As I sit at my desk, overlooking an orange orchard and the mountains in the distance with the sea behind me, I wonder if I’m over exaggerating the growing sense of unease and dissatisfaction I feel.
I came to Cyprus, the land of my father’s birth ten years ago, after spending the first twenty eight years of my life in South Africa. I would say I am reasonably intelligent, having been well educated at a premier university before going on to specialise in my chosen career.
It was a rather serious and devastating incident of crime which drove me to make the decision to leave my blossoming career as a copywriter in Johannesburg and to start again in Aphrodite’s birthplace.
It took me a few years to realise and understand how the island works. The power lies in the hands of the few; there is a huge middle class, most of whom aim to work for the government – unbelievable perks – and then there is everyone else who gets by with a little help from Mastercard.
For such a small island, there are thousands of people who are not Greek working here, doing all those jobs that the local population considers beneath them now. When the construction boom happened, thousands of Pontians poured into Cyprus, mostly settling in Paphos. They were building the many apartments and villas aimed at the British market who were lapping everything up to do with this land doused in sunshine and a lax attitude.
The British however, are leaving. They either can’t afford to live here anymore, or are fed up with the laid back attitude of the Cypriot. Now we welcome the Russians with open arms. Rumours abound of million Euro houses paid for in cash, of the local private schools being overrun with extremely intelligent blonde geniuses who are sweeping all the exams.
It seems that there are two parts of the island now. Those who can speak Russian and those who can’t. Most of the jobs advertised these days are for Russian speakers and you can’t walk a mile without being struck by how many beautiful, well maintained women are around, impeccably dressed and always with a man.
These are not the women of the infamous cabarets a few years back. These women have wardrobes which all speak Italian; they wouldn’t be seen dead without Armani or Gucci.
I worry about my adopted home. When I first came here, I enjoyed the warmth and hospitality of my cultural homeland. I relished hearing my father’s language spoken in supermarkets and restaurants and I really appreciated the fact that my name was normal here.
But now I hear Russian, Arabic, Polish, Bulgarian, with a smattering of Greek and English here and there. What will become of my Cypriot child in the future? Will she also have to leave to make her home elsewhere?
