A trip to Northern Cyprus is a trip to the 1970s. While the Greek South of the island – home to the Russian Mafia and to the ecstasy-induced raves of Ayia Napa -seethes in corrupt prosperity, the Turkish North indulges in the gentler delights of crazy paving, the New Seekers and Ford Capris. Neither the dried flowers nor the lurid earthenware lamps in my hotel had been changed since the current Turkish manager took the place over from its unfortunate Greek owner; while the second-hand bookshops in northern Nicosia have clearly had no new stock since partition, and are consequently full of paperbacks about Harold Wilson and the dangers of joining the Common Market.
If Kofi Annan and the European Union get their way, however, all this will be swept away. As is attested by the minarets stuck on the cathedrals, and by the curry and mashed potato which intrude into the mezze, Cyprus’s history is one of persistent and ugly foreign interference.
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