Death Of The Fish Meze

‘TUNA: One of the largest of the migrating fish, the Tuna frequents northern waters during the summer months. In winter, however, it travels down to the Mediterranean and remains there, living at a great depth. In spring it comes in to the shore, spawns and departs in shoals for the north. The flesh is both tasty and plentiful, but is only to be found tinned.’

Excerpt taken from Fish Of Greece, by George Sfikas 1999

The above may sound sad and pathetic, but how true we know it to be.

Like most Mediterranean peoples, the Cypriots are great seafood lovers. And though our fishermen are not dredging up dolphin-friendly tins of diet tuna, neither are they hooking the real thing in great numbers.

The Med is quite simply over fished. Any attempt at regulating fishing quotas, net mesh sizes, hooks, lines, sinkers has been poorly enforced for too long now.

Biologists tell us that big fish like tuna and swordfish, due to their place in the food chain, carry more accumulated mercury than you can shake a ship’s thermometer at. That, however is not the reason it is appearing less and less at the end of the fish meze now is it?Paphian fish restaurant owners have been, recently, lamenting the loss of a fair proportion of their weekend Nicosia trade. At only 20 minutes from the capital, Kyrenia has drawn away the customers, who prefer to eat by the picturesque harbour. Though unconfirmed, the Express understands that a lot of the fish up there comes frozen from Zygi.

Frozen or not, the contents of the meze, both in quantity and quality have taken a bit of a nosedive no matter where you decide to fillet your fish.

Paphos is becoming notorious for its hiked up prices, closely followed, incidentally by our friends in Kyrenia. Pissouri compares well with most and Limassol offers a good range, from budget taverna to very expensive international cuisine.

Ironically, Cyprus’ saving grace is its farmed fish. Delicious bream and bass (Tsipoura and Lavraki) are always available fresh, and now crown the meze the way a freshly caught snapper or grouper used to, in the days that there was more to see underwater than a jellyfish, an Arabic newspaper and a kilometre of orange twine. Unlike the farmed salmon in Scotland, these two are safe, nutritious and very cheap.
Swordfish sometimes makes a cameo on the table, though in increasingly invisible amounts and if you go to a truly good taverna, soupies kathistes, squid cooked in its own ink, red wine and cinnamon may also lighten up your dinner.

Apart from these traditional dishes, frozen red mullet from Thailand, crabs that have stepped on anti-personnel mines and landed in the deep fryer and even more deeply fried sole, fresh from Iceland (but not the country) are now the protagonists in the majority of our fish tavernas.
Not just tourist-oriented tavernas, either. Locals complain about the price and the quality of fish, and for good reason, too.
So, what has changed things? Is it pressure from the tourist? Do the Brits want everything deep fried? Do the Germans only like crabs cooked to the consistency of bison hooves?
Are the ingredients expensive? Frozen Thai red mullet are not. They may not measure up to rare, fresh, local produce, but they could be treated with more respect than the culinary equivalent of nuclear fission.
Does a good meze take too long to prepare? Who’s in a hurry?

To give restaurateurs their due, good food does take time as well as skill. But that’s not what the meze was about. It was about eating small amounts of whatever was fresh, appetising, ready and went well with the younger Cypriot wines. If, over time we sneaked in a few imported, frozen prawns because the Cypriot ones warranted a mini mortgage before ordering, then so be it. At least they were grilled, sprinkled with olive oil, sea salt and parsley – not coated in village flour and pan-fried into oblivion.
The salad, always fresh in Cyprus, has never needed anointing with ‘crab-sticks’. (‘Crap sticks’ if their contents were to be more truthfully described).

Cyprus will never have the rich choice of fresh seafood of France, or even better, Scotland, nor will it ever come close to the cuisine of Spain, but in the meze it had a humble offering that was enjoyed by a long table full of loud relatives, bewildered guests, messy kids and end-of-shift waiters. The transition from very slow to fast food has been insidious, but there is still time to fix it, before it all goes wrong.

