Journey to the Ottoman Crescent (II)

"—What is it, Major Lawrence, that attracts you personally to the desert?

—It's clean."

 

Lawrence of Arabia (film, 1962)

 

SURPRISE LAYOVER IN BEIRUT (LEBANON)

An impeccably dressed MEA representative handed me my passport and a stamped document, folded in a crisp triptych.  "Hand it to the driver over there; we are sorry for your flight delay" —he said. Thus, what was originally intended to be a one-hour layover in Beirut turned into an overnight stay in a country I knew little about, other than it being the home to one of my favorite cuisines and a long, bloody civil war between 1975 and 1990. I would have less than 18 hours to visit it.

My improvised shuttle, an obvious American auction import, blazed through dark highways and leaky underpasses to Al Hamra. My eyes, half open, glanced back and forth between the blurry instrument cluster of the car and the dewy dust in the windshield, the orange glow in the distance and the lifeless intersections. It was past 10pm. We passed banks and bakeries, appliance stores and garages; still, not a soul in sight. A sudden ninety-degree turn landed us right in front of the lobby of a hotel with a grandiloquent name, faint memento from the days of Lebanese Wall Street.

The place was old, perhaps built in the 1960's or 1970's, with little maintenance ever since. An uninspired receptionist handed me a key a heavy bronze anchor and a wrinkled note with the wireless password, then proceeded to lounge with his friends in a cloud of smoke across the reception desk. A doorless elevator, caked with grime, took me to my floor, where I found my room wide open to the darkest corners of the hallway. I rushed in, reaching for all the lights in hopes not to meet any unwanted presence, and locked the door with as many turns as it would allow. I sighed in relief, eating a few pieces of Turkish candied fruit and getting ready for a shower. Not much later I would collapse on my bed, exhausted by the trip from Istanbul and this Beirut layover. I would have to wake up early the next day to catch a flight to Amman, in Jordan.

I was left disappointed that I did not have time to visit the country in more detail —and in a more positive light—, but in time it will happen, and become one of the many articles on this website.

WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR: JORDAN

How to bypass a war zone 101.

Wedged between Syria, Israel, Iraq and Saudi Arabia, lies the Kingdom of Jordan. Traversed almost in its entirety by the Bible's most famous river, this pistol-shaped country is home to countless epics, stunning scenery, and tales of clashing cultures and film that stood the test of time. Those visiting Jordan come in search of their more adventurous selves, wide-eyed before the Petra Treasury like Harrison Ford did in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, or deeply contemplative amidst the cliffs of Wadi Rum like T.E. Lawrence did exactly one hundred years ago.

Jordan is virtually a tourist's paradise, offering leisure and relaxation from the coastal town of Aqaba to the Dead Sea, further north; motorized adventures in Wadi Rum, and historical attractions in abundance, ranging from the times the Nabateans to the early 1900's.

Throughout history, Jordan has been an inclusive nation, taking immigrants and refugees from its neighboring nations with open arms. This is most visible in Amman, its capital, where the irregular layout and rushed architecture are testimonies to mass exoduses of the past, and entire communities of people who had to build their lives from scratch into this tolerant nation.

Being a car guy, my first stop was, without hesitation, Amman's Royal Automobile Museum. The collection did not disappoint, with two of its best pieces being the intimidating Mercedes 770 (gift of Hitler to the king of Syria) and their Aston Martin DB2, lost for decades in Iraq. Right afterwards, I had lunch with the former Museum Director, now Head of the Royal Heritage Directorate, and made the supreme mistake of thinking that the 300SEL 6.3 had a three-speed transmission. D'oh!

King Abdullah II's rallying cars in a diorama-like setting.

Presidential limos across the ages, from Buick to Cadillac to Mercedes and more.

Two of my favorites: Mercedes 770 (Middle) and Packard Double Cowl Phaeton (burgundy, right)

Their magnificent Aston Martin DB2, restored to brand new condition by the Aston Martin Headquarters.

Behind the scenes, the rover featured in the film "The Martian", starring Matt Damon.

