Downtown Beirut

Also known as centre-ville, or the more hip C-V (both pronounced with a French accent), downtown Beirut has a character of its own. Many of the buildings were blown to pieces during Lebanon’s countless conflicts, most of which have now been built anew, but in accordance with the old blueprints. The result is a beautiful amalgamation of the old and new. In addition to other areas, downtown Beirut splinters into Hamra and Gemmayze.

Hamra

A laidback but happening part of town, Hamra presides over the American University of Beirut (AUB) and its famous adjoining street, Bliss Street. A very modern Crowne Plaza Hotel is located on Hamra Street, the main shopping avenue, and houses a variety of restaurants, including an American-style diner called Roadsters, which serves up good ol’ American hamburgers and thick vanilla milkshakes.

- AUB

AUB is arguably the leading university in the Middle East. A grand campus, a seaside location, and over 100 degree programmes! But no late night visits to the girls’ dormitories – ah, well, you’ve got to compromise somewhere.

What I found very amusing is the fact that the students are grouped and named according to where they hang out during free periods (an example: those who lounge around the main gate are referred to as ‘main gate’).

- Bliss Street

Contrary to any preconceptions you may have, Bliss Street is not infested with druggies. It is in fact well known for the fast food shops along it, headed by ‘Bliss House’ (which does a mean meal by the way).

It is here that I sampled the Godly saj at Comsi Comsaj. Such a simple formula, yet such an excruciatingly delicious result: thin round bread filled with whatever you desire then folded in half to form a crescent-shaped sandwich (or a thin manakeesh to you Arabs out there). I water at the mouth just thinking about a saj spread with labneh (a type of sour yoghurt) and peppered with black olives. ‘wahed labneh w zeitun aswad’ I always tell them.

An obnoxious old man whose name evades me at the moment spends most nights there. You can usually find him slumped on his white plastic chair spitting insults at George, one of the cafeteria owners along the street. A definite visit is necessary when passing through Beirut. If you look Western, he may even pucker his lips and utter some random crap from a famous 1980’s film.

Gemmayze

Lebanon is split into pubbers, clubbers, and chillers (who indulge in shisha and backgammon). Gemmayze is where the pubbers satiate their desires. A stiff drink is never further than a few metres, and if alcohol doesn’t spark a flame within you, there are plenty of restaurants to dine at such as ‘Lord of the Wings’.

The fact that I can remember little of what happened in Gemmayze is testament to what an amazing night it was. I do have pictures, however, and from them I can tell you that I went to The Bulldog, Inn-Tuition, and Rumours, where I assume I imbibed copious amounts of alcohol. Most of the pubs were so full clients were spilling out the door.

I recall that the bartender in The Bulldog was the frank type, and saw right through our joke as we tried to relate The Bulldog to another word starting with ‘bull’. He exclaimed bluntly, ‘I think the word you’re looking for is bull-SHIT!’

Jbeil/Byblos

I visited the ancient city of Byblos at night. We passed by a row of granite columns where I failed to outdo the Greeks with my athletic poses.

We didn’t get to see the castle as we arrived in the evening and it was closed, but we strolled through the market stalls that lined the walls of the old part of town, and explored the adjacent ruins.

On the way back to Beirut, the highway was flowing as slow as ketchup out of a new bottle. Tempers were flaring, horns were beeping, and in classic Arab fashion, 4 lanes were somehow created out of 3.

And as ketchup eventually splatters all over the plate, so we finally sped off, weaving through the traffic in true Lebanese style. Soon enough we chanced upon a very dusty, beaten up SUV, with a mountain of luggage tied to the roof. It was jam-packed with family in the typical Arab fashion. Remembering a story my father told me of his time in Nigeria, I wound the windows down, waved to him, and shouted out in Arabic, ‘Keef el sayara el jdida!’ which, in English, is ‘How’s the new car going?’

A sour expression washed over his face. He replied with a drawn-out (and I imagine slightly irritated) ‘Gooood, gooood’ before accelerating sharply, tearing a path through the highway.

Faraya Mzaar

Mzaar is the name of the mountain that houses this ski resort while Faraya is the name of a small village just below it.

We hired a private taxi from a firm called Charlie Taxi to take us up there. Our driver was a jovial character named Steve.

Our party comprised three people – oy! Everyone else had family obligations due to the Eid holiday – and up we climbed the slopes of Mzaar, snapping shots along the way. Half-way there, we stopped at a row of snack shops, where I picked up a saj (the obsession continues) and some ‘Ras Al Abd’ for dessert, which is a bell shaped chocolate with a very thin coating filled with a creamy marshmallow centre, and a chewy biscuit base. They’re typically wrapped in a very noticeable olive gold, black and red foil. Ras Al Abd translates to ‘head of the slave/negro’. You may draw your own conclusions – though, I must add that it is extremely tasty.

