City – HotelmEE

Isfahan

Posted on February 7, 2010 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Explore one of Islam´s most beautiful City

Ali was insistent. “My friend, look here, nowhere else. My spices are the best! ” The wily merchant gestured towards his wares. “ I have everything you need for chicken, for lamb… everything for the pot,” he continued, his English impeccable. Trawling for goods through Isfahan’s sprawlingsixteenth-century Bazar-é Bozorg, or great bazaar, is a beguiling experience. This is one of the oldest bazaars in Iran, a mesmerising maze of brick passageways and domed galleries, chaotic and compelling in equal measure. I had made my way to the sprawling market from the city’s Armenian quarter, located on the south bank of the River Zayandeh.

My exploration of this predominantly Christian enclave was supposed to have been fleeting at best, but the macabre frescoes adorning the Church of Bethlehem were deserving of a more considered foray. The images depict in extraordinary deta i the tortures of various hapless saints – a barbaric, bloody canvas totally at odds with the peaceful air this otherwise plain building exudes. A more uplifting exercise was the amble across the elegant Si-o-Seh Bridge, named after its 33 arches. Its span reminded me of a long, narrow finger pointing the way into the heart of ancient Isfahan and the splendours therein. The bridge (one of 11 over the Zayandeh) is particularly attractive at night when, illuminated, its teahouses attract custom like moths to a shining lamp. Ali’s stall was the colour of autumn, a vivid palette of amber, sienna and terracotta. Generous heaps of ground cinnamon, barberry and turmeric spilled over the rims of huge copper bowls. Pinned to the walls were sachets of delicate, honey-coloured saffron hand-picked near Mashad, Iran’s holiest city. Plump, juicy figs har vested in the south of the country glistened under the warm tungsten glow of lamplight, which, in turn, cast an inky half-shadow across Ali’s robust frame. The bittersweet aroma was intoxicating, the tangy fragrance hanging in the air like an unfinished sentence. I took a deep breath. These were the flavours of the Safavids and the Third Persian Empire, when Isfahan was the nation’s fine capital, and trade with the Orient blossomed. Ali scooped up a mug of pistachio nuts and tumbled them into my cupped hands before selecting a tall jar filled to the brim with colourful layers of mixed condiments. “A spice for every day of the week,” he quipped with a grin. Our transaction over, I thanked the mercurial bazaari and said farewell. “Khahesh mikonam,” he boomed, shaking my hand. “You are welcome.” To stand in the middle of Imam KhomeiniSquare, Isfahan’s magnificent central plaza, is to gaze upon some of the greatest monuments in th e Islamic world. Flanking this quadrangularlandmark is the beautiful Imam Mosque, the smaller though no less elegant Sheikh LotfollahMosque and the curious six-storey Ali Qapu Palace. Captivated, I was particularly drawn tothe Imam Mosque, a masterpiece of seventeenth- century Persian architecture.

The building is a visual feast of intricate mosaic calligraphy and rich floral motifs set within a wash of turquoise-blue tile work. The grace ofthe craftsmanship is such that it’s no wonder Robert Byron, writing of Isfahan’s mosques in The Road to Oxiana, remarked that he had ‘never encountered splendour of this kind before’. Neither had I. I spent over an hour in the majestic confines of this Safavid treasure and tried to reconcile all the negative comments that I’d heard about Iran in the West, with what stood before me – but couldn’t. Suffice it to say it’s very unwise to pass judgement on a place and its people until you’ve been there and met them. Finally, I left the complex and headed for the the Qeysarieh Tea Shop at far end of the square.A favourite meeting point for travellers, the tea shop is also popular with young Isfahanis eager to chat with foreigners. I’d taken a place at one of the tables when two Iranian women, both clad in long-sleeved coats, sat near me. I guessed the pair to be in their early twenties. Both wore headscarves high over their foreheads to expose silky locks of raven hair. Thin black eyeliner and a hint of lipstick completed the picture. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed the subtle bending of the rules governing the hejab – the strict dress code adhered to by women across the land. But on this occasion I dwelt more thoughtfully on the fac t that many people in this country – male and female alike – are yearning for sweeping legal and social reform. Eventually, after a couple of furtive glances one of the women leaned forward. “Do you speak English?” she said. “Can we ask you something?” I straightened up. “Of course you can.” “Where are you from?” I told them. “Are you married?” The question caught me totally off guard. For a moment I was lost for words. “Erm, no,” I spluttered. “Why not?” “Well I… I don’t know,” I replied, shrugging helplessly. My clumsy answer elicited a burst of laughter from both before a quick deliberation in whispered Farsi. “And are you enjoying your stay in Isfahan?” the other inquired. “Yes, absolutely!” In fact it was “an educa tion,” I added, finding my feet.
I described my visit as a wholly enlightening experience, while the two listened attentively, nodding occasionally as I rambled on. “But what is it like living in the West?” began the interjections. “Is it expensive? Have you been to America? We would like to travel too….” Thus our conversation continued, a curious exchange of guarded opinion and wishful thinking, interrupted only by the arrival of a pot of tea, a bowl of crunchy sugar cubes and three glasses. Soon, the pale afternoon light began yielding to the lilac shade of encroaching nightfall. Pausing, I stole a glance back across ImamKhomeini Square, its regal outline now bathed in a floodlit wash. Was this the view that prompted the well-known sixteenth-century Iranian proverb Isfahan nesf-é jahan – ‘Isfahan is half the world’? I convinced myself that it was.

Egypt

Posted on March 5, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Egypt: A journey on the Nile is made up of several intense pleasures, and one of them is spending time in and around the monuments of Luxor. The temples of Luxor and Karnak on the east bank, the valleys of the Kings, Queens and Nobles on the west bank and the nearby temples of Ramses the Great, Seti I, Hatshepsut and – my favourite – Medinet Habu, the temple of Ramses III…. There was more than enough to see, sketch and photograph, to wonder over and ponder. There was also more than enough to work the magic that makes the days vanish, so we stood on the deck of our Aswan-bound boat and watched in something near to disbelief as Luxor slid away. As the lotus-buds of the temple columns disappeared from sight, we were left to grapple with surprises, among them the fact that the pharaohs’ temples were originally painted as brightly as a fairground attraction and hung with as many flags, that Tutankhamen’s treasures were crammed into an insignificant tomb and that vaulted mud-brick buildings can survive three-and-a-half millennia…. “Welcome to the greatest river in the world,” one of the staff had chanted proprietorially when I first boarded the boat. “The Nile,” he explained, in case we didn’t know, “is the river of history.” As Luxor’s wonders slipped into memory, it was the river more than history that caught my eye, for however much recent development there has been along its banks and however many times I have seen it, the Nile’s lush, palm-fringed beauty still comes as a surprise. We had hardly passed the new bridge just south of Luxor when someone quoted Herodotus’s overused observation that Egypt is the gift of the Nile.

