As a professional writer, publicly displaying the story below greatly disturbs me. It's not that good and often makes me cringe, though I can partially excuse that because I wrote it in early 1986 when I was 17. For a High School piece it's okay. So why am I displaying it here as part of a professional portfolio?
It's part of my life and history. Many people now part of my life know almost nothing about this significant early period. Also I am part of a long heritage of Australian involvement in Cyprus, and this piece documents those wild days.
In December 2006 I scanned it from the original typed document. I have fixed some spelling mistakes and scanning glitches, but apart from that this is how I wrote it 21 years ago.
Wayne Deeker
Shanghai, 2007
Christmas Eve 1983
Wayne Deeker
This day will remain special
to me for the rest of my life; not for any particular religious reasons but
because it was the day on which I had more fun and enjoyed myself more than any
other.
This was the day that I would visit the famed " Sector 1" and meet my Father's friend "Mac", both of which I had heard much about and greatly looked forward to encountering for myself.
"Sector 1" was the Danish controlled area of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force Buffer Zone on the far eastern Mediterranean island of Cyprus: birthplace of the Greek goddess Aphrodite, goddess of love. The UN was on the island for the purpose of keeping the Greek and Turkish Cypriots from fighting each other. In 1964 the two communities had nearly caused a civil war on the island, basically because the Turkish minority was getting a bad deal from the government and so the United Nations were asked to supply a peacekeeping force. Due to the fact that most of the fighting was amongst villagers and other civilians, both military and civilian police contingents were asked for: after all, who better to deal with civilian problems than police who do it all the time. Prior to 1974, the UN was spread all over the island with military contingents from Denmark, Britain, Austria, Canada, Sweden, Finland and Ireland: and police contingents from Australia, Denmark, Sweden, Austria and New Zealand. In 1974 Turkey invaded the island in an attempt to get a better deal for the Turkish Cypriots and captured the northern 30% of the island. This became the Turkish occupied area of northern Cyprus [now they call themselves the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus] and the south remained as the republic of Cyprus. Some shuffling and migrating went on from side to side, with most of the Greeks living in the south and most of the Turks living in the north; with the UN buffer zone running all the way down the middle. The buffer zone varied in width from a few kilometres to 3 metres in the capital city of Nicosia the width of an alley.
The buffer zone was controlled and supervised by the UN no unauthorized entry was permitted by the Greeks or Turks and even UN personnel had some restrictions placed on the on the north side. Anyone who visited Cyprus had total freedom of movement on the south side but could not cross the buffer zone into the north. The only way to get there was to leave Cyprus and get on a boat in mainland Turkey and get to the north side that way, preferably with a new passport that did not have any evidence of a previous visit to the south side. Tourism was very restricted on the north side, only a tiny portion was accessible to non UN personnel.
The buffer zone was divided into five sectors Nos 1 6 (there was no no. 3). Sector 1 was my favourite area. It was in the rugged mountain section of the island and boasted some very spectacular scenery with very quaint little villages. This sector was controlled by the Danish contingent (Dancon). Sector two was controlled by the British (Britcon) and was primarily agricultural plains. In between sectors two and four was the United Nation Protected Area, the only area the UN would fight to protect in the event of hostilities. This was the main residential area for the people working in sectors two and four and at the "Blue Beret Camp", UN HQ. I also lived there. It was located on the grounds of the now useless Nicosia international airport. Sector four was the smallest and most delicate sector. It ran through the city of Nicosia and was rarely more than 10m wide. Turks and Greeks lived on either side and hurled abuse at each other periodically. The Canadians (Cancon) controlled this sector in their armoured personnel carriers and jeeps. Huge white armoured personnel carriers and the occasional white British scout car are common sights in the city of Nicosia. Next came sectors five and six which were controlled by the Swedes and Austrians. In 1974 the police contingents from New Zealand, Denmark, and Austria left leaving only the Australians and the Swedes. Finland and Ireland also pulled most of their people out, leaving only token forces. The Australians looked after all civilian matters in the first 3 sectors while the Swedes look after sectors five and six. The police were unarmed and had no police powers whatsoever they acted in an advisory role only. The "civilians matters" usually involved keeping farmers out of the buffer zone and humanitarian functions such as the hospital run. There was considerable danger associated with farmers being in the buffer zone for two reasons; A) they might have been shot at from the other side and B) they might do the map makers a valuable service by identifying one of the many uncharted mine fields.
