William Dalrymple applauds an exemplary study of the 16th-century Levant Company and England's dealings with the mighty Ottoman empire
For 200 years, from the mid-15th century, the Ottoman Empire was the most powerful force in all Eurasia and Constantinople was the Mediterranean's greatest port. The sultan and his viziers ruled a great patchwork of peoples, languages and religions, an empire comparable in size and importance to that of Rome. Decisions made in Ottoman Constantinople affected millions across the globe, from Ireland through Poland to Sumatra. There was no other city in Europe that in size or grandeur could begin to compare.
1. Pashas: Traders and Travellers in the Islamic World
2. by James Mather
3. 320pp,
4. Yale University Press
By contrast, 16th- and 17th-century England was a small and relatively impoverished mono-religious and mono-lingual state, perched precariously on the cold northern edge of Christendom. Compared with the might of the Ottomans, it was neither a major political nor military power. Although Britain's navy was sufficient to defend it from its immediate neighbours, Ottoman technological superiority at sea led to the capture of large numbers of British vessels and by the 1620s the Turkish navy had extended its reach into the waters of the British Isles.
Yet despite this, much of the contact between Britain and the Ottoman empire was both peaceable and profitable. After the founding of the English Levant Company in 1581, through a charter of Queen Elizabeth I, Britain was closely engaged with the Turks as the Ottoman empire expanded westwards through central Europe and Britain's trade network expanded eastwards to meet it. The company sold wool and tin (to be used in Ottoman armaments and munitions production) and in return bought huge quantities of Ottoman silks, Indian spices and indigo and, oddly enough, currants.
There was, in consequence, a great deal of movement between the two worlds. Elizabethan London had a burgeoning Muslim community that encompassed a large party of Turkish ex-prisoners, some Moorish craftsmen, a number of wealthy Turkish merchants and a "Moorish solicitor". At the same time, large numbers of Englishmen – from traders and diplomats to renegades and galley slaves – lived in Ottoman lands. When Charles II sent Captain Hamilton to ransom some Englishmen who had been enslaved on the Barbary Coast, they refused to return: the men had converted to Islam and were now "partaking of the prosperous Successe of the Turks... they are tempted to forsake their God for the love of Turkish women," wrote Hamilton. "Such ladies are," he added, "generally very beautiful."
James Mather's wonderful book is the first full-length study since 1935 of the Levant Company, the organisation that oversaw both England's trade and diplomacy with the Ottoman world, and which supervised and set the tone for the odd yet remarkably successful relationship between the two. As Mather shows, by the end of the 17th century trade with Turkey accounted for one quarter of all England's overseas commercial activity. It was the first non-Christian environment in which Englishmen established a major and distinct national presence and was an important and largely forgotten precursor to the centuries of empire ahead.
Yet as Mather is at pains to emphasise, there was an important distinction between these early contacts and the later colonial relationships that grew out of them. The attitude of the Jacobean travellers was utterly different from the arrogance of their Victorian successors. In the Ottoman Middle East, it was they and not their alien associates who had to conform; indeed, at this period, most Turks had never heard of England and as one imprisoned Englishmen put it, in Ottoman Jerusalem "the Turks flatly denied... they had ever heard of either of [his] Queen or country".
Mather excels at portraying the everyday life of the Englishmen who joined the Levant Company. He traces their recruitment, apprenticeship and training and the adventure of their maiden voyage out: "The Seae beating sometimes into my very Cabin; & I tossd & tumbled sometime my bed upon mee, & sometimes I upon my bed... all wet & dabbled, & in a confusion of Torments." Another factor compared life on ship to "imprisonment... with a chance of drowning besides".
Many seem to have lived like modern expats, keeping to their own compounds, importing their own cider, butter, beer and bacon, playing "bowles" and "krickett", indulging in amateur dramatics and drinking too much. The Aleppo factors even imported their own pack of English hounds. Others mixed in, recording the detail of Ottoman life in a series of fascinating dispatches, though few Englishmen seem to have had as much intimacy with Ottoman life as Francesco Lupazzoli, the priapic Venetian consul in Smyrna, who lived until he was 114, fathering no less than 126 children, 105 of them illegitimate, from his five wives and innumerable Smyrniot mistresses. The English factors, in contrast, had to vow to avoid all indulgence in "fornication and matrimony" as well as "cards, dice, tables, taverns and playhouses".
It is a fascinating and little studied subject and Mather's work is a major contribution to the historiography of Britain's relationship both with the Mediterranean and the world of Islam, which at that point was much more tolerant than religiously repressive Reformation Europe. It is also a vital corrective to the influential but wrong-headed readings of the flagbearers of intellectual Islamophobia such as VS Naipaul and Bernard Lewis, both of whom have manufactured entirely negative images of one of the most varied empires of history and the complicated European relationship with the Ottoman world.
One of the most interesting questions Mather raises is why the Levant Company never went the way of its younger contemporary, the East India Company, and turned into an empire-building, land-seizing, imperial-military power. After all, in the early years, the two companies overlapped to a considerable extent in terms of both investors and personnel: in the 1630s, 28 of the 47 directors of the East India Company court were also Levant Company members. It was not, he believes, for lack of opportunity so much as because of the conservative way in which the Levant Company was managed. It always erred on the side of caution and tried to avoid the devastating expenses incurred by its India counterpart in the course of its military adventures.
Ironically, though, it was the East India Company that eventually helped bring down the company that had inspired its birth. After the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt, the East India Company moved into the country and the Levant Company sank into financial impotence. Yet at its height in the 1630s, it was "the most flourishing and beneficial company to the commonwealth of any in England" and the agent through which Britain engaged with and interacted with the Islamic world. Given this, the importance of this excellent and balanced study cannot be underestimated.
William Dalrymple's most recent book is Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India (Bloomsbury)
Source: The Guardian: Pashas: Traders and Travellers in the Islamic World by James Mather
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Friday, 13 November 2009
Déjà vu in Astana
We were midway through our tour of Astana, the shiny new capital of Kazakhstan, and our guide was convinced we had taken leave of our senses.
Our group had just been to the top of the Bayterek Monument, a strikingly modern tower that offered views over the attractively designed new buildings aligned along the capital district’s Avenue of the Republic, and it was clear this was our cue to make admiring comments about this city created on the otherwise featureless and treeless plains of the Central Asian steppe.
But for anyone coming from the UAE, that scenario – of the lesser-known capital city of a young but tolerant Islamic nation using its oil wealth to create a modern metropolis in a bleak and unforgiving environment – was a little too familiar to be impressive.
“We’re from Abu Dhabi,” we told our guide. “We don’t want to see new buildings. We want to see nature. We want to see the essence of Central Asia!”
The guide looked at us with blank incomprehension. With the help of the translator, we were told: “There is no nature – only steppe.”
The Astana people we had met so far had all been inestimably proud of this modern new city, basking in the proof they were just like Europe or America and not the Central Asian backwater of popular imagination. It was no wonder the authorities hated the film Borat so much.
So it took a degree of duress to convince our guide to abandon her standard route through the city’s modern architectural marvels and drive us out into the steppe that makes up most of Kazakhstan, the world’s ninth biggest nation.
We eventually found a nondescript village, prompting her to look at us with disbelief, as if to say: “Why on earth would they want to come here?” Instead of mirrored glass, there were sod roofs that traditionally helped the residents cope with temperatures that range from up to 40°C in summer down to -40°C in the depths of winter. Some of the homes had no roofs at all, suggesting a slow depopulation over many years.
But there were also some brand new homes, hinting at an influx of wealth that dated from 12 years ago when the government announced it was moving the capital from the nation’s biggest city, Almaty, in the far south of Kazakhstan, to the outskirts of this hitherto little-known provincial town in the north.
Had we been coming from somewhere other than the UAE, we probably would have been more impressed by how much had been achieved since 1997.
Sited on what had been fields across the river from the historic downtown, nearly everything in the capital district was complete, ranging from the parliament, the presidential palace, government ministries and landmark buildings such as the 77m-high glass pyramid of the multidenominational Palace of Peace and Harmony.
Although there were many international architects brought in (Norman Foster designed three of the buildings) there had also been attempts to incorporate Kazakh themes into the mix, such as the design of the Bayterek Monument, which has a gold-hued transparent orb where the viewing platform is located that is inspired by the ancient Kazakh legend of the samruk bird laying a golden egg containing the secrets to human desires and happiness.
Continue reading: The National: Déjà vu in Astana
Our group had just been to the top of the Bayterek Monument, a strikingly modern tower that offered views over the attractively designed new buildings aligned along the capital district’s Avenue of the Republic, and it was clear this was our cue to make admiring comments about this city created on the otherwise featureless and treeless plains of the Central Asian steppe.
But for anyone coming from the UAE, that scenario – of the lesser-known capital city of a young but tolerant Islamic nation using its oil wealth to create a modern metropolis in a bleak and unforgiving environment – was a little too familiar to be impressive.
“We’re from Abu Dhabi,” we told our guide. “We don’t want to see new buildings. We want to see nature. We want to see the essence of Central Asia!”
The guide looked at us with blank incomprehension. With the help of the translator, we were told: “There is no nature – only steppe.”
The Astana people we had met so far had all been inestimably proud of this modern new city, basking in the proof they were just like Europe or America and not the Central Asian backwater of popular imagination. It was no wonder the authorities hated the film Borat so much.
So it took a degree of duress to convince our guide to abandon her standard route through the city’s modern architectural marvels and drive us out into the steppe that makes up most of Kazakhstan, the world’s ninth biggest nation.
We eventually found a nondescript village, prompting her to look at us with disbelief, as if to say: “Why on earth would they want to come here?” Instead of mirrored glass, there were sod roofs that traditionally helped the residents cope with temperatures that range from up to 40°C in summer down to -40°C in the depths of winter. Some of the homes had no roofs at all, suggesting a slow depopulation over many years.
But there were also some brand new homes, hinting at an influx of wealth that dated from 12 years ago when the government announced it was moving the capital from the nation’s biggest city, Almaty, in the far south of Kazakhstan, to the outskirts of this hitherto little-known provincial town in the north.
Had we been coming from somewhere other than the UAE, we probably would have been more impressed by how much had been achieved since 1997.
Sited on what had been fields across the river from the historic downtown, nearly everything in the capital district was complete, ranging from the parliament, the presidential palace, government ministries and landmark buildings such as the 77m-high glass pyramid of the multidenominational Palace of Peace and Harmony.
Although there were many international architects brought in (Norman Foster designed three of the buildings) there had also been attempts to incorporate Kazakh themes into the mix, such as the design of the Bayterek Monument, which has a gold-hued transparent orb where the viewing platform is located that is inspired by the ancient Kazakh legend of the samruk bird laying a golden egg containing the secrets to human desires and happiness.
Continue reading: The National: Déjà vu in Astana
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Second city putting itself first
ALEPPO, SYRIA // For centuries Damascus and Aleppo have been rival cities, competing for the limelight, each regarding the other as something of an impetuous upstart. Both claim to be the more historically important, the most cultured, the most sophisticated, the most economically powerful.
In recent years, the Syrian capital has clearly overshadowed its northern competitor. As the national administrative centre, where decisions are made, Damascus has simply been more relevant. And as the country has opened up economically, the capital has been the focus for the private banks and investment; the Syrian stock exchange that began trading last month is in Damascus, 375km south of Aleppo.
While this situation is unlikely to change, the severe economic difficulties facing Syria have prompted the authorities to place greater emphasis on tourism. And as that happens, Aleppo is likely to become increasingly important.
“The government and ministry of tourism are paying attention to the development here,” said Fouad Hilal, president of the Aleppo Travel Agents Association. “Aleppo has excellent tourist sites, especially areas of interest for Christians, and it is still a place where you can stay cheaply if you want. If you have $1,000 (Dh3,673) a night to spend you can, or if you have $6 a night to spend, you can do that too.
“I’d say the level of service and quality given to tourists is acceptable, it’s something I’d like to see improve and it will, the investment is coming.”
A series of large four- and five-star hotel complexes are under construction that, when completed, will double the number of guest beds in the city from its current level of 2,600. Work is already underway to restore Aleppo citadel and other parts of the city centre, in an effort to make it more accessible and marketable.
“Tourism is increasing and our long term strategy is that if the hotels are there, they will be full,” Mr Hilal said. “Annual occupancy rates are high, and most of the tourists are staying in the more expensive sort of hotels.”
As an indicator of rising demand, in 1994 there were 1,161 recorded visitors to the citadel of Saint Simeon, 60km north-west of Aleppo, one of the area’s key historical sites. In 2004 there were 230,000 visitors.
Another major attraction – and potential money supplier for Syria – is the village of Brad, 30km from Aleppo. It is a sacred sight for Maronite Christians, and Bashar Assad, the Syrian president, recently pledged local land to the community, which plans to build a new shrine. Thousands of pilgrims from the eight million-strong Maronite community across the world are expected to visit each year.
While it is renowned as a conservative Islamic city, Aleppo has a sizeable population of Christians, and with 12 different sects, it boasts the most diverse Christian community in the Middle East. Beirut has a larger number of Christians but cannot match the mosaic found in Syria’s second largest city: six Catholic sects, three Orthodox, two Protestant and one Nestorian.