Following my short stay in Amman, I embarked southward on to Petra and Wadi Rum. While I visited Petra on my own (glad I did!), I contracted a guide for Wadi Rum, given that it is absolutely necessary to have a 4x4 and the required driving skills for such tricky terrain. In order to visit Petra, I recommend Jett Buses; the best strategy is to wake up early, take a taxi to their own mini-station and book your ticket on the spot (about 10 dinar, roughly $14). The ride is ~5 hours.

This is where Petra starts, once you have gone through the visitor center.

 

The first leg of the walk is a claustrophobic slot canyon. Be careful not to be run over by all the horse carts!

Out of nowhere, you will end up at Petra's Treasury, arguably one of the most iconic monuments of all time.

Following the Treasury, you will get to a large open space surrounded by constructions on the hills.

Inside of one of the constructions. A geologist's dream!

Walking towards the Gate, on my way to the Monastery.

The Gate; it is in this section that you will find camels, donkeys and horses to get up to the Monastery.

Camels, awaiting customers too tired to continue on foot.

My heart almost stopped —for real, had to lie down— on the climb up. The Monastery is far larger than the Treasury.

Similar building to the Treasury and the Monastery; not a whole lot of information was provided on its function.

I have walked down the streets of New York and Chicago, and sailed my imagination at the crowns of its towers. I have climbed monuments the Mayan built to defeat the millennia, and gazed at the stars next to splashing crocodiles and solemn temples in Egypt. I have stood at the feet of Burj Khalifa and the boulevards of Paris, toured the galleries of Milano, and sailed through the canals of Venice. I have witnessed the industrial might of China, the chant of the mosques of Istanbul and the colorful markets in Oaxaca; shivering and hungry, I have seen the sun rise from Panama's highest peak. I have lived enough to see the human beehive valleys of Medellín on my way home. But never before, however, have I been in such awe as in Petra.

Perhaps it is the scale of it all —or the overwhelming idea of what it was, and what it is now— that leaves its mark on the imagination. Petra is a delight to the senses, yet one that required input to be enjoyed: effort, curiosity, stamina. Large part of it still lies unexploited, a long trek into the valley of treacherous rocks and thorny bushes; still, in the distance, one can see the towering, monumental tease for real adventure, for going off the beaten path into ancient cities that were visited by little more than local shepherds. The wide margin of discovery, of potential, that Petra leaves to speculation defines my amazement about this monumental complex. Petra promises of two Indiana Jones, one for the trekkers of the beaten path and one for those willing to take the leap of faith into the horizon, to find themselves alone in halls forlorn by the centuries.

The furthest off-the-route hall I could reach on my own —before my knee failed. I limped all the way back.

After a long and tortuous backtracking walk —mostly in pain—, I found my designated guide at the entrance of the visitor center and we drove out of the mountains into the main highway, on to the world-famous valley of Wadi Rum, a place so geologically fascinating as it is historically significant.

My home for the night. It took a long time to adjust to the utter silence in Wadi Rum.

The next day, I woke up at 6am, still in the dark, to walk to the nearest mountain and see the sunrise.

One of the Bedouins we stayed had lost sight of his herd. We retrieved them from grazing a couple miles into the mountains.

How photogenic is Wadi Rum? Ridiculously so. This photo was taken with a telephone!

Signs of Wadi Rum being covered in water —notice the waterfall patterns on the rocks.

Barren landscapes carved by centuries of water licking the soft stone.

Placeholders by past visitors who dared climb high into the rocks.

Much like the Grand Canyon, Wadi Rum is a place of obligated visit in one's lifetime. Never before you will see as many shades of red, vermilion, deep oranges, pastel tangerine, magenta, brown and ocher in one place. Wadi Rum is a true feast of the senses, and while the silence reigning among the boulders deprives the visitor from sound, it well compensates for it in a visual feast of shapes, shades and colors unrivaled by any place on Earth. Much like Petra, its sheer scale adds to its already imposing array of natural monuments, shaped by sand, water and time.

Wearing a traditional Jordanian ghutra (headscarf) with the agal (headband). Mornings are cold!

Few countries have stimulated the mind as much as they have moved the heart. Jordan truly holds something for everyone, surpassing any expectation you may have from this noble land. Do not let instability in Iraq or Syria worry you; at no point I felt unsafe here. In fact, I felt genuinely welcome; my curiosity about Jordan and its people was kindly rewarded with a myriad of stories on the fascinating history of this land, from the Arab Revolt to the recent migratory events to the North of the country. If anything, come visit and see for yourself —I highly recommend it.


