Dexter Dog Diary, Week Two, Saturday
Saturday (cumartesi, 18 mart, 2010)
We are up early and on the road by 0930h (almost), out towards Tatlisu and over the Beşparmak (besh-par-mak) mountains that form the backbone of Kuzey Kibris. There is a brief flush of excitement as we traverse the new tarmac on the thirty-metre long stretch that had been unfinished ever since the road was built four years ago. This is the Levant; and strange property-laws apply. Whether this has anything to do with the delay, I have no idea – but I thought I would mention it anyway! How does a dog know all this stuff? Well, I am not the sort of dog who sleeps in the foot-well during a car journey. I sit up on the seat and take note of all the places we pass - and listen to all the gossip!
After almost an hour of beautiful green countryside with the occasional village and out-of-town shopping-mall, we are at the south coast of the Karpas peninsular, at the town of Boğaz (bo-az). Another few minutes and we are passing the sign to Kumyali. Apparently, the nature reserve we are heading for is “on the main drag – you can’t miss it!”. At the second sign for Kumyali, we find the Nature Walks, but there is no sign of the razzmatazz of a ceremonial tree-planting.
In fact, we are the only car there. She calls Elaine and Pete on the mobile: they are driving through Boğaz and will liaise shortly. Meanwhile David and Sandy have arrived. They are as lost as we are – and they came through the village without seeing any signs for the tree-planting. When we get back to the car and the mobile, we have missed Elaine’s call. Another call; and we are off. This time there are traffic police directing us into the Nature Reserve (for which there is an enormous sign…) and the place is buzzing with a great family atmosphere. There are hundreds of people but no sign of any stewards; so parking is chaos. This is all the more surprising when we learn later that none other than President Talat will be attending, no doubt straining for the last few votes in his ill-fated re-election campaign. It turns out that David and Sandy are friends of Elaine and Pete, through the sailing club, and we are the only British tree-planting visitors – not counting the project leaders and the ex-pat journalists.
I take it all in my stride: the reporters; the TV cameras and the adoring children. I like children, but I am not sure if I could manage a whole one – as an old Rotweiller friend once said. The Kuzey Kibris children are not used to dogs as domestic pets or companions. It is rare for a dog to be part of a family. Even the hunters have little regard for their dogs: there is not the same rapport that you find in the UK – more fool them, I say!
Little children approach me and I permit them to pat and to stroke me; I am introduced as “Dexter” or “Dexter Dog” and the little ones are quite impressed that I am considerably older than they are. All, except for one, are kind and gentle. The exception would make an excellent “government-whip”. He calls my name with a tone of admonishment – and I ignore him totally; what a pity that parliamentarians cannot follow suit!
The tree-planting itself; like the parking, is total chaos: everyone is having a go; there are plenty of seedlings and saplings to go around. I consider the idea of some helpful watering; but decide against it; not good for the image, you know! Unlike Brand X, who cannot resist the temptation of offering my services for what he calls “ceremonial leg-cocking”, but nobody is amused – least of all myself. I am here for my public and I revel in it!
X, who would like nothing better than to be famous – infamous is a possibility – has no idea how to deal with the press and cameras: so they avoid him instinctively; which is their loss, because he is on the other end of my lead! Y, however, who would almost poo in her pants at the thought of her picture in the newspaper, looks up from her planting task to see newspaper and TV cameras trained on her. In spite of her reluctance, she gives a good account of herself while we all look on with amusement and a sneaking admiration.
Turkcell is the telephone company sponsoring the event. They have kiosk and a loudspeaker system playing ethnic music. As a rule, I can take it or leave it; but if there has to be music, I prefer the local product to the mid-Atlantic carpet of sound that oozes out of the television. A beautiful girl in Turkcell uniform engages X in conversation: I sense a weakness developing in the area of his knees; this is short-lived, however because Y has spotted him and dear little Opal is asked if she can make sure that future advertisements, for events such as this, can be sent to our mobile in English, rather than Turkish; promises are made and Opal moves on to her next PR triumph.
