From Souk to Souk

by Robin Ratchford

  ‘Oye, guapo, are you listening to me?’ laughed Paco, poking me firmly on the arm.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, only half truthfully. ‘There is just so much to see here.’

  Opposite the café, the modest dimensions of the Place de l’Unesco had been given over to the colourful market. Potted and bedding plants were set out on the stone paving in table-sized rectangles, some shaded from the sun by large white parasols. With Mother’s Day less than twenty-four hours away, the timing was perfect. People milled along the pathways between the densely-packed rows of tulips, pansies, begonias and hydrangeas, surveying the specimens. A dame d’un certain âge, elegant in perfectly pressed slacks, a light pullover draped over her bony shoulders, tried to retain her husband’s attention while she discussed a parlour palm, her jewellery glistening in the sun as she gently examined the fronds. A little further on, a young couple carefully picked out geraniums while their two small children squabbled over a teddy bear. Paco and I finished our coffees and meandered over to the little market to take a closer look. The scent of rosemary and lavender danced alongside heady oriental perfumes and cigarette smoke, while Arabic and French wove together seamlessly in the conversations around us. An earnest-looking young man behind a table with jars of honey and sachets of dried herbs was talking to a woman as she inspected one of the pots. I wondered if he realised that his polo shirt was almost Tyrian purple, the colour of the dye obtained from sea snails, once worth its weight in silver and from which his ancestors made their fortune supplying the elites of Greece and Rome. He looked at us as we walked past, his face warming with a familiar smile, his regard lingering a moment too long. We made our way slowly round the market till we came to a stall set up with oil paintings of local scenes and buildings like those around us. A portrait of an old woman, seemingly local and cheerful in her beige headscarf, looked copied from a photograph. The forty-something artist, in white shirt and jeans, hovered by the canvases with contrived indifference, his dark sunglasses veiling his true thoughts. We paused to look at the limited collection before continuing, casually, on our way.

  Paco suggested we go to the souk and, taking my arm, led me through a stone passageway that opened out onto a carefully renovated street lined with single-storey shops. The souk looked more like a stage set than a traditional Middle Eastern bazaar: spotless paving stones and decorative cobbles ran between the two rows of improbably tidy shops with old-fashioned lanterns hanging from their wide eaves. We walked up one side and back down the other, perusing the souvenirs: postcards, Lebanese flags, mugs, rainbow windmills for children and the ubiquitous scarves in any colour one could think of. Stopping to inspect a display of watercolours of the harbour and town, Paco asked me if I wanted to buy anything. I shook my head and smiled. We walked on, briefly entering a bookshop and a dimly-lit store peddling a few tatty and overpriced lithographs of local scenes, nothing I felt compelled to add to my modest collection back home. Our last stop was a place selling fossils – fishes and shrimps caught forever in slices of stone. It seemed a strange spot for such a shop, its ancient rocks a stark contrast to the touristic junk for sale elsewhere in the street. Ironically for a town once one of the great commercial centres of the world, today Byblos’ souk is a souk only in name, a mere pastiche through which urbane Beirutis and cautious tourists can wander without worrying about the risk of seeing anything real.

  Before long, we reached the end and, strolling through another covered passageway, found ourselves in a small square with a patch of emerald green grass in its centre. A short distance away to the south, the twelfth-century crusader castle stood on a modest rise, its thick walls designed to keep out attackers now but a cultural highlight for sightseers. Yet, despite its impressive ramparts and imposing castle, Giblet, as the Crusaders called Byblos, fell first in 1187 to Saladin, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, and then to the warrior-sultan Baybars less than a century later, just two of the many invasions and conquests the town has seen since it was first settled in Neolithic times. We headed towards the citadel and the entrance to the archaeological site, beyond which lay the ruins of millennia of human occupation.