Mohammed Kujjah, who administered Aleppo’s year as Islamic capital of culture in 2006, said the city would benefit from a renewed influx of tourists, shrugging off suggestions it might do damage to the city’s character.
“Aleppo has always been closely connected to the wider world,” he said. “The first consulate opened in Damascus in 1833 by which time there had been one in Aleppo for 700 years. When Damascus was just a point on the pilgrim route, Aleppo was an important trading centre. In that way, Aleppo has always been a place for tourism and visitors.”
There are, however, obstacles to be overcome before anything approaching a revival can be achieved. Some city industry leaders are frustrated with the slow pace of change; others complain that the city is still not considered a high priority by the authorities in Damascus.
“In the national five-year spending plans Aleppo has only been allocated 10 per cent of the national tourism budget,” one said on condition of anonymity. “Given the importance and potential of the city that’s just not enough.”
“We do need more resources,” Mr Kujjah said. “We need more investment. But the future looks good. We have the sites, we have hospitable people, and tourism is going to be important for Syria’s economy.”
Beyond the matter of money, constant regional instability also hangs as a heavy cloud over hopes for Aleppo’s revival. During the recent Gaza war, 20 per cent of tourist bookings were lost, with travellers worried that the fighting could spread.
“For tourism to really become big we will need a peace in the Middle East,” said Mf Hilal, the travel agent. “Whenever there are problems, tourists cancel their bookings.”
In recent years, the Syrian capital has clearly overshadowed its northern competitor. As the national administrative centre, where decisions are made, Damascus has simply been more relevant. And as the country has opened up economically, the capital has been the focus for the private banks and investment; the Syrian stock exchange that began trading last month is in Damascus, 375km south of Aleppo.
While this situation is unlikely to change, the severe economic difficulties facing Syria have prompted the authorities to place greater emphasis on tourism. And as that happens, Aleppo is likely to become increasingly important.
“The government and ministry of tourism are paying attention to the development here,” said Fouad Hilal, president of the Aleppo Travel Agents Association. “Aleppo has excellent tourist sites, especially areas of interest for Christians, and it is still a place where you can stay cheaply if you want. If you have $1,000 (Dh3,673) a night to spend you can, or if you have $6 a night to spend, you can do that too.
“I’d say the level of service and quality given to tourists is acceptable, it’s something I’d like to see improve and it will, the investment is coming.”
A series of large four- and five-star hotel complexes are under construction that, when completed, will double the number of guest beds in the city from its current level of 2,600. Work is already underway to restore Aleppo citadel and other parts of the city centre, in an effort to make it more accessible and marketable.
“Tourism is increasing and our long term strategy is that if the hotels are there, they will be full,” Mr Hilal said. “Annual occupancy rates are high, and most of the tourists are staying in the more expensive sort of hotels.”
As an indicator of rising demand, in 1994 there were 1,161 recorded visitors to the citadel of Saint Simeon, 60km north-west of Aleppo, one of the area’s key historical sites. In 2004 there were 230,000 visitors.
Another major attraction – and potential money supplier for Syria – is the village of Brad, 30km from Aleppo. It is a sacred sight for Maronite Christians, and Bashar Assad, the Syrian president, recently pledged local land to the community, which plans to build a new shrine. Thousands of pilgrims from the eight million-strong Maronite community across the world are expected to visit each year.
While it is renowned as a conservative Islamic city, Aleppo has a sizeable population of Christians, and with 12 different sects, it boasts the most diverse Christian community in the Middle East. Beirut has a larger number of Christians but cannot match the mosaic found in Syria’s second largest city: six Catholic sects, three Orthodox, two Protestant and one Nestorian.
Mohammed Kujjah, who administered Aleppo’s year as Islamic capital of culture in 2006, said the city would benefit from a renewed influx of tourists, shrugging off suggestions it might do damage to the city’s character.
“Aleppo has always been closely connected to the wider world,” he said. “The first consulate opened in Damascus in 1833 by which time there had been one in Aleppo for 700 years. When Damascus was just a point on the pilgrim route, Aleppo was an important trading centre. In that way, Aleppo has always been a place for tourism and visitors.”
There are, however, obstacles to be overcome before anything approaching a revival can be achieved. Some city industry leaders are frustrated with the slow pace of change; others complain that the city is still not considered a high priority by the authorities in Damascus.
“In the national five-year spending plans Aleppo has only been allocated 10 per cent of the national tourism budget,” one said on condition of anonymity. “Given the importance and potential of the city that’s just not enough.”
“We do need more resources,” Mr Kujjah said. “We need more investment. But the future looks good. We have the sites, we have hospitable people, and tourism is going to be important for Syria’s economy.”
Beyond the matter of money, constant regional instability also hangs as a heavy cloud over hopes for Aleppo’s revival. During the recent Gaza war, 20 per cent of tourist bookings were lost, with travellers worried that the fighting could spread.
“For tourism to really become big we will need a peace in the Middle East,” said Mf Hilal, the travel agent. “Whenever there are problems, tourists cancel their bookings.”
Friday, 20 March 2009
The road from Damascus
Do you like adventures?” asked the receptionist at the Zenobia Hotel in Palmyra. My husband and I looked at each hesitantly knowing that there could only really be one answer. We unfolded our road map and replied: “Of course.”
We were feeling foolish but lucky. After all, we’d decided to embark upon a self-guided, 10-day driving holiday around Syria, against the advice of every guidebook we’d consulted, the Damascenes we’d met – who looked aghast at the suggestion – and the UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office website. Not, mind you, because of masked men lurking in the hills but the very real danger of road accidents.
Escaping Damascus the previous day had been an adventure in itself. The traffic, which fizzes around the old walled city and up into the wider streets of the modern-day capital, had repeatedly foiled our feeble attempts at navigation before spitting us out onto the main road heading north towards Aleppo. Somehow we’d managed to survive the improbable one-way system, avoid pedestrians, pot-holes and U-turning taxis, and obeyed the many soldiers-cum-traffic police who orchestrate the chaos at every junction with the blast of a whistle and the flick of a white baton. Neither of us really understood how we’d made it out alive, but the car horn was working just fine.
With nerves and our marriage barely intact, we had cause to celebrate as we turned off the main highway and onto the long straight desert road to Palmyra.
Before us lay 220 stress-free kilometres, and it was finally time to take in the view. As the traffic dwindled to the occasional lorry, heavily-laden, and headed to the Iraqi border, a few Bedouin tents stood out on wind swept ridges in the yellow distance, as did the family of five that we passed, speeding along on a single, underpowered motorbike.
After three hours, and many a sign to Baghdad, we rounded a bend and drove down the cobbled street that takes coach loads of tourists right through the centre of the famous ruins. As we checked into the Zenobia Hotel, which overlooks the archaeological site, we marvelled at the fact that there were only two or three other sight seers wandering over the remains, next to an oasis planted with date, palm and pomegranate orchards.
Still known locally by the ancient Semitic name of Tadmor, Palmyra dates from the second millennium BC and is mentioned in the Bible. The city became a prosperous staging post for merchants and travellers on the trading route between the Mediterranean and India and China.
Standing beside a small cemetery, one of Cyrrhus’ most striking landmarks is a second or third-century hexagonal-shaped Roman tomb, rather oddly crowned with a Corinthian capital. Alamy / Photolibrary
Its markets sold spices, fabrics, precious stones and metals, and it reached the height of its prosperity under Queen Zenobia, who invaded Egypt and famously defeated the Roman army, before the city was razed to the ground by Emperor Aurelian in 272. What remains today is a curious hotchpotch of Hellenistic, Roman and Parthian architectural styles.
Apart from a young man offering camel rides, and a few other touts, zipping up and down on motorbikes flashing postcards and trinkets, the ruins felt remarkably undisturbed by the present day. There are very few signs to help tourists unscramble the history and it’s possible to ignore the construction of a number of new hotels that will soon ring the site.
Without hordes of tourists snapping away, walking the length of the colonnade towards the fortress-like Temple of Bel felt like stepping back to the time of curious gentleman travellers who romanticised Palmyra and longed to stand in its shadows. Of course, this daydream turned out to be pure fantasy: when I later looked up drawings of Palmyra made when it was first “discovered” by Robert Wood and James Dawkins in 1750, it’s clear that many of its carvings are now either eroded beyond recognition or simply missing.
Today, parts of the site have been reconstructed, and the jumble of masonry sitting in the sand has been neatly numbered by generations of archaeologists. The famous crime novelist Agatha Christie accompanied her husband, the archaeologist Max Mallowan, who dug at Palmyra from 1934 to 1939. Staff at the Zenobia were only too pleased to show me the Contessa suite where Christie stayed: decorated with traditional wooden furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the rooms are not grand by five-star standards, but it does have uninterrupted views of the ruins – albeit through barred windows.
The next day we bolted our breakfast, keen to hit the road – this time for the less-visited remains of Rasafa. However, the state of that road was cause for some concern. Close study of the map revealed that we had two choices: head back along the route marked in red towards Homs, then double back to Rasafa; or take what appeared to be a cross-country track marked only with a pale dotted line. “It is a short distance but the road is unlevel,” the hotel receptionist explained.
A few questions later, we discovered that he was an English teacher at the local school, but we were still none the wiser as to what unlevel really meant – neither steep nor, apparently, potholed. He assured us that our scarred saloon car would survive the trip, and so with only a large bottle of water for supplies, we turned left out of the hotel driveway.
Second century Roman bridge on the road to Cyrrhus, northern Syria. Nick Leech
On the map, the turning to Rasafa forks north from a dot called Al Sikhneh. This turned out to be a town small enough that if you drive up and down the main street a few times, you will be seen by everyone who lives there. After a final humiliating manoeuvre in the main square, before a curious all-male audience, my husband jumped out to ask for directions. In my roles as driver and dutiful and modest wife, I waited in the car with the engine running. It was to become an oft-repeated ritual. Outside the main towns, few people spoke English but it was always enough to smile, say “Salaam alaykum” and point to the destination in Arabic in our guidebook while looking helplessly lost. In this way over the next week, my husband flagged down dozens of shepherds, construction workers, lorry drivers, motorcyclists, mechanics and farmhands. Whoever he hailed, the response would always be the same: a broad smile, and gestures that we understood to mean “just keep going”.
Finally, thanks to the advice of a small crowd of men decked in bushy moustaches and jellabiya, it seemed we were on the right road. A small sign to Rasafa appeared as we reached the very edge of town, just as we were about to lose hope and turn back to the refuge of the main road. A small coach appeared in my rear-view mirror, surely a sign that this must be the way to a tourist attraction. It disappeared again just as quickly and suddenly we understood what unlevel road meant as our car sprayed up enough grit to sandpaper the car and we peered through clouds of dust. Two hours later at a top speed of 15km an hour we reached a tarmac road just as panic had begun to set in. Even though we were in a car, and not trekking on foot across the desert, the sense of isolation and unchanging scenery was enough to bring on despair. In the nick of time, Rasafa had appeared.
The walled city of Rasafa became a well-known place of pilgrimage for followers of St Sergius, a Roman soldier martyred in 305 for refusing to make sacrifices to almighty Jupiter. Today, it is still possible to see delicate carvings on the dome of the basilica and the enormous size of the buried cisterns, the largest of which would have held 15,000 cubic metres of water, and sense some of the site’s former grandeur. Considered an important example of Byzantine architecture, it – like so many sites in Syria – has not yet been fully excavated and feels almost forgotten.
There is no entrance fee, no ugly signs to divert your attention, and certainly no cafe selling coffee and flapjacks. Like invaders, we climbed over the fortress’ walls and wandered uninterrupted. We found the large clay handle of an amphora lying discarded underfoot, but most amazing of all was the way that the walls, almost two kilometres long and made of local gypsum stone, shone in the strong, spring sunlight.
Heading north-west towards the refuge of Aleppo, the road shadows the great Euphrates, and the landscape changes: sand, grit and rock are replaced with greener, irrigated land, boy shepherds grazing their animals in the central reservation and rubbish as far as the eye can see. At one spot, industrial chimney stacks belted out enough smoke to make the sky almost appear on fire as the sun set behind. We craned our necks disappointed not to be able to see Lake Al Assad on our right, and had to make do with spotting fellow travellers instead. On the back of almost every flatbed lorry, there were people bobbing about; some sat on plastic chairs, smoking, others perched precariously on bales of cotton or boxes of oranges. A boy stood spread-eagled on the bumper of one, like a GI Joe action figure,clinging on to stacks of boxes for dear life.
The next day, after a night in Aleppo, with its twisting souq and hugely impressive citadel, we continued our odyssey north to the Turkish border, intrigued by the guidebook’s lyrical description of the Kurdish farmers’ lands, complete with olive groves and yet more shepherds. Not to mention some of the most pockmarked roads that we’d yet tried to navigate. It was slow going with many false turns: the narrow road undulated, sometimes tarmac, more often gravel, and, in the many small villages made of breeze block houses, a muddy mess of gaping, watery holes, thanks no doubt to heavy farm machinery. Our intended destination was to be the remains of Cyrrhus, the little that’s left of the city founded on a hill in 300BC. A peculiar second or third-century hexagonal-shaped Roman tower tomb in the field below, crowned with a Corinthian capital, marked our destination.
