Baalbek and Beirut

Despite all warning, Baalbek was a surprise. As our taxi rounded a bend in the Chouf Mountains and five sets of groggy eyes widened at the ruins that had replaced the drop to the left, none of us were prepared for what we saw. To say that the five twenty five foot, freeze topped, marble Doric columns that can be seen from the road are an understatement of the beauty and size of the temples at Baalbek is justified. The vast chiseled blocks of stone scattered about the ground, and the fresh smelling mountain flora creeping and poking up through and draping off the masonry serene in one another’s company, each as content with the presence of the other as though they were friends for thousands of years was a sight for smoke filled eyes. The shift from the choking fumes of Damascus and the leaking diesel smell of our taxi to the soft, fresh, lush mountain air a thousand metres above sea level may have played a part in our amazement. The sun setting over the far side of the temple as we entered may have played another but an hour spent wandering amongst the rocky crumbs of Bacchus and of Venus was never going to be enough. It was the most more-ish of places. I would have pitched a tent and spent the night if I could. Certainly no civilization has been keen to give it up. It has seen itself transformed from temple to citadel to palace through its vast lifespan and there is no question as to why. It is amongst the most beautiful places I have ever visited. It is impossible to understand how alien the smell of a city is until you have visited its antithesis, this magnificent testament to Roman engineering, the infrastructure of which is still serving the people of Baalbek nearly two and a half thousand years after its construction. Until the turn of the century it was the Roman canals that delivered fresh water to every house in the town, a source of wonder to travellers through the middle ages, and until now it is the ruins that fuel the tourism supporting the local economy.

Talking about his ruined castle in Spain, Matthew Parris describes the problem of maintaining the spirit of a ruin in its restoration. He argues that there are two routes open to the restorer, the first to preserve the spirit of decay that gives the ruin life, and the second to fashion it into an ape of its complete image. In Baalbek the former policy has had breathtaking results. It dominates every aspect of its surroundings aesthetically, architecturally and economically and it is an imposing rebuke to the transience of our attitude to material possession. The temples in Baalbek took four hundred years to build from stone quarried within sight of the buildings themselves and are still standing well over two millennia later, if not complete then quite spectacular as ruins. Now they are strewn carefully across their ancient site, columns rising to the left and deliberately placed sections of carving or lengths of fallen pillar lying in the path of a walking tour of the site. It forms an oblique but efficacious instruction on the beauty of the ruins and salient points of the architecture, as it slowly draws you across the site and back to the exit. It is a remarkable piece of masonry and a talented piece of restoration and undoubtedly worthy of all accolades to date.


Beirut. Having arrived late, around seven, and not managed to convince our taxi driver to take us to the hotel we planned to stay in – he knew ‘four stars hotel, little moneys only forty dollar’ – we wandered across the central downtown area on our way to Gemayzeh, just to the north west of the centre. The recently re-established Place de L’Etoile with its beautiful cobbled streets and coffee shops circling round its continental clock tower, was deserted. The number of people on the streets was barely double the number of policemen sporting machine guns. The barriers were down at the entrances to the pedestrian area, as is usual for an evening, but each one was manned by two more soldiers and each corner that followed each length of road had another troop guarding it. The troubles of Pierre Gemayal’s murder, three days before, were still heavy on the conscience of the city. It was as though we had arrived in a gap between the sound and the echo, and, everyone was waiting. He had already, three days after his death, been incorporated into the poster campaign that tracks all the roads in Lebanon with pictures of the country’s political assassinees and the words, “Lan Nansee…”, ‘We will not forget…’ The Lebanese, usually so happy to party, so ready to move forward, have not forgotten. I hope very much that the quiet of the city was respectful, and certainly I did not feel any sense of fear. Even the soldiers on street corners and the traffic calming slalom that was set up outside the bar we had settled in, to protect people on their way home in the early hours, had a sense of precaution about it, perhaps also respect, but not dread or anticipation. The city is full of aides-memoirs. The brutal crater left by the bomb that killed Rafik Hariri, has been preserved as was, cordoned off as a reminder. All around the capital are large black posters with his picture and a counter, ticking off the days since his death with the words in Arabic, “the truth for the sake of Lebanon”. On Friday it had reached five hundred and forty nine days. Likewise the infamous Holiday Inn hotel on the cornice, home to hundreds of snipers during the civil war and now little more than a shell, still stands tall next to the pretty, pink Intercontinental Phoenicia. The one riddled with bullet and shell holes, the other decked out with tiny but beautiful gardens, lace curtains and stunning sea views. The contrast is stark but so is the balance of politics and pleasure in Lebanon. The nightlife, the escapism, is incredible. Whilst much of the city’s usually buzzing clubs and bars on Monot Street were largely empty, the strip past our hotel in Gemayzeh was absolutely packed and indeed we were turned away from several bars that were overcrowded before we found one to settle in. For many it seemed to be a usual Friday night and tables were still ordering champagne and vodka by the bottle but around one thirty two o’clock people began to filter out and head home. It seemed that even for the hardy few, all-nighters on the day of a political funeral were not the done thing. A few places, we were told, might remain open but ‘with the political situation earlier in the week’ things were a bit difficult. Lacking the stamina, or the will, to find out what people would be doing in those places we followed suit and rolled home.

