B018: Lebanese funky nightclub with a history

Originally published on Baladna English on 3rd of May 2011

One of the most unique nightclub experiences in the world is two hours away from Damascus; B018, one of the top 100 best nightclubs in the world, has a dazzling world of imagination, pleasure, entertainment and luxury. It is considered the most inclusive clubbing experience, complete with artistic feel and historical value. Holding a glass in hand and dancing to the beat of the night, we move through the busy club way after midnight; we felt the weight of the world being lifted from our shoulders and we would like to tell you all about it.

B018 is the biggest after-party happening in Beirut. The place is famous as a spot of nocturnal survival. In the early months of 1998, B018 moved to La Quarantaine area, a site that was better known for its macabre aura. Back in the time of the French protectorate of Lebanon; the place used to be a place of quarantine for arriving crew and in the recent war in Lebanon it became the abode of Palestinian, Kurdish and South Lebanese refugees. Almost 20,000 people were living there in 1975.

In January 1976, local militia men launched a radical attack that completely wiped out the area. The slums were demolished along with the kilometer long bordering wall that isolated the zone from the city. Over twenty years later, the scars of war are still perceptible through the disparity between the scarce urban fabric of the area and the densely populated neighborhoods located across the highway that borders the zone. It is an unforgettable reminder of the war and the souls lost on that land.

Efforts to erase this memory took place; Bernard Khoury, who is one of the most respected architects in the world, was brought to add to the naïve amnesia that governs the post-war reconstruction efforts. He, however, refused to take part in erasing the sad memory. He created B018, as a reminder of the effects war has on people.

The project is executed below ground to overcome its façade of a rhetorical monument, resulting from an overexposure of mass attendance. The building is embedded in a circular piece of concrete slightly above tarmac level. At rest, it is almost invisible. It comes to life in the late hours of the night when its articulated roof structure constructed in heavy metal retracts atomically. The opening of the roof exposes the club to the world above and reveals the cityscape as an urban backdrop to the patrons below. Its closing translates a voluntary disappearance, a gesture of recess. The building is encircled by concrete and tarmac rings. The circling of automobiles circumvents the club and the concentric parking spots frame the building in a carousel formation. At night, the continuous motion of the visitors’ cars animates the parking and becomes an integral element of the club’s scenario. The entrance is located at the south end of the low-lying metal construction, where a stair leads to two concessive “airlock” spaces manned by scowling bouncers. Strewn across the concrete pavement floor of the underground hall, the sofas with collapsible backs serve as elevated dancing surfaces that stage the performers.

The dark, dizzy atmosphere of the club creates an unimaginable mixture of feelings: it’s creepy, sad and almost tomb-like; yet the music, the drinks and the dancing creates such a lively atmosphere. It seems that the whole structure of the club has a philosophical concept: like the sad events of Lebanon; they are heading through the day, yet it comes to life during the night.

The name, B018, has a story of its own. The name was initiated by its present manager Nagi Gebran, who is a musician. He started his professional career as a drummer in pubs at the age of 12. He is the cofounder of Wrong Approach, which is an alternative Jazz Band.

B018 was the code number of an apartment/studio situated 18KM north of Beirut. From 1984 to 1993, Gebran lived in unit B018. During the war years, he was famous for his ‘Musical Therapy’ sessions held in his B018 apartment.

At the end of 1993, Gebran moved out of his studio and he decided to go public with B018. The first public version of B018 was built in an industrial sector of the north east suburbs of Beirut. In its early days, B018 operated without a permit in a 200 m² structure called the ‘Black Box’; its only access was a dirt road. The unusual music and strange atmosphere were the main ingredients of the B018 concept, which quickly became a surprising reflection of the night scene in Beirut. B018 was a definite success. By May 1997, Gebran was forced to leave the premises. The B018 was searching for a new address.

Bernard Khoury came to the rescue. He was in charge of the architectural concept and execution, the scenography and furniture design of the new B018. The project was executed and ready to operate in a record time of 6 months. On April 18 1998, the new B018 opened its doors to the public at La Quarantaine.

Now, everyone around the world with an interest in clubbing has heard of the B018 clubbing experience. On Friday, B018 resident DJs Gunther and Stamina gave the crowd exactly what they came for. The interaction between them and the crowd was outstanding, giving the crowd the B018 experience they were waiting for. The party starts traditionally way after midnight, as this place is considered an after-party club where people want to spend the wee hours of the night among friends dancing to the unstoppable beats and enjoying the unimaginable atmosphere. The club usually doesn’t close its doors before 9AM the next morning.

It was a night that won’t easily be forgotten; a night full of dance, love, happiness and history. You can’t deny the amazing energy of B018; the friendly club makes you feel secure and allows you to let go of the animal inside; that animal wants nothing but to dance!

Bab Toma: A legacy of youth

Originally published on Baladna English, on 26th of April 2011

Some think that the hippest spot in Damascus is the beautiful area of Malki, where youngsters, age 15-25, hang out to enjoy their afternoon and long evenings. Yet, some others believe that the hippest spot in Damascus would actually be one of its oldest neighborhoods: Bab Toma. We walked around the old city and talked to people who are enjoying their afternoons and evenings in the hip area of Bab Toma, to give you the reasons why they prefer it.

On the western side of the neighborhood we find the actual Bab Toma, which name basically means Saint Thomas’ Gate. It is the name of the borough of Old Damascus and one of the seven gates of the historical walls of the city. It owns its name to Thomas, one of the twelve apostles of Jesus Christ.

In the 16th century, following the occupation of Antioch and Alexandretta by Turkish troops, the borough of Bab Toma became the seat of the Greek-Orthodox and Greek-Catholic Churches for the Northern Levant (Syria, Lebanon and southern Turkey).

On the eastern side stands Bab Sharki, the eastern gate, or the Gate of the Sun as it was known in Roman times and which dates back to ca. 200 AD. The gate, 26 meters wide, stood over a grand avenue, the Mostakeem Street (the Straight Street), which was to become the main artery in the city. The avenue included a central carriageway for wheeled vehicles and two pedestrian arcaded pavements. Mostakeem Street still connects the eastern gate of the city to the western gate: Bab al-Jabiyah.