The real highlight of our meandering six-hour journey, however, proved to be the two second-century Roman bridges that we bumped over on the way to the tomb. Only five metres wide, and made of massive stones but without kerbstones to keep vehicles from slipping over the side, each spans a noisy river. When we left the car to listen to the birdsong and the sound of water rushing past; the air was clean and fresh – a valuable commodity in such a polluted country – and this part of Syria felt distinctly wintry and unmistakably European. My mobile phone beeped with a text message that read: welcome to Turkey.
When we finally arrived at Cyrrhus, exhausted by the effort, we couldn’t face schlepping up the hill to see yet more ruins and contented ourselves with a brief sprint to the tomb, where tractors were parked outside. The journey had proved more worthwhile than the goal but, strangely, it was no less rewarding for that.
Our thoughts turned to the journey back to Aleppo. Reluctant to retrace our path, we drove on, finally rewarded by a signpost and a main road, but then, with the light fading, we came to a halt: the way ahead was blocked by a huge mound of gravel. It was the end of the road. Ready to give up, we finally understood the value of hiring a local driver who would have known the quickest route from A to B without swearing and wasting time via C.
Then, our saving grace appeared. Dressed in fatigues, jellabiya and a kaffiyeh, Mostafa was a charming old man, well into his seventies, who pointed us towards Aleppo before jumping into the back seat and presenting me with a strongly scented narcissus flower. Unable to speak a word of English, we managed to introduce ourselves in pigeon Arabic before our hitchhiker directed us, left, right, and off-road around the side of a church when a funeral procession blocked our route again.
Without Mostafa’s assistance we would have spent the night in the car; instead we found ourselves speeding towards Aleppo, accompanied by the sound of his prayer beads clicking. The sighs from the back of the car gradually became louder until Mostafa slapped his chest and said something to my husband. Busy dodging other cars like bullets, I asked: “What did he say?”. My husband maintained a diplomatic silence while I quickly figured out that Mostafa had asked to drive so that we’d get to Aleppo more quickly.
Eventually we reached a busy roundabout on the outskirts of the city where he asked me to stop the car. We watched as he disappeared into a crowd of people buying and selling goods at makeshift stalls, but not before he planted an enthusiastic kiss of thanks on my husband’s cheek. The meeting, full of warmth, a few misunderstandings and good humour, was like our stay in Syria and felt all too brief.
We were feeling foolish but lucky. After all, we’d decided to embark upon a self-guided, 10-day driving holiday around Syria, against the advice of every guidebook we’d consulted, the Damascenes we’d met – who looked aghast at the suggestion – and the UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office website. Not, mind you, because of masked men lurking in the hills but the very real danger of road accidents.
Escaping Damascus the previous day had been an adventure in itself. The traffic, which fizzes around the old walled city and up into the wider streets of the modern-day capital, had repeatedly foiled our feeble attempts at navigation before spitting us out onto the main road heading north towards Aleppo. Somehow we’d managed to survive the improbable one-way system, avoid pedestrians, pot-holes and U-turning taxis, and obeyed the many soldiers-cum-traffic police who orchestrate the chaos at every junction with the blast of a whistle and the flick of a white baton. Neither of us really understood how we’d made it out alive, but the car horn was working just fine.
With nerves and our marriage barely intact, we had cause to celebrate as we turned off the main highway and onto the long straight desert road to Palmyra.
Before us lay 220 stress-free kilometres, and it was finally time to take in the view. As the traffic dwindled to the occasional lorry, heavily-laden, and headed to the Iraqi border, a few Bedouin tents stood out on wind swept ridges in the yellow distance, as did the family of five that we passed, speeding along on a single, underpowered motorbike.
After three hours, and many a sign to Baghdad, we rounded a bend and drove down the cobbled street that takes coach loads of tourists right through the centre of the famous ruins. As we checked into the Zenobia Hotel, which overlooks the archaeological site, we marvelled at the fact that there were only two or three other sight seers wandering over the remains, next to an oasis planted with date, palm and pomegranate orchards.
Still known locally by the ancient Semitic name of Tadmor, Palmyra dates from the second millennium BC and is mentioned in the Bible. The city became a prosperous staging post for merchants and travellers on the trading route between the Mediterranean and India and China.
Standing beside a small cemetery, one of Cyrrhus’ most striking landmarks is a second or third-century hexagonal-shaped Roman tomb, rather oddly crowned with a Corinthian capital. Alamy / Photolibrary
Its markets sold spices, fabrics, precious stones and metals, and it reached the height of its prosperity under Queen Zenobia, who invaded Egypt and famously defeated the Roman army, before the city was razed to the ground by Emperor Aurelian in 272. What remains today is a curious hotchpotch of Hellenistic, Roman and Parthian architectural styles.
Apart from a young man offering camel rides, and a few other touts, zipping up and down on motorbikes flashing postcards and trinkets, the ruins felt remarkably undisturbed by the present day. There are very few signs to help tourists unscramble the history and it’s possible to ignore the construction of a number of new hotels that will soon ring the site.
Without hordes of tourists snapping away, walking the length of the colonnade towards the fortress-like Temple of Bel felt like stepping back to the time of curious gentleman travellers who romanticised Palmyra and longed to stand in its shadows. Of course, this daydream turned out to be pure fantasy: when I later looked up drawings of Palmyra made when it was first “discovered” by Robert Wood and James Dawkins in 1750, it’s clear that many of its carvings are now either eroded beyond recognition or simply missing.
Today, parts of the site have been reconstructed, and the jumble of masonry sitting in the sand has been neatly numbered by generations of archaeologists. The famous crime novelist Agatha Christie accompanied her husband, the archaeologist Max Mallowan, who dug at Palmyra from 1934 to 1939. Staff at the Zenobia were only too pleased to show me the Contessa suite where Christie stayed: decorated with traditional wooden furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the rooms are not grand by five-star standards, but it does have uninterrupted views of the ruins – albeit through barred windows.
The next day we bolted our breakfast, keen to hit the road – this time for the less-visited remains of Rasafa. However, the state of that road was cause for some concern. Close study of the map revealed that we had two choices: head back along the route marked in red towards Homs, then double back to Rasafa; or take what appeared to be a cross-country track marked only with a pale dotted line. “It is a short distance but the road is unlevel,” the hotel receptionist explained.
A few questions later, we discovered that he was an English teacher at the local school, but we were still none the wiser as to what unlevel really meant – neither steep nor, apparently, potholed. He assured us that our scarred saloon car would survive the trip, and so with only a large bottle of water for supplies, we turned left out of the hotel driveway.
Second century Roman bridge on the road to Cyrrhus, northern Syria. Nick Leech
On the map, the turning to Rasafa forks north from a dot called Al Sikhneh. This turned out to be a town small enough that if you drive up and down the main street a few times, you will be seen by everyone who lives there. After a final humiliating manoeuvre in the main square, before a curious all-male audience, my husband jumped out to ask for directions. In my roles as driver and dutiful and modest wife, I waited in the car with the engine running. It was to become an oft-repeated ritual. Outside the main towns, few people spoke English but it was always enough to smile, say “Salaam alaykum” and point to the destination in Arabic in our guidebook while looking helplessly lost. In this way over the next week, my husband flagged down dozens of shepherds, construction workers, lorry drivers, motorcyclists, mechanics and farmhands. Whoever he hailed, the response would always be the same: a broad smile, and gestures that we understood to mean “just keep going”.
Finally, thanks to the advice of a small crowd of men decked in bushy moustaches and jellabiya, it seemed we were on the right road. A small sign to Rasafa appeared as we reached the very edge of town, just as we were about to lose hope and turn back to the refuge of the main road. A small coach appeared in my rear-view mirror, surely a sign that this must be the way to a tourist attraction. It disappeared again just as quickly and suddenly we understood what unlevel road meant as our car sprayed up enough grit to sandpaper the car and we peered through clouds of dust. Two hours later at a top speed of 15km an hour we reached a tarmac road just as panic had begun to set in. Even though we were in a car, and not trekking on foot across the desert, the sense of isolation and unchanging scenery was enough to bring on despair. In the nick of time, Rasafa had appeared.
The walled city of Rasafa became a well-known place of pilgrimage for followers of St Sergius, a Roman soldier martyred in 305 for refusing to make sacrifices to almighty Jupiter. Today, it is still possible to see delicate carvings on the dome of the basilica and the enormous size of the buried cisterns, the largest of which would have held 15,000 cubic metres of water, and sense some of the site’s former grandeur. Considered an important example of Byzantine architecture, it – like so many sites in Syria – has not yet been fully excavated and feels almost forgotten.
There is no entrance fee, no ugly signs to divert your attention, and certainly no cafe selling coffee and flapjacks. Like invaders, we climbed over the fortress’ walls and wandered uninterrupted. We found the large clay handle of an amphora lying discarded underfoot, but most amazing of all was the way that the walls, almost two kilometres long and made of local gypsum stone, shone in the strong, spring sunlight.
Heading north-west towards the refuge of Aleppo, the road shadows the great Euphrates, and the landscape changes: sand, grit and rock are replaced with greener, irrigated land, boy shepherds grazing their animals in the central reservation and rubbish as far as the eye can see. At one spot, industrial chimney stacks belted out enough smoke to make the sky almost appear on fire as the sun set behind. We craned our necks disappointed not to be able to see Lake Al Assad on our right, and had to make do with spotting fellow travellers instead. On the back of almost every flatbed lorry, there were people bobbing about; some sat on plastic chairs, smoking, others perched precariously on bales of cotton or boxes of oranges. A boy stood spread-eagled on the bumper of one, like a GI Joe action figure,clinging on to stacks of boxes for dear life.
The next day, after a night in Aleppo, with its twisting souq and hugely impressive citadel, we continued our odyssey north to the Turkish border, intrigued by the guidebook’s lyrical description of the Kurdish farmers’ lands, complete with olive groves and yet more shepherds. Not to mention some of the most pockmarked roads that we’d yet tried to navigate. It was slow going with many false turns: the narrow road undulated, sometimes tarmac, more often gravel, and, in the many small villages made of breeze block houses, a muddy mess of gaping, watery holes, thanks no doubt to heavy farm machinery. Our intended destination was to be the remains of Cyrrhus, the little that’s left of the city founded on a hill in 300BC. A peculiar second or third-century hexagonal-shaped Roman tower tomb in the field below, crowned with a Corinthian capital, marked our destination.
The real highlight of our meandering six-hour journey, however, proved to be the two second-century Roman bridges that we bumped over on the way to the tomb. Only five metres wide, and made of massive stones but without kerbstones to keep vehicles from slipping over the side, each spans a noisy river. When we left the car to listen to the birdsong and the sound of water rushing past; the air was clean and fresh – a valuable commodity in such a polluted country – and this part of Syria felt distinctly wintry and unmistakably European. My mobile phone beeped with a text message that read: welcome to Turkey.
When we finally arrived at Cyrrhus, exhausted by the effort, we couldn’t face schlepping up the hill to see yet more ruins and contented ourselves with a brief sprint to the tomb, where tractors were parked outside. The journey had proved more worthwhile than the goal but, strangely, it was no less rewarding for that.
Our thoughts turned to the journey back to Aleppo. Reluctant to retrace our path, we drove on, finally rewarded by a signpost and a main road, but then, with the light fading, we came to a halt: the way ahead was blocked by a huge mound of gravel. It was the end of the road. Ready to give up, we finally understood the value of hiring a local driver who would have known the quickest route from A to B without swearing and wasting time via C.
Then, our saving grace appeared. Dressed in fatigues, jellabiya and a kaffiyeh, Mostafa was a charming old man, well into his seventies, who pointed us towards Aleppo before jumping into the back seat and presenting me with a strongly scented narcissus flower. Unable to speak a word of English, we managed to introduce ourselves in pigeon Arabic before our hitchhiker directed us, left, right, and off-road around the side of a church when a funeral procession blocked our route again.
Without Mostafa’s assistance we would have spent the night in the car; instead we found ourselves speeding towards Aleppo, accompanied by the sound of his prayer beads clicking. The sighs from the back of the car gradually became louder until Mostafa slapped his chest and said something to my husband. Busy dodging other cars like bullets, I asked: “What did he say?”. My husband maintained a diplomatic silence while I quickly figured out that Mostafa had asked to drive so that we’d get to Aleppo more quickly.
Eventually we reached a busy roundabout on the outskirts of the city where he asked me to stop the car. We watched as he disappeared into a crowd of people buying and selling goods at makeshift stalls, but not before he planted an enthusiastic kiss of thanks on my husband’s cheek. The meeting, full of warmth, a few misunderstandings and good humour, was like our stay in Syria and felt all too brief.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
Desert rules
On a timeless trek under a harsh sun and radiant stars, the beauty of the Sahara and its people is revealed
By Joe Ray, Globe Correspondent | February 15, 2009
TAMANRASSET - In the city of nomads, a brief encounter with a half-blind nun leaves us with words to live by on a trek into the Sahara: "We only see well with our hearts."
Swallowed by the desert the following day, its foreign silence, beauty, and endlessness force me inward. I stare out from the ridge of a mountainous dune. The big issues that have not found firm homes in my heart and mind are cast onto the sand like items from a drawer flung empty.