Anyway, enough introduction, back to the story. There were frequent liaison meetings between Austcivpol (Australian Civilian Police) and Dancon. My Father was fortunate enough to be the liaison officer to Dancon and went down to sector 1 quite regularly. The Danes were spread out in three companies (100 men each) all outside the buffer zone on the north side; A coy, B coy and C coy or "Charlie Company". Dad visited the people at Charlie most often. There he befriended one staff sergeant Laars McRraie. This man was a legendary figure in the rumour and folklore of those who had encountered him; I was often half jokingly warned to watch out for "Mad Mac". Presumably on hindsight, from his kami kaze driving habits. He was also supposed to be very good natured and friendly. Mac, as he liked to be called, was a fair dinkum "Wiking" though with a Caledonian handle like McRaie one could be forgiven for not thinking so, especially since he spoke English well. As I remember the story I think he was orphaned when he was very young and adopted by a Scottish doctor named McRaie, living in Denmark.
Mac was a big lad, about 6 feet tall, with a pot belly which seemed appropriate with his ever smiling bearded face. His blue eyes and short brown hair were standard Danish, and according to some women I knew, made him look handsome. His fiancee, Jedda thought so anyway. He was aged about 30 at the time and was two ranks ahead of other people of the same age. He later explained to me that he was in the right place at the right time when there was a promotional vacancy, his seniors saying "we need a sergeant, corporal. You're it."
He learnt English in Cyprus from the British and Australians he met. He had been in Cyprus 18 months and at the start of his tour couldn't string together a sentence in English, let alone carry on a conversation for hours on end the way he did now. He never learned to spell in English though, and whenever he wrote to us it was in the Banish spelling, forinstance " Hi" was spelt "Heij".
Mac's job with Charlie was as chief observer. He was commander of the prestigious OBS RECCE squad, short for observation and recconaisance. They were unquestionably the best on the island, their Canadian and British counterparts holding them in awe. They drove around the billions of patrol tracks all day in their white UN landrovers, using mega powerful binoculars to watch what the Greeks and Turks were up to. They knew every single pebble and blade of grass in sector 1 and missed nothing. There were also dozens of immobile observation points or OPs from which the UN watched the Turks watching the Greeks watching the UN. It was all a lot of fun really, with friendly sign language messages being passed around all parties.
The whole point of our visit was for Mac to take us around the patrol tracks, perhaps the most illegal thing possible in that part of the world because only Dad was authorised; Mum, I and my two younger brothers were totally forbidden to enter the buffer zone, being mere "dependants". Dad and Mac both loved to see what they could get away with and so such a challenge could not be ignored, despite the risk of causing a major international incident which would have had to go all the way to the United Nations security council in New York. The challenge was accepted and the date for our patrol was arranged for December 24.
We weren't allowed to go via the direct route which would have meant going from the inland capital city of Nicosia westwards to the coastal town of Xeros, on the north side, then proceeding along the coast to C coy. Unfortunately this also meant weaving our way in and out of the buffer zone, periodically going into the Greek and Turkish sides. This required too much authorization and this trip was not supposed to be made public. This also meant that we could not go to Charlie itself that was for a later trip. What we had to do was make the 3? hour trip in our old yellow volkswagen into the mountainous western end of the island, staying on the Greek side all the way. We were to meet Mac and some other blokes at a tiny village on the Greek side not far from the buffer zone.
We passed the old cave like structures that served as the accommodation for the British soldiers in Jubilee camp, in close proximity to the terminal building and hangars of the once fully operational Nicosia international airport, now confiscated by the UN and totally run down and unused. We approached the Morphou checkpoint which would allow us to leave the UNPA. This checkpoint was manned around the clock by two British soldiers and opened directly into sector two. This was one of the very few roads in the buffer zone that all UN personnel were allowed to use in their private vehicles as it was a convenient short cut to the mountains.
The soldiers checked our passes and hit us with a salute, indicating for us to proceed. Once outside the boom gate we saw once again the Russian fighter aircraft that was shot down in the war of 1974 and has remained where it fell ever since due to it being in the buffer zone. This road was fairly good in comparison to many others on the island, though it was narrow with the occasional rough patch. The grass was green because it was winter. Sector two was mainly farmland but this particular section was un farmed. OPs from all sides dotted the landscape. Some way ahead we saw the village of Kikkino Trimithes or KT. KT was one of the many villages in the buffer zone, carrying on as they did before the division. KT was surrounded by citrus orchards, vegetable gardens, olive groves and vineyards. The houses were new and very large, indicating that most Cypriots were fairly wealthy. We noticed the pig farm by its characteristic odour. We left the buffer zone by passing though another British check point and re entered the Greek side. On the right hand side of the road was St David's Camp, HQ for Britcon. Right opposite was the old carpet factory that Austcivpol used to share with the proprieter and use as their HQ.