Between the two gates, a huge number of bars, cafes and nightspots are settled; some are famous for the old city ambiance; others known for their late night parties and hip feel.  The old streets, with beautiful icons of Jesus and Saint Mary on every corner, are filled usually with twenty-something people hanging out together. Laughter is heard from the café corners where the sound of the argilah and the sweet smell of it are a melody of senses covering the allies.

“I come here to enjoy a lovely night out in this historical space,” Eyad Abbod, 25, says while holding the argilah pipe. He is sitting on a table outside in the late afternoon sun and on the table rests a piece of ‘tawlah’ (backgammon) with its black and white pieces spread around. “This is my friend Hassan, we meet here once a week to play Tawlah and have a cup of tea. It’s the only time I talk about my problems with someone, the only time I feel better about the world. It’s the most fun I have in the whole week.”

Eyad adds that when he is in Bab Toma, he feels that he is in a free place where magic can happen. “The magic of the area is magnificent,” he explains pointing to the old walls around him. “It’s just amazing how much history and love is included in these walls; you feel like you’re hugged by history here.”

Mary, 29, was sitting in a corner of Saif W Shiita café with her friends; on TV some rerun of a football match is screening, and while her friends know the final scores already, they are following the match with open eyes. Mary, however, is busy playing with her iPhone. “I enjoy sitting in this café like no other place in Damascus,” she explains. “I get my beer, sit here and enjoy the free wi-fi and amazing pizza. The place has this warmth to it and doesn’t match any other café in the world for me.”

Mary explains that she has traveled a lot; yet her favorite place in the world remains Bab Toma. “It’s a place that matches no other,” she adds.  “It has enough positive energy to fill me to the max whenever I’m down or blue.”

“I come here for the foreign girls,” says Ali as he goes among his friends, although he ‘dates’ under the nickname Alex. “I see them walking here and I try to pick them up to talk to them. It’s good for my English and I might also be able to find myself some loving friend.”

Alex, 22, is famous among his friends, who were walking with him in Mostakeem Street when this interview was conducted, for being a serial-dater. “He goes on a date with a different girl every two months,” one of Alex’s friends says to the dismay of Alex. Then a love story goes on for a week or two, until they break up and we have to deal with his post-break-up depression until the next girl comes around.”

Alex, whose face turns red, explains that “it’s love; and love is complicated and blind; yet the only place I feel that love is simple and beautiful is when I walk in the streets of Bab Toma.”

Around the corner a busy restaurant appears; Bab al-Shams hosts a dinner party for a group of friends and family celebrating Easter Sunday. There are noises of dishes, spoons and knifes and some Fairouz songs. “Of course we meet in this area,” Sarah, 26, says. “It’s the most spiritual space in the worldly city of Damascus for us. Sitting here, among the historical features of Damascus and near to all that’s beautiful and simple makes you forget your sorrows and feel closer to God.”

Sarah, who refused to let the interview continue unless this reporter joins the family dinner on the table, adds that it has been a beautiful night all in all so far. “I’m planning on leaving the family to their chitchats and going for a walk around with my friends in the old city,” she says. “The night is young and so are we, and no matter how old this area around us is, I still feel like it’s a young bride dancing around happily. It’s the heart of Damascus and it will keep on beating, no matter what.”

With Sarah and her friends, this reporter continued his trip around Downtown area, slowly forgetting the story, the reporting, the feature and the newspaper itself; the old city offered to take us in, and we joyfully accepted the offer.

Chronicles of a photogenic city: Photographers adore Damascus through photos and memories

Originally published on Baladna English on 14th of April 2011.

(As-Salam Alikoum, a photo by Irish photographer Tommie Lehane)

Damascus stands the test of time for another century; the city is a photogenic place for those who are blinking their camera lens at the right moment to capture the right angle. While wandering in the old city, it is never an odd view to see a person carrying a huge camera, zooming on a door, a wall or a tree and taking a glorious photo.

Wissam Bashour carries his Sony Alpha 580 camera, hunting for great photos. The 25-year-old photographer believes that Damascus has its own charisma and that is what makes photos of it special. “When you’re taking photos in the heart of the capital, the charisma of the city just grabs you and takes you into its history,” the photographer says, “the city changes its scenery between the different times during the day; when you take a photo of a minaret at 5.30AM is different than when you take the photo of the same place in the afternoon.”

People’s faces are the main target of Wissam’s camera; he believes that the warmth of the people interacting with each other creates a unique connection with the city. “They are close to each other, the same way that the houses of the old city are leaning on one another”, he explains, “they capture your emotions while you are capturing their faces.”

“Damascus just grants you with the best photos”, he adds, “every corner is a place worthy photographing”.

(Photo by Photographer Wissam Bashour)

In the world of photography, everyone knows that when you take a photo of a celebrity, you – as a photographer- lose your status, because it the star is the one that captures the photo and it becomes a photo of a star, rather than a photo by a photographer. “This is exactly how I feel when I’m taking photos of Damascus and its people”, the photographer says, “I feel that am losing myself in the beauty of the object captured by my lens.”

According to Bashour, the history of Damascus is what makes you respecting its scenery. “When you stand in front of a man, who is much older than you, you feel the need to respect him due to his age”, Bashour says, “under the same logic, history of Damascus, going back thousands of years, forces you to respect the city.”

Bashour’s favorite Damascus-related photo is the one that he took moments after rain in the Saba’ Bahrat Square in downtown. “I was waiting for this photo, I had it in my mind for ages,” he explains, “at night, the rain stopped and the reflection of water and rain drops hanging in the air, created unique and unforgettable effect.”

Dyab Al-Hellow, a 26-year-old Syrian photographer, lived most of his life outside of Syria. Yet, when he came back to Damascus, he couldn’t resist the urgent need to grab his Nikon D5000 camera and roam the city, taking photos. The brown-eyed photographer, carrying a camera on his side, wandering in the streets of Bab Toma, says that “light is my favorite thing to capture; the drops of light in Damascus, reflecting on the city’s walls and buildings, are just too magnificent to overlook”.