  A row of half a dozen pillars, resurrected from among the dust and scraggy oleander bushes and topped with eroded Corinthian capitals, are among the few substantial remains of what was once ancient Byblos. It was here, over 3,500 years ago, that the Phoenicians, needing to keep track of all the goods they traded, invented the first abjad or consonant-based alphabet. All Western alphabets are derived from their creation. The first two letters represented ‘ox’ and ‘house’ respectively, which, when translated into Greek, evolved to become alpha and beta. The original Phoenician ‘aleph’ is still today the name of the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and, of course, beta lives on in both the Arabic and Hebrew words for house, ‘beit’. That this relatively little-known town is the source of one of the most basic elements of our modern world is testified to by UNESCO registering the Phoenician alphabet as part of the documentary heritage of humankind, its importance transcending the boundaries of time and culture.

  As we wandered between the low walls and random stones, I found it difficult to imagine how the place must have looked in antiquity. Where once high priests had made offerings and young wives had baked bread, gently lilting grass and meadow flowers now grew; where before sweating soldiers had marched and wily merchants had haggled over prices, today thorny shrubs and verdant palms held sway. Ironically, if nowadays the inhabitants of yore would scarcely be able to identify the ruins of their town’s once impressive stone buildings, they would probably recognise the delicate yellow and white blooms that soak up the sun. The lavish public architecture of this once great trading town had proven less enduring than the fragile flowers of the field. I paused to sit on a round stone, perhaps the vestiges of a column from a magnificent palace, and looked out at the Mediterranean, its waters sparkling in the spring sunshine. I watched Paco’s slight figure as he wandered slowly across the site, his thoughts elsewhere. The Phoenicians settled in his country, too: his distant ancestors might once have trodden the same path along which he now picked his way, texting a message in an alphabet that had its origins in this very place.

  After a while, we returned to the square in front of the castle before walking through another passageway in the thick medieval fortifications. We emerged to find ourselves in a sloping alley lined on both sides with thin, upright willows growing so close to the rough walls as to be touching them and forming an arched canopy of gentle branches, wispy fingers diffusing the sunlight that fell on to the path.

  Soon, we reached the harbour where a rather decrepit collection of fishing vessels, speed boats and pocket-sized pleasure cruisers bobbed languorously in the murky water, a sad reminder of Byblos’ 1960s heyday when, fleetingly, the town was a favourite of glamorous film stars. Now, peeling paint, frayed flags and oily water were the order of the day. On the north side of the waterfront, a trio of half-empty restaurant terraces, including one styling itself as ‘le rendezvous des personalités internationales’, was perched above stone retaining walls, the few diners there showing little interest in the harbour view below. We continued past parked cars to the breakwater and joined families and teenagers ambling along the broad concrete walkway to the end. Groups of young boys, tanned and slim, sat on the rocks, chatting, throwing pebbles into the sea or shouting encouragement to those who had ventured into the water to join the plastic bottles and other flotsam that drifted with the current. I wondered if they ever reflected on their town’s long history or thought about their ancestors: great kings such as Ahirom, whose name was literally carved in stone on his sarcophagus, now in the National Museum of Beirut, and countless others whose lives went unrecorded and who returned to dust to be forever forgotten.

  We walked back around the harbour and entered the few lanes that make up the old part of Byblos, traditional stone houses occasionally interspersed by a modern villa with a perfect sea view. As the land rose behind the harbour,
streets were replaced by pathways and, in just a few paces, we found ourselves in a less manicured world where the small homes seemed to be locked in an existential struggle with the thick vegetation that grew all around them. Twisted fig trees and windblown palms were joined by gangs of weeds and tangled bushes that crept between walls and silently gripped wrought iron gates as if determined to reclaim the core of this ancient town. Renovated, the buildings could have been quaint, but as it was they were merely dilapidated and sad. Seeing a narrow flight of stone steps lead off between two walls, we headed up them, brushing away the insects and flies that dropped off the overhanging leaves and branches as we pushed our way past, for a moment schoolboys once more. After a few steps turning this way and that, we found ourselves on a grassy platform overlooking the sea painted with the first lines of copper and auburn as the sun began drifting towards the horizon. In silence, we watched as a small boat slowly sailed towards the harbour.