Traffic was heavier now and we bounced along the patchwork road at about 50 mph. The mountains could just be seen through the haze at this point, with the highest peaks covered in snow. Agriculture was obviously the dominant land use here with farms, vineyards and orchards coming right up to the road. Due to the size of the island, 60 x 100 miles, not much bigger than the ACT, everything was on a much smaller scale, the largest farms only about 2 acres in size, though many were hardly more than backyards. Old frail women, all dressed in black appeared to be the only workers on the farms and they were always hunched over with their sickle or basket harvesting the hard way. Donkeys often carried the produce in large parcels on their backs, with tiny old women cursing and swearing at the top of their voice, frightening hell out of the poor donkeys with a big stick. Occasionally they might hook a donkey up to a cart and expect it to pull twenty tans. They had to work in the fields for two years before they were entitled to retire and gain a pension. I thought that was just a little bit rough. Not once did I ever see a man working in the field - they seem to have their lifestyle sorted out women did all the work while men sat around drinking coffee and playing checkers or backgammon all day.
At the village of Astro Meretis we saw the tired old blue and white sign informing people in Greek that Troodos was only 10 miles away, even though we were sure that it was in fact 16. Further up in the mountains it became apparent that they used pigeons to measure distance. What we think they did was to release a bird and time it until it reached a destination where there were some men with stop watches, thus they were able to calculate distance by multiplying assumed constant speed by time. At some major intersections there were up to six roads all going to the same village, each one quoting a distance of between 3 25 miles. We found that not a single one of these was even close to the true distance and signs were of no use except to say that a particular road would get to the village indicated eventually if one drove far enough. At the village of Pano Phlasou we left the flat agricultural plains and began the climb up the mountain to the town of Troodos, at the heart of the mountains.
Once in the mountains it was like stepping into a whole new world. The tiny road which got regular traffic of semi trailers and coaches tightly wound its way up the mountains. Even in the foothills, the slopes were rather bare because of the massive ship-building projects that went on in ancient times. They were sparsely covered with low shrubs and bushes and still the occasional terraced olive grove. The mountains reminded me of the skin off boiling milk when scrunched up; very tight ridges and valleys with very steep slopes. The higher up we got, the more the forest returned. Gnarled old pine trees clutched the sides of the mountains waiting for the spell that would transform them into animate creatures of evil. Tall cedar trees remained on the higher slopes along with majestic fir treesp, standing guard for eternity, ready to defend the mountains at a moment's notice. Small animals, foxes, hedgehogs and rabbits flitted in and out of the trees, occasionally stopping to sample the air for danger. Mossy rocks stuck up through the grassy forest floor as a temporary refuge the animals could use. The wild mountain sheep, as big as a pony with long curling white horns could be seen high up, darting in amongst the giants of the forest. The air was crisp. Snow would fall today.
Up and up we went, the illusion of magic suddenly being spoilt by the ugly scar in the small valley on our left by the open cut asbestos mine; with trucks and heavy machinery slowly eating their way into the earth. We rounded a few more bends and suddenly emerged into the large bowl containing the town of Kakopetria one of my favourite places in the world.
Kakopetria lay in a natural hollow surrounded on all sides by towering, snow sprayed hills, each tree carefully dusted with white. The pastel-coloured houses of the new part of town packed themselves into every available space, precariously stacked on top of each other climbing up the mountainside until the slope became too steep. Down at the bottom of the hills, in the main square of the village, shopkeepers, craftsmen and other villagers went about their business, the smoke filaments rising gently from the chimneys. In the main square we saw the rock of the marriage ceremonies; couples circled the rock three times in order to have a long and happy marriage with many sons. Higher up on the other side of the valley, the old part of Kakopetria was visible. Many church spires were visible over the old mud tiled roofs, many flying the Greek flag in defiance of the Turkish forces. In the old part, the two storey mud brick houses, with a cracking veneer of plaster, opened directly onto the dim narrow cobblestone streets, without so much as a doorstep. Wooden balconies and shuttered windows precariously overhung the street below, nearly touching from opposite sides of the street. Most of the houses had workshops at street level, using the old methods and tools. Blacksmiths and potters were common, with the occasional lace maker or restaurant. It gave me a great sense of warmth to see people live almost exactly the same lifestyle they've been living for 3 4 thousand years. Their lifestyle could be summed up by their own words: "siga, siga" slowly, slowly. They were totally stress free and enjoyed each moment as though it were their last; unfortunately the absence of this vital quality leads to premature death in our overstressed rat race of a society. The island itself was as old as the hills as old as Jericho, a full 10,000 years of recorded history. It was an awesome and humbling feeling to drive along in our old yellow volkswagen and to soak up all the history of one of the cradles of human civilization.