Dyab never leaves his camera at home. If you met him, you would see it hanging around his neck or resting in his back-bag. Sometimes he hushes you when you’re talking to him and suddenly garbs his camera, zoom it on something, takes the photo and in few seconds, returns to the conversation.

“My favorite photo of Damascus would be the one I took at the time of the sunset, when I was roaming the old city, looking for a restaurant to eat in”, the photographer says, taking his laptop out from the bag in order to look for the photo, “I was passing under an old, dead tree covering the narrow streets of old Damascus and between the brush, I could see the redish sky and the green minaret of a nearby mosque. I couldn’t resist the amazing charisma of the scene.”

Tommie Lehane, a 51-year-old Irish photographer, who describes himself as a person with a heart that beats for Syria, carries his Canon 5D camera around, but believes that it’s not important, as it’s only a machine and it depends on the operator. He explains that Syria is really special for him. “Syria for me is so special to photograph, for the same reason why Syria is special in general: its people,” he says, “As a street photographer, pictures of people are my way to express the feeling, smell and ambiance of a place; Syria is such a friendly place, this makes it so much easier. You simply can’t get the same message from the buildings and tourist sites.”

Lehane went around Syria to shoot photos of it, but considers Damascus to be a special place to photograph. “Its continuous link with the history, going back thousands of years, is evident in the normal lives of people today,” he points out, “the Ummayyed Mosque and the Souks, for instance, are not tourist attractions, but livable places important for today’s Damascenes.”

With a loveable tune of his words, Lehane explains that his favorite photo from Damascus is a very simple one, taken on the Souk al-Buzuriyah. He calls the photo ‘As-Salem Alikum’. “It’s nothing more than Syrians’ way of greeting each other, but for me there’s a special warmth in the photo, especially the mutual respect and the caring arm for the elderly man,” the photographer explains, “it was taken in 2009, during my last visit. As I shoot with a 35mm lens I am always very close to my subjects. I have taken much more picturesque photos in Damascus, but this one reminds me most of normal Syrian life and is hanged in my hallway, as a greeting to all my house guests.”

The experienced photographer finally adds that “I love to interact with my subjects after I’ve crafted a shot and this was particularly fulfilling in Syria.”

Studying food and cooking culture, Tony Tahhan Style

Originally published on Baladna English Newspaper on 6th of April 2011.

Roaming around Tony Tahhan’s site makes you feel hungry, informed and delighted all at the same time. The Syrian-American blogger in the latest face of the world of cooking and his work in the kitchen brings a new meaning to the art of food. He is witty, smart and has a larger-than-life personality that makes his blogs both interesting and funny. When he blogs about food, he adds his own toppings of photos and personal stories that make each and every meal unique in its own way.

“I was born in Venezuela in 1986 to a Middle Eastern family from Aleppo, Syria,” the young cook says in an interview with Baladna English. “Even though my brothers and I were second generation Syrians, we were expected to speak strictly in Arabic at home.  It was for our own good; a way to keep our Syrian heritage alive, our parents told us. We ate Middle Eastern food, attended Syrian weddings and listened to Arabic music in the car.”

When Tony was four, his family moved to the United States and a new challenge was asked of the young Syrian. “The food I brought to lunch was always a mystery to my friends.  They had their peanut butter and jelly; I had my hummus.  This was before hummus became a big sensation,” he says, laughing.

The kid from Aleppo grew up with an obsession with food. “Most photos of me growing up involve me eating something; my mom is a great cook who learned how to cook traditional ‘Halabiye’ dishes from her mother and mother-in-law.  We had a rule in our house; anyone who helped prepare the meal didn’t have to do dishes, so this was also a major incentive for me.”

When he was a teenager, Tony picked up some weekend shifts at a local patisserie. That was his first exposure to a professional kitchen. Although his job was at the counter of the shop, he often found himself sneaking into the kitchen to watch where “the magic happened.”

Before moving to New York to pursue degrees in Math, Economics and Spanish Literature, the young man had already managed to start his own business of selling home-made chocolate.

Even in college, the freshman needed to cook. “While I was in college, it came from a desire to feel close to home.  I cooked meals mom used to make, and invited my Arab and non-Arab friends.  The atmosphere was great,” he explains.

“The more I cooked in college, the more I began to feel connected to my Syrian heritage–more so than when I was little,” he says, while gazing down the memory line. “I finally appreciated my parents for having spoken to us in Arabic.  Suddenly the Syrian weddings and the old school Arabic songs made sense.  My dad had promised I would understand one day, and I did.”

Back in November 2007, Tony decided to turn his obsession into an actual research. He started applying for scholarships to study food in Italy and Syria. “I wanted a personal platform to share pictures, stories, and recipes from my trip,” he points out, talking about his beloved blog. “In one of those miraculous moments where everything fell into place, a friend of a friend offered to build the site for me.  He had a fully functioning website in about a week and handed me the keys to my brand new blog. She was beautiful,” he says smiling.

For the first few months, Tony was just writing. He wasn’t sure if anyone was reading other than his relatives or friends. Then, suddenly, he discovered that his site was being read by people he didn’t have immediate contact with; that was the point he started believing in his blog.

“My inspiration to blog comes from different places,” the cook says with an absent-minded smile. “Most of the time it comes from the latest delicious meal I’ve tasted. I will either blog about it, or take a picture while I’m eating and tweet about it–sometimes even both.”

The green-eyed cook believes that when he writes on his blog, he feels like he is hosting a dinner party. “It’s an intimate space for me to sit down with friends from around the internet, open a bottle of wine, and talk about food and culture,” he says. He starts each blog post with a story and adds pictures to them, and then includes a recipe at the end of each post.

As with any good dinner party, discussions take place.  Readers comment and share their thoughts.  The ability to comment is one of the things Tony enjoys most about the blogging platform.  Unlike traditional cookbooks, a blog offers a dynamic and participatory digital space where readers become part of the conversation.

On a post Tony wrote about his aunt Juju’s great Chicken Noodles and Rice soup, someone under the name Samir commented saying: “Thank you for sharing Juju’s great recipe. We make the soup the same way but have never toasted the noodles! Will definitely try.” On the other hand, Zeki commented pointing out that “I want to make this,” but then added a silly question: “You use salt and black pepper too right?”

