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.

I was in North Cyprus this summer from the 5th to the 23rd of July furnishing a villa in Bellapais for rental (article about it to come shortly).

Near the central mosque of Ozanköy village, there is a bookshop called the Five Fingers run by a lovely lady named Libby. It consists of a single room, a few over-stocked shelves, and a bucket of books. I questioned her about it, ‘So this is the only bookshop in the whole of North Cyprus?’

‘Yes. It’s rather sad isn’t it?’ she laughed.

However, the magic that is Harry Potter spreads far and wide and Libby travelled on the 20th of July to Nicosia in the South of the island to pick up a massive batch of the books. On the 21st, she hosted a Harry Potter themed party where we concocted potions, played muggle quidditch, and drank the most vile of liquids ranging from dragon snot to dragon piss. I was placed in Slytherin, which I thought ironically fitting as I had had my hair cut and gelled back in a very snobbish fashion that day.

At the chime of 2:00 AM (12:00 AM British time), the books were hauled out onto a long table, and little (and big) fans queued up to buy the book, my brother among them.

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.

I spent the 12th of August in Kolding with MenZa (of MenZa’s Blog) touring Koldinghus (Kolding Castle) and strolling about the local botanical gardens. We also went walking around the town (even came across a British pub!). I slept well that night knowing that I had prepared and planned, well in advance, my trip to Copenhagen.

Bright and early in the morning (that’s about 8:00 AM for me) I got up, had a shower, got dressed, double-checked my bags, rubbed my hands together in glee (everything’s going according to plan!) and went to the nearby bus-stop.

(you know something has to go wrong here don’t you? Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this)

I found that the buses don’t travel in the morning on Sundays (check the 13th August, 2006 on your calendars). I had no choice – it would be another 3 kilometre walk to the train station with all my luggage.

1 HOUR (AND THREE COCA-COLAS) LATER…

I turned round the corner of a street, and the station came into view just in time for me to see the 9:09 train to Copenhagen chug into gear and shoot off. Shrugging off my initial disappointement, I entered the train station, had a chat with the lady at the counter, and discovered the next train was in an hour. Plenty of time I thought.

I opened up my wallet and watched in dismay as a couple of moths fluttered out. All I had were a few measly coins in the zipper compartment. Back to the lady in the grocery store, another chat, another discovery: the nearest ATM machine was just outside the train station and to the left. So off I went, out and to the left. In front of me was a road with a row of houses on each side extending as far as I could see. No ATM in sight. I decided to make an excursion into town with my luggage in search of one. I had lots of time left after all – 40 minutes.

When I got back to the train station (with the money) I found the desks at the ticket office to be silent and vacant. The ticket office was closed until 10:45; my train was due to leave at 10:09.

The ticket machine was the only option now. I went over to it, selected Copenhagen as my destination, and a demand for 261 DKK was made. I got out my money, and looked for a slot to insert the notes… there was none. The machine only accepted coins and credit cards. Despite my bad experience with my credit card in Europe, I pushed it in, entered my ATM PIN code and it rejected it immediately. At this point, I was beginning to sweat a little. The train was leaving in 20 minutes, and I had to be on it!

In desperation, I went to the same lady again, and explained my situation to her. She kindly offered to give me 200 DKK worth of change in 10’s and 20’s. With a fistful of coins in one hand, I strode towards the machine once again, confidently this time.

One by one, I inserted the coins from the moutain of silver in my palm. Slowly, I watched the figure count down from 261 to 241 to 221 to 201 to 181 with a series of ‘chings’. Somewhere around 181 it rejected one of my coins. I placed another one in. It rejected that too. Then I put in a third, and all my change came down into the tray below.

As I scooped up the coins from the tray, I could sense the growing crowd behind me getting annoyed and restless. Totally out of politeness (and a little bit out of fear that they’d knock me unconscious if I attempted the procedure again), I stepped to the back of the line to await my next assault on the machine.

Painstakingly, I repeated the process, slowly putting in the coins this time… 81… 61… nearly there… 51… 41… come on… 31… YES… 21… 11… YES! YES!… 1… I quickly scurry to find a 1 DKK coin in my wallet, place it in with the grace of an angel, halo and all. I wait for the familiar ‘ching’ sound of approval from the machine as the sunlight pours through the window, choir singing melodiously in the background, but all I hear is an ominous ‘clunk’ as the piddly 1 DKK coin lands in the tray. Frantically, I search for another one as the heavenly clouds recede above me and the sunlight slowly disappears. One catches my fingers and I place it through the slot. CLUNK!

A bead of sweat forms at the top of my forehead and runs down my cheek to be embedded in the tangle of hair that makes up my scraggly beard. My last 1 DKK coin, and my last chance to get to Copenhagen, is literally in the palm of my hands. I’ve got my eyes half-closed as I push the coin in as if I were afraid of offending the machine if I did it too abruptly…

CLUNK!

…

It’s pitch black, the choir has deserted me, and there is complete silence for a moment. Then, one by one, the machine spits out 261 DKK worth of coins.

By this point, I am really starting to feel the pressure. There are 5 minutes left until my train is due, and I have no ticket, and no means of getting one. What do I do? Should I buy a ticket off someone? Should I play the dumb tourist game – ‘Ticket? Oh, can’t I buy those on the train?’ – and incur a possible fine of 500 DKK? I’m racking my brains for ideas when suddenly a moment of pure genius hits me.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman in front of me, ‘Would you mind buying me a ticket with your credit card? I’ll pay you of course.’ I immediately felt stupid for asking – it sounded so much like a scam. Only a fool would agree to such an arrangement. Thank God this one was. Like a little boy at Christmas time, the joy of receiving this present was wonderful (except for the fact that I had to pay for it). I checked my watch – 10:09.

Time seemed to have stopped at that moment and all became a trailing blur as I burst through those station doors stopping for the briefest of moments to chuck the luggage over my shoulder. To my left and right and extending onwards I saw signs to tracks 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6, 7 and 8, 9 and 10. Dumbfounded, I looked at my ticket. Then I realised – I can’t read Danish. Like the closing hours of the final chapter to a doomed story, I checked my watch again – 10:10. I had only choice – eenie meanie miney moe… catch a… what was it… by the toe… if it… smiles… Ah, fuck it, I’ll take track 2.

I bolted up the stairs, backpack bouncing from shoulder to shoulder, and came to a deserted railway.
‘Is the train to Copenhagen arriving here?’ I asked a man sitting on a bench. He said two words: ‘no’ and something in Danish I couldn’t understand but took to be the track number.
‘Er… 5?’ I inquired quizzically. ‘no, no!’ and he repeated the word. After seeing the dumb look on my face he sighed and pulled up ten fingers – and, no, that is not a Danish insult – my train was, as I looked over to the end of the station, currently parked on the furthest track possible – track 10. The doors were already open, and they wouldn’t be for much longer.

Now, it would be a tragic end to the story (and to my last-minute-train-catching reputation) if I were to miss this one. So, what do you think? Did I make it?

Yeah, I did.

By about 5 seconds.