Today, however, we couldn't stop, we had to meet Mac at Kambos by 1.00 pm. We continued up the mountains, passing the bustling Platres with its main street cafes and shops. Troodos was right next to Platres and was a major tourist attraction. It was the highest town on the island and was very busy. Like Platres it was also jam packed full of shops, cafes and restaurants. Opposite the markets there was a large open air cafe with grape vines over it, with loudspeakers booming out Greek music. In winter it looked harsh and barren. Just outside of Troodos was the ski lodge, a very modest establishment with just one forested slope and only a couple of rooms. When the ski season was in full swing the Troodos ski lodge did a thriving business. We passed the turnoff to mount Olympus, the highest mountain on the island, and higher than a lot of Australian mountains, standing at 1952 metres. Having reached the summit, the road started to level off, though it was still very windy. A tiny little church that would have gone unnoticed were it not for the enormous cross came into view. The church was in a less forested area on top of a bare hill. It was no bigger than a classroom, but the cross was 30m high and 20m wide. The church was near the village of Prodhrornos which was practically invisible until one was right on top of it. It was hidden in a little valley off to the left of the main road.
About two miles down the main road we encountered the village of Pedhoulas, a typical Village in a small valley surrounded by terraced olive groves and orchards, climbing up the steep slopes on all sides. There were a few shops here but only sold general groceries. Troodos and Kakopetria were the main shopping areas. At Pedhoulas we had to turn left off the main highway onto the road that went to Kykko Monastary. The road was now about the width, of a car, but still flat. It was not very windy any more because we were driving along the side of a valley. Far across the once again heavily forested valley we caught a tiny glimpse of the legendary Kykko Monastery.
Constructed in the 12th century, it served as a resting place for weary travellers, even now, the Monks deny admission to no one as long as a few rules of courtesy are observed. It took some getting to in the old days and from where we stopped the car to look at it, it would have made a good two day bushwalk to get there. The new road made things a lot easier and we would be there within the hour. As we approached it over the next hour, the details became clearer. We could see that it was a three storeyed stone walled building, with a red roof. There were large wooden gates in the middle of the wall facing us and they looked as though they could easily stand up to a couple of battering rams. We could see the domed roof of the chapel on the right, with the cross on top. The first two floors had no windows on the outside walls, only into the quadrangle within. The top floor had regularly spaced windows in the outside wall, underneath the sloping red tiled roof. The top floor also had a walkway on the inside, surrounding the courtyard containing the fountain.
Some distance to the left of the monastery the new tourist centre was visible, with hotels, restaurants and shops, which spoils the illusion of being back in time somewhat.
At the village which lay about 10 miles further on past the monastery, the illusion returned with full vigour to become stark reality. I suddenly realised that we were approaching our rendezvous. The forest was thinning slightly, and as we descended down the gently sloping road, the forest became a terraced olive grove. The gnarled old olive trees stood in rows within each terrace, with velvety green grass underneath. I often looked for a faun sitting on a rock playing a panpipe in such olive groves and I was a bit disappointed that I never saw one. I didn't see any unicorns either. Pity.
We were now in a small section of the island which was totally unspoilt and never visited by tourists. Despite the well worn dirt road, cars were still looked upon as a novelty here and small children ran after our car, waving franticly. The adults looked up from their work as we drove past and waved to us with smiles like the dawn on their old, weathered faces. We wound down the windows, and wave and call out "yasuies" which meant "many hellos". Traditional costume was worn much more here; the old women with scarves on their silver hair, many of them dressed in black. The men wore the knee length knicker bocker pantaloons unique to the island, resembling knee length versions of the "nappies" worn by Indian men. Socks met the pantaloons at the knees. The shoes were buckled like these worn by the kindly old toymaker Gueseppi, Pinocchio s father.
The goats, or kebabs as the locals called them, ran out of the way of the car as we left the village, and we got another friendly wave and smile from the old moustached face of the goatherd. That was the village of Chakistra. There were more terraced olive groves on the outskirts of town which gradually blended into forest again.
