THE Kosk Pansiyon, a traditional guesthouse on the east coast of Cyprus, is the second-worst hotel I've ever stayed in. Dark and depressing, four creaky beds to a room, and an open-window “air-conditioning” system that wouldn't have been so bad if there had been a breeze — or, for that matter, a screen to keep the mosquitoes out. And let's not even discuss the toilets. Throughout the sweaty, sleepless night I spent there, I consoled myself with a single thought: I was paying only 10 Turkish liras (about $8.16 at 1.23 liras to the dollar or SR3.75)) for this experience. Well, 13 if I wanted a shower in the morning. The Kosk, in the old city of Famagusta, was not, however, the worst hotel ever, and for one simple reason: Ozzie, the manager, a tattooed Turkish Cypriot whose ineradicable grin showed off his few remaining teeth and whose accent betrayed the 19 years he'd spent in Australia. Ozzie fed me watermelon, showed me his garden of almond trees and chili peppers, fetched me a fresh towel, shampoo and soap for my shower, and was so genuinely friendly that I had to overlook the Kosk's obvious deficits. It was exactly Ozzie's brand of hospitality that I needed, since I would be hitchhiking my way through this guitar-shaped island in the Mediterranean. Relying on the kindness of strangers, I wanted to travel from Nicosia, the capital, to the northeastern tip of the Karpaz Peninsula, where I might look across the sea and perhaps catch a glimpse of Syria, just 60 miles (about 50 km) away. If I happened upon a Greek or Roman ruin along the way, I'd hit a Grand Tour twofer — Classical civilizations plus the Holy Lands (sort of), all on one Puerto Rico-size island. But my 100-mile pilgrimage by thumb was also of necessity. I had overspent getting to Cyprus from Malta: the only flight, operated by Emirates, was 156.75 euros. And when I arrived at Larnaca Airport around 7:30 P.M. on Wednesday, the last bus into town had already left. A taxi to Nicosia would cost 45 euros, so hitchhiking was a foregone conclusion. Complicating matters further, however, was Cyprus itself. Conquered and reconquered by Greeks and Romans, Crusaders and Venetians, Ottomans and British, the island finally won its independence in 1960, but that hardly brought peace. The majority Greek Cypriots clashed with the minority Turkish Cypriots throughout the 1960s, leading the United Nations set up a buffer zone between north and south. After a failed coup attempt by Greek soldiers, Turkey invaded the north in 1974, and has occupied that portion since. Today, the southern two-thirds is the Greek-backed Republic of Cyprus, a developed European Union member state visited by 2.5 million tourists a year. The northern third is the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus, unrecognized and relatively underdeveloped. North-south relations are better these days, and you can cross the border at any number of checkpoints, but “the Cyprus problem,” as it's known, remains sensitive and unresolved. I would be hitching in occupied territory. With that in mind, last Thursday morning I left most of my luggage at the Delphi Hotel (24 Costakis Pantelides; 357-2266-5211; singles from 35 euros a night) on the south (i.e., Greek) side of Nicosia, and took with me the hitcher's essentials: clothes for four days, sunscreen, a hat, a flashlight, my Leatherman pocketknife and my kazoo. The only thing missing was a Turkish map, but a friend suggested I get one at the Isik bookstore, just over the border on Nicosia's north (i.e., Turkish) side. I walked into the bookstore and told the owner, Nahide Merlen, my plans: I hoped to make Famagusta, an ancient town on the east coast of Cyprus, by evening. And before I could ask for a map, she gestured toward two women drinking coffee and said, “Oh, my friends here are going to Famagusta today. Maybe they can take you?” Thus began the easiest pilgrimage in hitchhiking history. Mrs. Merlen's friends — Ipeg Duben and Zehra Sonya, both artists — welcomed me into their Ford pickup and ferried me 45 minutes east, past the hot, dry fields of central Cyprus to Famagusta, where they deposited me at the gate to the old city and drove off in a cloud of dust. The elation of a free ride evaporated in the hot sun, and I was alone again. Famagusta was an amateur archaeologist's dream. Strewn around the old city were the walls of a Venetian palace, a Gothic church converted into a mosque, a castle said to have been that of Shakespeare's Othello. To the south lay apartment buildings abandoned by Greek Cypriots after 1974 — a ghost town. To the north was new Famagusta, bustling with 15,000 students attending the Eastern Mediterranean University. After checking into the Kosk, I tried to hitch to the Salamis Ruins, an old Roman city several miles north. I failed. It's easy to get picked up on highways, but impossible inside towns, so I took a 13 lira taxi to the ruins, whose guards waived my 9 lira entry fee. Inside, I ran wild among the columns and under the arches of the ancient gymnasium, watching lizards scramble along the stones and bees buzz in the caper flowers. There was no one else around — no guides or sightseers — and as the sun set, I imagined this was how it felt for Grand Tourists of old, who clambered about the remains of antiquity without interference. As it grew dark, I heard music coming from a 2,000-year-old amphitheater — a concert of Neapolitan music by the tenor Ernesto Radano, part of the 12th annual Famagusta International Art & Culture Festival (www.magusa.org/festival). I paid my 10 lira admission, drank a 3 lira Efes beer and relaxed to “Volare” and “Funicul?, Funiculà.” It wasn't quite La Scala, but on my Grand Tour it qualified as fairly highbrow. My flashlight lit the way to the main road, where I caught a ride with two Eastern Mediterannean University teachers back to the Kosk. The next day I hoped to reach the town of Dipkarpaz, the last settlement on the Karpaz Peninsula, so I caught a bus to the edge of town, stuck out my thumb, and within five minutes, a Fiat stopped, and soon I was bouncing along next to Nicky Zero, a Turk in camouflage shorts and T-shirt. On my right, the shocking azure of the sea; ahead and to the left, dry hills and olive groves. Nicky Zero was not, alas, going all the way. He left me outside the town of Bogaz, and I stuck out my thumb again. This was the rhythm: Extend thumb, wait five minutes, ride 10 miles in air-conditioned comfort, get out in the middle of nowhere. My drivers ranged from a young seafood wholesaler to a former JP Morgan trader from London, who'd built a house in the north because, he said, it was a third of the cost of the south. All were friendly; many had hitched themselves. The day's last ride came from a Turkish Cypriot who was going harpoon fishing in Dipkarpaz; he drove me down the long, long winding road to the Oasis Hotel (60 liras a night for a single). The Oasis — recommended by Mrs. Merlen — was everything the Kosk wasn't: clean, bright, smart. Eight rooms, the white beds adorned with mosquito nets, the floors with small Turkish rugs, overlooked a shallow bay of startlingly clear water — a former Roman harbor. Solar panels heated water for showers. Sea turtles were nesting on the next beach over. A ruined fifth-century church was the only other building for miles. An aptly named resort. The restaurant at the Oasis.The restaurant at the Oasis. At the hotel's open-air restaurant, I watched the sunset and talked to Mahmut, a Turkish Cypriot, about the Cyprus problem. It was, he said, too often an excuse for not taking care of pressing issues like drugs or public transportation. It had even become a joke — “the Cyprus problem,” he said, was code for male impotence. That night, after a big spread of meze and grilled sea bream , I collapsed into bed, exhausted from the day's stress. While hitchhiking was turning out well so far, I was always a bit worried that my luck would suddenly run out and I'd be stranded. My luck would continue the next morning when two fellow Oasis guests — a British couple named Jerry and Gerry — drove me 15 miles to the Apostolis Andreas monastery, near the tip of the peninsula, where multicolored goats and wild donkeys roam the highways. The monastery itself was unimpressive but for the bearded, black-robed Greek Orthodox priest, but I liked the monastery's bare-bones legend: Once upon a time, the Apostle Andrew left the Holy Land in a boat whose captain was blind in one eye. As the ship rounded the Karpaz Peninsula, Andrew went ashore here, discovered a natural spring and used its waters to bathe the captain. His eyesight was miraculously restored. Hallelujah! The spring remains today, and is venerated for its supposed healing powers. I filled up my water bottle for the final leg of my journey: a two-mile walk under the scorching midday sun to the very edge of the Karpaz Peninsula. It wasn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, with a sea breeze easing the 90-degree heat, I got there in about 30 minutes. Waving in the wind, atop a truncated cone of rock were two immense red-and-white flags: one Turkish, the other Turkish Cypriot. Beyond that was nothing but blue water. I pulled out my binoculars to scan the horizon and saw … nothing but blue water. No Holy Land. I'd traveled 100 miles with relative ease, but for these last 60 I'd have to use my imagination. As I put down my binoculars, I realized that I'd made it out here using nothing but my thumb and my charm (well, mostly my thumb) and had been the recipient of untold kindnesses: sweet plums from the harpoonist, an iced coffee from Nicky Zero, bread, cheese and tomatoes from a cafe near the monastery. Was it mere luck, or was it the island itself? Was it luck that, as I stood looking for Syria, two Turkish students and their father showed up at the flags and drove me to Golden Beach, a three-mile stretch of ultrafine sand? Or later, when I wandered into a cluster of bungalows, a civil engineer named Rifat invited me to join him, his wife, his sisters and their boyfriends for a kebab cookout? “It's just our hospitality,” Refat said when I thanked him for dinner. Then he dropped me off at the roadside, in the dark, far from home. I didn't feel abandoned. This is what you learn to expect as a hitchhiker: you get dropped off as far as the driver was going, and no farther. Still, I was worried — mostly about wild donkeys but also about where I'd sleep if I didn't find a ride. Once again, my anxiety was unfounded. Within five minutes, an old station wagon pulled up next to me and ferried me back to Dipkarpaz — though not quite to the Oasis. I walked those last two miles, down a smooth road that curved through dry scrub to the sea. At times, the shadows cast by my flashlight freaked me out, so I turned it off and stared at the stars. They were unchanged since Homer's day, and looked exactly the same from whichever side of the island you happened to be on. The only place in Cyprus you couldn't see them so well, I thought, was from inside a car. __
