Cyprus, as I Saw It in 1879

In Short

This travelogue documents the observations of a Victorian adventurer who spent the year 1879 exploring Cyprus following the British takeover. Moving from the coastal towns to the remote heights of Mount Troodos, the author surveys the island’s agriculture, climate, and social customs with the precision of a man accustomed to colonial administration. He critiques the inefficiency of the new government—famously lampooning the absurdity of shipping coal-boxes and warming-pans to a Mediterranean climate—while offering practical, if stern, suggestions for economic reform. It remains a valuable historical snapshot, capturing the collision between a vanishing Ottoman order and the rigid, often ill-informed hand of a new imperial power.

The Story

The journey begins at Larnaca, where the author’s attempt to transport a large, custom-built travel van through the narrow streets results in a chaotic series of collisions with wooden water-spouts and crumbling architecture. This immediate struggle with the island’s infrastructure sets the tone for the entire account: the author views Cyprus as a place of immense potential currently stifled by "barbarism" and neglect. He proceeds to traverse the island with his wife, navigating the Messaria plain and the mountainous Carpas region, constantly assessing the soil, the water sources, and the capabilities of the local peasantry.

As he travels, he registers a consistent disappointment in the locals' lack of enterprise, particularly regarding their failure to harness the island’s water for irrigation. His tone is one of detached, sometimes impatient authority. He encounters local traditions—such as the burning of olive leaves to ward off the "evil eye"—with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, viewing these practices as symptomatic of a people trapped in the past. His movement across the island is defined by the logistics of travel: broken axles, stubborn mules, and the search for hospitable camping grounds beneath ancient olive trees.

The narrative arc finds its center at the remote monastery of Trooditissa. High in the mountains, the author and his wife establish a quiet, semi-permanent camp, finding a respite from the "storms and troubles" of their mission. Here, the author engages in a daily routine of observation, befriending the local monks while simultaneously drafting critiques of the British administration’s financial policies. He investigates the complex, stifling system of taxation on wine and agricultural produce, arguing that the Turkish system of "dimes" (tithes) and the subsequent bureaucratic red tape cripple the potential of the land.

The conclusion of the book is not a tidy resolution, but a collection of findings. The author shifts his focus toward the future, detailing the necessity of reform in forest management and irrigation. He reflects on the irony of the British government’s financial agreement with the Ottoman Empire, questioning how an island so ostensibly mismanaged could still produce such significant surplus revenue for its former masters. He leaves the reader with a final, characteristically practical note: an investigation into the "Chittim wood" of Scripture, which leads him to identify a specific, rare cedar on the mountainside. The journey ends with him gathering seeds to send back to England, his mind already turned toward the potential for cultivation and systemic improvement.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The author arrives in Larnaca and immediately clashes with the local environment, as his oversized travel van is systematically dismantled by low-hanging architecture. He repairs his equipment with the help of a local blacksmith, setting the stage for a journey defined by the friction between modern expectations and local realities.

Across the plains The party ventures into the Messaria and the Carpas, where the author notes the stark contrast between the parched, drought-stricken fields and the lush, irrigated gardens found in more enterprising pockets of the island. He frequently intervenes to reorganize his transport, often abandoning native advice in favor of his own determination to push forward.

Life in the heights The narrative settles into the peaceful, secluded surroundings of the monastery of Trooditissa, providing a contrast to the earlier chaos of the plains. The author spends his days observing the monks and the local wildlife, finding a rare sense of harmony in the stillness of the mountain air.

Systemic critique Moving away from personal anecdote, the book shifts toward a formal assessment of the island's administrative failures. The author details the absurdity of military supplies sent by the British, such as cast-iron coal-boxes, and provides a granular analysis of the taxation systems that suppress local industry.

A look toward the future In the final chapters, the author proposes a rigorous, data-driven approach to economic development, including surveys of land rights and irrigation potential. He concludes with a botanical discovery, closing the account with a practical effort to classify the island's timber resources for future benefit.

The People

The author, Sir Samuel White Baker, serves as the central consciousness: a man of immense practical experience who views the world through the lens of potential utility. He is determined to see the island organized, efficient, and productive, and he feels a deep, restless frustration when he encounters waste or lack of foresight. His wife accompanies him, appearing as a quiet, steady presence who shares the rigors of the road.

Opposing them are the various local figures who inhabit the Cypriot landscape. There are the "native" guides and muleteers, such as Iiani, who the author finds consistently "stupid" or unhurried in their work, serving as a foil to his own urgent, disciplined pace. Then there are the monks of Trooditissa, particularly the friendly Neophitos, who represent a static, tradition-bound existence that the author views with a mix of affection and condescension.

Finally, the British officials—Sir Garnet Wolseley and his staff—are treated with a special, sharp-tongued irony. The author views them as well-meaning but hopelessly out of their depth, prone to sending ridiculous, useless items like warming-pans to a scorching climate. These figures represent the tension between the author’s idealized, orderly vision of colonial administration and the clumsy, bureaucratic reality of the occupation.

In Its Own Voice

"My van represented civilisation: the water-spouts represented barbarism."

The author explains the frustration of navigating his large, modern vehicle through the narrow, ancient streets of Larnaca.

"I always travelled with binocular glasses slung across my back, and these were admirable stare-repellers."

The author describes his method for maintaining privacy while camping near crowded, curious villages.

"What is to become of our country, exclaims the British taxpayer, if this frightful waste is to continue?"

The author laments the government's decision to ship useless items like copper warming-pans to the hot, arid climate of Cyprus.

What It's Really About

The book is fundamentally an argument for the rational, systematic exploitation of colonial land. The author is less interested in the romantic allure of a Mediterranean island than in its "producing capabilities." Beneath the narrative of travel lies a critique of the "vestiges of the past"—both Ottoman administrative habits and the local peasant traditions—which he believes must be replaced by modern, scientific management. It poses a central question: can a "misgoverned" territory be transformed into a thriving imperial asset through the application of English industry, infrastructure, and order? The author’s answer is a firm, if impatient, yes, provided that the government abandons its absurdities and focuses on the fundamental requirements of irrigation, road-building, and agricultural efficiency.

Why Read It Today

Readers with an interest in the history of the British Empire or the mechanics of colonial administration will find this a fascinating, if occasionally abrasive, document. It provides a rare, boots-on-the-ground look at a specific, transformative moment in Cyprus’s history. The prose is clear, confident, and often bitingly funny, particularly when the author is skewering the incompetence of his own countrymen.

One must be prepared, however, to encounter the unvarnished attitudes of the nineteenth-century British traveler. The author’s view of the Cypriot people is consistently paternalistic, and he frequently labels local customs and figures with a bluntness that modern readers may find jarring. He is a man of his time, deeply convinced of his own superiority and the inevitability of his methods.

Despite these period attitudes, the book remains a rewarding read for its sharp, descriptive power. The author is an excellent observer of landscape and ecology, and his descriptions of the mountain terrain and the hidden, fertile valleys are vivid and evocative. It is a book that stays with you not for its warmth toward its subjects, but for its cold, precise, and highly practical vision of a world in transition. If you are looking for a gentle travelogue, this is not it; if you are looking for a detailed, opinionated, and highly observant record of a man trying to impose order on a foreign land, it is an essential piece of the puzzle.