It may be a cliché, but it is still unarguably true: without the river there would be no country. Evidence to support this claim could be seen on both sides of the river, where green fields suddenly crashed into desert. Wherever the Nile waters reached – often now with the help of pumps – the soil was bountiful. Beyond, all was dead. Somewhere near Esna, I saw a farmer crouch beneath a tree and put a small pot on some burning sticks for his tea. This private ritual reminded me of a similar moment I had shared with a farmer a few hundred kilometres downstream. As he poured us shot-glasses full of thick sweet tea, the farmer asked what I thought was the greatest difference between our two countries. I considered the discrepancies of wealth, education, healthcare, technology… and then explained how the rain fell in my country. He was stunned. “You mean,” he asked, to make sure he had understood correctly, “you don’t rely on the river to irrigate your fields? Water comes straight from above, from Allah?” That meeting took place years ago and I wondered, as we glided upstream towards Esna, how many people the farmer had told since then that England is the gift of Allah. However generous the Nile, the glory that is Egypt is also due to the ingenuity of humans who learned to control the river’s flow. The ancient Egyptians did no more than mark the height and speed of the river’s rise, which gave them an idea of how abundant the following harvest might be. In the nineteenth century, barrages and a dam were built to control the flow and these were followed in the twentieth century by the two dams at Aswan.

The lock at Esna, the first main site south of Luxor, remains one of the most important along the river, for its limited capacity restricts the number of boats able to cruise the river. There is also a temple here, dedicated to Khnum, the ram-headed potter god credited with creating human beings out of Nile mud, even the foreigners who now come to see the remains of the ancients. Distances along this stretch of the Nile are not large and sailing times are surprisingly brief – just a matter of hours. By nightfall we were moored off the next great monument, the Temple of Horus at Edfu. Compared to the glories of Luxor, many of the monuments to the south are ‘late’, built by the Romans. But Edfu demands attention for being the best-preserved ancient temple in the country. Built by a descendant of Alexander the Great’s viceroy in the third century BC, the temple replaced an earlier structure. Unlike many ancient temples, it was not quarried after the ancient cults died out. As a result, few other places in Egypt give such a clear sense of how these buildings might have looked and functioned a couple of thousand years ago. Aswan, several hours by boat from Edfu, was ancient Egypt’s southern frontier.

The border had both a natural and a political logic, for this is where the land of the Egyptians joined the land of their neighbours, the Nubians, and also where the river is broken by the first of a series of cataracts or rapids. If you want to navigate south of here, you need to haul your boat over the rocks. Just north of these rapids, the desert closes in, the riverbed narrows and the stream is broken by several islands, which help to create perhaps the most beautiful stretch of the Egyptian Nile. In ancient times Aswan was a place of exile, but these days we willingly travel to a place where the habits of Egypt mix with the light and smell of Africa, where the living is easy and where the river flows gently and with majesty. But a cruise on the Nile does more than transport you from one time to another: it opens your mind to other possibilities. As I stood on the dock at Aswan, I let my thoughts run thousands of kilometres upstream to the river’s headwaters in the highlands of East Africa and then down, past all those treasures and all that beauty, down to Cairo and then on to the other world of the Mediterranean.

Hotels and Resorts in Egypt

Winter Palace The doyen of Luxor’s hotels, founded in 1887, combines old-fashioned elegance and modern facilities. Heads of state, Noel Coward and Agatha Christie have all succumbed to its Victorian charms.
Old Cataract Hotel This is without doubt one of the grandest hotels in Egypt, renowned for Agatha Christie’s stay while she wrote Death on the Nile. Perched atop a granite rock on the banks of the Nile at Aswan, its high ceilings, long halls, and Moorish decor transport the visitor back to Victorian Egypt. And the famous Terrace Bar affords spectacular views at sunset.
Oberoi Philae Cruise the Nile on this luxurious ship, embracing the elegance and style of days gone by. Its 54 deluxe cabins and 4 suites are furnished with oriental carpets, teak panelling and parquet floors, and each have a private balcony, so you can watch life unfold on the river bank in style.
Mena House Oberoi Once a royal lodge, this hotel is set in 40 acres of jasmine-scented gardens in the shadow of the Great Pyramids at Cairo. Arabesque Islamic design and furnishings are combined with modern comforts and conveniences to create one of ‘The Leading Hotels of the World’.
Basma Hotel Set on Aswan’s highest hill, this hotel benefits from commanding views of the Nile and Aswan. Decorated by two of Egypt’s top artists and located opposite the Nubian museum, take time to relax in the hotel’s Nubian bar and restaurant.
Le Meridien Pyramids Set in beautiful landscaped gardens, with unequalled views of the Giza Pyramids, the hotel has a spectacular swimming pool complex and health club.

Top destinations in Egypt

Luxor Tread in the footsteps of pharaohs at the legendary Valley of the Kings, home to the secretive tombs of New Kingdom rulers including Tutankhamun. On the east bank of the Nile, venture around the remains of the mighty Karnak Temple, a 100-acre complex built over 1,300 years.
Aswan Haggle for local handicrafts, souvenirs and spices in the bustling bazaars of Egypt’s southernmost city, the gateway to Nubia since ancient times. Aswan is also the base for trips to the temples of Philae and the Aswan High Dam.
Abu Simbel Admire the monumental rock-cut temples of Rameses II and Nefertari, overlooking Lake Nasser.
River Journeys Board a traditional felucca or a twin-masted dahabiah for a timeless and spectacular voyage down river.
Riverside Temples Wend your way upstream, hopping from temple to temple at the towns of Kom Ombo and Edfu, the latter home to a cult dedicated to the falcon-headed god Horus.

www.ancientegypt.co.uk The British Museum’s informative site, with notes on Ancient Egypt.

English arabic translations with egyptian dialect.

South Africa

Posted on March 4, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Looking out over the Kwandwe, I had a vision of South Africa’s Eastern Cape before the early settlers changed the landscape. Herds of noble gemsbok sent up clouds of dust as they galloped away across the veldt. Lines of black wildebeest traipsed past us like grumpy old men, their long faces set with their trademark lugubrious expressions. Ostriches flounced about, ruffling their skirts like can-can girls. A cheetah sat with perfect poise in the shade of a small acacia, surveying the Fish River Valley below. There is nothing like experiencing nature up close and personal. Seeing wild animals so close is a scary but exciting experience. Seeing these wild animals so close, will stir up fear, excitement and awe. It is like nothing you can ever describe or even begin to imagine until you try it for yourself. Our guide, Andrew Mortimer, led the way to the water’s edge. Among the mass of spoor, he pointed out the pugmarks of lion, the long cloven hoof prints of giraffe and the broader heavier imprint of Cape buffalo. A rustling amongst the grass made us look up. A leopard tortoise slowly lumbered up to within a few metres of us before retreating into its shell. Driving on through the rolling country, Andrew located a group of white rhino. We sipped our sundowners and listened to his tale of how the rhinoceros got its horn, as we waited for the sun to go down. Night-time game drives are often over-rated, but our journey back to the lodge was enchanting. Our African tracker, Solomon, picked out a Disney-esque cast of new characters with the spotlight. Spring hares bounced away like mini kangaroos; nightjars fluttered up in front of us like angels from the warm dusty track; aardwolf slunk through the undergrowth and the chance of spotting an aardvark, a form of primeval ant-eater with enormous ears and a comically long snout, had us on the edge of our seats.