  Behind us, on the other side of the path, a dense patch of low vegetation covered the ground between the grass and a crumbling stone wall. At first, it seemed to be nothing more than more weeds, but then I recognised the familiar shapes of parsley, chives, sage and other herbs thriving in the cool half-shadow of a nearby tree. As soon as I realised what they were, I suddenly became aware of their fragrances floating around us, mingling with a faint smell of rosemary I had already noticed.

  A voice broke into the early evening air. We looked round to see an old woman, a housecoat over her simple clothes, slippers on her feet, slowly making her way towards us. Only now did I notice a few garments hanging limply from a washing line a short distance away and realise that the run-down buildings beyond them were occupied: we had strayed into her garden. She spoke again, her guttural Arabic tones unintelligible to me, but the timbre discernibly friendly. Her gait was uncertain, her thin legs supporting a lean body, perhaps a deflated version of her former self. Apparently undeterred by the lack of response, she continued her monologue. I apologised in English and then in French for trespassing, but she did not react; instead she bent down and began tearing at the plants. I tried to catch Paco’s eye, but his regard was focused on the old woman. Straightening up and still speaking, she held out a handful of basil as if it were a posy and nodded for me to take it. Surprised, I hesitated before reaching out and taking the small gift from her hand, rough from years of hard work and burnt almost to the colour of leather by the eternal sun. I expected her dark eyes to glisten with kindness, but they were just weary and dull.

  ‘Shukran,’ I mumbled, repeating my thanks more loudly as the old woman turned away.

  She continued her soliloquy, making a sweeping movement with a thin arm in the direction of the harbour below. I was unsure whether she was speaking to us or to herself, but endeavoured to look as if I were listening. The tone of her voice recounted a tale of better days, infused perhaps with regret and nostalgia for a time when her hair was sable rather than silver. After a while, she seemed to tire and bid us what I assumed to be a farewell.

  ‘Au revoir, et merci,’ I called as she walked slowly back along the path.

  ‘Allah yasalmik,’ said Paco, who had listened discreetly but not reacted to the old woman’s ramblings. He turned to look at me and shrugged his shoulders, his intensely blue eyes as bright as ever despite the fading light.

  I contemplated the basil and then the herb garden before turning to follow the path a short distance where another, wider flight of stone steps led further up the hill. Unkempt, dishevelled, this seemingly forgotten part of town was beyond the route most tourists chose.

  ‘What did she say?’ I asked Paco, a couple of paces behind me, as I passed an upturned plastic chair in a tiny, overrun garden that had known better times.

  ‘What everyone of her generation here says,’ he sighed after a pause.

  At the top of the steps the path continued a few paces before broadening out into a lane. The overgrown world of the hillside melted away and once again we were in a carefully maintained street.

  Ahead of us loomed a small square building; a modest dome on top and a couple of arches attached to its side looked more like afterthoughts than an integral part of a planned design. A petite bell tower rising from the flat roof added a delicate touch to an otherwise squat, solid-looking structure, the tiny cross atop it standing out against the startlingly azure sky. Its masonry was of the same rough stone as most of the old buildings in Byblos, yet it stood surrounded by paving that evoked a modern art interpretation of a chess board. High up, bunches of greenery clung to the stonework as if seeking sanctuary, their dainty flowers out of reach of those who would pick them as an ephemeral souvenir, only to discard them hours later. Even so, the small windows, set at various heights in the thick walls, gave it more the aspect of a tiny castle than the Romanesque-style church it was. As we arrived at the twelfth-century building named after St John the Baptist, we were not alone: men in sharp black suits and women in haute couture mingled around the entrance, oblivious to passers-by. It could have been a fashion show, it could have been a film set, or it could have been a wedding: in Lebanon, it seems that even the participants are not always sure.

