Domestic and Other Matters
Only one private school I visited that Tuesday morning really impressed me. This school could find a place for Rob in the coming September but, unfortunately, not one for Anne. Neither did it have any teaching vacancies for Allie.
Slightly concerned, I found a telephone box and called St. John’s Secondary School at Episkopi Garrison. During my brief conversation with one of the year heads, I learnt that we were entitled to send Rob and Anne to SCEA schools on a fee-paying basis. I also learnt: that the tuition fees would be more expensive than any of the private schools I’d visited in town, that two places would be available in September, and that Rob and Anne would follow the British National Curriculum. The last point was important, for if we returned home at the end of my initial twelve month contract, the children’s ‘year out’ wouldn’t have effected their education. They would simply slot straight back into English education, in theory at least.
A further piece of excellent news from my conversation with the Year Head was that Allie might secure work as a ‘Locally Employed Teacher’, or LET, on one of the schools on the military bases. Many Service dependants worked in that capacity apparently, as well as several expatriates and a few Cypriot nationals, provided they had appropriate British qualifications and experience. All Allie had to do was check the Forces’ newspaper every week, and apply for suitable vacancies. Now that I knew the amount of money we needed to pay for private education in Cyprus, it was clear that Allie and I would need a large combined income. Indeed, at the outset, we’d probably have to invest some of our savings in schooling, at least until Allie found work.
My cash flow projection for the fourth quarter of 1994 didn’t look well. In truth, it looked sickly. My calculations predicted that if Allie was unable to work, we might last financially five months on my salary alone, six at the best. It was at this point that I recall berating myself actively for the first time. If only I’d negotiated a realistic Education Allowance as part of my original package. If only, I’d sought sound advice from other informed friends on important negotiation points much earlier.
Besides the bona fides of my prospective employer and the local schooling arrangements, there was another unknown factor to research. My reconnaissance had to include an analysis of the local accommodation market. I took some comfort in the fact that my salary package included a housing allowance and I was very keen to see what this would buy us. However, making a decision on where we should live turned out to be the most difficult of all the difficult decisions I had to make that week.
In late April, with Cyprus’ tourist season about to erupt, few property owners were willing to set what my future work colleagues told me were reasonable fees for long-term lets. Every day, I visited landlords and agencies only to be quoted exorbitant prices for poky three bed apartments. Crazily, the fees for some of these hovels were far higher than Allie and I could have charged for our immaculate five-bedroom house back in England!
Besides schooling therefore, we were going to be out of pocket regarding accommodation too, as things stood. The housing allowance offered by the chairman was generous but inadequate, it seemed. When I factored our likely housing costs into my already sad cash flow projection, our residual funds each month began to look very poorly indeed, if not terminal. More self-berating began, if only I’d insisted that my employer was responsible for all of these arrangements, at least during the first months of my contract. However I hadn’t, and now I was on a very steep learning curve with some pretty severe consequences if I didn’t learn important lessons quickly.
Incidentally, the Cypriot Government didn’t allow foreigners working for offshore companies to have open-ended contracts, even if they came from Commonwealth countries. Therefore, my employer and I had to agree an initial twelve month contract and then renew it annually. Usually, the renewal procedure was a formality, as far as I understood. However, this fact was yet another, unwelcome source of uncertainty.
Regrettably, my numerous negotiations with genuine middlemen and unscrupulous accommodation sharks reinforced the impression that I’d gained three years earlier. The people of Limassol it seemed, like those of Protaras, now had a preoccupation with extracting large amounts of money from visitors to their island, particularly during the ‘open season’ on tourists. Gone, apparently, was the genuine warmth and hospitality that I’d experienced as a young soldier at Episkopi so long ago. All I wanted, eighteen years on, was to pay a fair rent for some reasonable lodgings. I didn’t want to be exploited, or feel exploitable.
I relayed my regrettable impressions to a young South African-born Cypriot who worked as a receptionist at my hotel. She reassured me that I could still find Cypriots who were thoughtful and welcoming to visitors, but I had to go away from the tourist areas to find them. She also reassured me that the chairman’s proposed salary package was good by local standards, when coupled with other proposed benefits like private health cover and personal accident insurance. What I found strange was that, if my reward package really was that good, I couldn’t afford any decent accommodation.
On the Wednesday afternoon of my reconnaissance, I renewed my search for cost-effective housing with renewed vigour. I was determined to put this last, ill-fitting piece of the jigsaw into place, so that I could appreciate the ‘big picture’ fully and decide finally whether or not to take the chairman’s job. That afternoon, I saw some superb penthouses with splendid views; some middle range flats with odd smells; and some seedy hotel rooms near the red light area. All of them were disappointing in their different ways. All of them were astronomically expensive for what they offered in return.