Andrew’s piece de resistance was to wind up a cheeky genet cat by imitating the plaintive squeaking of a mouse, which drew the genet right up to the side of our vehicle Next day, Andrew asked if I would like to watch the release of the last animals to be translocated to Kwandwe. From our safe vantage point on the roof of the huge container truck we looked on as the translocation team raised the tail-gate and five hippopotami tripped down the ramp, paused to sniff the air of freedom and charged along the narrow chute that channelled them towards the dam before launching themselves into the water like unstoppable submarines. Standing beside me was Angus Sholto-Douglas, Kwandwe’s reserve manager. For Angus this moment was the final realisation of a dream that began as a chance encounter four years previously. He and his wife Tracy were head ranger and camp manager of King’s Pool Camp in Botswana when Erica Stewart, a high-flying marketing consultant, and her partner Carl de Santis, a vitamins billionaire, came to stay. For Carl it was to prove an expensive safari. He had never been to Africa before, but instantly fell prey to the spell of the bush. The two couples struck up a rapport. Over long dinners, talk became dreams, dreams became plans and, by the time that Carl and Erica left, they had commissioned Angus and Tracy to go and find them a suitable piece of land somewhere in Africa to purchase and establish their own game reserve. Eight months later, having looked at land in Namibia, Botswana and further north in South Africa, Angus settled on the Eastern Cape. The absence of tsetse fly and malarial mosquitoes had made this land perfect ranching country. Wildlife paid the price, falling prey to the settlers’ guns and fences. Gradually the land had been taken over for agriculture and wildlife was driven away. Angus proposed to reverse history by expelling the farm livestock and reintroducing wild game. Following Angus’s recommendation, Erica and Carl flew to South Africa, a country neither had visited before, and bought Kranzdrift, a 5,500- hectare ostrich and goat farm. Kwandwe was born. With ostrich farming in decline, other parcels of nearby land came on the market until they had acquired a total of 16,000 hectares. Rehabilitating the land has been a prodigious task.

Over 2,000 kilometres of paddock fencing had to be ripped up, water towers, windmills, metal pipelines, troughs and other agricultural refuse removed. The transformation has been miraculous. Before the first of the wild animals could be released, 110 kilometres of game fence had to be erected around Kwandwe’s perimeter. Two by two they came off the translocation team’s lorry: the plains game first – wildebeest, zebras, springbok, giraffe and blesbok; then black rhino, white rhino and disease-free buffalo. A year later the prestige species were re-introduced: elephant, lion and cheetah (leopard had somehow survived the settlers). Now we were watching the arrival of the last of a staggering 7,000 introduced animals, the hippos. Buying and selling wild species in a coordinated market place, introducing animals to fenced areas too small to function as natural ecosystems, controlling game stocks and at times even grooming habitat to facilitate game viewing, can appear invasive. I have visited many private reserves in South Africa that feel more like a wildlife theme park than a genuine natural environment. Kwandwe has not fallen into that trap. The land has reverted to near-pristine wilderness in a remarkably short time, the perimeter fence is unobtrusive and the animals appear comfortably settled in their new range. The limited area of the reserve may not allow for natural migration patterns, but if Angus’s long-term vision is realised and more land packages are added, Kwandwe may become the kernel of a rehabilitated Eastern Cape ecosystem.

Hotels and Resorts in South Africa

Kwandwe Private Game Reserve in the Eastern Cape has three exclusive safari lodges, each offering great Big Five viewing. Kwandwe main lodge is set along the banks of the Great Fish River and has nine suites with private plunge pools and thatched game viewing decks. Uplands Homestead is a restored farmhouse of three en suite bedrooms with private terraces. Kwandwe Ecca Lodge has six suites.
Satara Restcamp in the centre of Kruger National Park recalls the colonial past in its architecture and offers the best chance of spotting lion, leopard and cheetah.
Phinda Forest Lodge is all about luxurious and clean modern living in the heart of the Kwa-Zulu Natal bush. It comprises 16 spacious, glass-encased bungalows built on stilts in a vast private game reserve, together with viewing decks that afford panoramic views across the game-filled plains. It’s also just 30km from the white beaches of the Indian Ocean.
Hluhluwe River Lodge contains 12 exclusive thatched chalets, dotted around a pretty indigenous garden,
each with its own viewing deck over the Hluhluwe River floodplain and False Bay.
Lebombo Lodge is another luxurious Kruger safari haven, built on steep terrain in a picturesque corner of the park. The individual suites have floor-toceiling windows, ensuring the rooms are full of light and dramatic views. Meals are served in a traditional reedenclosed boma around a log fire.

Top destinations in South Africa

Kruger National Park One of Africa’s best game parks, and one of the few where you can drive yourself around. So take to the back roads of this reserve the size of Wales, and enjoy fabulous wildlife and excellent accommodation – from campsites to luxurious cottages.
Stellenbosch Relax and unwind in the heart of South Africa’s wine industry, home to over a hundred cellars, most of which are open to the public.
Capte Town Ride the cable car to the top of Table Mountain for views across this beautiful seaside city. Then wander to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront for shops, museums, aquaria and street entertainments.
Garden Route Journey along the beautiful southern coast, a wonderful area for beaches, birdwatching,
dolphins and whales.
Kwandwe A new and luxurious private game reserve, as described in our main feature.

Sahara

Posted on February 24, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Sahara: With typical moroccan business acumen, the little town of Zagora trades on its location as ‘La Porte au Sahara’, aiming to cash in on the romance-of-the-desert dreamers who wash up here from time to time. At the end of the main street, a flaking sign depicts stiff-legged camels ferrying blue-robed riders through a child’s-eye landscape of dunes and date-palms. The legend reads ‘Timbuktu 52 days’. I had come to Zagora with a handful of kindred souls. We might not get as far as Timbuktu, but we did want to sample at least a taste of the old life of the desert. The hoteliers of Zagora weren’t deterred by the fact that only the outermost fringes of Morocco are brushed by the Sahara. True, a few stray dunes curled across the plain at nearby Tinfou; but only south of Jebel Bani, the last major massif, did I feel unambiguously in the desert. Vegetation grew sparse where we veered off the tar near Beni Ali, bumping along unmade tracks towards our rendezvous with desert men whose forebears had routinely crossed the entire Sahara to bring back gold and slaves.

Late in the afternoon, the camel men drifted in with strings of camels in tow: lean men, dark-eyed, and muffled against the sun in black and sky-blue head cloths. They spoke their names quietly, as though at ease with the silence of empty places: “Abdulrahim,” “Omar,” “Mehmet,” “Ibrahim.” In fading daylight, we set out along the Draa’s dry riverbed, growing gradually accustomed to the rolling motion of the camels and to our new companions. Where we slept, a full moon sailed over the eastern cliffs, silvering the desert and casting dark shadows. The new day brought cloudless skies and a more populated landscape. A dozen black goats trotted over the plain, nibbling on nothing, while their shepherdess peered uneasily from behind a thorn tree. A date-palm nursery had been squared off, its puny young trees protected from marauding livestock by strands of barbed wire. Finally we entered the shade of a palm-grove, where twittering birds competed with the thump-thump of a distant irrigation pump. Farmers were busy in tiny plots of germinating barley, the tender shoots shielded from drying winds by intricate palm-frond fencing. Enraged women came yelling, black shawls flying, when my hungry camel tried to make a snack of their meticulous defences. The River Draa is fed irregularly by meltwater that drains south from the Atlas Mountains through a winding hundred-kilometre oasis. Throughout the valley’s length, the line of palms is breached at times by areas of sand and barren rock that sweep down to the riverbanks. More often than not, the riverbed is dry.