The reason why this little piece of history was preserved is that this road was a dead end and lead into the buffer zone where no one except UN personnel were allowed to enter. Only the villagers and their donkey carts used the road and tourists had no reason to go there. Just as well too; it would be very sad if the few remaining cultures on earth that lead happy, fundamentalist lifestyles were contaminated by the malignancy of the 20th century consumer, technological society.
As we drove on, the land flattened out a bit and we realised that we were approaching another village. The fog closed in at this moment, enhancing the mystical feeling already present. We drove on into the mist and cold and past some of the old houses and farm equipment lying around, all of it old and horse drawn, machines were unheard of. We stopped at a little kebab house near a stream, that had three white UN landrovers, dressed up with blue and white flags and stickers, looking very official, parked out the front. The kebab house was about the size of a small Canberra residential house, though very rustic and overgrown. It was surrounded by olive trees, each at least 3 feet in diameter indicating that these trees would have been over 1000 years old, in the time of Christ!
We dashed inside to escape the cold where it was very warm. Inside were the landlord and his daughters and 4 Danish soldiers, wearing their usual khaki uniforms with the blue UN peaked caps, and the patches on their sleeves indicating that they were from Dancon. On their breast pockets dangled a shield shaped patch, a red and white cross (the Danish flag) with a wreathed helmeted skull, crossed rifles and a tiny UN badge in the middle; with OBS RECCE written over the top. This was the most prized souvenir on the island; they were just not given away to anyone, except very close friends. As far as I know we are the only non Danes to have one.
There were quite a number of tables in the open room which had a bar at one end and a huge stone fireplace with a roaring fire in the middle of the outside wall. The floor was dirt as we expected and the walls were stone with wooden beams holding up the low wooden roof. There were numerous brass ornaments, bells, some picture and a Danish contingent plaque decorating the room. The place was well illuminated due to the large windows. The Danes came over to us straight away and Dad introduced us to them all, They were very friendly and I instantly liked them. We were invited to sit down and have lunch with them and we ordered the only meal available in places like this: kebabs. Kebabs consisted of toasted pitta bread cooked in a stone oven stuffed with pork kebabs cooked over hot coals, with potato chips cooked in olive oil and a raw onion and parsely salad. Coke, coffee and Carlsberg beer were the only drinks available.
The landlord came over and introduced himself and his two daughters; they were typical of the Cypriots honest to a fault and would give their last money if anyone even hinted that it might be needed. Cypriots invented the word hospitality and any one of them would give a perfect stranger free meals and accommodation for as long as needed. We made conversation with our limited Greek and his limited English and the whole thing was very pleasant. After we finished we paid for our meals, the ridiculous sum of three pounds; about six dollars for five meals.
The time had come for us to get on with what we had come for, the patrol.
Rugged up against the cold, we all piled into Mac's landrover Olga. Olga was Mac's personal vehicle and wore the sacred crest of the commander. Like the other landrovers in the squad, Nusser, Betty and Bertina, Olga also wore a larger version of the OBS RECCE patch above the radiator. They were the short wheelbase, lightweight military models, with no round edges, square mudguards and an elevated bonnet. The vehicles were looked after with baby like care, each one carefully examined for damage after each patrol. Brand new knobby 4WD tyres wore out in an astonishing three weeks which gives some idea of the rough treatment they received out on the tracks. Like the man himself, Mac's landrover was also legendary. In precisely the same manner that Peter Brock's presence transformed 05 from just a car into a legend, Olga seemed to glow with pride when Mac was at the helm.
Two of the other men got into another landrover and the third man got into his and separated from us he had to get back. It was then that I first noticed Mac's pistol at his belt. With Dad in the police force, I am accustomed to guns but never feel comfortable with them. It seemed to me that it was just for show anyway, since it wouldn't have been able to match the machine guns and rifles that were pointed at us.
Landrovers were not the most comfortable of vehicles and were not the warmest either, especially with the canvas sides rolled up for increased visibility. Mum was sitting in the front with Mac; and Dad, I and my two brothers piled into the short bench seats in the back, with a great deal of squashiness. We started off in a convoy of two, ours was the lead vehicle, with towell sized UN flags noisily flapping at the back and the feeble sun glinting off the reflective blue and white UN stickers on the doors and bonnet. On the doors were large wreathed globes, the UN symbol and the sides of the bonnet had "United Nations" on it. The wind made it hard to hear what Mac was saying so we concentrated on the scenery which was getting more rustic by the minute. We passed villagers working in their fields, terraced olive groves and stone bridges of indefinable age over the trickling mountain streams. The people waved at us and to wave back at them from a United Nations patrol vehicle will remain one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.
