This morning began, as many mornings in Cyprus do, with optimism and a power cut.
At precisely 8am, the electricity vanished. Didn't flicker. Didn't hesitate. It just vanished. Apparently it was a planned outage. The only missing element in this plan was informing anyone.
So, by 9am, the Armou area had reverted to 1890. Kettles silent. Wi-Fi blinked its last and the modern age politely withdrew into silence until the witching hour of 2pm arrived and power was restored.
Undeterred, I decided to use the enforced digital detox productively. If the state wished to remove my electricity and thereby my means of earning a crust as a writer, I would respond by engaging with another branch of the state entirely.
Immigration.
In line with the EU, Cyprus citizens and aliens living here must apply for a new biometric residence card. Very modern. Very European. Very official. Armed with passports, paperwork and Google Maps, I set off into this new biometric age with a hope for a better future in my heart.
Google, to its credit, did try to help steer me in the right direction. But, as is the case sometimes, it failed. It failed to warn me of three road closures/diversions. This should have been a sign.
After navigating what felt like an administrative obstacle course, I arrived at the Immigration Office.
Or rather, I arrived at a building that Google insisted was the Immigration Office.
It now appeared the immigration service were manufacturing sanitary towels.
I am not exaggerating.
There were no biometric scanners. No queues of hopeful expatriates clutching folders. No stern official behind reinforced glass.
There were pallets and shelves, of shrink wrapped sanitary towels
At this point, one must pause. Either:
- Immigration has relocated.
- I have misunderstood the concept of “absorbent documentation.”
- Or Cyprus has quietly decided identity is fluid and best handled elsewhere.
Rather than descend into Anglo-Cypriot muttering, I did the only sensible thing.
I went for a hot chocolate and a bacon butty at Tea for Two.
The café did exactly what it said on the tin. The bacon was bacon. The hot chocolate was unapologetically comforting. No biometric data required. No road closures. No pallets.
In a world where government departments migrate without notice and electricity evaporates before breakfast, there is something deeply reassuring about a British café abroad.
I may not know where Immigration has gone, but I do know my bacon-butty and hot chocolate will arrive and be as described in the price list.
Eventually I will find the immigration office and will book the appointment. I will submit fingerprints and retinas and possibly a DNA sample from the bacon grease.
But for now, the lesson is simple:
If the state withdraws power, restore your own.
Preferably with a bacon-butty.
Later that day, when power and sanity had been restored, I used my expertise as a thinking human to locate the aforementioned government office. Laptop fired up and big screen attached I bit my lip and Googled. Google came up the the same information as last time, but there was a small sentence I had missed.
See Outside. I held my breath and clicked. What did I find? I found an outside video I could walk through. Progress! And then, there it was. The sign! It was a white board and on it in Greek and English it read:-
“Aliens & Immigration Paphos.”
This I found encouraging.
However, the sign appears to function purely as a philosophical suggestion. There are no arrows. No instructions. No human beings. It simply asserts that somewhere, in a dimension adjacent to alfa.bet, identity is being processed.
One is left to consider whether:
- Aliens are processed separately.
- Immigration has been gamified.
- Or whether proving you exist now requires choosing the correct door.
I decided to use this new fangled walk-through video to see what else was available, like parking. That would be a novelty. So, I turned using my mouse and the image responded, until I had turned round and was looking at the other side of the road. And what did I spy?
A shop, selling sanitary towels.
Ho hum. Monday is another day. Let's see if I can actually find the immigration service, or an episode of The Twilight Zone..
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