Kolla made space, and Cyberness gave Limassol what it needed

I’d been to Kolla before, so I knew what to expect. Or at least I thought I did. This time, it was Sunday evening at the start of summer pressing, and I had my 18-month old nephew, Nicholas, tugging at my hand, already squealing something about bubbles.

The Cyberness Market  – held on the first Sunday of each month – was celebrating its first birthday, and somehow, it felt bigger, louder, warmer, maybe just more human. We got there early enough to walk through the stalls before the crowd really kicked in. Same graffiti-covered walls, same wild, mismatched furniture, but the vibe had shifted.

“It’s like the market grew up with us,” one girl told me, sipping coffee from a plastic cup while flipping through a box of vinyls.

She was right. I recognised some of the same sellers from last year, prints, patches, clothes, clay earrings, but now with more confidence.

Kolla Culture Factory, tucked behind Franklin Roosevelt Avenue in Limassol, has always felt like a place that doesn’t care what’s trending.

It just is.

This former Coca-Cola factory, shut down in the 1960s, has slowly turned into one of the city’s most genuine hangouts: messy, imperfect, and full of heart.

It’s backed by Exness founder and CEO, Petr Valov, but it never feels corporate.

At Cyberness there is music from early on. A full line-up of local DJs and guests took turns throughout the day, no big announcements, just one after the other. Tania Kudinova, a photographer who lives in Cyprus, was playing at Cyberness for the second time.

“I love this island,” she said.

“And I love this market. Kolla is something rare. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many people from different countries all in one place, and everyone just enjoying the same thing.”

Passing Sotiroulla Ioannou’s stall, her hand-made jewellery caught the sun just right. “I don’t do this full-time, I work in a hairdressing sallon during the week,” Ioannou said. “But here, I can be this other version of myself. Every piece I bring is made after midnight, once the kids are asleep.

“I never thought something I made at my kitchen table would end up around someone else’s neck. It’s wild.”

Back to the tugging on my hand. Nicholas ran straight toward the Elephanteria corner set up for Children’s Day. That’s where the chaos was: foam cannons, face painting, the bubble guy with the huge net.

Elephanteria isn’t just fun though. It had a purpose.

Organised by the Together Forever Foundation, the charity festival offered workshops for kids and adults alike, ceramic elephants, slime making, bracelet and necklace crafts, toy making, even personalised journals and little bags.

Everything, from the tickets for the Wheel of Fortune to the glitter-covered notebooks, went toward helping children in need.

And what made it even more special was how lightly it all carried itself. No preaching. Just kindness in motion.

And it wasn’t just kids. Dogs were everywhere, fluffy, scruffy, leashed, in prams, on laps, under tables. Big ones, tiny ones. One trotted around wearing a glittery scarf, another dozed off next to a stall selling herbal soaps.

It was entirely pet-friendly without ever feeling chaotic.

Volunteers were everywhere, dressed in pink, yellow and elephant ears, keeping everything safe but never stiff. “We just want the kids to feel free, to forget the world for a bit,” said a teenage volunteer with glitter all over her hands who didn’t seem to mind the noise.

Father of a one-year-old boy, Nicolas Papados said he had only come for an hour. “That was four hours ago.” He paused, then said more softly, “It’s hard to find places in Limassol where kids are welcome, but parents don’t feel bored. This? This is gold.”

I wandered back through the crowd with pizza in one hand and a cold soda in the other.

Every few metres, someone waved at someone else, old classmates, coworkers, people who’ve probably only seen each other through Instagram stories for the past year.

But here, they were present. And that made all the difference.

At one point I sat down next to a guy sketching something on his lap, earbuds in, shoes off.

“I didn’t even know what Cyberness was until this morning,” said Marios Antoniou, who had come from Larnaca. “But now I’m thinking I might book a stall next time. Everyone here just… gets it.”

Later, I found a vendor I remembered, Athena, the one with the hand-drawn tees. “You came back,” she smiled, handing me a new design with a tiny stitched cyborg holding a dandelion. “So did half the island, it seems.”

By the time the sun dipped, the whole space had melted into music.

Nicholas was asleep on my lap, cotton candy stuck to his cheek.

And there I was again, same corner, same city, but feeling like something real had managed to stay. No influencers. No sponsors. No pressure.

Just a bunch of people turning a quiet Sunday into something that actually mattered. And when we left, long after bedtime, Nicholas whispered – or rather mumbled, half-asleep – “again?” Of course we will. Some things, you don’t do just once.