We turned off the main track where Mac stopped and engaged 4WD. This was the start of the buffer zone Mac pointed out, and told that just over the hill to our right were Turkish OPs watching every move we made, though not today because of the dense fog. We were advised that the best way not to get car sick was to "let your gut flop about". None of us got car sick usually so we stored this piece of data in our useless information files for a few minutes. If white was the opposite of black, smooth was the opposite of the patrol track. Mac, like Dad was a very competent driver with particular skill in both high speed and 4WD categories. He also liked to combine the two, the resulting effect was that we were bounced around like ping pong balls, acquiring numerous bruises. The track itself was exactly 1 inch wider than the landrover with steep slopes on all sides. The slightest slip would have meant certain death and passing the wreckage of a UN landrover far below did not inspire confidence in Mac who was travelling at 5 times what I would call a safe speed. I shouldn't have worried though, Mac was the best there was needless to say it was the best ride I'd ever had.
Patrol tracks are, of necessity, placed in areas of maximum visibility. This area of the buffer zone was cleared of forest and the steep hills were covered in scrub by bushes, un naturally widely spaced. There was the occasional unkempt terraced olive grove or orchard, obviously abandoned since the inception of the buffer zone, 10 years previously. This track took a winding route along the top of one of the more prominent ridges, giving clear views of the surrounding country, though today the fog severely restricted visibility. The red flags of the Turkish OPs Mac mentioned before were visible to our right and I'm sure they would have been puzzled as to why there were six people in the landrover, only one of them in uniform.
We drove around for what seemed like only a few minutes, though it really was several hours, seeing the farms and villages of both sides of the island, carrying on as they'd done for thousands of years. After a squawking radio message in Danish from the vehicle behind us, much to our sick stomachs' relief, Mac stopped at the base of the steepest slope I'd ever seen. He only stopped long enough to engage 4WD low range. With the engine screaming we crawled up the hill, using all our strength to avoid being thrown overboard. The other vehicle stayed at the bottom; apparently there was not enough room for two vehicles up there. From the top we experienced blizzard conditions with the wind chill factor plummeting to 30. At the top the view was spectacular, despite the overcast and foggy conditions. We could see for dozens of miles in all directions the bare, scrubby hills in the foreground, dotted with Turkish, Greek and UN OPs. Further to the north we could see the distant coastal plains with their larger and more modern farms. We could see the coastal town of Xeros about 10 miles away surrounded by vineyards, olive groves and banana plantations. Through the haze typical of the Mediterranean the distant plains of sector two could be discerned. Behind us as we faced the sea, the towering Troodos mountains rose above us, surrounded by black storm clouds. It was obviously snowing heavily up there. To our left (west) we could make out the domed blue and white buildings of A Coy Dancon and not much further in the same direction we could see the magnificent Vouni Palace: the objective of our next visit to sector 1. It was an ancient Roman city completely closed off to all tourists and most UN personnel. There would only be a hundred or so people alive in the world who have walked the ancient streets and sat in the grand amphitheatre.
Time was getting late and with great reluctance we piled into Olga again and rejoined the others at the bottom. We repeated the journey from Kambos, this time in reverse, passing over the rugged and bare hills a second time. Mac told us that he loved these mountains so much because of the great contrast to his native "Danmark" as he called it. Denmark is totally flat, the highest point is only 150m above sea level.
When Mac dropped us off at the restaurant where we left the car, we were very worn out but sad that it had to come to an end. We thought he was so fortunate to be able to do this every day. After warm goodbyes and thanks and festive season partings, we went our separate ways.
On the way back to Troodos we were all very excited, though with a feeling of anti climax. It was early evening and we thought we would stop in Troodos for something to eat. The storm clouds had become less violent and now it was only overcast. The snow had transformed the area into a winter wonderland only dreamt of by most Australians. The snow hung to the wide, gently sloping branches of the pine, Douglas fir and cedar trees, with the ground carpeted in soft knee deep powder snow. The square of Troodos, opposite the post office and the markets was also covered in soft snow and we played in it for a long time. This was our first white Christmas and we intended to make the most of it.
After dinner and well into darkness hours, we descended the mountains for the long journey home. It had been quite an eventful day, to be treasured for the rest of my life; now it gives me great pleasure to be able to share it with others.