Our first real sand-dunes appeared at Bougourn, where a small massif loomed to the west, backlit by the sinking sun. To my surprise, its slopes were dotted with palms, planted by the locals in an apparent effort to stabilise the dunes. At sunset, I watched their sandy hollows fill with pools of shadow, giving this driest of landscapes a strangely fluid appearance. Beneath the rock ridge of Megag, there were more dunes where pockets of feathery tamarisk survived in minimalist desert gardens. As the day wore on, Megag retreated to a narrow band along the horizon and the camels paced out across the desolate tableland. Saddle-weary, I decided to walk a stretch. A single black crow overtook me, flapping purposefully south till it diminished to a speck, then dissolved. With their camels’ relentless plodding, the others quickly outstripped me and soon became toy figures on the horizon. With only the sun and a hot breeze for company, I experienced for the first time a palpable sense of my isolation. It struck me that these arid wastes were Morocco in name only, and that I had crossed instead into the undefined domain of the Sahara, a vast entity that recognised no national frontiers and straddles the width of North Africa. But even the desert has its past. When the cameleers judged that we were drifting too close to the Algerian frontier, we swung west again, across as sun-baked and inhospitable a place as any we had yet encountered.

A dried-out well beside the trail recalled the old Sahara, while tyre tracks in the dust signified the new. With scarcely a scrap of shade, it didn’t feel like a place to linger. So, when Abdul stooped to examine something that had caught his eye, I was curious. For all I could tell, the fragment of clay he passed to me – chipped and faded, but with the recognisable curve of the neck of an urn – might have been two years old or two thousand. However austere its present-day surroundings, generations of artisans once made Tidri their home. For centuries, an industrious Jewish population coaxed crops out of the dry earth, while supplementing their income with making ceramics. Abdul’s find was not unique: the surrounding sands were strewn with shards of pottery in a variety of shapes and forms. Life ended at Tidri with the community’s exodus to Israel, and the desert crept back in. Today the potters’ mud-walled kasbahs are melting back into a landscape that supports nothing greener than a few stunted thorns. In the last of the sunlight, we came to the palms of a living oasis, where we said goodbye to our camel men. In the galleried mud mansion of a rich merchant – now the village folklore museum – I took mint tea and pondered my time in the desert. The traders of old, I imagined, would have felt less inclined to relax when they stopped off at Ouled Driss. A thousand miles of sand still lay before them – with the prospect of searing heat, rapacious nomads and unreliable wells to be faced – before their caravans arrived in safety in the trade markets of Timbuktu. For them, the tail end of Morocco was no more than the beginning.

Top destinations Sahara

Zagora Start of the Sahara trail in southern Morocco, and home to the impressive festival of Moulay Abdelkader Jilali.
Atlas Mountains High mountain range, dotted with Berber villages, pretty valleys and orchards.
Tassilin N´Ajjer National Park Wild and dramatic plateau where you’ll find one of the largest series of Neolithic rock paintings.
Tamanrasset Tuareg city in the foothills of the Hoggar Mountains, once the main assembly point for caravans heading into the Algerian Sahara.
Timimoun Oasis town renowned for the red ochre colour of its houses.
El Meniaa This little town holds the tomb of Charles de Foucauld, French colonist turned priest and missionary in the Sahara.

Sahara Hotels and Resorts

Algeria Sahara:

The Gourara Hotel Designed by French architect Fernand Pouillon, this Timimoun hotel is slightly decrepit, but its horseshoe-shaped pyramidal structure is still impressive and there is a beautiful view of the surrounding oasis from the terrace. Plus two pools. ( This property does not offer online bookings. To make a reservation, please contact the hotel directly ) – Email: gourarahotel@etouest.com

The Rym Hotel A large hotel in Beni- Abbes that boasts a scorpion shaped balcony with a spectacular view. From the 114 rooms guests can look out over the surrounding palm-groves. There is also a swimming pool and some shops.

Marhaba Hotel Situated in the centre of Laghouat, it’s worth a visit for the architecture alone, designed to resemble a great ship stranded in the desert. Facilities include a cocktail lounge, a swimming pool and terrace garden. (This property does not offer online bookings. To make a reservation, please contact the hotel directly ) – Telephone: 021 711666

Morocco Sahara:

Haven La Chance Desert Hotel A small but modern hotel near Merzouga, located on the very edge of the spectacular Erg Chebbi sand dunes. Most rooms have en-suite bathrooms with showers and there is a restaurant that serves local Berber food.

Vietnam

Posted on February 23, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

You are not supposed to look left or right when you cross a road in Vietnam. Just stride forward into the sea of motorbikes and they swirl obligingly around you until you get to the other side. But I was so distracted that I nearly didn’t make it. Slender women in white opera gloves and flowing blue silk trousers, looking like supermodels, were roaring along two to a bike. Wiry men pressed against handlebars had huge potted kumquat trees roped to the pillion. Whole families astride single machines were waving red joss sticks and gold streamers. There’s a sense of energy and celebration in Vietnam. It’s 30 years since the war ended and that’s the longest period of peace the country has known for centuries. Vietnam is booming, not least in its population, which is now 83 million, compared to 13 million in Cambodia and just 5 million in Laos. Every road is packed with bikes. Every inch of land is farmed. Even the airport runway has neat rows of vegetables growing by the side of it. Although much of the country is rural, with lush green rice paddies, evocatively named rivers and a 3,400-kilometre coastline of white sand beaches, the cities have become the height of chic. Fashionable shops, art galleries and restaurants have blossomed in Hanoi and Saigon amid the elegant French colonial buildings and traditional Confucian temples. In Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon, Dong Khoi street is a shopper’s paradise with boutiques that effortlessly blend French style with Asian exoticism. I was lured into Khai Silk and succumbed to an exquisite shirt in cream silk. Afterwards I bought pretty hand-painted postcards of rickshaws from a street artist, and wrote them over a café crème at the charming Paris Deli nearby. Feeling transported back to France, I posted my letters at the colonial post office, designed by Auguste-Henri Vildieu in 1891, opposite Notre Dame Cathedral.

The distinguished yellow building, all white cornices and arched windows with green shutters, has a spectacular vaulted and glazed interior, presided over now by a picture of Uncle Ho, whose aim was to oust the French. The colonial architecture of Saigon and Hanoi is in dispute, as the Vietnamese are content to let it crumble, while the French are eager to restore. Hanoi is almost a French city, from the Long Bien bridge (designed by Gustave Eiffel, who fled Paris for Indochina after his controversial tower) to whole streets of belle époque villas that look as though they have been lifted straight out of Paris or Nice. The Metropole Hotel, with its sparkling white stucco façade, oriel windows and fluted pilasters and balconies, built in 1911 and once host to Graham Greene, is now being revamped by Sofitel. However, the Presidential Palace, built by Vildieu in 1906, has been repainted orange – and will doubtless be red, in true Communist style, by my next visit. But for a sense of timelessness, Halong Bay in the north is the place to go. Here 3,000 steep limestone outcrops rise sheer from the translucent blue water.

Frequently swathed in mists (for the weather in north Vietnam is like ours, overcast and grey; and conversation, like ours, revolves around it), this bay has an ethereal atmosphere. I rowed silently in a small boat around the outcrops, covered with twisted vegetation, and into echoing caves and rocky islets, re-emerging into mists where passing junks with their distinctive sails appeared and then vanished like ghosts. Extolled by poets and painters, and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Halong was where the French first arrived in 1872, altering the course of history. But when I asked Thu, our guide, about the recent past, she said emphatically: “It’s just that: the past. I was born after the war ended. Now we are all making our future.” Future and past are inextricable for some, though, as Nguyen Kim Manh explained when I dined at his Café des Amis on the quayside in Hoi An. This gem-like sixteenth-century town was once a great port, trading with China and Japan in silk, gold and porcelain.