I was looking forward to the desert void, but had no idea what to expect. A small group of friends who had been several times before organized a trip into the southern Algerian Sahara and Hoggar Mountains with a local agency. They promised we would sleep under the stars, climb dunes to their tops, and see mountains that would have made the late Western movie director John Ford green with envy.
There were a few downsides: They talked so much about the stringy camel meat we would be eating that I brought extra floss. A false alarm. There were the hygiene stories: "Showering" is a moist towelette rubdown. Asked where the restrooms are, your guide may simply grin and make a sweeping gesture across the landscape.
Desert silence is disconcerting, melting time and perspective, leaving you listening to the blood swish through your veins as Polaris and the Southern Cross play cat and mouse across the night sky. Later, the sense of time dissolves and the silence becomes addictive: literal quiet comfort that allows the beauty of the desert and the people who live here to reveal themselves.
"We don't follow time," says guide Abdou Zounga as we share a pungent lamb, barley, and vegetable stew called chorba. "No one here ever asks what time it is."
Zounga, 30, is a Touareg, desert nomads descended from Berbers who have roamed the northwest African desert for millennia. Though he earned a degree in computer programming and had a desk job in the city of Tamanrasset, the call of the desert was too strong.
"I told my father, 'I'm sorry. I can't do this,' " he says of life connected to a keyboard. "I want to be physically tired at the end of the day. . . . In [the 9-to-5] life, my eyes were red, I trembled, I couldn't sleep," he says, taking up the hunched-over form of a programmer as he talks.
"Sometimes the Touareg are hard people and the Sahara can be a hard place," says Zounga, "but even when life is hard, it is beautiful."
This is understatement. Even in the age of satellite phones and GPS tracking, the desert quickly hobbles or kills the unprepared. The traditional Touareg headscarf known as a cheche (or tagelmoust) that seemed so awkward to wear on the first day eventually becomes soothing, protecting from wind, sand, and sun. As we drive, I ask about the hundreds of car-sized mounds of rock that line the trans-Saharan nomadic trails. "Those are burial mounds that predate Islam and Christ," says Zounga.
Even with expert guides, there are moments when a visitor wonders whether they will have their own trailside tomb: Tires can blow several times a day, rims warp, wells run dry.
These situations lead to a set of survival rules. If you find water, top off your cans. If you find firewood, take it. If someone needs a hand, help him. These are not suggestions - this is the desert.
Over the course of a few days, fear of the unknown is replaced by a heightened sense of surroundings. Our first night out, we sleep beneath a freestanding rock arch hundreds of feet high. With no light pollution, the stars are so bright that picking out the principal constellations becomes tricky. Orion has a bow-shaped string of stars to his side that I've never seen and all seven sisters of Pleiades are visible. One moonless night, I take a 10-minute walk to the top of a dune and, once there, realize I've done it by starlight.
In some spots, rock formations bubble out of the ground like inverted mud pots - testament that the desert was the seabed millions of years ago. Elsewhere, top-heavy rock formations rise hundreds and thousands of feet into the air, their bases literally sandblasted by time. In one spot, heat and humidity have taken a tall column of rock and cleaved it in two, leaving it looking like a couple standing in the sand, locked in an embrace.
This beauty is the backdrop for life as a Touareg, and while nomadic life may be losing ground to the modern world, there's a romance to it that makes you believe it will hold on for a few more generations.
"One of the first things I learned as a child was respect for my elders," says Zounga, explaining a system where the final say always goes to the oldest in a group. As part of a team of guides, this might mean he calls the shots on one trip and washes dishes on the next, all depending on the ages of the others.
Aside from an old-fashioned respect for elders, one of the most important traits that Zounga explains is solidarity among Touaregs, no matter which country they are from. Another is sharing whatever you have, whether it's with someone who needs it more or as a way to express gratitude.
Salah Kberat, our lead-footed Touareg driver and guide, loses his sunglasses on one of the first days into the trip. A few days later, he hits the brakes in the middle of nowhere, makes a U-turn, and drives back a few hundred feet to where he's spotted a pair of shades in the sand that fit him perfectly. He flashes a million-dollar grin and gives a yelp of joy. Five minutes farther on, we come across a herd of goats followed by a young shepherd holding a newborn kid. Our guides stop to talk with him and, saying goodbye, load him up with oranges while Kberat puts his new sunglasses on the shepherd. Easy come, easy go - a louder yelp, a bigger smile.
These lessons become even clearer later in a wadi (dried riverbed) garden in the desert. Fearing the ethnic and religious violence in their native Nigeria, Touareg farmer and shepherd Mohamed Ali, his wife, Salaam, and their infant daughter, Zarnat, joined the thousands of refugees who have fled their country in the past year.
"Before, I was a shepherd, but my sheep were being stolen and I had to flee with my wife and child," Ali says. "Eight of us came in a clandestine taxi from Nigeria. We've had no news from our family who stayed behind."
Sitting across from Ali, it's hard to imagine - let alone digest - his story, yet some of the problems he could face here are alleviated by his Touareg roots. He has found work as a gardener in this tiny cooperative, selling vegetables to passersby and to the farm owner who sells in the markets of Tamanrasset.
At the end of our talk, he asks me to take a few photos of him and his daughter and I show them to him on the camera screen. He smiles, takes a ring from his finger and hands it to me. It's not an exchange or a veiled attempt to ask for money, but like Kberat's sunglasses, a gift.
I look to Kberat, who has been translating, on how to return the ring without insulting his friend. He says a few words to Ali, nods, and I hand it back.
"What did you say?" I ask.
"I told him that the gift was ours in meeting him."
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Central Asia by rail
Leaning out of the train door as the final whistle blew, I watched my husband, Tristram, grab the newspaper-wrapped package from the village girl on the platform and drop some coins into her outstretched hand. “Rachmet (thank you)!” he exclaimed in such obvious delight that she looked up at me with her dark brown eyes and laughed. The train gathered speed, and soon she was left far behind, a small head-scarved figure standing in the middle of the central Asian steppe.
On board, my husband’s purchase was swiftly appraised by the band of men who had poked at and murmured over everything he had paid for since leaving Moscow, from a bag of ruddy apples to some woolly Kazakh socks. “Nye dorogoy (inexpensive),” they announced approvingly, and so we stumbled back together to the six-bunk berths where we had been sleeping, reading, sitting and watching the Eurasian continent sweep by for the past three days.
Everything – from seats to sandwiches – is considered common property on the train to Almaty, the capital of Kazakhstan, and I alone of our Kazakh, Moldovan, Kyrgyz, Russian and Uzbek fellow travellers was not in the least bit interested in sharing his lunch. The men crowded round as Tristram unfolded the layers of cheaply-printed Cyrillic script, and the strong odour of farmyards filled the carriage.
Since we boarded the train in London at the start of our 10-day journey – see map at right – to Kashgar in western China, Tristram had been talking non-stop about kaze, the Kazakhs’ pungent national dish of horse tripe stuffed with horsemeat. But I had tasted more than enough train and platform food already on this journey; between Frankfurt and Moscow we had lived on fat-flecked soup served up by a man who smelt of beer marinade; and the last thing I did before leaving Moscow was walk to Red Square and buy myself a picnic of black bread, salami and cheese from the plush GUM department store opposite the Kremlin. To the travel-weary, the food hall of GUM is a cornucopian array of local and international delicacies, from pickled cherries to Parma ham; and I parted gladly with my roubles.
Tristram, however, was thrilled by the rustic railway diet of horse and sheep offal. He loved the clammy, sweet, sour-cream-stuffed buckwheat pancakes hawked by the old ladies who shuffled up and down the train. He smacked his lips with joy as he told me of the broiled sheep’s head that some Kyrgyz labourers had shared with him on a previous journey (though he lamented the cultural taboo on eating the eyes). And here he was now, slicing up convenient medallions of kaze with his penknife, and handing them out encased in hunks of spicy unleavened nan.
By now we were on the second leg of our train journey. The first stage had taken us from London through Belgium, Germany, Poland and Belarus to Moscow. On the Frankfurt-Moscow train, all our fellow passengers had been Russians, happy to be returning home. Taking the train, they said, pointing to their huge suitcases and boxes of European goods, was cheaper and easier than flying. “Granitsa! (the border)” shouted a cheery Russian returnee called Vladimir, as the train drew up at Belarus customs.
Belarus, of course, is now an independent country, but for Vladimir it was part of the Soviet Union of his childhood, and thus represented home. As if to confirm this, the train was shunted into a siding and jacked up 6ft into the air so that oil-blackened mechanics could disconnect every wheel-set and replace them. In the 19th century, when the tsar’s engineers began the long process of connecting his dominion together by railway, they chose a broader gauge than that used in Europe (which hindered the invading Nazi army during the second world war). A similar process happens at the eastern end of this vast former empire, as the railway line passes from Kazakhstan into China.
The Frankfurt train reached Moscow in the morning and we spent a day wandering through a city slushy with snow. The train to Almaty left that night. At first, it passed through the forest that stretches eastwards from Poland in an enormous frozen swath; but this soon gave way to the awesome infinite expanse of the steppe. Everybody onboard was waiting for the moment when we would cross the Volga River, a waterway as large as a sea and as significant to Russians as the Channel is to the English. It wound across the vast landscape, shining in the evening light, its banks dotted with fishing-boats and skiffs.
On the third day we reached the green rolling hills of Kazakhstan, where children on donkeys raced their spindly beasts alongside the train. Snow-capped mountains appeared to the south, shimmering their testimony to the approach of the South-Asian tectonic plate.
By the time we arrived in Almaty, on the fourth morning, we had travelled further east than south. Having remained at a similar latitude, it was continuities rather than differences in landscape and livelihoods that seemed most striking. Millennia-old herds of cattle, sheep and horses roam the Eurasian landmass from the western tip of the British Isles to the eastern seaboard of China. Wheat, rice and barley extend over an essentially continuous belt of cultivated land. Willow trees pollarded for fuel line Kazakh homesteads, just as they do in rural England. There is nothing like the train to Almaty for driving this biogeographical lesson home.
After we journeyed on to Urumqi in north-west China, however, everything changed. The plains gave way to desert, and from Urumqi we dipped south into the heart of Xinjiang, a nomadic land of yurts and camels. This was far more foreign – whatever Vladimir said – than the transition from Poland to Belarus.
More dramatic still, on a personal level at least, was the change in the quality of the transport. Stepping from rusting Soviet rolling stock into a luxury 21st-century Chinese two-storey mega-train was bliss: clean, comfortable, the restaurant car boasting a menu of 30 freshly-made local dishes. We arrived in the Silk Road city of Kashgar, the cultural centre for Xinjiang’s Uighur Muslims, happy and refreshed. Tristram, of course, fell upon the fried chicken-feet and “creamy” yellow sheep’s lung.
On the train you see the world go by before your eyes, and understand how cultures connect and polities intersect. You glimpse something of the immense historical era that was Soviet Communism. You spend days in the company of people unlike yourself, from villages and towns you will never see.
In Kashgar, we met some cyclists who had just completed the same journey as us – by bicycle.
“And I thought our journey was epic,” I told them, humbled by their feat.
“We saw a Frenchman in Kazakhstan,” they replied. “He was walking.”
TOP TIPS FOR A TREK BY TRAIN
All aboard for the long haul
The train journey from London to Kashgar can be done in nine nights: two from London to Moscow, four from Moscow to Almaty in Kazakhstan, two from Almaty to Urumqi in north- west China, and one from Urumqi to Kashgar. It is better to take a day or two’s rest in Almaty; you could also linger for a night in Moscow, but train timings mean that in any case you arrive in the morning and leave at night, giving you 12 hours to explore the city, buy a picnic for the onward journey, and visit the banya (public baths).
Russian winters – which last until late March – are cold. But from April onwards it can be warm onboard, and, unless you are in first class, the conductor might not let you open windows. There are no showers anywhere on the train, and wet-wipes are a convenient substitute for washing in the basin. There is, however, a samovar in every carriage providing endless free hot water, so pack tea, coffee and some cups.
For the more adventurous, the journey to Kashgar is a day or two quicker if you take the Bishkek train from Moscow to Kyrgyzstan. The Kyrgyz people are nearly universally friendly, the landscape stunning, and this route bypasses Urumqi altogether. But it is less straightforward: from Bishkek to the Chinese border you will have to take a series of unreliable buses, taxis (or even hitch-hike) on frightful roads with potholes as big as houses.
Agencies such as Real Russia and Way to Russia can book the entire journey from London to Urumqi, though it is cheaper to book yourself on the Eurostar to Brussels, and buy a ticket on the Deutsch Bahn to Frankfurt or Cologne (via the website) and from there to Moscow.
Frankfurt to Moscow by first class is £255, Moscow to Almaty is £280.
Agencies can also arrange all your visas for you, which will save a lot of time and queuing. Apply for visas well in advance as fast-track applications can be expensive. An invaluable guide to routes, timetables and visas is www.seat61.com.
Bookings for the Urumqi- Kashgar train journey can be made by the helpful Uighur travel agent Abdul Wahab, abdultour@yahoo.com. If you are planning to travel from Kashgar on to Pakistan and India, remember that the China-Pakistan border at the Kunjerab Pass is closed from October till May. Alternatively, it is only two days by train to Beijing from Urumqi.