The next morning we returned to the centre, to Place de L’Etoile, and on a sunny, warm November morning, it was deserted. The only other people we found were shop keepers and three English, Arabic students from Damascus who live around the corner from us in Bab Sharqi. Again the army was out in force. It is difficult to tell whether it felt like a city cowed, or a city in mourning, or a city under siege because I would prefer to say it was none of those, but whatever happens, it is a city changed for the time being. The spirit that had begun to pick up again after the war with Israel has ebbed, if only temporarily and it is increasingly clear that the scars of political assassination shall not be borne so much by the city as by the people who live in it. The city remains fascinating, and beautiful as ever but for now muffled, perhaps even expectant. It is clearly a place weary of war, and wanting to ready forward but not at the cost of forgetting the recent turbulence of its history; it remains to be seen if the opportunity shall arise. Until then, I for one will always enjoy visiting such a magnificent and welcoming place and if that is all I can do, it will be my token voice of support.

An Istanbulu alley cat

The wild wood in winter

Contrary to all expectation Damascus is getting cold.  I saw my breath condensing as I was waiting for a bus last night, and suddenly I wish that our lovely old Damascene house was a lovely new house, with lots of lovely insulation and central heating instead.  Abu Michelle has very kindly installed a remarkable stove in the sitting room and now we can huddle round our can of fire in the evenings before streaking across the courtyard to a shivering bed and back again in the morning for, what you hope will be a hot shower.  The most attractive element of our house when we first arrived, other than it being old and 'authentic', was that is was cool in the summer.  Unfortunately, between the months of November and May, stretch nights upon nights of icy chill from the open sky of a semi-desert winter. Our house is centred around an open courtyard, with single thickness, breeze-block walls, poorly fitting, single-glazed windows and stone floors.  Underfloor heating is not an option.  As a result we have all taken to sleeping in approximately of our clothes (Barbour socks are Manna from Heaven) including at least two t/rugby shirts and trousers as well as our landlords heavy fleece blankets.  The problem is not so much that it is cold, as Damascus is unlikely ever to be chillier than Durham, but that, at the moment, there is no escape. The inside of our house is not more than a few degrees warmer than the outside, the University has not cranked up its central heating yet and we still don't have stoves in our rooms.

That said, Damascus is a beautiful place in the crisp chill of late autumn and now that the rains have passed it seems almost alpine. The low rise alleys look veritably clean against the pale blue of the post-summer sky and late evening travellers cram into the service buses in scarves, thick coats and garish knitted hats.  In fact, knitwear is something that distinguishes Syrians from foreigners quite distinctly in Damascus.  The local crop of jumpers is garish at best, and certainly the unity of colours in Benetton goes little distance toward tempering the horror of their designs.  The mode in Damascus amongst the young this winter is for chunky-knit pastels with intermittent segments of luminescent orange and discordant multi-coloured quarters and thick plaits woven into the chest and sides.  We went jumper hunting with Will last week and it would appear that he bought the only two tasteful jumpers in the city, although somehow, Syrians give the impression that they are pulling these styles off in a way that you could not. However there is solace for the deck shoed and shirt collared Westerner that the craze for two piece denim outfits, slicked black hair and black leather jackets (or jawakeet as the local dialect would have it) is still very much alive.  Perhaps in twenty years we will be laughing at their Jack Wills 'gilets' and pashminadanas. Perhaps not.  There are on the other hand who those have been blessed with a sense of style that is completely their own, and they get it very right.  The most morish example of which is the Damascene chocolatier Ghraoui who are soon to open in Paris and Milan if rumours are to be believed.  Not only are their products delicious, but their presentation in packaging and shop front are very sophisticated and elegant. Not at all what first impressions might lead you to expect from Damascus as a city.

Indeed, after a slightly depressing few culinary weeks in the old town - where the restaurants' location always outclasses the food, and the endless stream of slightly samey Arabic mezzeh and rather bland steak au francais with hard done by vegetables and piles of chips gives a depressing perspective on Syrian cuisine - I was amazed to be served what I can only describe as a delicacy in one of the least preposessing restaurants, tucked away behind the travel agents district near downtown Damascus.  The restaurant itself has a large glass fronted and plastic adorned exterior and in a village in the country could well have been represented by a shack.  Its specialty, I was told, was grilled meats, and I am ashamed to say the cynic in me did not hold his breath.  After a large and delicious selection of mezzeh had made its presence known to my appetite a round of lahm-a'gine (essentially a small pizza base covered with, in this case, whole strips of lamb) presented itself. Once that turned out on closer inspection to be delicious, it was time for some grilled meats.  In this case small, tender cuts of lamb, still on the bone, slightly pink in the centre and served with a simple salt and pepper seasoning that were so flavoursome as to sweep aside the homous and fattoush (salad) in its path and demand finishing to the last morsel.  I departed a very surprised and satisfied man.