Its legacy is ancient pagodas, a medieval-looking Japanese covered bridge, and a picturesque Chinese quarter of wooden merchants’ houses with sumptuous interiors. Kim, in his sixties, a former high jump champion and tennis player, learned to cook in the South Vietnamese army where he had to do more than just satisfy his commanding officers. “They also made me eat a mouthful of every dish to make sure it hadn’t been poisoned,” he said, rolling his eyes at the memory. After the north won the war in 1975, Kim’s property was seized and his 15 brothers and sisters left the country. But he stayed on, as the eldest son, to maintain the family tombs and “look after the ancestors”. Kim served me bans bao banh vac, moist parcels of rice flour stuffed with shrimp terrine, on a layer of sauce made with nuoc mam, a pungent fish paste. This was followed by sauteed cuttle fish, a local delicacy, mixed with cabbage, onion and pineapple, on a crisp pancake. Vietnamese food is delicious. Even Ho Chi Minh started out as a kitchen assistant, in London’s Carlton Hotel in 1914, and became a pastry chef in Paris under Escoffier. Had he stayed on, history might have been different. Replete, I wandered out of Kim’s to find myself once more confronted by a stream of bikes and bicycles. Now distracted by much more than fleeting impressions, I looked neither right nor left and strode across the road.

Top sites

Hanoi Explore the sights of the elegant capital – such as the Temple of Literature – before losing yourself in the labyrinth of hectic alleyways in the Old Quarter, an area surrounded by pretty lakes and pagodas.
Ho Chi Minh City Visit the History Museum and immerse yourself in the country’s rich heritage, then head for the Cho Lon marketplace, to absorb some of the vibrant and animated spirit that characterises daily life here.
The Mekong Delta Meander past fruit orchards, bright green rice paddies, and graceful coconut palms before exploring the floating markets and countless canals in the maze of the mighty Mekong River.
The DMZ Take a pilgrimage through the demilitarised zone which still bears witness to the extent of the destruction caused by the war: the barren soil has yet to recover. A nature walk in the stunning Bach Ma National Park will help soothe the spirit afterwards, as will a cruise in a dragon boat down the Perfume River, which runs past gorgeous Royal Tombs.
The South-Central Coast Tour the impressive Cham ruins at Pahn Rang and Thap Cham, then relax on the peaceful Mui Ne Beach nearby.

Mozambique

Posted on February 22, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Ibo Island was once the thriving Portuguese Capital of Cabo Delgado province, Mozambique. But over the last century it has gradually flexed into ruinous beauty, becoming – tomy mind – one of the most haunting towns in East Africa. The sun beats relentlessly on this small remote spot,l ike it does most days, and creates the unchanging rhythm of the place. But as I set out to getmy first view of Ibo, rain threatened to dampen the tropical torpor. At the edges of the town I found a crumbling villa that looked as though it had been built from boiled eggs: large cowrie shells, embedded in the plaster,were bleached white by decades of sunshine. A nearby tumbledown garage was an optimistic addition, since there has not been a car on the island for years. Some houses were hollow husks, roofs long gone; the empty windows blindly gazed into streets that had vanished under a film of dust and a veneer of dry short grass. A huge Banyan tree poked through the top of a building,making the walls bulge as though heavily pregnant.With images like these, itwas easy to believe this was a ghost town, paralysed with equatorial rot.

But this enigmatic reverie was soon broken by a curious child. Abu, happily chasing a bicycle tyre, looked like an animated silhouette as he skidded past me.We walked along the street together towards the cathedral.Collapsing and lonely,one of its bells had dropped from its carriage, and the once white walls were stained grey. Abu pointed to a small hole in the door, for me to peer through:in the darkness I could just make out a solitary man staring at an altar shrouded with cobweb drapes. I rattled the door,but he didn’t stir.He might as well have been dead. In the main square,someone played on a tin whistle – the repetitive series of notes belonged to a rusty hinge that swung discordantly in the heavy air.A man sat in the lacy shade of a wrought-iron verandah, turgid, barely able to summon the energy to cadge a cigarette as I passed. He had startlingly blue cataracts in his eyes, like iridescent scales from a huge fish,and sightlessly blinked his thanks. In the Catholic graveyard, a plump putto lounged on an elaborate tomb, clutching a crucifix.But its complicated marbling, coupled with years of neglect,meant that the cherub was now covered in an exotic eczema.A mausoleum,not much larger than a garden shed,was losing its roof.The door hung open and there, on a raised concrete bier, lay a splintered wooden coffin.

A skull stared defiantly back at me.Now tangled with weeds, the place was clouded by a smell of frangipani and decadent romance. The humidity soared after the storm that never was. Clouds dribbled and thunder rolled,but the sun won the battle.By noon, viscous humidity deadened the hungry town,slowing life to the faintest of pulses.Time had stretched. It was then that I found something that I didn’t know I had lost: the quality of time I remember as a child.The day became impossibly long, and minutes stretched to hours. Ibo’s sorcery meant that the small fragments of time I usually count in had no end,and tomorrow seemed very far away. The already weak heartbeat died as the sun got higher; the main streets became utterly deserted, and the small crumbling jetty had lost the children trying to catch fish (they all carry a little line and hook in their ragged pockets). A huge silence imperceptibly fell. I sat on the promenade – its broken railings like truncated battlements – and sagged in the heat like a mad dog staring across the grassy road towards the beach and distant cathedral.Even the sea had deserted the place. A part from Englishmen,only birds risked the sun at this time: they gathered on the mud flats like so many miniature women, picking over pools looking for shellfish. By late afternoon the sun lost its grip and life stirred again. Those not busy collecting water or dealing with necessities were to be found on a scrap of land adjacent to the small fort.

There I found a football match in full swing.A small wall – the grandstand – was the perfect vantage point to watch the surprisingly energetic game.But the chatter above the action was interrupted by the electronic tweet of a mobile phone and a thin, businesslike voice saying,“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Abu was talking amicably into an ancient Gameboy,and no doubt dreaming about the time he’d have his own real phone. Darkness falls quickly near the equator, and so I made my way past disembodied voices,occasional pools of light falling from storm lanterns, and whispers from invisible radios, to find supper. A huge whirring beetle, like a small helicopter,choppered in from the darkness, glancing past the limpid geckos, pale and almost transparent, policing the wall on the lookout for moths. As I sat down to eat, two bare light bulbs suspended at each end of the verandah theatrically dimmed – as if the house were full,everyone seated and the play about to start. The darkness was utter,physical and tarry – except for a dazzling canopy of stars overhead.The table, food,wall beyond,everything including myself, had quite vanished. I had fleetingly been devoured by this charismatic and beautiful place.

Mozambique Top Sights

Quirimbas Archipelago Island group to which Ibo belongs – with unspoilt, secluded beaches, spectacular coral formations and an abundance of birdlife.
Maputo The sprawling capital of Mozambique is home to Nossa Senhora De Conceiao, the fortress and base of the eighteenth century Portuguese settlement, as well as Gustave Eiffel’s Casa Do Ferro – the rather hot ‘Iron House’.
Bazaruto National Park Well known for its wonderful diving opportunities, the seas in this protected area are home to humpback whales,marine turtles, humpback and bottlenose dolphins, large game fish like marlins and barracudas and the endangered dugong.
Limpopo National Park Linked to South Africa’s Kruger National Park and three Zimbabwean conservation areas, Limpopo is now home to 1,000 elephants, 147 mammal species and 500 bird species.
Pemba The coastal town on the mouth of a huge bay has a lively atmosphere, beautiful beaches, and coral reefs. A tourist industry is fast developing here to provide holiday activities.