The ladies from the village have prepared refreshments of which I do obtain a few crumbs. Even X; who is very particular about feeding pets human nosh (hasn’t he heard that dogs are omnivorous?) allows me a crust from his piece of olive bread. However, nobody is parting with any of the little flat envelopes about the size of a man’s hand. In his ignorance, X does not know the name, but claims that it tastes like a good Peshwari Nan – whatever that might be. There is also a circular lattice-work crisp-bread and juice to drink – but I don’t get any of that either!
We, the three of us plus Elaine and Pete, all go for a stroll around the cultivated field that “they” plan to turn into a Soccer Academy. Yes, politics is never very far away: the Nature Reserve is a trade-off for the Academy, as far as I can make out, and it seems that prevarication has side-tracked/ stalled the funds for the Reserve; something to do with EU grants and contracts. I wonder if Tesco are behind this – it sounds like their style!
Today the field is lovely with wild flowers in among the rye. Someone remarks that it is reminiscent of an England from yesteryear… By the time we get back to the car, most of the crowd has dispersed and X is amazed and delighted to see that someone has thought to organise a litter-pick. He is so impressed that he takes a photo: just to prove to himself that he did not dream it. I must say, it is strange that hundreds of people have come for a ceremonial tree-planting to kick-start the Nature Reserve, yet most of them have left their drink-cartons and paper napkins lying on the ground. No different from the UK then!
There is much debate about a picnic by the sea – which we can see, less than a kilometre away. By now, the crowds have gone so it would be difficult to imagine a better spot than right here. We make ourselves comfortable: enjoy the grass; the sun; the breeze; the trees and the picnic. As soon as we have finished, we leave just our tyre tracks and set out for the Kumyali Parkuru – the way-marked trails that we earlier mistook for the Nature Reserve. There is a smart, coloured map with legend in Turkish and English showing the various routes, their length and naming some landmarks, but there are no actual leaflet maps. So, we set off through a sort of starting-gate and, after a bit of “freestyle”, we follow the red-painted markers wondering how far out into the wilderness he would have been when the local “Picasso” ran out of paint. There is a short debate about whether or not the seasons are early this year: the point being that the placard warns of “snakes in the summer”; recommends wearing hike-boots; carrying a stick and water supply. Between us we have a stick, some hike-boots and plenty of water so I reckon we are adequately equipped: after all, they have me!
A younger North American couple with none of our resources, but with youth on their side, are the only others here and they forge ahead but, lacking the confidence that comes with experience, turn back when the “trail” takes a dip towards an ancient quarry. All along the route the scenery and the plant-life are stunning: orchids, not seen so far in our perambulations, are drooled-over and photographed. All-in-all it is a great hike and we are ready for some cool water before setting out for home.
Pete is a very level-headed person: you can tell it by almost everything he does; he listens very carefully to what people say to him and looks straight into their eyes when they speak. So, it is quite a shock to see him absolutely furious. He was leading in his Fiat and we were following, along the mountain road from Büyükkonuk to Kaplica. Pete has specially chosen the route because he wants to share with us his love of its natural beauty. We round a bend over the brow of a hill and, as we do so, we have to make way for a large earth-mover on a low-loader. The road is barely wide enough for him, let alone the two of us. The road hugs the edge of a ravine and serious road-work is going on.
Having stopped his car, Pete is walking towards us; his face is red and he is shaking with rage. “Just look at what they are doing!” He points at the walls on each side – what is left of them – and into the ravine. There appears to be a giant square-sectioned cardboard tube with walls about half a metre thick lodged in the “V” of the ravine. It looks so incongruous in the otherwise beautiful valley that it takes a few seconds to realise what it is – the “liner” for a massive culvert. As he looks upward at the huge gash in the hillside, Pete says “They are coming right through the hill, filling the ravine with the waste so that the road goes straight across”. He makes a dramatic gesture with his forearms parallel, fingers together as an extension to his arms, gently shaking.
Underlying this reflex reaction is the fear of what will happen to the Karpas peninsular when the new highway is complete. In the year since I came to Kuzey Kibris, more villas have been built than have been sold and many more stand as skeletal monuments to the greed of the developers. I understand his feelings. However, there is still a lot of beautiful scenery and we drive through enough of it to feel significantly recovered and content by the time we get home. Sonny and I are fed immediately but nobody feels like cooking so the humans all go out to dine at the Esentepe Restaurant. Everybody sleeps well.