Joey also commented on the same recipe and said: “This looks like it can cure everything; from a bad day to a broken heart! Love this type of soup.”

Tony refuses to answer a question about the dish that is the most important dish he ever cooked. “I don’t like this question,” he says, “it’s almost impossible to answer.  A lot of dishes are important to me.”

However, he adds that the special ones are probably the ones he cooks for friends and family. “I love the expression on people’s faces when you cook for them.  I like to think that a part of me goes into every dish I make.” He points out: “When people eat my food I wait to get their reaction.  It’s a moment of instant gratification–you can see that from the smile on their face.  There aren’t many things in life that offer such immediate feedback.”

Tony is working on a big update of his blog at the moment. He calls himself a ‘web geek’ and he is planning on creating an online database archive of his recipes that would make them more easily accessible.

“With regards to my taste for food, I would love to travel around the Mediterranean,” he says, seeing his future ahead of him. “Not only do I want to taste the flavors of this region, but I think it is important to submerge myself in the culture.  This is the best way to experience a country’s cuisine.”

To visit Tony Tahhan’s blog; go to the following link: http://www.antoniotahhan.com/blog/

Siwa: An odyssey of culture and sand

Originally posted on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 22-11-2010

Wilfred Jennings-Bramly, who journeyed to Siwa in 1896, wrote that the oasis “cannot be said to have fallen from its high estate…only it has stood still while the world went on,” which might be the most honest description of the quiet, sleepy place that lies in the heart of the great Egyptian Sand Sea.

This oasis can easily be considered a center of Egypt’s backwaters, as it still holds the features of a small and anachronistic village. With its traditions and costumes still intact, visitors feel a little as if they are taking a trip back in history to an era they would never have dreamed of witnessing first hand.

While Jennings-Bramly and his entourage traveled to the oasis by horseback on a journey that might have for weeks–starting from Farfra, an oasis closer to Cairo–my friends and I took the West Delta bus that passes through the desert via a relatively newly-opened road (operating only since the 1980s) and allows for easier transportation to the famous spot.

We suffered on the ride, however, as the cold desert atmosphere made our nightly travel a odyssey we could not anticipate. We asked for the air-conditioning to be turned off during our trip, but the bus driver refused on the grounds that “I’ll fall asleep if the heat is turned on.”

But our adventures in Siwa did not end at staying alive in a fridge-like bus. Around the calm oasis, we rented bikes for just LE15 a day, and took them for a couple of hours of rides until we reached the lake of Siwa, located on the east side of the oasis, before heading to visit the oracle temple of Amun.

Although the oasis is known to have been settled since the 10th millennium BC, the earliest evidence of significant culture goes back to the visit of Alexander the Great, who reached the oasis prior to his campaign of conquest in Persia. The leader, according to the lore, followed birds across the desert until he reached the temple of Amun, where he was confirmed to be a divine personage and the legitimate Pharaoh of Egypt.

The temple, however, was destroyed at an undetermined point in time, as the locals wanted to use its stones to rebuild their village. Some of the temple’s walls are still standing among old Siwan houses made of salt and mud, which were ruined–and melted–when a rainy storm hit the oasis.

The bike ride took us finally to Cleopatra’s Bath, one of many fresh water springs around the oasis. We enjoyed some swimming in the round-shaped spring and waited for hours for our food in one of the restaurants. The service was bad, but the spot wonderful with palm trees and beautiful weather.

After couple of days of relaxing in our hotel, the Desert Rose, located on the outskirts of the oasis, we decided to take an adventure into the desert, which, by far, was the highlight of our trip.

We left the hotel at around five in the morning, which was an exception–as we had usually tried for hours in vain to book cars to bring us from the hotel to downtown Siwa–and headed to the heart of the desert in 4X4s, claiming one of the sand dunes to capture the best view of the rising sun. It was a picture-perfect morning and we enjoyed gazing at the endless plain of sloping dunes around us.

Our next stop was Bir Wahid, a hot spring located in the heart of a small oasis inhabited by small grayish foxes, where you can dip in the hot spring, allowing the water to sanitize your skin. Another spring to visit is the fish-inhabited lake of cold water al-Ain al-Barda (the Cold Spring, literally), where it’s possible to swim in the extremely chilling water.

Also open to discovery are the marine fossils embedded in the sand and rock–leftovers from the Tethys Sea which some 40-50 million years ago reached far south of the existing Mediterranean.

Finally, an exhilarating slide on a sandboard will leave you breathless while looking up to the high sandy slope you just dropped down from. If you forget your sandboard, fear not, as you can ask the driver to take you on a car-sliding trip, where the cars jump, almost vertically, off the sand dunes.

Malaysia: Jumping off towers, flying over oceans

Originally posted on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 25-10-2010

For some odd reason, the first thing I could think of after booking my flight to Malaysia was extreme sports. I have never tried my luck with any extreme sport before–except for a roller coaster in Egypt famous for its danger level–but I’m always up for a new challenge. For some reason, Malaysia, which had I never before visited, seemed like the place to play out my extreme sports fantasy. Indeed, my gut feeling could not have been more accurate.

The adventure started with roaming Kuala Lumpur and enjoying the warm but humid weather. The tourist-friendly city is easy to navigate, with a number of different transportation options including the monorail, the underground, and coupon taxis (you buy a coupon from a taxi station for a set price to take you from point A to point B). Even on the more crowded streets, the noise of cars is at a minimum–a huge contrast to the cacophony of Cairo’s streets.

As we left the Petronas Twin Towers, which were the world’s tallest buildings between 1998 and 2004 and still are the tallest twin towers in the world, we headed to the Kuala Lumpur Tower to witness a parachuting competition that was underway at the time of our visit. The Kuala Lumpur Tower, which was built back in 1995 and is the 18th tallest freestanding building in the world, is 335 meters high and used both for communication purposes and as an Islamic “falak” observatory to sight the crescent moon in order to mark the beginning of Muslim month of Ramadan.

But that’s not all: The tower also holds an annual race in which participants race up the tower’s stairs, as well as an annual parachuting event, and in addition it’s the launch pad of the famous “Flying Fox” challenge.