Wherever you go on this route, people will be friendlier if you wear smart clothes. Men should shave before trying to book hotel rooms in Almaty and Kashgar – especially after 10 days on the train.
Alice Albinia is author of ‘Empires of the Indus: The Story of a River’
The road to a new Old Damascus
DAMASCUS -- Scenes from the old, walled city of Damascus: A carpet dealer skilled at multilingual bargaining is cajoling a tourist into his showroom. A rhythmic tap-tap-tap resonates from a doorway as an artisan hammers silver strips into a richly decorated brass tray. A Syrian woman does the day's shopping, visiting one stall for meat, another for olives, a third for flatbread.
The charm of the ancient part of the Syrian capital has always been the easygoing harmony with which tourists and Damascenes share the narrow alleys and covered markets. But now this crowded district - at the centre of what's believed to be the world's oldest continuously inhabited city - is in danger of losing this endearing character.
Aggressive investors flush with cash have pushed property prices so high that homeowners increasingly are selling long-time family properties and moving away. Others are fleeing the pollution and congestion generated by dozens of new trendy restaurants and boutique hotels catering to wealthy visitors and Damascus' expanding hip and rich crowd.
Now, the debate on how much latitude to give private enterprise is gathering steam as authorities try to balance the revitalization of the 128-hectare old city with preservationist goals. Already, about 50 hotels and 120 restaurants and cafés have been licensed, and among the many up and running are some shoddy imitations of traditional Arab architecture.
"This city is being turned into an amusement park," complained Hikmat Shatta, a French-educated architect, describing the changes overtaking the neighbourhood where he grew up and still lives.
"In some parts, I walk with my eyes fixed on the ground," Shatta said. "I am ashamed to look up and see what is happening. We are moving from the authentic to the bizarre and ridiculous."
In the maze of alleys, cobblestone streets, Turkish baths, coffee houses and historical sites that form the old city, the prospect of most residents disappearing is especially troubling because the area once exemplified Syria's religious and ethnic harmony. Most of the Jewish inhabitants are gone, but the Muslims and Christians who remain live in peace, their places of worship sometimes just steps apart.
The human diversity is reflected in the historic sites. The Omayyad Mosque, built in the eighth century, is on a site that earlier held a temple dedicated to the Roman god Jupiter and a Christian church. Today, the mosque has shrines housing what are said to be the heads of both John the Baptist and Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed.
Nearby is the tomb of Saladin, the 12th-century Muslim warrior who fought the Christian crusaders. The old city also is home to storied Straight Street, where, as the Bible recounts, St. Paul regained his sight and was baptized.
The old city was long shielded from development because Syria's radical politics isolated the country, but now it is attracting European tourists, and this poses complex changes, says Nazir Awad of the state's Antiquities Authority. He says authorities must simultaneously try to curb pollution, protect existing homes, attract new residents and revitalize the area without changing its character.
Not everyone opposes the developers' invasion. Some long-time residents say the area was slowly dying, with many inhabitants leaving for modern neighbourhoods to escape the high cost of maintaining old homes built of mud bricks and plaster.
As a result, poor migrants from rural Syria moved in, lured by spacious homes and low rents, and the area went downhill.
Some old-timers say that until the old city attracted investors' attention in the mid-1990s, many of its streets were deserted once stores closed shortly after nightfall.
"What we have now is the better of two evils," said Samer Antoine Kozah, an art dealer who lives in an eight-room house that has been in his family for about 150 years.
"Yes, the old city is threatened, but let us be realistic - it was dying. The restaurants and hotels have changed my life and disturbed me, but I thank their owners for doing business here," said the 51-year-old Kozah, sitting in his gallery before a large photograph he took of the old city at sunset.
OMAYYAD MOSQUE One of the world's oldest and largest mosques, it sits on a spot considered sacred for at least 3,000 years, with Arameans, Greeks, Romans and Arabs in turn building places of worship there. The mosque overlooks a broad square entered through columns surviving from the Roman era.
TOMB OF SALADIN The tomb of the legendary Muslim general, who fought the armies of the Third Christian Crusade, is in a small garden next to the Omayyad Mosque. Saladin died of a fever in Damascus in 1193. His name in Arabic, Salah a-Din, means "righteousness of the faith."
STRAIGHT STREET The street dates to Roman times. It runs east to west and, according to the Bible, is where St. Paul's eyesight was restored by St. Ananias. Part of the street is the covered Medhat Pasha market; the street is entered through Bab al-Sharki, one of the old city's main gates.
HOUSE OF ST. ANANIAS This is where St. Paul is believed to have been baptized. St. Ananias became the first bishop of Damascus and later was stoned to death by order of the city's Roman governor.
AL-HAMIDIYAH SOUK This market is next to the Damascus citadel. It's the city's largest covered market and contains shops dealing in Syrian crafts and antiques as well as everyday goods.
MORE INFORMATION
MINISTRY OF TOURISM
http://www.syriatourism.org.
The charm of the ancient part of the Syrian capital has always been the easygoing harmony with which tourists and Damascenes share the narrow alleys and covered markets. But now this crowded district - at the centre of what's believed to be the world's oldest continuously inhabited city - is in danger of losing this endearing character.
Aggressive investors flush with cash have pushed property prices so high that homeowners increasingly are selling long-time family properties and moving away. Others are fleeing the pollution and congestion generated by dozens of new trendy restaurants and boutique hotels catering to wealthy visitors and Damascus' expanding hip and rich crowd.
Now, the debate on how much latitude to give private enterprise is gathering steam as authorities try to balance the revitalization of the 128-hectare old city with preservationist goals. Already, about 50 hotels and 120 restaurants and cafés have been licensed, and among the many up and running are some shoddy imitations of traditional Arab architecture.
"This city is being turned into an amusement park," complained Hikmat Shatta, a French-educated architect, describing the changes overtaking the neighbourhood where he grew up and still lives.
"In some parts, I walk with my eyes fixed on the ground," Shatta said. "I am ashamed to look up and see what is happening. We are moving from the authentic to the bizarre and ridiculous."
In the maze of alleys, cobblestone streets, Turkish baths, coffee houses and historical sites that form the old city, the prospect of most residents disappearing is especially troubling because the area once exemplified Syria's religious and ethnic harmony. Most of the Jewish inhabitants are gone, but the Muslims and Christians who remain live in peace, their places of worship sometimes just steps apart.
The human diversity is reflected in the historic sites. The Omayyad Mosque, built in the eighth century, is on a site that earlier held a temple dedicated to the Roman god Jupiter and a Christian church. Today, the mosque has shrines housing what are said to be the heads of both John the Baptist and Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed.
Nearby is the tomb of Saladin, the 12th-century Muslim warrior who fought the Christian crusaders. The old city also is home to storied Straight Street, where, as the Bible recounts, St. Paul regained his sight and was baptized.
The old city was long shielded from development because Syria's radical politics isolated the country, but now it is attracting European tourists, and this poses complex changes, says Nazir Awad of the state's Antiquities Authority. He says authorities must simultaneously try to curb pollution, protect existing homes, attract new residents and revitalize the area without changing its character.
Not everyone opposes the developers' invasion. Some long-time residents say the area was slowly dying, with many inhabitants leaving for modern neighbourhoods to escape the high cost of maintaining old homes built of mud bricks and plaster.
As a result, poor migrants from rural Syria moved in, lured by spacious homes and low rents, and the area went downhill.
Some old-timers say that until the old city attracted investors' attention in the mid-1990s, many of its streets were deserted once stores closed shortly after nightfall.
"What we have now is the better of two evils," said Samer Antoine Kozah, an art dealer who lives in an eight-room house that has been in his family for about 150 years.
"Yes, the old city is threatened, but let us be realistic - it was dying. The restaurants and hotels have changed my life and disturbed me, but I thank their owners for doing business here," said the 51-year-old Kozah, sitting in his gallery before a large photograph he took of the old city at sunset.
OMAYYAD MOSQUE One of the world's oldest and largest mosques, it sits on a spot considered sacred for at least 3,000 years, with Arameans, Greeks, Romans and Arabs in turn building places of worship there. The mosque overlooks a broad square entered through columns surviving from the Roman era.
TOMB OF SALADIN The tomb of the legendary Muslim general, who fought the armies of the Third Christian Crusade, is in a small garden next to the Omayyad Mosque. Saladin died of a fever in Damascus in 1193. His name in Arabic, Salah a-Din, means "righteousness of the faith."
STRAIGHT STREET The street dates to Roman times. It runs east to west and, according to the Bible, is where St. Paul's eyesight was restored by St. Ananias. Part of the street is the covered Medhat Pasha market; the street is entered through Bab al-Sharki, one of the old city's main gates.
HOUSE OF ST. ANANIAS This is where St. Paul is believed to have been baptized. St. Ananias became the first bishop of Damascus and later was stoned to death by order of the city's Roman governor.
AL-HAMIDIYAH SOUK This market is next to the Damascus citadel. It's the city's largest covered market and contains shops dealing in Syrian crafts and antiques as well as everyday goods.
MORE INFORMATION
MINISTRY OF TOURISM
http://www.syriatourism.org.
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Saudi Arabia opens its doors to tourists... just a little
From the top of the huge sand dune the “Dancing Ladies” didn't look that big. The two sandstone towers, whipped and striated by the wind over centuries into fantastical shapes, rose from the valley floor in front of us, but our lofty perch made them look modest. As our guides drove the Toyota Land Cruisers carefully down the dune, we waded after them, descending into a forest of sandstone.
Ten minutes later, sheltering from the sun at the base of the Dancing Ladies, we changed our minds. As our guides served us cardamom-flavoured coffee, we peered up at the giant towers and the cliffs surrounding us, dwarfed by their dizzying height of more than 100m.
Yet our off-road driving tour through the extraordinary landscape of northern Saudi Arabia wasn't even the highlight of our week's visit to this secretive, semi-closed country.
We had started our trip in the modern capital, Riyadh, with a small group of journalists and academics. Most visitors to Saudi Arabia are the five million Muslims who make the annual haj pilgrimage to Mecca. But the Saudi Government, keen to create jobs in tourism, is now tentatively opening up the country to others, and British travel companies are responding.
Can I holiday in Saudi Arabia?
In November a British tour operator, The Traveller, offered the first group cultural tour to the country for seven years. British Airways, which stopped flying there in 2005, will resume flights to Riyadh and Jeddah in March, and bmi has doubled the frequency on its long-established route to Riyadh.
At the offices of the Supreme Commission for Tourism in Riyadh, Abdullah al-Jehani, a senior marketing official, admitted: “Saudi Arabia has been a closed country to the outside world. People know about Saudi Arabia what they see on TV - violence and problems with the regime. But we now have a 20-year tourism programme and soon we should be issuing tourist visas.”
It's true that the news from Saudi is often unpalatable. In February 2007 four French tourists were killed near Madain Saleh, the ancient site of stone-carved tombs in northern Saudi Arabia that was to be the key stop on our itinerary. And the BBC's Security Correspondent, Frank Gardner, was shot and seriously injured, and Simon Cumbers, his cameraman colleague, killed in Riyadh in 2004.
Before my trip, I had asked Gardner if he thought Saudi Arabia to be ready for tourism. “It's a really interesting country,” he said, sounding remarkably free of bitterness. “It's surprisingly diverse, and Saudis, once they meet you, are very hospitable.
The flip side is that there is an ongoing terrorist threat. But the threat is nothing like it was in 2003-04.”
Back in Riyadh, we were keen to start exploring. First stop was Dir'aiyah, the 18th-century capital of the Saud family (the rulers who give the country its name). The old mud and straw walls of this crumbling oasis town form a stark contrast to Riyadh's landmark skyscrapers, only half-an-hour's drive away, and it was a reminder that, for all the steel and smoked glass down the road, Saudi Arabians still see themselves as a desert people at heart.
The next day we flew south to Abha, centre of the mountainous Asir district bordering Yemen, where Saudis go in summer to escape the desert heat. The highlights here were a vertigo-inducing cable-car ride down a mountain, and an afternoon at Rijal Alma'a, a restored 300-year-old village of tall, narrow houses built into the mountainside for maximum protection in this warlike area.
In this cool region I was for once glad of my abaya - the long, black gown that all women must wear in public, along with a hijab (headscarf). In Riyadh's 35C heat this was akin to walking around in your own personal sauna. Local men usually wear cool, white robes known as thobes; it seems that the abaya's stifling black is intended to discourage women from leaving home. Women visitors must accept that wearing an abaya is an important part of showing respect in Saudi culture. More practically, not to wear one will open you to abuse on the streets. I certainly felt more at ease when covered up, though I was frustrated by the many restrictions: women are not allowed to drive, use internet cafés or go into many restaurants.
It was frustrating not being able to head off and explore on my own. But I felt able to throw off my abaya when we finally reached Madain Saleh because there were no other visitors to see us. And what a place it is! It's extraordinary to think that within six hours' flight of the UK is a site as awe-inspiring as Petra, Leptis Magna or Ephesus, yet it is barely visited, even by Saudis.