Next up: Curator on the Go. The plan, the route, the museums. And hopefully, the funding to do it.

Journey to the Ottoman Crescent

The taxi rattled its way through the damp night pavement, zipping and dodging across Kennedy Cadesi, the old town's main ring road. Forty minutes earlier, and for the very first time, I had landed in Istanbul —former Constantinople, the ancient capital of the Ottomans and the Eastern Roman Empire. Broken sections of the city's walls zoomed past the car's window, where small droplets intertwined in their rainy waltz; the smooth tarmac turned to cobblestone, and after a couple of unspoken negotiations with wide trucks in narrow streets, we arrived to the hotel —an austere, yet immaculate home for the next seven days. My partner would arrive a few hours later.

Istambul's old quarter consists on an elongated, lobe-shaped peninsula flooded with generations of exquisite architecture, sandwiched tightly between crumbling decay and incipient gentrification. Istanbul is a city that devours history with the same might and dexterity that is creates it; fast-paced, monumental, with little room for the ancient, lofty discussions of its intellectuals on the subject of cherubs and lines in the sand. Every few hours, hundreds of wailing sirens rise to the call of prayer, and deep past the smell of cumin and pomegranates, two men break in a ferocious haggle. The essence of the East is alive and well, pulsating deep in a setting that feels decidedly European —not in the sterile ways of Frankfurt, but rather, in the vibrancy of post-war Paris.

The lifeline of the old town is the Divanyolu Cadesi, a parade of modern convenience designed to put any and all to-do list worries to sleep. Starting at Hagia Sophia and the Basilica Cistern, it stretches from East to West past Sultan Ahmet's Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar. Climb to the rooftop of one of the local cafés and you will see as far as the Topkapi Palace and the solitary Galata Tower, crowning the other side of the Bosphorus.

Alongside its sumptuous architecture, Anatolian cuisine is one of the country's most palatable offerings. Turkish food is part Arabic and part Mediterranean in equal measure, yet it is in its sweets where it enters a new category of its own, from their traditional dondurma (elastic Turkish ice cream, accompanied with agile hand tricks once scooped), to the ubiquitous baklava and the chunky, dice-shaped lokum (Turkish delight). A personal favorite was the manti: beef dumplings slathered with thick yogurt (labne) and paprika, molded by an elderly lady before my very eyes.

Across the Golden Horn it's business as usual, without the precious bubble that envelops the Old Town. Hundreds of little waterfront stores sell hardware and tools, as businessmen rush to Taksim Square past the Pera Palace. Beyoglu and Taksim stand as responses, more than neighborhoods; major tours de force built on the stubbornness of French urban design and the promise of Ataturk's Western dream. Still, the howling of the mosques resounds vaguely in the background, reminding old Constantinople of its roots and its amalgam, rather than its division —the mental division in every Turk's mind, between the chest-beating affirmation of EU membership and the country's century-old liaisons with the Arab world.

What to say about Turkey, other than my regrets not to spend more time in the country? As our Serbian driver blazed through one-way alleys and against traffic on the way to the airport, I was struck by the realization that in this controlled chaos, Istanbul was heading towards a major rebirth; one not fueled by tourism, but by the fusion of its past grandeur —with its share of frustration— and its current entrepreneurial spirit: optimistic, toiling, renewed.

Follow us next week for a short escape to Lebanon and Jordan!

Havana Snippets

 Señorita Magnolia

Right in the border between El Vedado and Centro Havana you will find a small, brightly painted townhome with a sunny green door. As you sniff the heavenly confections of the bakery next door, you reach for the doorbell and forty-five seconds later the door opens with a dry, metallic snap, thanks to what used to be a piston mechanism in a clothes washer. Several dozen marble steps later, you arrive to a modest, yet immaculately clean living room with two rocking chairs and a dining table. Welcome to Magnolia’s.

