialect fluently and is comfortable with spoken Greek, but her reading and writing are not as good as they should be.

I cast around for teachers and decided to try for Maria, my former teacher at InterLingua in Paphos. I had done three years of classes with her, and my Greek’s simple but not bad, and any foreigner who speaks decent Greek here in Paphos has been a student of hers at one time or another. She’s kind, experienced, and a wonderful teacher.

Maria agreed to take us on. Yes, ‘us’. I decided that since I had to fetch and carry Sophia, and wait around for her, and that my Greek could sure use some improvement, that I would go for lessons too. ‘I cannot teach the A-Level course’, she said. ‘I’ve never done that…’ But I was adamant that passing the exam was less important that attaining proficiency in speaking, reading, and writing, and I had the course materials and past papers to work with when we reached that stage, so we began classes on Saturday mornings using a textbook for foreign students that attend Thessaloniki University and need proficiency in Greek before attending their degree classes. Sophia found the review of the basics boring, I found it necessary, and we both found ourselves enjoying the experience – and learning from the varied reading and writing exercises that she gave us every week.

The experience was not to last. Family obligations meant that Maria had to give up our Saturdays, so I went in search of another teacher. I found her in a neighbouring village, Anarita. Yes, she had taught A-Level Greek before, yes, her Saturday mornings were free.

We went to our first lesson a fortnight ago, and I was dropped in the deep end. I could make neither head nor tail of the passage that she gave us to translate, only realising that it had to do with t.v viewing, and that the author had a poor opinion of mass media. Sophia fared better, but found the piece tough going. Later at home, I showed it to Phil, a good English speaker, and one well-used to reading and writing formal Greek.

‘But this is hard even for me!’ he said, helping me through words, phrases, and metaphors while I scribbled down verbs and vocabulary for later memorization.

In class the following week – the setting is one for a true cultural experience: the extended family residence in the heart of the village, granny dying her hair, grandpa whittling, mum cooking behind the curtain that delineats our classroom from the rest of the house – I mentioned that maybe we could start with something easier, and Kyriaki agreed that that might be a good idea ‘But this isn’t a difficult passage!’ she said. ‘You’ll find much harder translations on the real exam.’ She passed us photocopies of declension tables, and lists of verbs that are irregular in the past continuous.

What we’re encountering is the split between teaching for accurate communication, for knowledge, for enjoyment – and teaching for the passing of an exam. Maria, with her experience, is able to cover both. Kyriaki, barely into her twenties, I think will struggle as the education system here is not geared to flexibility: she knows how to teach A-Level Greek, but not ‘Advanced Communication’ in Greek.

We’ll see. Meanwhile, I am filling out my photocopies, learning to decline irregular neuter nouns, getting to grips with the past continuous – a tense that we use practically interchangeably with the simple past in English (as we use the future continuous and simple future). I am reading the Little’s anthologies and working through their textbooks trying to catch up with Sophia in grammar and vocabulary, and have started reading The Little Prince.

I do a lot of waiting around in the car for one child or another to do one class or another, and now, instead of Suduko, I do Greek homework. The other day Sophia spotted my pile of books on the back seat: a ring binder, the Oxford Dictionary of Modern Greek, a fourth-grade textbook, our declension tables, an invaluable tome that I bought over a decade ago called Three-Hundred and Thirty Three Greek Verbs, and my Greek copy of St Exupery’s classic.

‘Mum,’ she said. ‘You really are a nerd, you know? But it’s ok. I still love you…’

Dietary Changes

2010-12-01T11:34:00.000+02:00

My family (touch wood) is blessed with good health. But there have been a couple of outstanding issues that various indications – synchronicity, anyone – have led me to consider allergy testing for the Littles. Yesterday, we went to visit my friend and GP, Dr N – a specialist in allergy testing through kinesiology and bioresonance.

Now kinesiology has always been akin to hocus-pocus to me. Hold a substance near your heart while someone tries to push your other arm down? Watch how energy makes a wand move in different ways? If I hadn’t seen water divining work time after time, and if I hadn’t seen kinesiology and bioresonance ‘work’ on my family and me, I would dismiss them like many others do, as quackery. But as it has always indicated accurately for me and the family, (at one low point when my shattered immune system didn’t seem to respond positively to anything, I asked Doc N to test me with respect to Best Beloved. Fortunately the result indicated compatability!), so I decided to give it a try for food sensitivities. If our experience after some weeks shows that it wasn’t accurate, we have other routes to follow.

I ran through the symptoms. Zenon was tested first and his results showed an allergy or sensitivity to lactose (fits with his bowel problems), pork, lamb, citrus, sweeteners and sugar, and mushrooms. Leo was next and tested positive for gluten (fits with his hyperactivity), cocoa, pork, lamb, and citrus.

My domestic life just got a little harder – shopping and cooking just became more complicated.

‘I’m moving out!’ Best Beloved said, when I told him, that the results meant no more souvlaki for the boys – our regular Friday barbeque. ‘I’ll take the foukou up to the quarry and eat there all on my own…’ He was slightly mollified to learn that the boys could still have barbequed halloumi, which is a mixture of goat and sheep cheese. ‘But no pitas!’

Best Beloved, despite niggling minor health issues of his own, resolutely refuses to submit to testing. ‘I like my food, I like my life. If my food kills me, I will die happy!’

Both the Littles are surprisingly acquiescent. They realise that food sensitivities, particularly in childhood, are often temporary, and removal of the allergen can lead to readjustment in the future. In the meantime, I turn to a superb website, Elana’s Pantry, for alternative cooking tips and substitutes for omnipresent gluten, and realise – once again – that the adventure continues!