The “Flying Fox” is the largest bat in the world, known in Latin as pteropus, and it’s also the name for an extreme sport whereby a cable connects a small 100-meters-high launch pad to another pad lying flat on the land, and participants wear a special outfit that connects them by wire to the cable, allowing them to slide down the cable all the way from the launch pad to the landing pad.

For just 30 Malaysian ringgit (the official currency of Malaysia, equal to almost LE1.7) you can put on the heavy outfit and a big helmet and sign a waiver releasing the organizers from responsibility for any injuries or accidents during the stunt, before heading with a pair of instructors to the launch pad.

One of the two instructors jumped first, with such grace that the whole thing seemed to be too easy. The other, holding two hooks connected to my outfit, hooked the first to the launch pad itself, securing me, while he hooked the other wire to the cable. I was still in a cheery mood, willing myself to forget how high up we were, while the guy unhooked the security wire and gestured me to slide.

There I hung, on the other side of the cable, gazing at the high launch pad I had just jumped off, noticing how my fingers were trembling. The first second I was on my own, hanging from the sky, was extremely scary, but the fast slide and an amazing feeling of freedom took over, and half way down the cable I took a 360 degrees turn around myself before landing on the ground where the other instructor secured my landing.

I couldn’t resist taking another jump.

As we were about to leave, my friend and I stood for a while, gazing up the tower, watching the people parachuting. I imagined their feelings as they let go of their body to drop from a height of 300+ meters. For a short while they would just free-fall, before they pulled the strings and the parachute opened. A police officer was standing on the landing trail waiting for them, securing the place for their landing, making sure no passers-by got in the way, unaware of the flying person landing from above.

Parachuting was in my near future, I just didn’t know it at that time.

After traveling around Malaysia for two weeks, we decided to stay at a resort on an island called Langkawi. The beautiful sandy beach on the Indian Ocean was a picture-perfect earthly haven that invites you to simply lay down on the sand and enjoy a good book. The unchanging warm weather throughout the year, the beautiful waves of the Indian Ocean, and the sweet feel of the sands on your feet are the ultimate pleasure as you take a late night walk under the clear sky.

The beach, however, was busy with water activities, including the usual suspects (banana boats, jetskis and the likes). One thing, however, caught my attention.

Parasailing was a rather novel concept to me. The idea of parasailing is simple: A person is towed behind a boat while attached to a specially designed parachute, known as a parasail. The boat then drives off, carrying the parascender into the air. Imagine all that, however, with the scenery of a Malaysian coastline spread out beneath you.

Five kilometers of parasailing costs only 50 ringgit, and the instructor, a short, shirtless Malaysian guy will force you to don a life jacket underneath the wires connecting you to the parasail and inundate you with instructions before allowing you to fly off.

“When boat start go, run,” he said, using only the verbs necessary. “See flag [he points to a flag waving in his hand], pull red.” One of the wires of the parasail had a red ribbon tied on it, which you must pull hard to be able to land after your journey.

Suddenly, the boat was on the move, and so was I.

Three steps toward the sea, and my feet were no longer on the sand. Seconds later I was flying over the ocean, overlooking the small islands covered in trees. One of the islands looked like a ring surrounding a small lake (or was it part of the ocean water? I couldn’t tell). I couldn’t help but curse in amusement.

The winds were taking me higher, and the boat was flying over the waves underneath me. As I was heading back, people stood watching me land with big smiles on their faces. A sunbathing Australian tourist ran away from my landing point, fearing I would crash into her. Then, after ten minutes up in the air, I was back on my feet, and on the ground again.

Wine-making in the Middle East: Egypt

Originally posted on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 04-10-2010

English philosopher Francis Bacon once said, “Age appears to be best in four things: Old wood best to burn, old friends to trust, old authors to read and old wine to drink.”

While the saying is both poetic and true, I doubt Bacon ever tried any of the Egyptian wine now available in Cairo. Old or not, most wine brands in Egypt remain less than satisfactory.

In search of better local wine, this reporter stumbled upon an advertisement for a wine-tasting event in Egypt. Slightly confused, I followed the link to the website of Gianaclis Wines in Egypt, where I found information about a wine-tasting tour for those interested in visiting the winery, which is located on the outskirts of Alexandria.

Although booking the tour wasn’t as smooth as my previous experience in Lebanon (where one merely has to show up at the Ksara winery), the rest of my trip with Gianaclis was a positive one.

So, here I am, in a car speeding down the Alex Desert Road, thinking about my little adventure: wine tasting in a country in which advertising for alcoholic products is forbidden and hiding your newly-purchased bottle of wine in a dark bag is a must.

This, however, was not always the case in Egypt.

“It’s widely accepted that the ancient civilizations of Egypt were making wine,” says master sommelie (wine aficionado) Bryan Dawes. “There is evidence to support this in many artifacts that have been found all over the country.”

“It is believed that the Egyptians spread the art of viticulture westwards through the Mediterranean to Greece, who in turn took it to the Roman civilization,” he added. “And from there, it spread throughout Europe.”

Some 130 kilometers later, we left the desert road and headed for the village of Gianaclis.

“They named the place after our winery,” says Ghali Shafik, brand manager for Al-Ahram Beverages Company, who volunteered to join the tour. “As you can see, the road sign carries our name.”

According to Shafik, over a century ago, a Greek entrepreneur named Nestor Gianaclis landed in Egypt and embarked on a quest to find land suitable for growing the noble grapes needed to produce fine wine. This journey lead Gianaclis to Egypt’s Nile Delta, where he built his winery.

The winery, however, was soon nationalized.

“When we were privatized again, we didn’t have any noble grapes with which to make prime wine anymore,” Shafik told me, as we stood gazing at the numberless bottles of wine on display. “So we imported grapes from Lebanon to make the different wine brands that you know and drink today.”

“I have read reports that the [Gianaclis] winery also purchases fruit from outside the country to supplement its production,” says Dawes. “So we have to question its authenticity as a truly Egyptian product.”