One third-floor flat, situated some way back from the coast road, did promise value for money though. I’d seen it advertised on a telegraph pole around midday, and telephoned the landlord about its price and availability, before fixing a time with him to view the property, about half an hour before it got dark. The price he quoted over the ‘phone was reasonable in comparison to the other flats that I’d seen with similar specifications, something I put down to the fact that I’d be dealing directly with the owner and there’d be no ‘agents’ involved. Everyone wanted their cut of visitors’ money. That was generally the way of things, it was beginning to seem.
I arrived punctually at the block amidst eerie silence. There were no young, eastern European women loitering on the street corners, or odd smells on the stairwell, and I was beginning to wonder what sinister reason lay behind this flat’s reasonable disposition and price. The owner arrived late, which was par for the course, since my reconnaissance started in earnest two days earlier. Slowly, slowly, I was becoming immune to the annoying vagaries of ‘Cyprus Time’.
After exchanging pleasantries in broken English, my host gave me a guided tour lasting ten minutes or so. By the end of it, I was quietly impressed and went out onto the sea-facing balcony alone to take a few photographs for Allie. Yes, it had penthouse-like views! I finished capturing these views and returned to the living room, only to find it empty. I then checked all the other rooms - kitchen, hall, shower and bed rooms - calling the owner’s name frantically, with increasing concern. These rooms too were empty. Given our earlier conversational difficulties, he must have thought that I’d departed mysteriously, and followed suit.
Feeling trapped and distinctly worried by this time, I went out onto the balcony facing the street, and stood there in the darkness calling dejectedly for the owner to come back and let me out. He’d gone though. Only a few Cypriot children playing about a hundred metres away saw me. My waves were a game to them and they returned my calls with innocent glee. It soon became clear though that they had no idea what this pathetic Englishman really wanted, such was the distance between us and their grasp of my language. Eventually, they appreciated that I was not playing a game, that I was in trouble. Frightened perhaps by my pleas for help, they disappeared into various doorways. I never saw them again.
I abandoned my public calls for help and moved back inside the flat. Like a laboratory rat, I probed every square centimetre of my new cage, desperately trying to find a lever that would release me. In England, turning the front door handle in the hope that it would open wouldn’t have occurred to me. Fortunately, in Cyprus the level of petty crime amongst local people was so low at the time that many homeowners didn’t use the deadlocks fitted to their external doors.
My freedom restored, I scuttled back to my hotel room and safety, not a little ashamed. I felt too embarrassed to contact the owner again.
Slightly concerned, I found a telephone box and called St. John’s Secondary School at Episkopi Garrison. During my brief conversation with one of the year heads, I learnt that we were entitled to send Rob and Anne to SCEA schools on a fee-paying basis. I also learnt: that the tuition fees would be more expensive than any of the private schools I’d visited in town, that two places would be available in September, and that Rob and Anne would follow the British National Curriculum. The last point was important, for if we returned home at the end of my initial twelve month contract, the children’s ‘year out’ wouldn’t have effected their education. They would simply slot straight back into English education, in theory at least.
A further piece of excellent news from my conversation with the Year Head was that Allie might secure work as a ‘Locally Employed Teacher’, or LET, on one of the schools on the military bases. Many Service dependants worked in that capacity apparently, as well as several expatriates and a few Cypriot nationals, provided they had appropriate British qualifications and experience. All Allie had to do was check the Forces’ newspaper every week, and apply for suitable vacancies. Now that I knew the amount of money we needed to pay for private education in Cyprus, it was clear that Allie and I would need a large combined income. Indeed, at the outset, we’d probably have to invest some of our savings in schooling, at least until Allie found work.
My cash flow projection for the fourth quarter of 1994 didn’t look well. In truth, it looked sickly. My calculations predicted that if Allie was unable to work, we might last financially five months on my salary alone, six at the best. It was at this point that I recall berating myself actively for the first time. If only I’d negotiated a realistic Education Allowance as part of my original package. If only, I’d sought sound advice from other informed friends on important negotiation points much earlier.
Besides the bona fides of my prospective employer and the local schooling arrangements, there was another unknown factor to research. My reconnaissance had to include an analysis of the local accommodation market. I took some comfort in the fact that my salary package included a housing allowance and I was very keen to see what this would buy us. However, making a decision on where we should live turned out to be the most difficult of all the difficult decisions I had to make that week.
In late April, with Cyprus’ tourist season about to erupt, few property owners were willing to set what my future work colleagues told me were reasonable fees for long-term lets. Every day, I visited landlords and agencies only to be quoted exorbitant prices for poky three bed apartments. Crazily, the fees for some of these hovels were far higher than Allie and I could have charged for our immaculate five-bedroom house back in England!