With this flame of hope in mind and a burgeoning sense of adventure we set off in search of other food sources on a par, (including Edwardo's magnificent chicken and lentil supper, Guy's carbonara and an appropriation of Jackie Zamparella's spaghetti and aubergine sauce). So far have discovered a very fine Indian (by the name of The Taj Mahal) and heard rumour of an excellent french restaurant in the same area.  Just over the border in Beirut there is a very impressive choice of eateries. With several birthdays popping up soon, the prospect of many sorties into the delights of Beiruti evenings and with the possibility of some skiing in the Golan Heights after Christmas the winter is looking warmer by the day.

Out of town

Joseph Heller once defended his novel 'Catch 22' with the line, "I haven't written anything better, but nor has anyone else." Its difficult not to feel the same about Istanbul, sitting across two continents, being a great mixture of the two cultures, Middle Eastern and European. In essence it has the salient elements of Middle Eastern culture executed with a more European efficiency. One of the first things that strikes you, especially when travelling backwards from Damascus, is its cleanliness. Where Damascus (at least the old town) can be dusty and noisy. Istanbul is clean. The traffic is still heavy, and I remember cycling in last summer was the only time I witnessed Nick Nason wearing a helmet, but the cars are generally in better nick, and the very efficient tramway that runs the route from north of the golden horn toward the airport is in quite stark contrast to the route buses and service taxis in Syria (although that is not true for intercity travel).
People's dress in Turkey seemed to be more European too as Islam is a prevailing and not a state religion the hijab is less prevalent and the westernised dress more subtle. The best illustration of the contrast between the old and the new in the city, or perhaps even the east and the west, - for me - was a steampowered old Istanbulu, bent double with arthiritis and the sort of character about him that can only be found in a country that has seen such phenomenal acceleration in westernisation as to make him look slightly out of place on a tram to a westerner. This old boy, came stamping and chuffing onto the tram mid rush hour , his back constantly folded under his tweed working jacket so that his khaki knitted hat was around waist height to most other commuters and his arms reaching for a grab rail above or beside him lifted no higher than horizontal despite being perpendicular to his shoulders. As the tram left the station he was rocked one way, still stamping and blowing in turkish, and then back the other as we turned a corner, clearing a considerable space in what had been a very crowded car, before a young turk took him by the arm and helped him, head first through the crowd of jackets, to find a seat.

The architecture is likewise as beautiful as the views and the myriad of mosques and churches scattered across the old town (Sultanahmet) are each differently stunning from the next, and very conducive to lazy afternoons meandering through the history and sampling the abundant local cuisine, from an apple tea and sandwich from the hot dome of the saj (thats the arabic name, and I cant remember the turkish) to a piping Ottoman stew from a sealed clay pot (replete with 'fire show' smashing ceremony) and a bottle of the local turkish wine.

Off the coast lies more opportunity for slow days on the Prince's Isles. An hour and a half away from the European shore, are these beautiful, and well preserved little islands, populated, it seems, by the wealthier Istanbulus in the summer, and serviced by horse drawn carts and stunning vistas of Istanbul sprawling along the shoreline in both directions. When the sun is out, even on a cooler early November day, it seems they are popular with the townies, many of whom were catching the ferry back to the city with us late on Sunday night, dragging their luggage behind them, after an easy few days, out of the pollution (not that there was much in the old city, sitting as it does on the sea front). In fact it is rather strange to someone who has only known large cities to be heavily landlocked, to wake in a hotel room to a chorus of seagulls and with, in one direction a magnificent view of the Sea of Maramara as it bends into the Bosphorous and in the other, one of the major relgious and historical landmarks in the city rising up in front of the town around it. In that way Istanbul is an anomoly, and a wonderfully attractive one at that. It is cosmopolitan in a most modern sense, with the gentle intertwining of Islam and Christianity over the last fifteen hundred years, a delightful fusion of cuisines from around the world, from West from East, all of them with a tale to their origin, from Spice Route traders, to conquerors and returning expatriates it seems that life in Istanbul draws its influence so widely as to be cosmopolitan in a very real way. Not only does its population hold quite naturally a good mixture of cultures (though you may not agree as an Armenian) but the influences of those cultures derive from a variety of sources, and not just mass immigration or conquest, but the gentle ebb of alien influence through trade and travel and other forms of prolonged contact rather than radical change. It is hard not to see Istanbul as a city straddling the cultures that belong to its continents but at the same time, even harder to place it in either.