“We started to plant vines in 2004,” says winery production manager Sebastian Boudry. “We now have 500 acres of vines, mainly in Khatatba [near Alexandria] and Luxor. We still import some grapes from Lebanon, but our objective is to develop the Egyptian vineyards.”

Winery management assured Al-Masry Al-Youm that only 2 percent of their wine was made from Lebanese grapes, while the rest was made from pure Egyptian grapes.

“If you look at history, you will find grapes in Egypt for more than 6000 years,” says Boudry. “This means that conditions here are good for grapes–we only have to water them.”

“Wine producing countries are by nature ideally suited to climates in which there is a definite winter season to allow the vines time to rest,” says Dawes. “Wine is produced in hotter climates, but the sitting usually coincides with a cool micro climate usually achieved by planting vineyards at higher altitudes to take advantage of cooler temperatures.”

The winery produces three kinds of wine: standard wine (Obelisk, Omar al-Khayyam); mid-range wine (Chateau, Grand Marqis); and fine wine (Leila, Ayam, Zaman). The wine tasting event focused on the fine wine category, and–despite my relatively limited experience–the better quality of the three fine wines sampled was easily detectable.

“Unfortunately, during nationalization, the quality of the wine deteriorated,” says Boudry. But despite the fact that the winery was built 125 years ago, Boudry adds, “We’re still young; we need time to produce fine wine.”

According to Dawes, the reasons for the underdevelopment of the local wine industry are obvious.

“Development has been held back by governments that do not promote the production of alcohol in Islamic states,” he says. “Laws also do not allow direct wine sales by wineries to the public, making wine tourism very difficult–if not downright impossible.”

“We’re almost alone in Egypt,” says Boudry. “If I was back in France, I would pick up the phone and ask for advice from the winery beside me. But here it’s more difficult, and the weather is difficult from Morocco to Lebanon.”

Shafik, for his part, laments the ban on the use of conventional media outlets to advertise alcoholic beverages in Egypt. “It’s not a complete ban, as we can advertise in some magazines, but we can’t use television at all,” he says.

What’s more, the local market often fails to appreciate new wine brands, regardless of quality. “It is hard to see how a relatively small production unit can establish itself as a serious export enterprise without strong local wine sales,” notes Dawes.

When asked if he expected any changes to the law banning advertisements of alcoholic beverages, Shafik avoided the question by insisting that their marketing strategy relied on word-of-mouth.

“We’ve managed to get our message out by talking to consumers directly,” he says. “This way, we have found, the message can actually be more powerful than by simply taking out ads in a magazine.”

Ramadan forever after: Fairytales from Damascus and Beirut

Originally published on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 26-08-2010

Ramadan is a time of fasting, self-restraint and good deeds. It is also an occasion for storytelling, either in celebration of the nightly feasts or as a way to pass the time between. In the spirit of the long days and longer nights of Ramadan, Al-Masry Al-Youm shares stories and tips for a good month in a new series called “Alf Leila We Leila: Stories for Ramadan Through the Ages.” Throughout the holy month, we will post original pieces from the Al-Masry Al-Youm staff on everything from how to host a perfect iftar to the five senses of the season, alongside Arabic literature from Scheherazade to Mahfouz.

Below, reporter Ahmed Ramadan recalls two stories of his Ramadan past.

For someone born to a Muslim Syrian father and Christian Lebanese mother, Ramadan was always quite an experience on both sides of the family. It is interesting how the month of Ramadan plays a role in creating two unforgettable memories of mine about the two extremely different sides of my family, and that these memories stand the challenges of time and forgetfulness.

Damascus:

I remember a Ramadan night when I spent the evening at my grandmother’s house. The seven-, maybe eight-, year-old me was trying to be helpful by spreading the plates on the table while my grandfather, who happened to distrust TV iftar announcements, was listening for the deeper, static voice of the Omayyad mosque muezzen on the official Damascus radio station who always calls the sunset prayer two minutes too late.

While it seemed to me and my two cousins that we stayed up very late that night, we must have slipped into dreamland long before midnight. At 3AM we were awakened by a loud knocking from the street.

“Al-Mesaheer,” my grandmother said, opening the door to our small room. “Who wants to see al-Mesaheer?!”

Al-Mesaheer, known as Mesaharaty in Egypt, is only seen in the month of Ramadan. He holds his little drum, knocking on it rhythmically five times in front of each house in his neighborhood in order to wake people up foral-sohour, the famous pre-fasting meal.

“Qumo ala sohour-kon, khalli Ramadan yezor-kon,” he sings, asking people to wake up for their sohour, allowing the month of Ramadan to visit their homes. Then he starts calling the man of each house by the name of his eldest son. “Abu-Ahmed (Father of Ahmed), wake up for your sohour; Abu-Khaled, you wake up, too.”

Three tiny faces gathered in the window overlooking the main street next to my grandfather’s old Damascus house. For a second, all we saw was a bright light coming from afar and blocking our view, then suddenly, we noticed the son of al-Mesaheer walking sleepily, holding a small lamp responsible for the bright light. Behind the child was the silhouette of his father in his big fez, darkened by the light in front of him, his small drum and his sherwall (traditional shami black pants that were the inspiration behind rapper M.C. Hammer’s famous pants). He was walking slowly, looking left and right, and calling people to wake up.

“Ya nayeem waheed El-Dayeem, ya nayeem waheed Rabak,” he said with a hint of adoration, as he called sleeping people to wake up and pray to God, who never sleeps.

He walked by us, ignoring us, calling out for more people to wake up before the light of his son’s lamp dims.

The sky, on the other hand, was getting bluer by the second.

Beirut:

I can’t really tell you what it felt like. All that snow on the road, all the frost on the car windows, and the warmth of the wool gloves my mother made me.

My uncle lives in Beirut, almost an hour and half away from Baalbek, my mother’s tiny home city in Lebanon’s Bekaa valley. We were heading there early one Sunday morning, trying to avoid the Beirut traffic.

The somewhat sulky teenaged me was sitting in the backseat watching the road silently, while my mother held her breath whenever my uncle took a dangerous turn or got a little close to the edge of the road overlooking the valley.