The transition was sudden. Hills and fields of white engulfed us, and the sun gleamed proudly off the snowy sheets. I had never felt real snow before (the closest I had come was frosted chunks in the mountains of Jordan on my way to Petra) so it was quite an experience to finally feel the mushy substance after 18 years of existence. A Kodak moment captured forever.

We entered the snow gear rental store, and asked to be equipped with the suitable attire. Whether it was deliberate or not, the attendants handed us two equally bizarre one-piece suits that even Steve Vai would reject on the grounds of being embarrassing. Mine had a series of orange curves in a tribal pattern, and Rani’s consisted of zany black and white lines dotted with red bulbous shapes. Every few metres we landed face-down or arse-down on the snow with a crunch, and this was on the baby slope. It was practically Blades of Glory with snowboards.

I eventually got so fed up of tumbling to the end of the slope that I exchanged my snowboard for a pair of skis, and my slow, abrupt crashes for ones involving a ski flipping wildly into the air.

I have a trademark technique of skiing which is currently being patented: the idea is to start off with a very detailed plan of action consisting of what path and speed to take down the slope. The next step is to ignore it completely, flounder off the peak, and come screaming wildly down the slope, while cutting a diagonal across the course the whole way. In the majority of cases, by the time you form the inverted ‘V’ to slow you down, it’s too late – execute the Dalton emergency stop manoeuvre comprising throwing oneself to the ground. Works for me.

The entire trip (including a 4-hour wait while we tamed the slopes) cost 65,000 LL (or ’65 thou’ as the locals say). This equates to about $43/£20, which I think is a damn good deal, especially when divided amongst a group.

Jeita

A mere 45 minutes from Beirut, Jeita is a must-see. If you’ve never heard of them, the Jeita caves are a famous landmark in Lebanon.

As you walk through the first section, stalagmites and stalactites dot the floor and ceiling like the jaws of an infernal creature. All is quiet but for the occasional drop of water that resonates through the entire cave complex. It adds to the belittling effect the colossal caves have on its guests. Twists, turns, depression, elevations, holes, and mounds – an abstract world of limestone awaits you in Jeita.

There’s a reason Beirut is (or was) referred to as the ‘Paris of the Middle East’ – it’s a beautiful, exciting city, full of friendly people. Its current situation is undeserved.

When and if I return my list of places to visit are: the Roman ruins of Baalbeck, the cedar trees at Al Arz, and the city of Tripoli.

Note: due to a database mess up, I’ve lost all the previous comments of this article.

Despite this, the Chinese are generally a friendly bunch. With a few exceptions. Namely the street scammers my mum bought a tea set off, receiving her change in Kazakhstani money.

On the first day we lounged about in our room in the Beijing Hotel. As I lay in bed, I played with the thought of Communist leader Mao Zedong staying in that very room. Perhaps buttoning up his jacket and straightening his Red Army hat.

In the evening we strolled down to the local restaurant/bar, the name of which I have forgotten now. There we ate from a set menu of various meat dishes while watching a live performance of amateur songs and dances by the pubgoers themselves! After watching these two getting up and dancing on the table, my stereotypical view of Chinese people being mini-Confucius’s with long, grey beards was shattered forever:

We awoke early the next day to catch the bus to a jade factory just outside Beijing. Vases, jewellery, ships, carriages, and lions were all on display gleaming shades of green (and even the odd few of purple and beige).

If the Chinese had a national stone it would be jade. Throughout the many dynasties, the ornamental stone, with its emerald-green shimmer, was used to create decorative objects and even entire burial suits were made of jade.

We passed through a corridor with large glass windows on each side. Peering through, we watched men in white coats drilling carefully into unfinished jade articles. One such article was a mix of a ball and a Russian doll. It had the shape of a football with many holes. And inside each ball there was another one.

After leaving, our wallets considerably lighter, the next attraction was the Great Wall of China. This awe-inspiring dragon of a structure snakes over grassy and rocky mountains for a distance of 6,352 kilometres roughly forming the boundary between North China and Mongolia.

You may find this hard to believe, but my family and I were the only Western people on the wall. The droves of Chinese that milled about seemed to be more enthusiastic about their culture than the foreigners. Because of this, I held a sort of celebrity status that day. Chinese boys and girls (and even their parents!) lined up to have their picture taken with me and I was only too happy to oblige.

We visited other sites in and around Beijing such as the Ming Tombs, Tiananmen Square, and the Summer Palace, but my most memorable time was the walk through the Forbidden City with a really funny Chinese student called ‘Sword’ who acted as our guide. If I remember correctly, it took at least 3 hours (probably 4) to cross from one side of the complex to the other. Sword certainly earned his fee by going into detail about the life of the Emperors and the customs and complexities of the Forbidden City. When our tour came to an end, he presented us with his card, and repeated in his Chinese accent, ‘Remember! My e-mail is sword_is_sharp@hotmail.com!’