In the good company of Wilfred, a man more German-looking than a U-Boat captain, and Lucy, the minuscule yet affectionate family dog, Magnolia runs a little $5 hostel that is home to backpackers and genuine travelers of all creeds, colors and purposes. From a massive New Zealand winemaker to a Japanese food journalist, there is no shortage of interesting characters to spark good conversation and lasting friendship!

Magnolia herself is a 5-foot piece of dynamite in her early 50’s. She knows the city like the back of her hand and can pull out any amount of useful resources straight out of thin air. Here eyes are bright and astute: they can read past any lie and judge quietly, yet they will not hide the comfort of excellent company and genuine interest on every traveler’s needs. Just like everybody on the island, she is another tired sufferer to Cuban bureaucracy, yet despite the stifling procedures by the incompetent –yet impeccably dressed– officials, she will manage to pull out of it all –with a smile– through sheer wit in what would resemble a tournament of chess-talk.

The view from Magnolia's, a line for the bakery and a 50's Edsel belonging to one of the bakers. Photo by Balint Toth.

One Institutionalized Scam

In Cuba you will find two kinds of currency: the CUC (Convertible Peso) and the CUP (Cuba Peso). Each CUC is worth about $1 USD and it is equivalent to 25 CUP. For 20 CUP, you can get a hugely satisfying mini-pizza, or invite four people to five scoops of ice cream each. However, many people take advantage that Cuba is one of the few places where two currencies can be valid simultaneously, and always try to steer tourists in the way of the CUC, from street sellers to policemen. At Coppelia, the government-owned temple of ice-cream, there are two obviously separate sections: one for payments in CUC and one for payments in CUP. What makes it unfair? Well, the same ice cream can cost you 5 CUP for five scoops, or 3 CUC (15 times more!) in the “tourist” section that the uniformed guards will insist on as your sole alternative to have these sweet confections –especially if you look like an obvious foreigner. Always keep in mind an average month’s wage in the island is about 20 to 30 CUC!

You can bet the Bodeguita del Medio charges in CUC. $7 for a Mojito! Photo by Balint Toth.

Callejón Hamel

Wedged between Aramburu and Hospital Street, parallel to San Lazaro avenue and close to a local school, hides a narrow alley worthy of Willy Wonka’s craziest blueprints. From a post covered with brake master cylinders to benches made of bathtubs cut in half, this little corner of the world would be a killer setting for one of the Mad Hatter’s tea parties, a psychedelic haven for minds in love with color, shape and distress. Just short of a hybrid between Yellow Submarine and Antonio Gaudí, this crazy passage is guaranteed to be one of the favorites of any Burning Man lover, a complete, raving LSD experience without the cursed sugar cubes. Every Sunday, to top it off, dozens of people assemble to jam, drum, drink and dance to their heart’s content, in a spicy carnival cocktail of motion, hue and sensorial stimulation that the atypical traveler must not miss.

The crazy textures of the callejón are just short of an acid trip. Photo by Balint Toth.

Dance, music and color intermingle every Sunday. Photo by Balint Toth.

Walking Western Trio

One good afternoon, I decided to accompany my friends Balint and Paola on a walk to the Historic Center to find some good second-hand books. We resolved, however, to try to sing some songs as we strode past the run-down streets of Havana Centro, from popular melodies to classic rock. Tune after tune, laughter after laughter, we walked on proudly, disconcerting many locals, and evoking many smiles from the quiet elders sitting at the doorstep of their homes. We marched loudly and proudly, announcing our presence to the empty windows, the money-hungry taxi drivers, the cuddly lovers by the ocean. As the sun set, I proposed a new twist to our singing, and we kept our parade going through the Malecón, whistling many of Ennio Morricone’s memorable compositions, mimicking horses, with the beat on our feet and in the claps of some random bypassers. Our group would suddenly become quiet upon the appearance of a real musician, plucking a few notes off his guitar with dexterous fingers: we were obviously acknowledging a higher talent. And so, perhaps looking more like drunken tourists than brave cowboys, we trotted on back home wearing our best grins. I do not exactly remember, but I think we did buy some books.

Look at these good people! From left to right, Paola, Romi, Balint and Chieh. Photo by Balint Toth.