Madain Saleh was built between 100BC and AD100 by the Nabataeans, soon after they built Petra, in Jordan, and it formed a key stop on the trade route between Petra and Mecca. Nothing is left of the city itself, but more than 130 tombs remain.
We started exploring in the Khuraymat area, where dozens of tombs are cut into the sandstone rockface, their exteriors borrowing architectural elements from the Assyrians, Egyptians and Romans. Inside each is a chamber with carved niches in which to bury the bodies of the family that owned the tomb.
Can I holiday in Saudi Arabia?
After a snatched lunch back at our hotel, the Arac, in nearby al-Ula, we returned to explore the Qasr al-Bint tombs, climbing metal ladders to those cut high into the rock. Finally, as the sun disappeared, we visited the enormous, free-standing tomb of Qasr al-Farid. It glowed pinkly as we made our white-robed guide, Mazin al-Juwaid, pose for pictures in front of it.
At the end of our week I asked my fellow party member Sir Alan Munro what he made of it. Sir Alan was British Ambassador to Saudi Arabia from 1989 to 1993 and has visited regularly since. “I have come away very encouraged at the new openness and confidence there is here,” he said. “For tourists there are still niggling issues such as the attitude to women, but the sort of people likely to come here, for cultural trips, are probably not going to mind that.”
Our group - and the two other tour groups we met, from Japan and Australia - had a permanent police escort. Al-Juwaid joked that the crime rate was so low that the police had time on their hands but, given the shooting of the French tourists, it certainly made us feel secure.
On our final night, in the port city of Jeddah, we sat around smoking fragrant, apple-tobacco sheesha pipes after supper at the popular al-Nakhil restaurant on the Corniche. A cool breeze blew in off the Red Sea and we reflected that our seafood spread had been so delicious that we had forgotten about the alcohol ban. Saudi Arabia is a fascinating destination, hugely worth visiting, but as I looked around at my fellow abaya-clad diners I realised that it's a country you must visit very much on its own terms.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Cinematic odyssey
The story of Ibn Battuta, the Muslim world’s greatest explorer, is one of faith, determination, learning and self-realisation. The Berber traveller set off from his home in 1325, aged just 21, on a pilgrimage to Mecca. After reaching his destination, he carried on travelling throughout Asia, Africa, Europe and the Middle East. It is fitting, then, that the latest cinematic take on his epic adventure was also a revelatory experience for those who captured it.
Journey to Mecca, an ultra-high-definition Imax film that was four years in the making, will premiere at the Emirates Palace in Abu Dhabi tonight. The brainchild of the New York-based producers Dominic Cunningham-Reid and Taran Davies (known collectively as Cosmic Picture), the 45-minute docudrama follows Ibn Battuta’s route, from his native Morocco to Mecca, Saudi Arabia. It was shot in the two countries and brought together a crew from more than 25 nations.
The film’s centrepiece is the first-ever Imax footage of the modern-day haj, which is intercut with a recreation of the scene in Battuta’s day. Filming at the 2007 pilgrimage was a feat that required the producers to spend more than two years living in Saudi Arabia, attempting to obtain permission to film the holy ritual. “It was one of the most valuable two and a half years of my life,” says Cunningham-Reid. “None of us thought it was going to take that long, but of course then we realised that things are done differently there. It was about building trust and friendship, and with that you can move forward and take on something pretty ambitious.” As well as the technical difficulties associated with filming in Imax at a site bursting with about three million pilgrims, Islamic law states that only members of the faith may enter Mecca. This meant that an entirely Muslim crew had to be taught the filming technique, in order to visit and shoot the haj. “We drew up a haj filming plan, which went into every part of the detail of where we might put a camera or a crane, even down to the time of day that we might put it there. Of course, every single one of those requests came with a lot of paperwork and a lot of lost time – and the haj wasn’t going to wait for us. It was a fantastic struggle and a very rewarding one.”
With the film now finished and ready to be shown, the producers admit that when they took on the challenge, they were almost setting out to achieve the impossible.
Taran Davies, the CEO of Cosmic Picture, says: “The team included some of the top veterans in Imax filmmaking, and also lots of people who were new to it needing training. To a certain extent, it seemed to be out of our hands.”
After years of planning, Cunningham-Reid says that he remembers the exact moment when he realised the shoot had been a success.
“It was very moving. I remember when our helicopter took off over the haj towards Mount Arafat and it was close to sunset. That was a particularly meaningful moment for me.”
An epic four-year journey that brought together people from all over the world, it is easy to draw comparisons between the ambition of the filmmakers and that of Battuta. The traveller is believed to have logged around 117,000 kilometres in his lifetime, surpassing that of his near contemporary Marco Polo.
“I’m not sure that I would draw those comparisons personally,” says Cunningham-Reid, modestly. “It was just like everything in life – all good things come to those who wait. By the time we did get to filming in Mecca, I had gained an enormous amount of respect that I might not have had otherwise. I understood the sense of gravitas and importance of the haj.”
Sadly, the film has not been without tragedy. After production wrapped, the 28-year-old Chems Eddine Zinoun, who played Ibn Battuta, died in a car accident in his native Morocco.
“If anyone embodies the spirit of Ibn Battuta, it was our lead actor Chems,” says Davies. “In one of the interviews he did, he said to the camera that it wasn’t that he had to act like Ibn Battuta – it was as if Battuta had planted himself within him.”
The Moroccan actor even shared the legendary traveller’s name – Chems Eddine. “Battuta’s full name was about 15 words long and includes Chems Eddine. So if anyone embodied that spirit, it was Chems,” Davies says.
“Of course his death was and still is devastating to all of the production team on a personal level, because he was such a great light and a talent,” Davies says. “We hope that the film is great enough that it will do him justice and honour him. One of Chems’ concerns was trying to bridge understanding between cultures, and that is a central message in this film.”
Although Cosmic Picture nurtured the project from infancy, there were several other parties that helped bring it to maturity. The Canadian company SK Films co-produced and released the film in association with National Geographic. The Kuwait-based Desert Door Productions also played an integral role in bringing Battuta’s story to life. It is being presented in the UAE by Imagenation Abu Dhabi, a part of the Abu Dhabi Media Company, the owners of The National.
The result was a collaborative effort between western and eastern filmmakers and was shot and edited with both Arabic and English-language versions. The Arabic version is voiced by the acclaimed Syrian actor Abdul Rahman al Rashi, while the English film is narrated by Sir Ben Kingsley.
Dima al Ansari, of Desert Door Productions, and co-producer of the film, was in Morocco for the filming there. As well as her official production duties, she was quickly called upon to be a translator and cultural liaison.
“We didn’t want things to be misunderstood. There needed to be a specific understanding of both languages so that things wouldn’t be lost in translation and so the actors understood exactly what everything meant,” she says.
“The non-Arab producers needed to know exactly why certain things were important in an Islamic sense. That could meant two days of fighting over a small detail.”
The film was not just designed to appeal to both Arabic and English speakers. It was the filmmakers’ intention to create a piece of work that would enlighten those from other faiths about the Islamic pilgrimage and also the story of Ibn Battuta.
“We set out to show this side of the world to the international community,” says Al Ansari.
“Battuta loved people and travelling. He threw down the walls between West and East and that is something we are trying hard to do even now,” she says. “Even back then in the 14th century, we had a Muslim traveller who believed in these things. We don’t have to look far into our history to show that we can be lovers of other cultures and other ways of life.”
Free public screenings in the grounds of Emirates Palace will take place on Thursday and Friday.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
A Journey to the Afghan Province of Nuristan Hope and Skepticism in the Valley of Light
People in the West generally perceive eastern Afghanistan as a war zone. True, the terrain is hotly contested, both politically and militarily. But we hear very little about the progress made in these remote regions. Martin Gerner reports from the area
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Nuristan lies in the far northeast of Afghanistan and is regarded as one of the country's poorest and remotest regions. The photos shows the village of Sutan Lam in the Dare-Noor Valley with its typical terraced fields | For their own safety, travelers to the border region of Nuristan are well advised to take along someone who knows his way around. Our guide's name is Basir. In the early 1990s, his family emigrated to Erlangen, Germany. He returned to his homeland in 2005, a decision that he has never regretted. "Look at the energy that these people have," he says as he points to the bustling streets at sunrise, "this is extremely encouraging."
Our destination is the valley of Dare Noor, near the remote Nuristan province. This is a wild and mountainous region where violent incidents occur on a regular basis. Travelers from the outside are a rarity. On UN maps, the area is shaded in as a danger zone. NGOs have categorized this as an area of "permanent Taliban presence." We have come here to visit an aid project.
Poppy fields, sheep from Germany and carpets
As we leave Jalalabad, the capital of Nangahar province, the paved highway soon turns into a gravel road. At the side of the road are billboards that condemn growing poppies as the work of the devil. The poppy fields are not yet in bloom and cannot be readily recognized as we drive by. Government representatives maintain poppy cultivation has already been eliminated from half of Afghanistan's provinces – a statement that should be viewed with skepticism. In actual fact, no one has reliable statistics.
The road winds up switchbacks to an altitude of 2,000 meters, to the village of Sutan Lam. Instead of the ubiquitous brownish-green fields of rock, the landscape is dominated by verdant terraces for growing crops. Men stand barefoot on a wooden plow that is pulled by oxen. And there is a real surprise in store for us at our destination: "There is no fighting here," explains Haji Mahboob, the village elder, as he greets us.
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Guest room in a corner of the Dare Noor Valley, also used as a mosque. In the background the typical woven baskets that are used for harvesting and agricultural purposes, as well as for transporting the sick in an emergency | Basir has come here to mark the opening of a carpet-making workshop that has been established with funds from the GTZ, a German organization that promotes sustainable development worldwide. The German-Afghan is at home here, and without his help, German aid workers would have had a hard time getting established here. The GTZ has given the village over 50 snowy white sheep. Wool from these animals will be used in the looms that will produce the carpets. It took a great deal of effort and expense to drive the bulky looms by truck from the valley down below. The first carpets are due to be sold in the beginning of the coming year, and this should improve conditions in the village.
"Eight out of ten men here are without regular work," says the village elder, "and we hope that the business with the carpets will improve our situation." The farmers speak very openly. Earlier they would have planted poppies. But they say that the governor announced a ban on cultivating the flowers, which they gradually complied with. However, the promised compensatory payments were never made.
From the land of "infidels" to the land of light
For two months, a hundred women were trained to work the looms. "This was hard to swallow for some of the men," says Basir, "because they live in a traditional society that eyes such things with suspicion." Although women also work in the fields, none of them are present during the ceremony to mark the opening of the carpet workshop.
The lives of men and women were not always so starkly separated. The people in Dare Noor have cultural ties with the nearby province of Nuristan. It wasn't until the late 19th century that the region was Islamisized. At the time, local inhabitants believed in more than one god, and the region was called Kafiristan, land of the infidels. After Islam came to the region, it was given the name Nuristan, land of light.
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Haji Mahboob points his stick toward the adjacent province of Kunar, where the Taliban, government troops and the US military often clash | Jet fighters can be heard overhead. "Amerikai" – Americans, says Mahboob, and points to the mountainous ridge on the other side of the valley. "Over there begins Kunar province. In some villages there are Taliban and a few members of Al Qaida," he says, indicating an area that is only about 10 kilometers (6 miles) away as the crow flies. And is his village threatened by the air strikes?
Language as a protective barrier
On the other side of the valley in Kunar the people speak Pashto, on this side the language is the local dialect of Pashayi. The linguistic barrier acts as an invisible protective wall, explains Mahboob.
Basir recalls one encounter he had with Islamists. "Recently, two mullahs came to the village. They were from the area, but they had received their religious training in Koran schools in the Pakistani border area. They wanted to teach us about political Islam. We had a heated debate. I based my arguments on the advantages of economic development. That convinced the members of the village. Things have been calm since then," he says with relief.
Civilian casualties
The next morning there are reports on the radio about a new attack in Kabul and the mistaken shelling of a wedding by the US Air Force in Nangarhar province. The bearded men sitting around me shake their heads.
They are unsure exactly what military strategy the US military and ISAF is pursuing. None of those whom I spoke with favors an additional deployment of foreign troops. Instead, they are growing increasingly skeptical with each incident involving civilian casualties. In one of the most recent air strikes in the province of Heart, western military forces even had to admit that they had grossly underestimated the number of victims, including many women and children.
Strange researchers from Germany
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Inhabitants of the Dare Noor Valley listen to the radio in the morning as news spreads of a new terrorist attack in Kabul and on civilians in Nangarhar | A village square in Dare Noor has been graded. "On two occasions the villagers have been promised a school for their children, says Basir's brother Ali, "but the provincial government has not kept its promise." The air of discontent is very palpable. If the development is so sluggish, says one man, then they will have to resort to civil protest and block the access roads to the village. He says that there is simply no excuse for sending the bulk of financial aid to those regions where there is heavy fighting. There are no statistics to back this up, but people are clearly disappointed.
The people in Dare Noor trust the Germans. But the most recent visit to the village has puzzled them. Two German university departments have sent an observer to take soil samples and bring back flora and fauna from the mountains. The residents of Sutan Lam were slightly taken aback as they observed this strange spectacle. German scientists suspect that endangered species live here. There is even talk of establishing a natural park under UN supervision. But doesn't Sutan Lam have more urgent problems?
