November 2023: A few years back, during a trip to Cyprus, I’d attempted to visit the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) but was turned away at the border due to missing some required COVID-19 documentation. That experience left me all the more intrigued to visit this breakaway republic, and I finally had the chance to do so, fitting in a quick two-day trip as part of a larger weeklong journey to Kazakhstan with my friend, Frank. My main goal for this visit was to explore Varosha—a ghost city that had remained sealed off since the 1970s, only reopening in recent years for limited tourism. The prospect of walking through its eerie, abandoned streets and seeing a place frozen in time for decades was something I’d been looking forward to ever since that first attempt. See history here: DMZ Ghost Town of Varosha, Republic of Cyprus | Venture The Planet
Northern Turkish Republic of Cyprus
Abandoned historical places have always held a unique allure for me, and Varosha, with its tragic past, was far more than a cluster of deserted buildings—it was an entire city left to the elements. In my travels, the only other place I’ve encountered with a similar scale of abandonment is Chernobyl. Yet Varosha and Chernobyl tell two very different stories: while Chernobyl was left desolate due to a nuclear disaster, Varosha’s abandonment was the result of military force and an agreement brokered by the United Nations, leaving it untouched since the 1970s. Despite the agreement, Turkey and the TRNC have started reopening Varosha in small increments, likely to reintroduce the world to it slowly, with a vision to eventually rebuild and revive it as the resort paradise it once was.
To experience Varosha up close, I booked a room at the Arkin Palm Beach Hotel, which directly faces the ghost city. As soon as we arrived, Frank and I headed straight to the beach, drawn toward Varosha’s haunting silhouette under the night sky. Unaware that the city was only open to the public from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., we ventured too far along the beach and unknowingly triggered a laser tripwire near a Turkish military barracks. An alarm blared through the silence, leaving us wondering if we’d be met with soldiers—or worse. We sprinted back to the hotel, hearts pounding, but thankfully, no one followed.
Then, as if to add to the night’s intensity, a fierce lightning storm rolled in, illuminating the ocean and casting an otherworldly glow over the city’s forgotten ruins. Watching the storm from the hotel felt surreal. I eventually fell asleep to the sound of waves and thunder, my balcony door open to let in the ocean breeze. But in the early hours, I woke up to a muggy, still room, swarming with mosquitoes, which had taken full advantage of the open door once the wind died down.
View of Varosha Ghost City from Beach where a new beachside cafe has popped up.
No entry signs near the buildings of the ghost city
Turkish troops posted in Varosha
The following morning, we returned to Varosha when the gates opened promptly at 8 a.m. A soldier checked our bags and asked a few questions, curious about my camera and whether I was a journalist or had a drone. Satisfied with my answers, he waved us through, and suddenly, we were walking into the heart of a city frozen in time. Once a thriving resort town along the Mediterranean, Varosha now stood desolate, with crumbling facades and overgrown streets—an eerie reminder of a world left behind.
A few main streets had been repaved, allowing for easier exploration, but much of Varosha remained roped off, with dilapidated buildings and side streets strictly off-limits. During the limited open hours, visitors are allowed only on the main roads and beaches, while the rest of the city is left untouched. Bikes were available for rent, and a few beach vendors had begun setting up chairs and food stands along the shoreline. It was surreal to see this, a blend of decay and casual beachside leisure, all under a deliberate effort by the authorities to ease the world into the idea of Varosha gradually reopening under Turkish jurisdiction.
Walking through Varosha, I felt the contrast between its past vibrancy and present desolation. The atmosphere was both haunting and intriguing, a bittersweet reminder of what it once was—and perhaps, what it might become again someday.
Newly paved road into Varosha
Old delapitated roads in Varosha
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
Varosha Abandoned City
The TRNC had a distinct vibe compared to its southern neighbor. Where the south was bustling with tourists, hotels, and heavy development, the TRNC felt more laid-back, with a quieter pace and far fewer visitors. I appreciated the calm atmosphere and wished we had more time to explore its lesser-traveled areas. However, the next leg of our journey was already set. We had a flight to catch for Kazakhstan, where we planned to visit the Polygon, the former Soviet Union’s notorious nuclear testing site in northeastern Kazakhstan. So, we said goodbye to the TRNC, boarded a plane to Istanbul, and from there continued to Astana to delve into another layer of history.