The Magic Guayabera

As much as my spell-check tries to correct this original word to Graybeard, Guayaberas do exist. Back in the times of the plantations, these were the garments of the peasants who picked guava fruits, or guayabas –hence the name–, a shirt with tiny pleats covering each side of the chest, stretching vertically all the way to the back. These shirts are very stylish in their minimalism, with an air of retro 1950’s party lounge and Caribbean leisure.

I love my blue guayabera: I got it for $14 in and at this point it has paid for itself. Every time I throw it around my bony shoulders, it becomes a magic blanket of invisibility. As other foreigners get stopped by sketchy cigar sellers, promoters for restaurants, taxi cyclists and other miscellaneous touts, I breeze through the crowds like a shadow, with not one soul acknowledging my existence. Even in the busiest street, Calle Obispo, I glided with such grace I could almost swear I was on roller-skates. My dear guayabera has also given me hefty discounts in many a taxi ride, up to $10 from what a tourist would normally pay. During my stay in Havana, I did not hesitate to share the benefits of this treasure with my obviously-foreign-looking friends, especially those from Asian backgrounds, who would get shamelessly ripped off during the most mundane of errands.

Crazy colors? Yes, but still managed to be completely inconspicuous. Photo by Balint Toth.

Threatened Kiwi

Picture Bruce Willis in his early thirties, speaking with a heavy New Zealand accent, and you will have my friend Lorne (pronounced Lo’hn –loudly– for a more intimidating stance). Along with my San Franciscan friend Ari, a sensible, introspective man in his forties, and Mikhail, a talkative Greek backpacker, they went on what was promised to be a cool French train on an epic journey to the gorgeous landscapes of Viñales. The train happened to be an obsolete, barely-running wreck with broken windows and a sad light bulb dangling from where fluorescent tubes had been formerly… but for $0.60 for the ride, they could not be wrong. They settled in a farm for a few days, from where they would explore the gorgeous natural surroundings, eat some amazing foods and meet some colorful characters –amongst them, a spooky peasant with an oversized glass eye.

One day the three set on visiting one of the local caves to take a swim. However, upon arriving to the top, the guide asked them for an extra fee to access the cave, arguing on some dubious property line issues. Lorne got furious to the verge of almost punching the guide in the face, so, after some negotiation by the Greek guy, they all came down to the farm to talk to the boss. On the way down, the guide picked up a big stick and started to walk closer to Lorne. Ari, in his deep voice, called Lorne’s attention and told him to look behind him… and as Lorne noticed the man with the stick, he slowed down and picked up another big stick. The tense walk continued all the way to the farm, where the issue was solved. In the end, the three friends walked back with a different guide and the boss himself, armed with a machete… for the dense vegetation in the way, of course.

Ari, as he told me his experiences in the farm in Viñales. Photo by Balint Toth.

The Goodman Garage

During my search for the Gullwing in Havana Vieja, I stopped to ask in a mechanic shop in Muralla Street. The man inside had never heard of the car, but much to my surprise, he opened his own home to my friend Ari for him to use the bathroom, obstinate in not accepting any kind of compensation. “From what is mine, I live; and from what I have, I give”, he said with dignity. I was moved by his utter selflessness, a rare quality in the island.

A week later my good friend Chieh came to me, visibly upset. She had come to Cuba in search of true connections with people, but every person she had tried to talk to always wanted her money in one way or the other. I told her the story with Ari, and two days later we set on a mission to visit the last good man in Havana. She had to meet at least one before she left for the airport that same afternoon!

When we showed up at his address in Muralla Street, we found a locked door. “Well, damn. At least, if you peek through this crack, you can see that very nice mural in the back”, I said with an air of disappointment. She tried to photograph it through the door, and suddenly a woman came to open it. At the other side was the good man, who shook my hand with vibrant energy, and greeted Chieh with renewed enthusiasm. I told him about the purpose of this second visit, and he became quiet for a second. He immediately ushered us into his home, where he poured out two cups of the most delicious coffee I have had in years, and two tall glasses of homemade yogurt with natural cane sugar. He told us about the greedy people in Havana, those who struggle to get what they own and those who don’t, the simplicity of good things and the hard life he had. By the end, the three of us were on the verge of tears: him, for having someone admiring him enough to want to introduce his friends to him; us, for the miracle that his infinite kindness had remained intact through so much adversity.