Where To Stay

Ibo Island Lodge The best known hotel on Ibo Island itself spreads its nine rooms across three century-old mansions, located right on the waterfront, from where beautiful dhows set sail at high tide.
Quilalea This secluded island resort in the Quirimbas Archipelago accommodates up to 18 guests in nine thatched villas built entirely from indigenous materials and handcrafted timber.
Londo Lodge Private boutique hotel on Mozambique’s northern coast,where six villas look out to the ocean and coral reefs. It has a clifftop pool and private beach.
Azura Lodge Located on the Benguerra Island in southern Mozambique, this lavish eco-boutique hotel contains 15 luxury beach villas, each with its own private pool,where modern chic combines with traditional Mozambican designs
Lugenda Bush Camp Situated within the Niassa Reserve,among the Ngalongue Mountains, the Lugenda Bush Camp’s luxury tents are the perfect retreat for those with a love of wildlife, the wilderness and complete seclusion

Cuba

Posted on February 22, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

The first of January is a special day for many Cubans,but for a different reason from the rest of the world’s inhabitants. On this day the island celebrates not only the start of a New Year,but also the triumph of Fidel Castro’s army in 1959. The first of January is actually the most magical and expectant day of the year in a country that, for decades, reaffirmed its atheist character even in the Constitution, but has never stopped believing in miracles… and expecting them. On the evening of that day, as the floods of rum and the digestion of roast pork, which dismissed the old year subside to make way for lucidity,a group of the most experienced and wise babalaos, the priests of the cult of African origin (specifically Yoruba) known as Santería,gather to question the orisha Orula.This is the deity who gathers the words of Olofi, the head orisha, Lord of Time and the Future,and expert on the mysteries of the oracle of Ifá, through which people can penetrate the fate of the year that has just started. The ceremony, called the ‘letter (or sign) of the year’was brought to the island by African slaves,and has been practiced here since the nineteenth that recalls much of the Greek oracles, the ‘letter of the year’warns all Cubans, of any race, creed or political status,of the fortunes and dangers that await them in the coming months, and advises them how to ward off evil and encourage good.

Since the beginning of the devastating economic crisis of the 90s (euphemistically called by the authorities ‘the special period in time of peace’), caused by the demise of the Eastern bloc and its economic aid to Cuba, predictions in ‘the letter of the year’acquired a popularity they had never enjoyed before. The slightest possibility of opening a window into the future,which might provide a glimmer of hope,resulted in an anxious search in the ‘beyond’for whatwas not to be found in the here and now.This, despite the fact that the predictions are usually rather pessimistic:epidemics, fights, violence and announcements of new shortages. My friend and neighbour,Lazaro Cuesta, is one of the babalaos who lead the interrogation made every January. At the end of the ceremony, he prints the text of the divine word and puts it on a wall of his home for all who are interested to glimpse into the future.

The practice of divination is done on amat on which several sacred seeds are thrown,and from the positions they take emerge a series of binary codes (1–0) that are recorded and then consulted on the ‘board of Ifá’,a kind of bible, where there are signs that lead babalaos towards the responses that will shape their predictions. If the ‘letter of the year’has become so well accepted and has generated such high expectations (several dozen foreign correspondents attended the press conference where the babalaos broadcast Olofi’s message to the world), it is not because Cubans are especially religious. I would say that, in reality,we are pragmatically religious, and the black Oracle is a fulfilment of this quality. More than amystical dialogue, it is an understanding between the lived and the possible experience,an equation that Cubans have had to grapple with every day during these past and most difficult years of national life,years of power cuts, food and transport shortages, and diaspora. It is a divination exercise that places a spiritual significance on the material plane, and encourages people in the search for the miracles of survival. Because,in fact,we Cubans have lived through many years of miracles and of expecting miracles. Although my being Cuban may make my views suspicious, I believe strongly that Cuba is a very special place: it is a country that enjoys an almost metaphysical condition that makes it far larger than its limited geography.

It is this propensity to the marvellous, this fated gigantism and disproportion, that has enabled us to become a universal reference. Music,ballet,sport, politics, tobacco,rum, the beauty of the Cuban women – are all themes and realities that cross the country’s borders and give us a prominence that sometimes fills us with pride and at other times scares us. Cuba was the first Latin American country to have a railway, to make telephone communications, to transmit television signals.Itwas the first to eliminate illiteracy and polio,and was the only one to send a man into space.And now they say that we are the most educated country in the world,although we have been the last in the Western world with free access to cellular telephony,an invention of the last century. But beneath these big issues – as certain and as manufactured as all issues are – there is a real life that can be very dramatic, precisely because of the character of the islanders.Perhaps the same historical pre-eminence makes the contrast more painful between the voluptuousness of Cuban realism,even more, its pragmatism, and a story that has filled us with responsibilities that many times we did not ask for – norwanted. A short while ago, as the new governmentof Raul Castro was announcing some of the recent changes, I asked a friend what he expected to happen in the future, whether or not he believed that there would be major changes in Cuba. His answer was a lightening bolt of illumination that I am sure is the highest aspiration of many Cubans:“ The only thing I want is for this to be a normal country, the most normal in the world, just to see for once if we can live calmly.” That is the miracle that Cubans aspire to now: whites, blacks, mulattos, Catholics, santeros, Protestants, atheists, Fidelistas, migrants, men, women, elderly, educated, uneducated, the idle and the workers. The miracle of normalcy, which never appears in the‘letter of the year’– towatch the sunset one balmy evening while breathing the smoke of a good cigar,drinking a glass of rum and catching the perfume of a good stew. Has this Cuban miracle ever happened? For themoment, only God and Olofi know.

Cuba Top Sights

La Habana Vieja The capital’s old quarter is a wonderfully lively place, and buzzing with the past. This unesco protected area is full of narrow streets, refined colonial mansions,countless churches,cobblestone squares and sixteenth-century fortresses.
Santiago De Cuba Known as the Ciudad Heroe – Hero City – the charming colonial city of Santiago was a focal point for revolutionary activity due to its proximity to the majestic Sierra Maestra,Castro’s mountainous battleground. The laid-back Santiagueros believe in having a good time:in July the city hosts the Fiesta del Feugo, one of Cuba’s liveliest carnivals,and it was also here that the energetic music called son originated.
Isla De La Juventud One of 350 islands in the Archipélago de los Canarreos,this quiet and unhurriedisland was formerly a hideout for pirates,and inspired Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. In the 1950s, Fidel Castro and his cohorts were imprisoned in the island’s Model Prison.
Trinidad The most perfectly preserved colonial city in all of Cuba, known for its marvellous architecture,museums and art galleries.

Chile

Posted on February 22, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Wtih a final clattering of hooves on rock we come to a halt at the edge of a precipice. A thousand feet below us, the wind-eroded peaks of the Salt Mountain Range glint in the evening sun. It has taken our horses an hour to pick their way, with sure-footed assurance, up the narrow dusty trail that rises steeply from the valley below. Before us, the Atacama Desert stretches out like an open book. Looking beyond the Salt Mountains we see the Salar de Atacama, a smudge of grey extending to the horizon. Chile’s largest salt flat, the Salar is a vast depression where flamingos as tall and thin as Chile itself browse for plankton amid a mosaic of crystallised salt and small lagoons. At its northern tip, a splash of green amongst the burnt landscapes identifies the oasis of San Pedro de Atacama. Our eyes turn eastwards, to the great umber curtain of the Andes. Head and shoulders clear of the surrounding peaks, the perfect cone of Volcan Licancabur dominates the mountain range. Nothing prepares you for the austerity or variety of the Atacama, reputedly the driest desert on earth.