Bike Lame

Will Paphos ever take to pedal power?February 2004

In my late 20s, about 200 years ago, on a weekend trip to Amsterdam with my flatmate, I found myself parting with hard earned Sterling to hire a bicycle to get about town. If we were at all apprehensive about jumping on a bike after all the years we avoided them or anything vaguely healthy, our misgivings soon evaporated into the Dutch evening sky as two leggy beauties called us over to join them on what we assumed would be a cycle ride around the city. Or, whatever.
Not even our overactive imagination could ever see us taking part in a cyclists’ demonstration. Suddenly, there we were rallying against cars using central Amsterdam, stricter pollution controls and heavier fines to be levied on those that failed to adhere to Holland’s strict environmental guidelines.
As we watched ourselves on the local news at ten on the TV later on that night, the TV cameras were pointed at the ‘rent-a-bike’ signs on our baskets, emphasizing the impact the proposed no-car policy could have on tourism. Two tourists fighting for the rights of the Dutch cyclist and the good of the urban environment.Could you ever imagine that situation in Paphos? For a start, the numbers would be reversed, surely? I can see more visitors demonstrating for safer cycling than Cypriots. In fact, are there any Cypriot cyclists in Paphos? Do they meet in secret under the cover of darkness? Is it safer then?
It’s certainly not safer to ride around the so called cycle lanes, is it?
The unblinking traffic-terrorised tourist that pioneers the route will find him/herself confronted with parked cars, skips, wheelie bins and, ermm, oncoming traffic…Is there really any likelihood of a Paphian getting on his bike for a 200 meter trip to the kiosk? Not if he can drive his car up to the counter to pay for his Royals is the general concensus, I’m afraid. Even though we’ve painted parts of our roads pink and pretty powder blue and lined them with loose paving blocks as a gesture to the accession of the European Union, we haven’t followed this with any national education programme to promote cycling in any way whatsoever. Our local municipality has shown little imagination in instigating any bicycle use in Paphos. School kids are more likely to travel to school by customized, farting moped rather than mountain bike – little hope then that the new generation will have a healthier outlook than the current one. In fact, whoever had the foresight to lay out 300 concrete paving blocks around the football stadium needs to be taken aside and quietly set in concrete himself before he gets his hands on any more pen and paper and plan our general demise. Can you imagine what a deranged football fan can do to another one with one of these? He can press him like a wild flower and put him in an album, that’s what.Therein lies the problem, of course. Tradition and culture ridicule the use of pedal power here in Cyprus. Would it be suitable for your bank manager to get his local branch wearing an aerodynamic helmet, bicycle clips and a day-glo waistband? Not such a rare sight in the streets of Chelsea or Frankfurt perhaps, but in Paphos, it simply will not do. Not when you’ve got a burgundy BMW all turtle-waxed and a parking space all to yourself in the basement.
In fact, the only local I’ve seen around town looked more than slightly insane, riding what can only be called a rectal probe (there was no seat) with 12 wing mirrors, 6 horns, an assortment of bells, tassles, reflectors and rotating lights.

We are not the most active of Europeans, that’s for sure. Diet and healthy nutrition is confined to women’s magazines, we like to smoke in confined spaces and we don’t understand why others may object, we eat too much red meat and our idea of exercise is taking the kids to the cinema or going to the harbour for a frappe.
OK, that’s exaggerated, but the tide’s not exactly turning, is it?
You may argue that our gyms have never been busier, but I would suggest this is more in search of the body beautiful rather that a healthier lifestyle. Nothing wrong with that you say. Well, why not cycle around town rather than on the spot?

We have pedestrianised ‘Bar Street’ in Kato Paphos, so maybe the time has come to encourage us to make our hearts healthier by really enforcing no car zones.
And if you’re going to cheat, don’t get a taxi – get a rickshaw.

Off their trolleys?