The Good Man (notice the capitals now) soon had to make a delivery at a local hotel, so we all stood up and walked to the door of the chocolate museum, where we waved each other goodbye and he offered us to come and stay in his home anytime. Chieh and I were deeply touched, and still remember this miraculous man –the only good man in Havana, as we called him– with profound fondness to this day.

How many T-Shirts do you think have been printed with this image? Photo by Balint Toth.

Two Cheap Delights

Taking it where the story where the previous one left, Chieh and I set to have some good food before her departure. We started off ordering a cup of hot and cold cocoa at the Chocolate Museum, accompanied by two solid butter cookies and some of the most deliciously rich foam I have ever had on any drink. The total cost? $1.50, expensive by Cuban standards, but more than fair for the Western visitor. We moved across Calle Obispo, early enough not to find a single person waiting in line at the Sociedad Asturiana. Located right in front of the Capitolio, this discreet crumbling structure houses three restaurants in one: Creole-Cuban cuisine on the first floor, Spanish-Cuban on the second, and Italian-Cuban on the third. I told my friend to choose, and we found ourselves on a surprisingly upscale establishment with thick cotton mantelpieces and lavish service. I feared for my wallet, until I opened the menu… a few minutes later, we had gotten a photogenic salad and a massive, mouth-watering, extra-tender lamb leg that fed the two of us to our utter satisfaction. Portions are massive –I went again to have some pizza, and oh my God–, so for a little over $10 for two people, be sure that your belly will be so full you will start questioning whether men can get pregnant or not.

Chieh and I, in the quest for a delicious meal. Photo by Balint Toth.

Castro’s Limousine

It all happened by accident, but let’s start with some facts. Internet service, as well as anything related to telephones, is controlled by the Cuban government –surprise– and it is scarce, slow and furiously expensive. On average, one hour of internet use in any Havana hotel will cost between $7 and $10 per hour. Steep, isn’t it? Well, I soon found that for $10 one could get 12 hours of wireless internet at the Hotel Nacional, which seemed to me like the best deal in the whole island. They give you a little card, you scratch it like a lottery, and you type your data to get access; the only catch is that you just need to bring your own laptop to the hotel.

One fine day, as I was going for an Internet run, I found a large, menacing black car right in front of the Nacional. As an automotive nut I could not resist getting closer and noticing that it was Russian –ahem– Soviet. I asked the driver, who revealed the identity of the car: it was a Chaika, in mint condition, that had been commissioned for chauffeur service on May of that year. There was another one like it, but this one was in such good shape, I was not surprised to head that it had been Fidel Castro’s official car. The driver proudly popped the hood and I found a familiar sight: a Mercedes OM602 diesel engine with Ssangyong badging. It was a non turbo, which I thought would make the two-and-a-half hulk the biggest slug in Havana. It also had an oversized, dual-circuit braking system, which must have made put an extremely frustrating –abrupt, yet efficient– end to the victory of slow acceleration.

Out of curiosity I asked how much he would charge for a ride to the airport, and surprisingly, he said $25 –about average. My eyebrows raised and a mischievous grin spread across my face as I took his business card. As soon as I got to the Hotel’s cyber-center I could not resist telling everyone the news. My friend Balint was impressed, and since he was leaving in two days, the two of us ran back outside and made an appointment with the driver right on the spot.

The day of his departure, we walked to the main lobby of the Hotel Nacional, where our friend Paola pulled out a bottle of cheap rum. We walked ceremoniously towards the threatening vehicle, and I opened the door graciously for the two young VIP’s. They slipped into their velour and fake zebra wood interior, and we pulled away from the Cuban landmark… slowly. The car rode excellent, quiet as can be, with a fuel range of over a thousand kilometers. It was a true Soviet tank, navigating the three of us –two of which were enjoying the rum in the back– to the airport through what felt like a runway of butter. The driver was courteous enough to return us back to the hotel for free after dropping Balint at the terminal. What a glorious, soothing machine! What stateliness, in the disguise of communist intimidation!

Two days later I tried to hire the same car, but a fellow taxi driver reported that the Chaika had broken down. Oh, how short-lived are the pleasures of life!

Wait, wasn't Mr. Bezhnev coming?