As we made our way north across the island, John and Adrian had yet another vigorous debate over what defines a country. North Cyprus is not recognised by the UN as separate from Cyprus, yet we needed our passports to cross the Green Line in Nicosia, the last divided capital in the world. Once on the other side, most prices were quoted in new Turkish lira, the mobile phone provider was Turkcell, menus were in Turkish rather than Greek, and the Turkish flag was proudly flown alongside the North Cyprus flag.

Our first stop was Salamis, the ruins of an old Roman city kingdom first mentioned in 709 BCE. There were few other people around, and it was eerie to be able to walk down an old Roman road, carefully constructed over 2500 years ago and still in reasonable condition, considering its age.

Next, we drove to once opulent port city of Famagusta (Magusa in Turkish), surrounded by 16th century Venetian walls, and perhaps the setting for Shakespeare’s Othello.

At the centre of the town there are crumbling ruins of once-majestic 13th C Lusignan Gothic structures, surrounded by dusty corridors and corroded sandstone walls. We waited out a brief rainfall while enjoying a satisfying lunch, then Adrian was brave enough to try the salepi dondurma (fox testicle ice-cream).

Adjacent to old Famagusta is the area of Maras (Varosia in Greek). It was a popular tourist resort town with spectacular beaches and bright tower blocks in the 1960s up until the conflict between the Greek Cypriot Army and the Turkish Army, and subsequent division of the island. In 1974 the Turkish advances panicked the Greek population, and its inhabitants quickly fled their homes. What they thought would be an exile of a few days turned into several decades, and this suburb remains abandoned today, filled with weeds and with warning signs and barbed wire to keep out the curious

I found the land border crossing from Georgia to Azerbaijan a little intimidating, especially as we were separated and had to pass each check-point individually. First, I had to exit Georgia. When the guard saw my passport, he picked up the phone, and said something about “Australian”. Georgia had just changed its visa rules about 10 months ago, so while I would have needed a visa to enter in 2009, I no longer needed one in 2010. I held my breath and hoped that his superior was looking at the most recent rule book. Happily he was, and with a nod and a stamp, I was permitted to leave Georgia and wander through no-mans land.

I crossed a bridge, looking down at the cows of ambiguous nationality grazing below me, and walked towards a twelve year old boy carrying some sort of large rifle. In front of me I could see a very large “Azərbaycan” sign in front of me, but I decided not to take the risk and get a photo. Happily, not all on the internet are so risk averse.

Photo from wikipedia.

Once I was across the border, I surrendered my passport with its visa, and all our bags were searched for anything Armenian – postcards, maps, even the Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan Lonely Planet. They carefully examined our water bottles to ensure that the writing on it was Georgian and not Armenian. There was some debate over some Georgian postcards, but finally we were all returned our passports and permitted to enter the Republic of Azerbaijan for the next chapter of our adventure through the Caucasus.

On the weekend we showed our houseguests one of the quirks of living in Europe – international borders that are a little higglty pigglty. Baarle Nassau and Baarle Hertog are two towns on the Belgium/Netherlands border. In fact, the border between the two countries is so confused that the towns have to place a diagram in the main street to explain the situation – the red perspex represents Belgium and the clear perspex represents the Netherlands:

This confusion is due to centuries of sales and swaps between the lords and dukes of the region. Yet still today, these borders are considered strict international boundaries. As we strolled through Baarle, we crossed the border dozens of times, and I was careful to have my passport ready. As we explored the suburbs, we noted that most of the residents were very nonchalant about the location of their house. For the most part, the only way that we could tell which country we were in was by very carefully examining the house numbers. Dutch houses have a red stripe on the left and a blue on the right. Belgian houses have a black/yellow/red flag in the top left hand side. This apartment complex straddled the border, and had two front doors, so the residents had both a Netherlands (left) and Belgium (right) address – very useful for tax purposes:

The two cities of Baarle Hertog and Nassau have different police forces, laws tax systems, fuel costs, speed limits, alcohol licensing laws, closing times, and mobile phone rates. A letter posted from Hertog to Nassau travels via Amsterdam. And yet the border quite often cuts right through a business or home.

But best of all, in these odd tangled territories, the sun was shining and all the stores were wide open on a Sunday. So we were able to sit outside, eat chocolate and beer, and soak up the sunshine in the enclaves and exclaves of these intertwined cities (note how the border continues down the middle of the road behind us before finally crossing the street).
.