Besides schooling therefore, we were going to be out of pocket regarding accommodation too, as things stood. The housing allowance offered by the chairman was generous but inadequate, it seemed. When I factored our likely housing costs into my already sad cash flow projection, our residual funds each month began to look very poorly indeed, if not terminal. More self-berating began, if only I’d insisted that my employer was responsible for all of these arrangements, at least during the first months of my contract. However I hadn’t, and now I was on a very steep learning curve with some pretty severe consequences if I didn’t learn important lessons quickly.
Incidentally, the Cypriot Government didn’t allow foreigners working for offshore companies to have open-ended contracts, even if they came from Commonwealth countries. Therefore, my employer and I had to agree an initial twelve month contract and then renew it annually. Usually, the renewal procedure was a formality, as far as I understood. However, this fact was yet another, unwelcome source of uncertainty.
Regrettably, my numerous negotiations with genuine middlemen and unscrupulous accommodation sharks reinforced the impression that I’d gained three years earlier. The people of Limassol it seemed, like those of Protaras, now had a preoccupation with extracting large amounts of money from visitors to their island, particularly during the ‘open season’ on tourists. Gone, apparently, was the genuine warmth and hospitality that I’d experienced as a young soldier at Episkopi so long ago. All I wanted, eighteen years on, was to pay a fair rent for some reasonable lodgings. I didn’t want to be exploited, or feel exploitable.
I relayed my regrettable impressions to a young South African-born Cypriot who worked as a receptionist at my hotel. She reassured me that I could still find Cypriots who were thoughtful and welcoming to visitors, but I had to go away from the tourist areas to find them. She also reassured me that the chairman’s proposed salary package was good by local standards, when coupled with other proposed benefits like private health cover and personal accident insurance. What I found strange was that, if my reward package really was that good, I couldn’t afford any decent accommodation.
On the Wednesday afternoon of my reconnaissance, I renewed my search for cost-effective housing with renewed vigour. I was determined to put this last, ill-fitting piece of the jigsaw into place, so that I could appreciate the ‘big picture’ fully and decide finally whether or not to take the chairman’s job. That afternoon, I saw some superb penthouses with splendid views; some middle range flats with odd smells; and some seedy hotel rooms near the red light area. All of them were disappointing in their different ways. All of them were astronomically expensive for what they offered in return.
One third-floor flat, situated some way back from the coast road, did promise value for money though. I’d seen it advertised on a telegraph pole around midday, and telephoned the landlord about its price and availability, before fixing a time with him to view the property, about half an hour before it got dark. The price he quoted over the ‘phone was reasonable in comparison to the other flats that I’d seen with similar specifications, something I put down to the fact that I’d be dealing directly with the owner and there’d be no ‘agents’ involved. Everyone wanted their cut of visitors’ money. That was generally the way of things, it was beginning to seem.
I arrived punctually at the block amidst eerie silence. There were no young, eastern European women loitering on the street corners, or odd smells on the stairwell, and I was beginning to wonder what sinister reason lay behind this flat’s reasonable disposition and price. The owner arrived late, which was par for the course, since my reconnaissance started in earnest two days earlier. Slowly, slowly, I was becoming immune to the annoying vagaries of ‘Cyprus Time’.
After exchanging pleasantries in broken English, my host gave me a guided tour lasting ten minutes or so. By the end of it, I was quietly impressed and went out onto the sea-facing balcony alone to take a few photographs for Allie. Yes, it had penthouse-like views! I finished capturing these views and returned to the living room, only to find it empty. I then checked all the other rooms - kitchen, hall, shower and bed rooms - calling the owner’s name frantically, with increasing concern. These rooms too were empty. Given our earlier conversational difficulties, he must have thought that I’d departed mysteriously, and followed suit.
Feeling trapped and distinctly worried by this time, I went out onto the balcony facing the street, and stood there in the darkness calling dejectedly for the owner to come back and let me out. He’d gone though. Only a few Cypriot children playing about a hundred metres away saw me. My waves were a game to them and they returned my calls with innocent glee. It soon became clear though that they had no idea what this pathetic Englishman really wanted, such was the distance between us and their grasp of my language. Eventually, they appreciated that I was not playing a game, that I was in trouble. Frightened perhaps by my pleas for help, they disappeared into various doorways. I never saw them again.
I abandoned my public calls for help and moved back inside the flat. Like a laboratory rat, I probed every square centimetre of my new cage, desperately trying to find a lever that would release me. In England, turning the front door handle in the hope that it would open wouldn’t have occurred to me. Fortunately, in Cyprus the level of petty crime amongst local people was so low at the time that many homeowners didn’t use the deadlocks fitted to their external doors.
My freedom restored, I scuttled back to my hotel room and safety, not a little ashamed. I felt too embarrassed to contact the owner again.
posted by Hawkeye at 7:58 am
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