Paphos – March 2005

It all started just before last Christmas.
As the big supermarkets readied themselves for the annual consumer stampede, so the government prepared to pass a bill regulating working hours which would restrict the stores from working late, weekends and Wednesday afternoons.
The law was ignored and the stores that broke it got landed with a CYP 50 pounds fine.
No, really, there’s no typo there – it was fifty pounds, what you and I may spend on half a trolley’s worth these days.
But, it doesn’t end there. The big boys, 50 of them including E&S, Papantoniou, Chris Cash & Carry, Orphanides and many others, threatened to change their status to that of kiosks which have far more flexible opening hours. Hence the feeble ‘ΠΕΡΙΠΤΕΡΟ’ (‘kiosk’) banners flapping imposingly at every shop’s entrance.
The supermarkets are angry that kiosks and bakeries are allowed to break the law on what goods they can sell. In effect they have transformed themselves into 24 hour mini-markets.
The reaction against the smaller shops from the Cyprus Hypermarket Association had initially prompted the Pancyprian Kiosk Association (PASYPE) and the Convenience Store Union (SYKADE) to stop the sale of the state lottery tickets as a protest against the government’s Labour ministry bill which restricted their store areas to 50 square metres and prohibited them from selling essentials such as coffee, alcohol, biscuits and basic toiletries.
In early March the two associations began selling the lottery again as a goodwill gesture to the ministry but threatened to step up their campaign (whatever that means) if the bill is not ‘reconsidered’.
In the mean time, kiosks also got some banners printed. The funereal white lettering on black canvas reads: ‘If the bill goes through, this shop will close’.
Sad though you may be at your friendly corner kiosk closing down, consider also the aforesaid ‘bakeries’ that have invested a hefty sum in their island-wide shop fronts that may now have to shrink to 50 square metres and hope there is a massive demand for pumpernickel bread between one and five in the morning.Why did the Hypermarket Association complain? Why did they bring attention to what would surely have become a lucrative ‘investment’ for themselves as they see their power grow on a scale similar to that of the big fish in the U.K., Europe and North America?
Why didn’t they just open mini-markets of their own and take advantage of the government alleged inactivity, use their economic prowess and obliterate the competition?Underlying the whole argument here is essentially that the hypermarkets, here as well as abroad, are dictating terms to elected governments, farmers and ultimately consumers.
In the U.K. the ‘big five’- Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Asda, Safeway and Somerfield account for approximately 80% of grocery sales. They wield enormous economic power. Their buyers force down prices by negotiating bulk contracts with farmers. They dictate the size and breed of animal. These supermarkets are in the business of making super profits, not providing cheap food.
These same supermarkets have moved into the ‘convenience’ sector. An economic growth area, as cash-rich, time-poor consumers are on the rise. Tesco alone has acquired hundreds of these stores. The traditional cornershop simply cannot compete on price and range.
As these hypermarkets travel throughout the nation, growing as they devour the smaller retailers, so too do they start to eat up each other. Wal-Mart’s recent ‘merger’ with Asda makes it a retail equivalent of a superpower. In 2002 its profits exceeded that of Exxon. In effect, it has become the biggest company in the world.Naomi Klein’s ‘No Logo’ had a great impact on the thinking consumer. A self-proclaimed ‘call to arms’ against unrestrained globalisation, Klein’s bestseller exposed Wal-Mart’s ‘stack ‘em high – sell ‘em low’ policy for what it was: providing less choice to the consumer by effectively removing any competition (and range of choice).
I have no choice but to buy the same tasteless, water-filled tomatoes every week. Local bananas have to make way for better looking, less tasty imported ones.As Cypriot and ex-pat consumers begin to take more of an interest in where their food comes from and what choices are available to them, so too will the hypermarkets have to find a way to respond in a convincing manner.
We will also lament the loss of the local store that was once a social gathering point. Gone are the days the shopkeeper knew your name, your kid’s favourite football team and had the time to tell you a bad joke or two.
Now I have become a ‘loyal customer’, a bonus card holder that looks forward to reaching the 10,000 points I need to get a food processor or 4 slot toaster!Our outdoor ‘markets’ are becoming more useful as tourist attractions, located as they are in inconvenient, congested central areas. Even the vendors have become tourist-savvy, knowing they can more easily sell a bag of oranges to a couple from Solihull looking for a photo opportunity than a busy housewife or discerning caterer.

Until the slogan war is over, the consumer can only yawn disdainfully and try to elicit a smile from a soulless cashier as a good portion of his wages bleeps through the laser.
In our own ‘local’ hypermarket, shoppers are forced to enter battle over the twenty or so baskets that are available, probably to the amusement / bemusement of very bored staff. As I wander from cashier to cashier looking for used baskets like a search for fresh eggs hidden away in straw, I can’t help but think that they really have got this market cornered…

Fiti 1984

Listening to the slow, rattling voice of a mourning villager.

Sitting in the shade in Fiti, where all the men and women are struggling to stay awake. They talk of the inevitability of death, the beauty of it, even. Being old is being dead they say. Death itself is a re-birth.