The German guest makes a dismissive gesture. He says that more attention for Dare Noor will result in a brighter future for the people in the village. Those standing nearby listen attentively, but don't say a word. All they can do is hope that at least this scenario will come true.
Martin Gerner
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Nuristan lies in the far northeast of Afghanistan and is regarded as one of the country's poorest and remotest regions. The photos shows the village of Sutan Lam in the Dare-Noor Valley with its typical terraced fields | For their own safety, travelers to the border region of Nuristan are well advised to take along someone who knows his way around. Our guide's name is Basir. In the early 1990s, his family emigrated to Erlangen, Germany. He returned to his homeland in 2005, a decision that he has never regretted. "Look at the energy that these people have," he says as he points to the bustling streets at sunrise, "this is extremely encouraging."
Our destination is the valley of Dare Noor, near the remote Nuristan province. This is a wild and mountainous region where violent incidents occur on a regular basis. Travelers from the outside are a rarity. On UN maps, the area is shaded in as a danger zone. NGOs have categorized this as an area of "permanent Taliban presence." We have come here to visit an aid project.
Poppy fields, sheep from Germany and carpets
As we leave Jalalabad, the capital of Nangahar province, the paved highway soon turns into a gravel road. At the side of the road are billboards that condemn growing poppies as the work of the devil. The poppy fields are not yet in bloom and cannot be readily recognized as we drive by. Government representatives maintain poppy cultivation has already been eliminated from half of Afghanistan's provinces – a statement that should be viewed with skepticism. In actual fact, no one has reliable statistics.
The road winds up switchbacks to an altitude of 2,000 meters, to the village of Sutan Lam. Instead of the ubiquitous brownish-green fields of rock, the landscape is dominated by verdant terraces for growing crops. Men stand barefoot on a wooden plow that is pulled by oxen. And there is a real surprise in store for us at our destination: "There is no fighting here," explains Haji Mahboob, the village elder, as he greets us.
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Guest room in a corner of the Dare Noor Valley, also used as a mosque. In the background the typical woven baskets that are used for harvesting and agricultural purposes, as well as for transporting the sick in an emergency | Basir has come here to mark the opening of a carpet-making workshop that has been established with funds from the GTZ, a German organization that promotes sustainable development worldwide. The German-Afghan is at home here, and without his help, German aid workers would have had a hard time getting established here. The GTZ has given the village over 50 snowy white sheep. Wool from these animals will be used in the looms that will produce the carpets. It took a great deal of effort and expense to drive the bulky looms by truck from the valley down below. The first carpets are due to be sold in the beginning of the coming year, and this should improve conditions in the village.
"Eight out of ten men here are without regular work," says the village elder, "and we hope that the business with the carpets will improve our situation." The farmers speak very openly. Earlier they would have planted poppies. But they say that the governor announced a ban on cultivating the flowers, which they gradually complied with. However, the promised compensatory payments were never made.
From the land of "infidels" to the land of light
For two months, a hundred women were trained to work the looms. "This was hard to swallow for some of the men," says Basir, "because they live in a traditional society that eyes such things with suspicion." Although women also work in the fields, none of them are present during the ceremony to mark the opening of the carpet workshop.
The lives of men and women were not always so starkly separated. The people in Dare Noor have cultural ties with the nearby province of Nuristan. It wasn't until the late 19th century that the region was Islamisized. At the time, local inhabitants believed in more than one god, and the region was called Kafiristan, land of the infidels. After Islam came to the region, it was given the name Nuristan, land of light.
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Haji Mahboob points his stick toward the adjacent province of Kunar, where the Taliban, government troops and the US military often clash | Jet fighters can be heard overhead. "Amerikai" – Americans, says Mahboob, and points to the mountainous ridge on the other side of the valley. "Over there begins Kunar province. In some villages there are Taliban and a few members of Al Qaida," he says, indicating an area that is only about 10 kilometers (6 miles) away as the crow flies. And is his village threatened by the air strikes?
Language as a protective barrier
On the other side of the valley in Kunar the people speak Pashto, on this side the language is the local dialect of Pashayi. The linguistic barrier acts as an invisible protective wall, explains Mahboob.
Basir recalls one encounter he had with Islamists. "Recently, two mullahs came to the village. They were from the area, but they had received their religious training in Koran schools in the Pakistani border area. They wanted to teach us about political Islam. We had a heated debate. I based my arguments on the advantages of economic development. That convinced the members of the village. Things have been calm since then," he says with relief.
Civilian casualties
The next morning there are reports on the radio about a new attack in Kabul and the mistaken shelling of a wedding by the US Air Force in Nangarhar province. The bearded men sitting around me shake their heads.
They are unsure exactly what military strategy the US military and ISAF is pursuing. None of those whom I spoke with favors an additional deployment of foreign troops. Instead, they are growing increasingly skeptical with each incident involving civilian casualties. In one of the most recent air strikes in the province of Heart, western military forces even had to admit that they had grossly underestimated the number of victims, including many women and children.
Strange researchers from Germany
| Bild: photo: Martin Gerner
Bild vergrössern Inhabitants of the Dare Noor Valley listen to the radio in the morning as news spreads of a new terrorist attack in Kabul and on civilians in Nangarhar | A village square in Dare Noor has been graded. "On two occasions the villagers have been promised a school for their children, says Basir's brother Ali, "but the provincial government has not kept its promise." The air of discontent is very palpable. If the development is so sluggish, says one man, then they will have to resort to civil protest and block the access roads to the village. He says that there is simply no excuse for sending the bulk of financial aid to those regions where there is heavy fighting. There are no statistics to back this up, but people are clearly disappointed.
The people in Dare Noor trust the Germans. But the most recent visit to the village has puzzled them. Two German university departments have sent an observer to take soil samples and bring back flora and fauna from the mountains. The residents of Sutan Lam were slightly taken aback as they observed this strange spectacle. German scientists suspect that endangered species live here. There is even talk of establishing a natural park under UN supervision. But doesn't Sutan Lam have more urgent problems?
The German guest makes a dismissive gesture. He says that more attention for Dare Noor will result in a brighter future for the people in the village. Those standing nearby listen attentively, but don't say a word. All they can do is hope that at least this scenario will come true.
Martin Gerner
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Heart of Arabia
The Khoda Khane, or House of Qurans, stands in the courtyard of Friday Mosque. Roger Wood / Corbis
Why go?
As one might expect from a city which name translates as “house of learning”, Shiraz – Iran’s fifth most populated metropolis – is a treasure trove of historical delights. The prefect destination for culture vultures and history lovers alike, this magical destination boasts an array of tempting attractions for the more pensive tourist. From the exquisite mosques and mausoleums to the restful gardens and stunning mountain views, Shiraz is full of cultural attractions.
According to Islamic historians, Shiraz came into existence after the Arab takeover of Iran. The invasion, in fact, contributed to the city’s importance, and by the 13th century it had grown into one of the largest and most popular Islamic areas of the era. Since then it has become a hub for art and literature due to the many scholars and artists who have lived and died there. Consequently, a slew of stunning tombs and monuments erected in honour of these talented souls dot Shiraz, showing that although gone, they are far from forgotten.
One of the city’s most famous sights is the Tomb of Hafez, a homage to Hafez-e Shirazi, an eminent 14th century poet, mystic and scholar renowned for his lyrical poems, which are said to have possessed a modern surrealism. Hafez’s resting place has become a hot spot for literature lovers. A short walk from the town centre, the mausoleum, which is housed in an open pavilion, is marked by a marble tombstone, engraved with the poet’s work.
Shoppers will also be in their element, as Shiraz is home to Bazar-e Vakil, a colourful and atmospheric market. The best way to explore this buzzing bazaar is on foot, without concern for time or direction. Simply try to soak up the ambience in the maze of lanes before putting your bartering skills to the test in any of the 200 stores. Serai Mushir at the southern end of the main bazaar lane is a quaint two-story caravanserai and the perfect place to take a breather or do a bit of souvenir shopping. It’s customary to haggle throughout Iran.
If you’re keen to escape Shiraz’s busy town centre, relax in one of the many hidden corners of Bagh-e Eram, one of the most picturesque gardens in Shiraz. Best known for their tall cypress trees, the gardens are centred around a Qajar-era palace, the Kakh-e Eram (Eram Palace). The bad news is that the management currently chooses to charge foreigners entry fees up to ten times the local price.
Where to stay
Budget
The Apadana Hotel (+98 711 233 1106) is widely recognised as one of the most affordable hotels in Shiraz. Although basic, the rooms are clean, comfortable and air-conditioned. Rooms start at Dh80.
Mid-range
Comfortable and cosy, Park Hotel (+98 711 331000) is conveniently located on Zand Avenue and within walking distance of shops, markets and close to the city’s banking district. Rooms start at Dh175.
Luxury
Shiraz Homa Hotel (www.homahotels.com) on Meshkinfam Street is located in the heart of the city and perfect for guests seeking to combine convenience with luxury. Rooms start at Dh245 per night.
Where to eat
For Iranian food at its best, book a table at Shater Abbas Restaurant (+98 711 229 1440), on Khakshenasi Street. This trendy spot is known for its contemporary menu, which fuses traditional favourites with less familiar dishes, such as turkey kebab and mushroom steak. The menu is a little on the steep side, but well worth it the extra expense.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
A welcoming tradition
To say visiting Sana’a is like taking a trip back in time doesn’t cut it – it’s more like jumping into a dizzyingly vibrant National Geographic photo spread.
The topsy-turvy mud-brick houses of the old city resemble gingerbread, complete with white “icing” in the form of plaster mouldings on top. Children run around in the streets calling out for you to take their picture. You will be welcomed to the point of absurdity as random Sana’ani men will stop to invite you for tea or sometimes to partake of their meal right on the street.
It seems there is nowhere in the world more inviting to foreigners, though Sana’a and Yemen in general have a much different image in the rest of the world.
Known to the news-reading public as the ancestral homeland of Osama bin Laden, Yemen tends to be neglected by tourists. Though it is bereft of the other countries’ oil wealth, it’s rich in human warmth and cultural heritage preserved in a way that doesn’t exist in the rest of the Gulf.
The most impressive and transporting part of Sana’a is the old city, home to a giant and bustling market that has existed at the site for more than 1,000 years. Wander through the alleyways and marvel at the items on display. By far my favourite is the spice souq, which has everything from bohoor (Arabian incense, a product that originated in Yemen) to the black sesame seeds used in bint as-sahn, a honey-drenched Yemeni desert. The vendors in the souq are used to photos, so feel free to snap away, but if there are Yemeni women nearby remember to ask beforehand for their permission.
While wandering near the spice souq you will smell something heavenly and meaty wafting your way. Take a quick jaunt to the open-air kebab restaurant in the middle of the Souq al Milh (Salt Souq) demarcated by hanging lights, well-known as the place to eat this favourite Arabian dish. Make sure to get sahawwik, a cumin-spiked Yemeni version of tomato salsa, to flavour your kebabs and wash it down with sweet cardamom tea, whisked to your table by young boys via wrought-iron cup carriers.
Next to the kebab restaurant is Ali Baba’s jewellery shop. The owners speak English well and accept credit cards, a rarity in Sana’a but a necessity if you are going to buy one of the store’s antique jambiya knives, the traditional daggers that Yemeni men wear on their waists.
The markets of the old city are bustling, but none more so than the khat market at Bab As-Sabah around 3pm. Khat, a legal but mildly narcotic leaf that Yemenis chew and then stuff in their cheeks for its mind-numbing juice, is a social institution.
In back of the military museum is a street full of restaurants, all packed with men. Though Yemeni women do not eat in these sort of establishments, foreign women are welcomed, and the best of them is Palestine restaurant, where the friendly waiter Hashem will hook you up with rashoosh, a huge, oven-hot flatbread, along with roasted chicken, foul (beans) or shakshooka, Yemeni vegetable-scrambled eggs.
Another adventure is the hammam, or communal steam bath. Men and women don’t go together – there are days for each sex. Make sure to buy a “kees”, a little black sloughing mitt, and definitely bring your own bath products. An hour or two is sufficient to sweat up properly then scrub down and remove all the dead skin you never knew you had. The place looks like the baths of Caracalla come to life, but don’t be afraid. Just make sure to enter the inner rooms to get the full benefit of the steam.
If you are in need of a little modernity after all of this, try Coffee Trader, an American-run spot with free wireless internet. The place is a nicer, less rushed Yemeni Starbucks – something the country has yet to import – with a lush garden terrace full of trees and wild rosemary bushes. Try the Snickers cappuccino or the properly creamy caramel latte.
You can impress the local English-speaking teenagers who hang out there by telling them how you know that coffee, as well as the term “mocha”, comes from the town of Al-Mokha on Yemen’s western coast. History comes alive indeed.
swolff@thenational.ae
Tranquil Turkish escape
The Princes’ Islands south of Istanbul are a popular destination for locals and visitors alike. The summer sees Istanbullus flock to the islands for their beaches, seaside promenades and tranquillity. Covered with pine trees and the 19th-century houses of the European bourgeoisie, they are well worth the short ferry ride out of the city. Though there are nine islands, only four are inhabited: Kinaliada, Burgazada, Heybeliada and Büyükada. Motorised transportation is prohibited, so many visitors rent bicycles or faetons, two-horse carriages that are useful to scale the islands’ hilly geography.