At first glance, driving through, it appears hostile and uninteresting, an endless plain of sun-baked rock and dust between the ragged coastline and the brooding Andes. It has places where no rainfall has ever been recorded. Much of it is devoid of life, with not a tree or shrub, nor even a blade of grass, to provide relief. Dusty one-horse villages, exposed to wind and sun, isolated in this harsh wasteland, endure the desert’s ravages. Yet look closer, follow faint dirt tracks that snake their way into sheer-sided ravines, and you will find villagers cultivating lush green terraced plots and shady orchards. The contrasts can be shocking. The hub for exploring the Atacama is the village of San Pedro de Atacama. Once an important resting point for mule and llama trains on the trading route between the fishing communities of the coast and the pastoralists of the altiplano, San Pedro has at varying times been under the control of several of South America’s great cultures: Tiwanakus, Incas and Spanish conquistadores.

Today it has a population of around 1,000 Atacamenos. At the centre of the village is a fine Andean church, whose whitewashed adobe walls and distinctive bell-tower stand proud against the piercing blue desert sky. Beside the church, a ring of ancient pepper trees shades a small paved village square. Narrow streets radiate outwards. Many of the old mud-brick houses have been converted to hotels, residenciales, restaurants and adventure outfitters who offer horse-riding, trekking, mountain biking and four-wheel-drive tours into the desert. Despite its many visitors, San Pedro has a quiet old-world charm and an unhurried pace of life. The oasis is segregated into neighbourhoods, based around close-knit families. Follow the winding lanes and you get a glimpse of traditional Atacamenan life, as you encounter farmers on horseback driving flocks of sheep and goats, or look over a rustic fence to see people tilling the ground by hand. You do not have to venture far beyond the edge of this oasis to experience the true rawness of the Atacama. We cycled out to Valle de la Luna (Moon Valley), a Tolkeinesque landscape of bizarre twisted rock extrusions and fluted sand faces. The ground glittered with crystals of salt and mica. Leaving our mountain bikes, we hiked up a narrow gorge that cut deep into the Salt Mountains. Recent rain had exposed sheets of crystal in the sheer rock walls, which popped audibly as they expanded in the morning heat. We continued along the gorge, enjoying the welcome shade, until the debris of a massive rockfall blocked our way and we had to turn back.

Further afield, it takes a full day of driving to climb up onto the altiplano and visit the high altitude lagoons. It is a great journey, along the side of the Salar, passing through numerous small villages with their adobe churches and hidden orchards before climbing steadily up the lower flanks of the Andes. After the barrenness of the lower plains, the altiplano feels joyously colourful and alive. Tussocks of golden grass and clumps of rosetinted cactus carpet the landscape. Herds of vicunas, wild camellids of the llama family valued for their fine wool, appear as tiny specks in this expansive scenery. The air becomes thinner and thinner, making even the slightest activity an effort, and then, just as you think the oxygen is about to run out, you are confronted by the lagunas, each pool a vivid shade of blue – turquoise, aquamarine, lapis lazuli – overlooked by mountain summits. In the dry air, their colours are so intense they seem unbelievable. Another long vehicle journey, to the north of San Pedro, takes you to Tatio, the highest geyser field in the world. Here at dawn, shafts of sunlight clamber over the Andes and illuminate the geysers’ rising steam trails, catching on droplets of spouting water and making them sparkle like diamonds. Whilst 4×4 vehicles provide access to the Atacama’s far-flung reaches, it is on foot, mountain bike or horseback that you can get closest to the desert. Scrambling up high dunes, hiking remote canyons, riding long mountain ridges – it is with the sun on your back and the wind on your face that you find the soul of this extraordinary place.

Top sites

San Pedro De Atacama Explore the bizarre lunar landscapes surrounding this charming town in the heart of the Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth.
Santiago Watch the world go by in this bustling cosmopolitan capital, or in winter head out to the cordillera ski fields at Valle Nevado and Portillo to tackle some of the highest commercial peaks in the world.
Torres Del Paine Explore this beautiful national park in southern Chile, noted for its many lakes, glaciers and rocky peaks, and the centrepiece of which are the majestic 2,000-metre granite pillars that give the park its name.
Pucon Get active in the adventure sports centre of the country, located in the heart of Chile’s fabulous Lake District. The scenic region of lush farmland, dense forest, snow-capped volcanoes, waterfalls and clear lakes, offers superb whitewater rafting, fishing, horse riding, mountain biking, as well as the chance to spot the rare puma.
Easter Island Stand beneath one of the colossal and mysterious stone moais on Rapa Nui, as the world’s most remote inhabited island (3,790 kilometres west of the Chilean mainland) is known locally. All the while, wondering just how these giant structures got there. (Not shown on map.)

Websites

www.gochile.cl Useful site dedicated to all things Chilean, covering attractions, transport, accommodation and activities. Features good general maps.

Yemen

Posted on February 22, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Yemen Cityscape of San’a. There among that unique and dazzling architecture was the house where I had lived when I first arrived in Yemen in 1986. I’m pleased to say it looks in much better condition now, with the whitewashed patterns neatly done and the external plumbing features tidied away. The 1980s were the city’s Richard Rogers period: electricity and water had arrived (usually fed along the narrow lanes somewhere above ground, then clambering up the walls, ducking through tiny windows, then out again and across to a neighbour’s). The city was sporting its modernity on top of the old: who cared if all these pipes and cables were meant to be urban underwear? That first house had water problems, and the plumber arrived with a cigarette in his mouth, a large wad of qat in his cheek, and a wrench in his hand. ‘Is this the faulty tap?’ I nodded. He took a swing at it with the wrench and knocked the thing clean off. The rooftop tank (shaped like a Scud missile to impress American spy satellites, said the neighbours) was full, and so a jet of water shot out of the gaping pipe and hit the far wall. The bathroom filled with drifting spray and six inch deep puddles. The plumber worked on, his cigarette miraculously unextinguished. Until that moment – a few weeks into my time – I had been pretty much obsessed with the look of Yemen. There was an undeniable snootiness to some of my attitudes.

I expressed annoyance at mountains of litter; I tutted over those knotted cables dangling in the streets and the scaffolding of pipework that propped itself on every house. I wanted a Yemen that might have existed 20 years before. I certainly did not want the road to be a hammered tin skin of soft drinks cans, as it was in many places. But the plumber opened my eyes. Before the tank was quite empty he had replaced the faulty tap, changed a length of pipe and mended the ballcock. The entire operation took a few minutes and the cigarette never left his lips. We were both drenched. Then he offered me some qat leaves and a cigarette. We retired to the mafraj, the cushioned living room, with wonderful views of the city. I produced a bag of qat and dropped a handful of leaves in his lap. The question of payment was airily waved away. Then we sat as the light took on that marvellous glow of late evening, and he began to recite poetry.

I listened, without comprehending as my Arabic was in a rudimentary state, but it sounded magnificent. When he finished, I gleaned that it was his own composition about the glories of San’a. I was impressed: by the sheer chutzpah of his plumbing performance, by his contempt for other plumbers’ rules, by the superb adaptability of a man whose entire tool kit consisted of one rusty wrench and a cigarette lighter, and most of all by his renaissanceman abilities with language. I learned a little about the way Yemen worked that day, and I looked with fresh eyes on the wayward pipework and all other forms of anarchic organisation. Other, similar lessons began to occur. There was the taxi driver who mended his engine with his janbia – the ceremonial dagger that Yemenis traditionally carry. There was another who smiled when my Landcruiser knocked his car door clean off. ‘Not a problem,’ he proclaimed when I apologised profusely. ‘This is Yemen.’ Out in the mountains I was met usually with hospitality, sometimes with stones, occasionally with total bafflement. ‘Are you a Korean?’ asked one woman.