I happened to be passing by the Worker’s Stadium in Beijing that day a few hours before the final match of the AFC Asian Cup 2004. It was China vs Japan. A big crowd – of mostly Chinese supporters – was building up outside the stadium. Chinese flags were flying everywhere, people dressed up in communist military outfits, the sponsors’ stands sold memorabilia. I bought a shirt and went over to a group that were getting totally whammed. One of them was already slurring his speech and rambling on about his disapproval of the USA in Chinese. ‘China! China!’ he chanted. ‘China good!’ my dad humoured him. Then he said, ‘U… S… A,’ and shook his head in disagreement, later giving his thumbs up to Saddam Hussein. See the video clip at the end of this article.

(the Chinese later lost 3-1 to Japan)

A visit to the marketplace is bound to liven your senses (and you’ll need every one of them to dodge the persistent stall owners trying to shove everything from seahorse and eels on a stick to cooked sparrow down your throat). It is abuzz with activity and grinning faces shout amicably to each other as they fry a few live scorpions for their next customers.

I took a seat outside a quiet, respectable looking restaurant and accepted the menu from the owner. A sea of wavy, incomprehensible characters filled the pages. Then I realised – I can’t read Chinese. ‘Do you have any chicken?’ I asked. ‘Chick-an… ah… uh… sorry, sir?’ he looked puzzled. ‘Er… chicken to eat?’ I made a gesture with my combined fingers near my mouth to depict the action. He looked even more bewildered than before. ‘Meat?’ I tried. ‘Ah! Yes, yes!’ and he scurried off to the kitchen. A few minutes and I was chewing on a skewer of some tasteless pieces of what looked like chicken. I later found out it was dog.

After that awful experience, we had our last dinner at a classy Peking Duck restaurant. A figure that looked like the chef himself came barging through the kitchen doors with a trolley bearing the roast duck in his hands. He did this with such haste that he was at our table in seconds sharpening his large cleaver against another. Then he attacked it! The poor duck survived less than a minute before it lay in carefully cut slices on our plates. It took us even less time to pack it into our ‘mu-shi’ flour pancakes, apply the plum sauce and spring onion, and gobble it down.

‘One more duck!’ my dad called to the waiter, waving. The restaurant went silent and I could feel the stares of many a Chinese person bearing down on us. I could probably guess what words were going through their head: ‘What a bunch of greedy bastards!’

We retired to the Beijing Hotel that night, our stomachs bloated from good food (and the dog). Tomorrow we would leave to Australia.

But that is a story for another time and another article. ;)

Movie clips:

• Drunk!

I have the privilege of being able to tell you that I not only visited the castle, but was arrested there as well.

After walking around the central courtyard, patrolling the battlements, and popping in and out of various rooms, we began the long haul to the peak (732 metres). Through all the sweat and toil of climbing endless, narrow stairs, you might expect there to be a princess of some sort (I prefer the scantily clad types personally) waiting for you at the top. Alas, you will have to make do with a slab of rock and a sign offering its congratulations instead.

After much merriment (and many shirtless pictures) we descended back down and straight into the coffee shop (located in one of the rooms in the castle) for some tea and – no, not crumpets! – Turkish Delight.

On the way out, I decided to take an alternate route and, oh my, stumbled across a room I hadn’t been in before. I stepped inside and looked around. Nothing in particular interested me much. Then I spotted a spear lodged on the wall… with no protective casing.

‘It would be nice if I could get a picture holding that,’ I thought.

‘Don’t do it!’ said my good conscience.

‘Cam on – what’s the harm?’ inquired my naughty side.

‘You’ll get into trouble…’

‘How? Who’s going to see me? No one.’

With that argument settled, I tried to pry the spear off its metal hinges, but it was pressed onto the wall at one end by the metal. Arg… I pulled a bit harder.

Suddenly I heard static in the room – like a radio that was set to an unused frequency. Then a booming voice ordered, ‘DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTIFACTS!’

I nearly pissed my pants. I immediately stopped what I was doing and stuttered, ‘Oh, sorry,’ to whoever it was. It was then that I noticed a security camera and several speakers above me.

The cheesy grin says it all – BUSTED!

A few minutes after the picture was taken I was escorted to the security office where I had to explain my actions (I only wanted to pose with it, I swear!). There was a big, burly bloke there who kept trying to tell me what a serious crime I had committed (apparently I was trying to steal an artifact) and threatened me with jail terms.

Perhaps it was because I looked like a stupid tourist that they let me off. Or maybe they finally agreed that not an idiot on this planet would be dumb enough to steal a rotting spear from an old castle and dash to the exit with it.