Kinaliada
Kinaliada, which comes from the Turkish kinali (dyed with henna), derives its name from the island’s earth, made red by copper and iron deposits. Worth visiting on the island is the Kinaliada Camii, a sharp-angled mosque with the architectural mark of the 1960s, as well as Bahar Patisserie, on the corner of Kinali Meydani (Kinali Square), next to the ferry landing.
Burgazada
Burgazada is known chiefly for its large Greek population, much of which remains from the Ottoman era. The island is home to St John’s Orthodox church, as well as the Sait Faik Museum, a tribute to the famed Turkish writer, who lived on the island from 1939-1954.
Heybeliada
Heybeliada, which means “saddlebag island”, is home to the Turkish navy’s Naval Cadet School, which seems more mansion than maritime with its high windows, scalloped stairs and tiled roof. Also on the island is the Halki seminary, the Greek Orthodox theological school that has been a long-time source of contention between Greece and Turkey since it was shut down in the 1970s.
Merit Halki Palace also demands a visit, if just for the hotel’s architecture. Built in the 19th century to house parents visiting their children attending the island’s prestigious commercial school, it was renovated in 1991 after a huge fire. It combines the charm of 19th century Ottoman life with modern amenities, such as a health club. The hotel also has access to the island’s forest, in which guests can ride or cycle. Walk to the balcony for a panoramic view of the Marmara Sea.
Büyükada
Büyükada, or Prinikpo, is the largest of the islands, and is home to a large Jewish population, as well as Armenians and Greeks. During the early 20th century, it was home to Leon Trotsky, who, along with about 25,000 other White Russians, fled to Istanbul in exile after being defeated by the Red Army. While there, he completed The History of the Russian Revolution. Trotsky’s house, like many others, was a relic of the wealthy merchant class that prided itself on building wooden houses in a highly corrosive climate. Accordingly, the gingerbread-like architecture begs a walk around, which reveals scalloped-edged houses eroded by time and the salty air. Though many houses have been renovated in recent years, the look is that of many post-colonial landscapes, where old and new vie for predominance.
Hire a faeton and take a ride to the island’s park, which has grills set up underneath pine trees for family picnics. St George’s Monastery, which is accessible by faeton and a long walk up a steep hill, hosts two annual festivals, which see thousands of visitors – particularly infertile women – seeking answers to their prayers. The monastery boasts the most beautiful view of the island, as well as its own open-air restaurant, which serves homemade food and beverages. For a few lira, load up your tray, pick a picnic bench and watch the sun set over the Marmara with a plate of köfte and kebabs. On your way to the dock, stop by the main square at one of the myriad ice-cream vendors and pile a cone high with mastixa, a flavour made of resin that comes from the trees on the Greek island of Chios.
Where to eat
Kinaliada: Bahar Patisserie, Kinali Meydani, (+90 216 381 41 41).
Burgazada: Barba Meydane, (+90 216 381 2404).
Heybeliada: Merit Halki Palace, www.halkipalace hotel.com.
Büyükada: St George (Agio Yorgi) Monastery, Aya Nikola Pansyon Cafe, www.ayanikolabutik pansiyon.com.
Where to stay
There is no accommodation on Kinaliada or Burgazada.
Heybeliada: Merit Halki Palace, www.halkipalacehotel.com.
Büyükada: Hotel Princess, www.buyukadaprincess.com; Splendid Palas, www.splendidhotel.net; Aya Nikola Pansyon, www. ayanikolabutikpansiyon.com.
How to get there
Jazeera Airways offers flights from Dubai to Istanbul for Dh400, while Qatar Airways offers flights from Abu Dhabi and Dubai for Dh1,800. From Istanbul, take the Ido fast ferry, which leaves every half-hour, at either Sirkeci or Kabatas station. www.ido.com.tr/en/index.cfm.
Kinaliada
Kinaliada, which comes from the Turkish kinali (dyed with henna), derives its name from the island’s earth, made red by copper and iron deposits. Worth visiting on the island is the Kinaliada Camii, a sharp-angled mosque with the architectural mark of the 1960s, as well as Bahar Patisserie, on the corner of Kinali Meydani (Kinali Square), next to the ferry landing.
Burgazada
Burgazada is known chiefly for its large Greek population, much of which remains from the Ottoman era. The island is home to St John’s Orthodox church, as well as the Sait Faik Museum, a tribute to the famed Turkish writer, who lived on the island from 1939-1954.
Heybeliada
Heybeliada, which means “saddlebag island”, is home to the Turkish navy’s Naval Cadet School, which seems more mansion than maritime with its high windows, scalloped stairs and tiled roof. Also on the island is the Halki seminary, the Greek Orthodox theological school that has been a long-time source of contention between Greece and Turkey since it was shut down in the 1970s.
Merit Halki Palace also demands a visit, if just for the hotel’s architecture. Built in the 19th century to house parents visiting their children attending the island’s prestigious commercial school, it was renovated in 1991 after a huge fire. It combines the charm of 19th century Ottoman life with modern amenities, such as a health club. The hotel also has access to the island’s forest, in which guests can ride or cycle. Walk to the balcony for a panoramic view of the Marmara Sea.
Büyükada
Büyükada, or Prinikpo, is the largest of the islands, and is home to a large Jewish population, as well as Armenians and Greeks. During the early 20th century, it was home to Leon Trotsky, who, along with about 25,000 other White Russians, fled to Istanbul in exile after being defeated by the Red Army. While there, he completed The History of the Russian Revolution. Trotsky’s house, like many others, was a relic of the wealthy merchant class that prided itself on building wooden houses in a highly corrosive climate. Accordingly, the gingerbread-like architecture begs a walk around, which reveals scalloped-edged houses eroded by time and the salty air. Though many houses have been renovated in recent years, the look is that of many post-colonial landscapes, where old and new vie for predominance.
Hire a faeton and take a ride to the island’s park, which has grills set up underneath pine trees for family picnics. St George’s Monastery, which is accessible by faeton and a long walk up a steep hill, hosts two annual festivals, which see thousands of visitors – particularly infertile women – seeking answers to their prayers. The monastery boasts the most beautiful view of the island, as well as its own open-air restaurant, which serves homemade food and beverages. For a few lira, load up your tray, pick a picnic bench and watch the sun set over the Marmara with a plate of köfte and kebabs. On your way to the dock, stop by the main square at one of the myriad ice-cream vendors and pile a cone high with mastixa, a flavour made of resin that comes from the trees on the Greek island of Chios.
Where to eat
Kinaliada: Bahar Patisserie, Kinali Meydani, (+90 216 381 41 41).
Burgazada: Barba Meydane, (+90 216 381 2404).
Heybeliada: Merit Halki Palace, www.halkipalace hotel.com.
Büyükada: St George (Agio Yorgi) Monastery, Aya Nikola Pansyon Cafe, www.ayanikolabutik pansiyon.com.
Where to stay
There is no accommodation on Kinaliada or Burgazada.
Heybeliada: Merit Halki Palace, www.halkipalacehotel.com.
Büyükada: Hotel Princess, www.buyukadaprincess.com; Splendid Palas, www.splendidhotel.net; Aya Nikola Pansyon, www. ayanikolabutikpansiyon.com.
How to get there
Jazeera Airways offers flights from Dubai to Istanbul for Dh400, while Qatar Airways offers flights from Abu Dhabi and Dubai for Dh1,800. From Istanbul, take the Ido fast ferry, which leaves every half-hour, at either Sirkeci or Kabatas station. www.ido.com.tr/en/index.cfm.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Secret of the Nile
“The road is tough,” Aiyman, my 30-year-old driver, said with a grin, as we hammered over another bump on a dirt track on the southern edge of the Saharan desert. I’m not sure what he was grinning at, except possibly the ridiculousness of our situation – off-road in a tiny Hyundai that was designed for the minuscule parking spaces and smooth roads of Seoul, we were in Sudan and miles from anywhere. My guide had convinced me he could easily get me to my destinations. The plastic eagle’s head stuck proudly on the bonnet should have served as a warning: this was obviously a man who overestimated his car.
My journey that week had started a couple of hundred kilometres south in Sudan’s capital, Khartoum. For the past few years I’ve been fascinated by the country’s history. If it wasn’t for political problems, Sudan, like its northern neighbour, would probably be one of the world’s tourist magnets. Sudan’s stretch of the Nile is teeming with monuments from ancient Egypt; in fact, it has more pyramids than its northern neighbour. For much of its history, Sudan was controlled by the pharaohs to ensure that a steady supply of slaves and elephants flowed up the Nile. Later, the local “black pharaohs” dominated their former masters. After being thrown out by invaders, they retreated south and continued to build distinctive pyramids for several more centuries.
The sights, when you do find them, are some of Africa’s hidden gems – untouched by the throngs of tourists and unrelenting salesmen that can make Egypt’s famous remains such hard work. The greatest of these sights was the reason for my trip: Meroe, a pyramid city that covers a remote mountainside on the banks of the Nile. Dozens of steeply walled pyramids gather in clusters across the rocky desert. Given its vastness, we have a sketchy knowledge of Meroe’s history because its script hasn’t been fully deciphered, but its scars bear testament to its violent past. In 1834, the pyramids were the victim of an Italian treasure hunter who systematically blew their tops off in search of riches, leaving the decapitated remains in the Saharan sands.
Luckily, the Pharaonic ruins are all located in the north of this massive country, within a couple of days’ journey from the capital. The country’s two-and-a-half million square kilometres provide Khartoum and the north with enough insulation from ravaged Darfur in the west and the unstable south. A rare incursion occurred this year, when rebels reached Khartoum’s twin city of Omdurman, on the opposite side of the Nile. The rebels were quickly dispersed by the army.
Episodes like this ensure Sudan will conjure thoughts of perpetual war and poverty in most people’s imaginations. But Sudan can offer a lot more than a colourful history to any traveller who is willing to tough out the odd basic hotel room or simple meal. The transport system is sound, with a good network of buses, taxis and planes. The land, the world’s 10th largest, is gifted with what is possibly its most diverse population. Tribes of different colours, religions and ethnicities mingle in Khartoum’s bustling semi-paved streets. Don’t expect the glitzy souqs of North Africa and the Levant – stacked with gold plates and fine carpets. Sudan’s shops have their own flavour, much of their wares brought up from the African south. Woods carved into countless masks with pained expressions and statues of distorted bodies provide tourists with excellent mementoes.
The streets of Khartoum consist of a grid of dishevelled concrete buildings, perfumed with the mild stench of open sewers. Hunting through these colourful streets, watched by a thousand shades of black and brown faces, I planned my trip. I could tie a trip to Meroe in with a visit to the nearby temple at Naqa, a unique monument chiselled with lively depictions of its former rulers. But first, I had to endure Sudanese officialdom – a two-day-long quest for permits, visas and letters. With patience, I found the end of the paper trail and began my northward journey. A three-hour bus trip took me to Shendi, where I hired my overconfident guide and his underpowered car. As it turned out, he did not even know the way to the ancient Egyptian ruins that I was searching for, and we had to pick up a local Beja tribesman, Rahamdullah, to guide us over the relentlessly undulating track.
As we made for the temple at Naqa, the tracks in the sand deepened so much that the car’s undercarriage began to skid on the raised centre. I knew then our first destination was unreachable. With disbelief, I watched Aiyman push on, punishing his car. Eventually, we grinded to a halt like a derailed train. When Aiyman opened the bonnet, the engine’s water and the liquid coolant fizzled from underneath their screw-tops, boiling. It took us nearly two hours to heave the car back out of the sand trap and back to more solid ground. I couldn’t help but take a picture. Rahamdullah complained as he scurried to the front of the car to scoop the sand out from underneath the bumper and then quickly back to the rear to lead the push. Short and plump, with hands like worn shovels, his constitution defied his years.
Disappointed, we abandoned our first destination. But thankfully, after an hour’s rest in the desert our little car proved its mettle and shuddered back to life. The real reason for our trip, Meroe, was still reachable as it was much closer to the asphalt road. The sun was getting low in the sky so I worried if we would get there before dark. Aiyman wasn’t too concerned; he just pounded down the motorway blasting Egyptian music at a volume that made the speakers screech. In the distance, at last, I got the first glimpse of the pyramids; they poked out of the jagged desert like gigantic broken tombstones.
Dishevelled but impressive, the many remains caught the shadows of the dying sun and cast a long impression across the pink sand. I wondered at the past glories of this ancient civilisation. Most men would be unable to eke out a living from this harsh environment, but this civilisation built monuments that have stood for aeons and now look like they have melted into the arid ground.
I climbed to the top of a hill to rest and enjoy the view, as a solitary local strolled past on his camel. It was an unforgettable experience, a million miles from the hassles of Egypt. There were no sellers tugging on my shirt sleeves, no guards looking for some baksheesh, no tourists pretending to smile for the cameras, there weren’t even any footprints in the sand. Sudan may be battered and bruised, but it has an untouched beauty and it’s unlike anywhere else.
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