“So, you are fasting this year?” my uncle asked, looking at me in the front mirror. My mother tightened her hand on his, asking him to shut up. I did not answer my uncle’s question and kept my thoughts to myself. I was indeed fasting that year, but for some odd reason, I wanted to keep that information to myself.

The snow began disappearing slowly as we got closer to Lebanon’s seaside. The clouds, however, were still present and the rain did not stop.

Although I had visited Beirut before, this is my first concrete memory of the city: a rainy Ramadan day with cold dark skies painted with spots of light escaping the clouds. I knew that it would be lunch time when we arrived at my uncle’s house, so I asked my mother if she minded dropping me on the sea ridge.

“But it’s raining,” my mother said in a horrified voice. “And you don’t know the way to your uncle’s house.” I calmly convinced her that I could handle some rain and would be able to find my uncle’s house easily. I gathered my CD player and my coat, and was out of the car before she could argue with me anymore.

I remember walking for hours in the rain, listening to a CD of the last year’s hits over and over. I still remember the tracklist: Santana’s “Smooth,” N’Sync’s “It’s Gonna Be Me,” Madonna’s “Music,” Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” and Will Smith’s “Wild Wild West.” The rain became harsher as the evening arrived and people started to disappear from the streets around me. Suddenly, the call to prayer came from a nearby mosque. It was time for iftar.

With my music in the background, I started running aimlessly. I couldn’t tell where exactly I was going, but I was heading toward the spot where my mother dropped me hours ago. I couldn’t see the streets anymore. I wasn’t sure if that was because I was crying or because of the rain. I fell in the mud.

“Are you going somewhere?” a taxi driver asked me. He had a huge tattoo of a saint on his left shoulder. “I need to go to Rue Spears, please,” I said. “I want to catch the iftar.”

When I arrived at the house, two hours late for iftar, my mother brought me a hot meal and some dry clothes, and sat next to me, watching me eat quietly.

Why do we travel? To be free

Originally published on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 06-09-2010

The sky was getting darker and the cold wind was becoming harsher, but hiding behind the closed windows of the ferry taking me back from Anadolu Kavagi, a village overlooking the Black Sea, to Istanbul, I was shielded from the elements.

The chilly though enjoyable atmosphere was the highlight of my trip to Turkey last February. I remember thinking about the small joys of travel, right after I bought some boiling hot black tea from a coffee shop aboard the ferry. As I held the tea cup, I could feel the warmth traveling through the fabric of my gloves, a pair I had bought years earlier in Cairo but had never used until that moment. The contrast between hot and cold heightened my senses, and my eyes followed the drops of rain as they fell and left traces across the glass window next to me. The boat was sailing down the Bosphorus strait. To my left was Europe with its glaring lights, and to my right rested Asia. The continents were calling my name.

During that ferry ride, I was almost in denial. I couldn’t believe that I was there, somewhere between Europe and Asia, listening to Dido’s “Give me Strength” and emancipated from the “Arab Traveler Lock-in Syndrome” (ATLS)–a very unique condition that hits people like me, and those with similar circumstances. ATLS–I pronounce the term like the word “atlas”–is something my family and friends have come to know well after I was diagnosed with the syndrome.

You see, as a poor journalist without a foreign passport, I’ve believed for so long that I’m one of these unfortunate people that won’t get to travel too far. Stuck with my Syrian passport that won’t take me anywhere, I once believed that Egypt was the farthest place I could dream of traveling to.

My love for novelty and my passion for traveling took me all across Egypt. And I managed to visit places some Egyptians have never been to–the Black and White Desert, Siwa Oasis, Qusair and Aswan. Through these trips, I tried to calm the symptoms of my unique syndrome, but I never really managed to satisfy that beast inside of me that always hungers for new places and experiences.

A “lock-in syndrome” is a real condition. It’s a rare neurological disorder characterized by complete paralysis of voluntary muscles in all parts of the body except for those that control eye movement. Individuals with lock-in syndrome are conscious and can think and reason, but are unable to speak or move. The disorder leaves individuals completely mute and paralyzed. That is exactly how I felt, as an Arab who enjoys traveling.

A small number of embassies would open their doors to me, and even a smaller number of countries would allow me a non-visa visit. Europe and the United States, although on the top of my dream list, are the hardest to get into, for reasons of stereotypes and stigmas.

It often seemed to me that the embassy officials of these nations are not willing to look at each and every case of a visa application individually. Although I’m a middle-class Arab with a good education and, as my friend puts it, no criminal record, I’m still treated like one of these people who would overstay their tourist visa and work illegally in Europe or the States.

Admittedly, we hear all the time about Egyptians illegally entering Italy. How could the people reading my application be sure that this guy, in his mid-twenties, is not going to do the same? I understand that, but it doesn’t help me fight my ATLS, my condition of paralysis and inability to speak.

I felt unworthy of the gift of travel.

I always heard something too–a trickle, the sound of my life slipping away. Day after day I would feel the itch to journey, to know new places and hear different languages, and I would suppress my feelings with a new trip to Dahab or Marsa Matrouh, both inside Egypt. Several attempts to get a tourist visa to Italy or the United Kingdom failed miserably and my depression went through the roof.

No matter how many midnight trains I take inside Egypt or Syria, I still felt that my journey has not started yet. I needed to go somewhere new so bad that sometimes I felt I was going out of my mind.

But then there was a glimpse of hope. And, yes, I was saved.

Turkey and Syria opened their borders to each other’s citizens: no visa required.

In the airport in Istanbul I was standing there in the line, wearing my heaviest jacket and way too excited, when I saw this American man, wearing shorts and flip-flops and screaming in the face of the immigration officer. The American guy–who had obviously researched the weather in Istanbul in February–did not believe that he needed to go to an extra window to pay for his entry visa. Such an easy and simple procedure somehow insulted him and he start cursing while heading to the wrong window. I wanted to help him, but he was fuming and unapproachable, and I was next in line.

I took a step forward, fearing that someone was going to take this chance of seeing a new land away from me. I greeted the immigration officer briefly and smiled; he smiled back, and stamped my passport. I was in Turkish land. I was free to travel.