And when I said not, she became even more puzzled. ‘So what are you then?’ Over the years that I’ve spent either living in or visiting Yemen, the country has moved on a lot. People are better travelled and more worldly: satellite television has seen to that. Old San’a has been extensively improved: lanes are paved with stone and the pipework is generally straighter. Outside the capital, roads are much improved. But the spirit remains the same. On my most recent visit, I chewed qat in the back of a shared taxi heading for Aden. This is the quintessential Yemeni experience. The mountains roll by and the passengers, Chaucer-like, share stories. One man was an off-duty tour guide and his tale was a truly memorable one. His family lived in the town of Ta’iz, he told us, but long ago had come from al-Jawf, a somewhat volatile area in the north-east of the country. During the late 1990s, when kidnappings were common, he had been taken prisoner along with a party of French tourists. They were all taken to a village in the Jawf where, a couple of qat sessions later, the driver discovered that this was where his grand-father had originally come from. Evidently he had been kidnapped by his own family. The villagers had no intention of harming their ‘guests’. In fact they treated them like royalty. All they required was that the government build the road and school they had been promised. The tourists, rather warming to their hosts, agreed. After three weeks, Stockholm syndrome kicked in and the tourists sent out a demand for the road and school. When a deal was reached, the village tried to release the hostages, but they refused to leave. The deal was not good enough, they said. Eventually the government ‘rescued’ the tourists against their will. The driver thought the whole episode hilarious. He had gone back to visit subsequently, and was hoping the country cousins might pay a visit to Ta’iz. He shrugged, ‘This country is not like any other! What can anyone say ? This is Yemen.’

Tallinn

Posted on February 22, 2009 | by bekim | Leave a Comment

Tallinn: A heavy snow had fallen over night, but already the top layer was turning greyish brown, as if echoing the greyish brown buildings of communist Tallinn. The streets were virtually empty of cars, but pedestrians were everywhere, huddled in grey coats, heads bowed against an icy arctic wind as they trudged resolutely towards their destinations. This was December 1985, a few short months after Gorbachev had risen to power. In the West we had already started to celebrate the arrival of perestroika – the loosening of the straight-jacket that had confined the people of the Soviet empire for most of the twentieth century. But in winter-time Tallinn, any kind of freedom seemed as distant a dream as ever. Fast-forward some 20 years to now, and although the advertising that lines Tallinn’s streets appears gaudy to English eyes, it provides welcome splashes of colour in a landscape that was once grey. True, the Soviet-era office blocks and apartment complexes look as stern as they did before: but leavened now with colour and the buzz of traffic they seem somehow less forbidding. It’s summer, too, so people are more lightly dressed: but they appear to have shed a burden of grim endurance along with those winter coats. Back then, ramshackle stalls lined the approach to the old town of Tallinn. Most seemed to be selling Cuban cigars, the only imported luxury I could see.

The Soviet Union and its satellites provided Cuba with their only export market, as the ‘free world’ had banned Cuban imports. Some elderly, male, American tourists had peeled away from their group and were flapping around the stalls like a flock of seagulls looking for a feed. The thick stone walls of the old town were pierced by a once-fortified gateway, from where a cobbled street led upwards past more grey buildings to the Lossi Plats, the town’s main square. A couple of shops were open for tourist business, but there didn’t appear to be much to sell, other than a small selection of garishly coloured sweaters knitted from synthetic wool. There was a small café on the square, a low-ceilinged affair fugged with cigarette smoke. But it provided Tallinn’s only real welcome – and a passable attempt at mulled wine, although the coffee it dished up was grey and weak. These days the stalls are still there, but now they’re selling flowers: bright egg-yolk-coloured sunflowers, vivid scarlet carnations, heavy-headed marigolds, and blue flowers the colour of the sky on a perfect summer’s day. The street up to the Lossi Plats is lined with shops selling ropes of amber beads, folk costumes, coarsely woven linen shirts and tablecloths and, yes, those sweaters.

This time round, though, the sweaters are made of real wool and their designs are based on traditional patterns, intricate and sophisticated. Tourists throng the streets, and the terraces of a multitude of restaurants around the Plats and its neighbouring streets are packed. Food there is hefty and hearty, a close cousin of Scandinavian and German cuisines. Herrings in sour cream and onions, and a crisply roasted pork hock atop a substantial pile of sauerkraut, are washed down with a jug-like glass of blonde wheat beer. Anything that lunch may lack in finesse is more than made up for in the generous size of such a serving. My father’s father came from the Baltic region, so on my earlier visit I decided to go and look for the local synagogue, which my ancestors might have attended. It was a vague attempt to close the temporal gap between myself and the grandfather I’d never met. Somehow I found my way to a weatherboard cottage on the outskirts of town, where I met the rabbi. The old man was as bearded as Santa Claus, although he lacked Santa’s air of rotund contentment as he welcomed me into a sparsely decorated kitchen. Yes, he told me, Tallinn still had a Jewish synagogue, but its community was small and growing ever smaller as older members died and the younger generation refused to join, for fear of losing their livelihoods under the disapproving communist regime.

I asked whether he thought there was a future for Jews in Tallinn. He shrugged and remained silent for a few long moments, then thanked me for my visit. As I left, I felt his sense of loss weigh heavy on me. This time I didn’t have time to visit the synagogue in the suburbs, but I did make my way to the gloriously gaudy Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Outside its doors, five old women wearing headscarves and wrinkled woollen stockings begged for alms, a plastic bowl held in each outstretched hand. Inside, all was Orthodox splendour: the walls crowded with mosaic icons of saints, the air heavy with the smell of incense. There was a crowd of communicants, mainly middle-aged women in flowery housecoats and garishly made-up younger women in tight skirts and high heels.

They queued to kiss first a panelled icon and then the priest’s hand, the latter peeping out from the sleeves of an opulently embroidered robe. Now that the dam of communism had blown open, people had flooded back towards religion’s traditional consolations. Not far away, a concert of baroque music was just beginning, in the more spartan but no less beautiful church of the Lutheran Toomkirik. Wrapped in its musical harmonies, I sat on a wooden bench and contemplated the heraldic emblems of noble and ancient families that covered the walls. I could almost imagine that these people, who once worshipped here in this sublimely peaceful cathedral, were looking down from the heavens and smiling in approval at the latest twist in Tallinn’s long history.

www.tourism.tallinn.ee The city’s official tourism website. A good general site, with essential facts and figures, a good historical overview, information on major sights and forthcoming events.

Sightseeing Tallinn

The Vanalinn (Old Town) is a UNESCO world heritage site. Its medieval cobbled streets, red-capped towers and pretty spires are surrounded by ancient city walls with imposing gates. Toompea Castle is one of the oldest and grandest architectural monuments. Once the hilltop stronghold of the German Knights who controlled the city in the Middle Ages, today it houses the Estonian Parliament. Raekoja Plats, the cobbled market square and general hub, is as old as the city itself. It is dominated by the fifteenth-century Town Hall, which boasts elegant gothic arches and a slender steeple, on top of which sits Vana Toomas, a sixteenth-century weather vane that is the city’s emblem. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral is Tallinn’s largest and grandest cathedral. It was built when Estonia was part of the Russian tsarist empire and named after the Prince of Novgorod.