  We ambled on and eventually found ourselves back at the market. It was busier than when we had first walked round it, but there seemed to be just as many flowers and plants. From a row of little cages filled with canaries and finches birdsong floated through the early evening air. We contemplated cacti and perused plumbago, our pace determined by the shuffling mass of day-trippers who now filled the square. Suddenly, I realised I was gazing at jars of honey of the deepest amber and, looking up, saw the young man we had noticed before. He was perhaps in his early twenties and somewhat slimmer than the average Lebanese male, whose body is given form by military service and further honed in the gym. He smiled shyly as if suppressing a firmer emotion. Paco took a jar of honey in his slender fingers and, giving it a cursory examination, began to speak to him in Arabic. The tone was matter-of-fact, but my friend is a poet and I knew his words would be carefully chosen and elegant. The young man laughed nervously, white teeth flashing. Paco spoke again and, after hesitating, the young man nodded. The transaction was executed quickly and we walked away, my host now the owner of a jar of finest Lebanese honey, apparently produced by bees that live among the country’s few remaining cedar trees. The day was drawing to a close and the market would soon be over. I told Paco I would like to watch the sun go down.

  ***

  The orange disc has almost reached the horizon and is about to slip into the sea and into the underworld beyond, guided by Shalim, the god of dusk. This small town has outlived many of its great contemporaries: Palmyra, Ur, Babylon and Uruk lie in ruins, their erstwhile grandeur of legend now nothing more than bare stones and crumbling mounds. The buildings in Byblos, which once stood coevally with the fine architecture of such cities, are now also reduced to mere relics, but, in contrast to the others, Byblos itself has survived. Like the plants adorning the town’s ramparts and the flowers among the ruins, it has constantly renewed itself, retaining an alluring youthfulness and flourishing centuries after others have faded into the desert. Over time, hundreds of generations have enjoyed the splendour of the setting sun from this spot, including the fisherman of my daydreams. Illiterate he might have been, his life uncomplicated by today’s comforts and technology, but he would still have been able to take pleasure in the beauty of the day’s end. Although separated by millennia and our understanding of the event, it was an experience we shared: it was his sunset and it was mine.

  My thoughts drift on the warm evening air to the old woman in her cottage. The ascetic lifestyle I envisage her leading might not be so different from that of my imaginary fisherman of antiquity. I look at the wilting spray of basil, the herb that represents best wishes, and wonder if anyone will buy her a Mother’s Day gift. Perhaps a washing machine. Somehow, I doubt it. But maybe the glow of tomorrow’s sunset will bring her a few moments of familiar joy.

&n
bsp; In the City of Sinbad – Fortune and Fate

  I am sitting on a yellow plastic chair looking at an unloaded handgun and reflecting on the day’s events. The evening air is warm and the chatter in the background lends a sense of the ordinary to a world that is anything but. I consider myself lucky to be here, but even luckier to be able to leave.

  ***

  Like some slain monster the capsized ship lay motionless on its side, the murky waters lapping against its rusting hull. Where once white paint had gleamed, corroding metal now crumbled away, flake by flake, while the last vestiges of wooden decking clung precariously to the vertical. Two bearded fishermen crouched near the stern on what might previously have been the wall of the ship’s bridge; a third, wearing a khaki-green bucket hat, sat on a curved piece of brown metal, the stump of a missing leg tucked underneath his light grey thobe. The trio watched as we sailed slowly past, their fishing lines hanging limply, faces expressionless. The ship, blown out of the water by fighter planes during the Iraq war, was now a rotting carcass, just one more ugly scar left by the bloody conflict that flashed onto television screens around the world in the early years of this century. Since the war ended, media interest has gradually faded and the public in the West has enjoyed the luxury of boredom setting in as post-conflict violence drags on over the years. For the people of Basra, however, the aftermath is still visible and, even if the television crews have long since packed their bags and left, the consequences of the invasion continue to unfold, inexorably changing the culture and life of the city.