I was once asked what travel means to me. The images that came to my mind were not of journeys and trips, but of someone trapped, staying in the same place, the same street, the same city, the same country…for too long. The feeling that surfaced was of stillness and routine, and the knowledge that there is nothing new to know and experience. Simply because I have come to associate these feelings with travel. Or, more precisely, with the lack thereof.

For me, travel is not an action in itself, it is a reaction against stillness–and with all the negativity in my life, there is a need for novelty. It is simply the need to ponder on all my unanswered questions as I am introduced to even new ones.

Right before I started writing this, I got an email confirming my booking for a double room in Mulu Park in Malaysia. I have heard that it has the hugest cave system in the world. It is just a ten-hour flight away–no visa required.

You can imagine how I felt. And again, for a moment, it seemed that the syndrome was finally leaving me–I was being healed, and now able to move–or at least fidget–in my psychological cage…slipping through bit by bit.

Tradition vs.modernism in the street of the tentmakers

Originally published on Al-Masry Al-Youm English Edition on 21-08-2010

In Egyptian Arabic, when referring to someone according to the work they do, people use a Turkish suffix rather than an Arabic one: inserting the letters “gy” at the end of the name of either the location or the product of their work to turn the word into the name of the career itself. That is why qahwagy means the man from the cafe and arbagy refers to the owner of horse-drawn carts. Therefore, when you say khayamgy, you are referring to someone who makes tents. The plural of khayamgy is khayamia–again, Turkish grammar–and that is also the name of the street in the al-Hussein area where all the tent makers in Cairo have their shops.

The street, deep in the Ghoria district in al-Hussein and only a few meters away from Bab Zuweila, is a traditional-looking market covered with a vault which gives it a calm atmosphere. As you walk down the quiet souq you will be dazzled by the beautiful and vivid colors of the fabrics sold in the various shops, and hear the different cries of welcome from the vendors, pulling out their finest pieces and unfolding them before your eyes and promising you the best prices.

There are many interesting traditions associated with the art of khayamia. Lead by the eldest worker in this career–Sheikh al-San’a, as they call him–each new person interested in joining the Khayamia district has to invite the heads of the workers to a lunch or dinner, where he presents some of his work hoping for their approval.

“They would present him with a gift if they approved his request to join the profession,” says Mahmoud Mohamed Hassan, who has been working in Khayamia for the last 17 years. He inherited his shop from his father and his grandfather before him. “Those were the good times, now anyone can join our trade, and honestly, the new people, who know nothing about our industry, are ruining our line of work for the rest of us.”

As the Arabic saying goes, the street is ‘deserted by footprints’–meaning that the place is empty– at the time of my visit, a number of children sitting sleepily in the shops surrounded by the different fabrics and watching Ramadan dramas on TV. Most of the shop owners won’t show up beforeiftar now, as most of the people looking for Ramadan tents bought what they needed before the start of the holy month.

Tarek Fattoh, however, was working on a beautiful dark blue piece when I entered his shop. The artist, who has been in this career for the last 30 years, recalls earlier times in the street. “Khayamia used to be the place to purchase all the tents and saradiq (a certain type of tent used during funerals),” Fattoh says. “Now, the place offers lots of other products like bed sheets and table cloths, pillows and even small pieces to hang on the walls.”

The artists, early in the last century, used only four colors in making the fabric, “Red, green, yellow and blue used to be the only colors used in our art, because they are happy colors,” Fattoh adds, “now we have different models and colors to suit different home decor.”

“The art produced by khayamia is one of the cheapest Egyptian traditional arts, although it is one of the most difficult,” Fattoh says with a proud look on his face, “It needs a lot of concentration. It involves a lot of talented work and needs a sharp eye to create it.”

According to Fattoh, one small piece of the beautiful fabric, if handmade, might take up to ten hours of continuous work, but the resultant income is hardly worth that amount of effort, especially with the new technologies introduced by the recent wave of workers. Many of the khayamia have decided to turn their business into factories, where they use machines to print the beautiful drawings on the fabric instead of using appliqué to add the little pieces of colored fabric by hand one after the other to create the final product.

“These machine-printed pieces are just ink on fabric, and if it gets washed the print will easily fade away,” says Fattoh, who refrains from using such methods in his work, “while the handmade work is appreciated by a certain group of people who understand the beauty and the effort put into each piece.”

The khayamia fabric is not only to be found in the street of Khayamia anymore, as the beautiful prints are can now be seen in the fashion shows of new Egyptian designers. Feelings towards these new designers in the original district are mixed.

“New local fashion designers started to use our fabric in their creations, but we are not interested in adding this new line to our industry,” Fattoh explains. “It is hard for someone who is knowledgeable in one line of work to introduce other lines in areas they don’t fully understand.”

Hassan recalls visits from the local designers, who were interested in the Islamic and Pharaonic prints he offers in his shop. “They wanted to take these prints and use them on T-shirts and galabiyas,” Hassan says. “They never tell us that they are going to use our products in their designs. They buy them like any other regular customer.”

This angers Hassan, as he believes that these drawings are trademarked by khayamia. “Elder people in our street drew these paintings,” he explains, “these people don’t ask for our permission to include our prints in their designs. If I knew they were going to steal our efforts, I would have never sold them anything.”

Overall, the art of khayamia is facing many challenges in today’s world, and the possibility of losing the origins of the beautiful fabric are significant.

“Without the support of the Ministry of Culture, I expect this art to become extinct.” Fattoh says. “Foreigners are the ones that reintroduced this form of art to back to the Egyptians.” Fattoh sends a plea for help out to any government-based organization to help revive the art by organizing annualkhayamia exhibitions. He believes that this is the only way to save the art from disappearing from the Egyptian markets.

Saeed Mokhtar, one of the oldest khayamia in the street, has found a different way to survive these new challenges. His son started to redirect their business to create Ramadan lanterns and bathroom towels using the same traditional fabric and the same prints. While his son believes that this is the future of khayamia, his father sees the new direction in a very different light.

“I don’t want to take part in these new modernized techniques,” he says bitterly, “this profession now includes people who used to be chicken and cheese sellers.” He takes a minute and shakes his head before saying “this career is almost dying.” The old man can’t help his anger and screams in my face, “Bedahya! (Good riddance!)”.