A very old, blemished and cataracted man sits shyly with knees arkwardly together. He is listless and blank, but probably thinking. Too tired to give or take advice and too old to care, but putting an overall picture of everything together.

Young kids with cropped hair carry elastic slings and loose buckshot in the pockets of polyester shorts. Bubblegum too big for their cheesy grins.

The motorbike engine still rasps in my bones and head. It snaps and crackles at rest from the journey through the mountains in this heatwave. Like a young marathon runner, shaking and slightly delirious.

Pigeons fight for space in the shade of the small, high  windows in the mukhtar’s house opposite this coffee shop. Shit-stained and delapitated shutters swing on rusted hinges, pushed by dry wafts of August air. A breeze that dries the fields and weeds, cooling the pachyderms, silent and jerky in the premium shade. You can see their hearts beat through translucent skin.

The lizards’ movement is that of the people of Cyprus. They hang on to neighbours’ railings, marking their cheeks on the criss-cross grills, listening, talking, picking at the peeling paintwork, exposing the past. Sometimes this sparks a chain of events, a precarious, fragmented memory.

When Elli’s railings were green I was still filling my pockets with marbles and pouring playground dirt into my open knee cuts, fascinated by the viscous pus I could later squeeze out.

Elli’s son was, to us, clearly retarded. A fact we celebrated with the cruel, juvenile satisfaction of young Bamboula boys.

His name was Chrysos. He once jumped from the low garden wall of my grandparents house, trying to somersault through the air and land on his feet. Eagerly we watched him plummet to the pavement, the back of his head cracking the brittle paving stone.

Now, Elli’s railings are red and Chrysos is a basketball player. A good one, too.

I start my bike up and leave Fiti and think about Elli and the green railings, four years before it all happened. Along with thousands of others I was escaping an invading Turkish army. But something, somewhere has obstructed any vivid recollection of the car journey from Kyrenia to Limassol. All that remains is the crackling sounds of a calm but inexperienced radio announcer telling us ‘the Archbishop Makarios is dead’, the black and white newsreeels of armoured vehicles searching, finding and destroying Greek-Cypriot strongholds in the shimmering Mesaoria plain and alien paratroopers falling from above, too many silhouettes to count.

And the picture of the captured men, kneeling in front of the Anatolians with their hands on their heads.

Everything changed after that.

ELAMs to the slaughter

About three weeks ago the grim remains of 4 Turkish-Cypriots were uncovered on a worksite on the outskirts of the village, after a tip-off. A reminder of the dark, turbulent 60s that Ktima and Cyprus endured and is paying for to this day. The  men had been killed by a band of Greek-Cypriots  and hurriedly dumped in a shallow grave, only to be discovered almost half a century later, as verified by local Koniates and historical hearsay.

Nearby followers of ELAM (National Popular Front) commemorated the event by daubing the pristine concrete wall with the evocative ‘Long live ELAM-EOKA – may the murdered rot in hell’. That lasted a week. The wall was soon whitewashed and after a few days replaced with ‘F**k the fascists – ELAM=EOKA B’.

A matter of days later, the message was whitewashed yet again and replaced by ‘Greeks be proud – down with the communist traitors’.

Only one day later, and a richer white paint salesman prepares the concrete canvas for: ‘Fascists – rotten to the roots’.

ELAM then upped the stakes by hijacking a huge motorway billboard a few hundred meters further down with a hastily stitched together banner proclaiming: ‘Not even a centimetre of land to a Turk’

The petulant game of slogan tennis will no doubt continue for a while yet, much to the amusement of passing motorists. Amusing, that is, till you take into account the sentiment and long-term harm the rise of a bigoted, racist and extreme-right party such as ELAM will have on the jobless generation. Associating themselves with EOKA rekindles old ill-feeling and prejudices on both sides of the buffer zone.  Sadly, the parallel of ELAM and the rise of the Nazi party in the 30s will be lost on Cyprus school-leavers with a controlled historical education.

The only good to come out of this neo-Nazi electioneering? ELAM’s finest are advocating that no Greek-Cypriot should cross the line to the North.

How nice to think that those of us that do take advantage of the freedom of movement since 2003 and make the attempt to meet compatriots on the other side and attempt to make amends, can do so without the hindrance of the blinkered, retrogressive, paint-splattered sloganeers throwing nails in our path.