The city of Tripoli has a long history. Just south of Italy, Libya sits right between the western and eastern Mediterranean. The ancient Phoenicians, and later Romans, established three main colonies here, Leptis Magna, Oea, and Sabratha, hence the name Tri (3) poli (city). Tripoli sits directly over the ruins of Oea; Sabratha and Leptis lie directly to the west and east of here.
When our first work week came to an end we were ready to rest, but also eager to explore. Our first adventure outside of Tripoli was to the ruins of Sabratha, about 45 miles away. We got some simple directions from Terri, one of the few other teachers here that wasn't new. She said it was pretty much a straight shot on the main road, and it was, almost.
We woke up that first Friday morning and got on the road. Fridays here are like Sundays back home, it's the Muslim day of worship, and because of Ramadan, the streets were completely empty. We navigated our way to throughout the Seraj circle, a roundabout, counted the exits until we got the one for the freeway, and we were off.
Right away we began to look around for markers to be able to recognize our exit on the way back home. The freeway, a two lane road, is more like a mix between the 99 and Highway 1 in California. It's two lanes both ways, but with multiple side streets and stop lights as it works its way through the suburbs of Tripoli and the cities beyond. There are really no freeway exits; just pull off to the side of the road if you see a place where you want to stop. And often people traveling on one side of the road will pull over then cross the freeway on foot to go to whatever shop they need to go to; so you gotta watch for pedestrians.
We were on the road for about 30 minutes when it began to curve as it entered the next town. We made a wrong turn and ended up driving into the city. We stopped after a few minutes. I got out of the car and approached some men sitting on a couple of benches. After they accepted the fact that I didn't speak Arabic, despite my Arabic face, they understood that we were lost. I just repeated 'Sabratha, Sabratha,' and they pointed the way back to the freeway. We got back on and about 15 minutes later we saw the turn out for Sabratha.
The was nothing special about the street leading to Sabratha, so even though we were pretty sure that we were getting close, it was until we saw the massive theater that we finally let go of our breath.
I don't know what words to use to describe the scene or what we felt upon resting our eyes on the sight before us. As we drove up to the parking lot, a 2,000 year old theater dominated the land and sky. When you think of ancient ruins, you might imagine piles of stone and marble thrown about kind of like what's left behind when a child plays with lego blocks. But the theater at Sabratha stands almost completely intact and does not stand delicately at all but rather with all the permanence of the pyramids themselves.
I've been to other ancient sites, and some are either piles of rock with signs and drawings of what used to stand there. Or, they are intact structures like the Colosseum in Rome which is there to testify for itself. Sabratha is one such sight.
We paid the entry fee and once we left behind the security guards at the gate, we were happy to discover that we had the site almost all to ourselves. We made our way to the theater and the columns and arches rose higher into the sky as we inched closer.
We walked in from a side entrance, quite possibly into a changing area for performers. Those of you who have performed on stage would have found this place very familiar. It's a testament to these ancient people, that very little has been done to improve on their designs. Not because we aren't smart enough, but because they were so proficient at the art forms we continue today, the act of performing for an audience and all that comes with that, from the actual movement and placement of actors and dancers, to the architecture and design of the buildings themselves.
The stage itself has actually been slightly restored and modern productions continue at here. We took pictures all over the stage and seating areas, as we were free to explore the entire building with our only limitations being gravity itself.
We met a young Frenchman, exploring on his own, and he took a picture for us at the top level of the theater seating. There was also a couple of Englishmen we ran into, but mostly we were on our own.
After we finished searching through all the passageways of the theater we continued on to the area just outside. Old sights were temples and houses once stood now only the mosaics remain. These mosaics are still nearly entirely intact, and depict stories from ancient mythology or of daily life in ancient Rome. For those that might not know, a mosaic looks like a painting on the floor or on a wall from far away. It isn't until you get closer that you realize that there is no paint involved whatsoever. The images and designed are put together using different colored pieces of tile or rock. Every color is a natural occurring color found in the materials used. They are placed together to form vibrant scenes of battle, fishing, sex, worship, are intricate geometric designs.
We walked along the coast examining all the remains, the heat got the best of us and we headed back to the comfort of the theater to eat our lunch. Despite the beating sun, the theater is full of passageways designed to create wind tunnels where the temperature drops dramatically. We sat in one of these and comfortable ate our sandwiches and snacks amongst the ancient ruins. After eating we visited the museum to see the statues and other mosaics that had been salvaged from the elements before heading back home.
As the day passed we made our way out of the site and towards our car. We saw the security guards washing their feet, hands and heads using an outdoor water fountain, that was more like a big hose poor water from a pump or well. It was then that we heard the afternoon call to prayer. We began to drive back and encountered lots of traffic on the road. We got back on the freeway and learned more about daily prayers.
The road back to Tripoli is dotted by mosque after mosque after mosque. As we approached a mosque we saw dozens of cars pulling over and parking wherever they could and their drivers and passengers, all men, rushing inside. Every mosque we passed was surrounded by parked cars, and the flood of people crossing the highway increased as they parked across the road to get to the mosque. It seemed to us that wherever they might be, Libyans simply went to their nearest mosque whenever the call to prayer is sounded.
20 minutes later, we were still on the road, but now people were leaving the mosques and filling the highway. Suddenly, as we approached a mosque, all the parked cars came alive and wanted a piece of the road.
This was no longer the empty road that we enjoyed on the way west, heading east it was a different thing altogether. Cars weaved in and out of lanes, through the shoulders, and into the opposite lanes all for a few yards of road. Stopping at a stoplight is troublesome, because you don't know if other drivers are going to stop or not. When you do stop, the lights that are actually functioning have a countdown. Usually from 60 seconds, the numbers count down how long until a red turns green. People start honking at the front cars at about 5 seconds left, trying to urge them to go, even if the other traffic hasn't cleared the intersection.
Soon, we began to recognize the signs for our exit, got off and maneuvered through the circle and onto the street that would lead us home. We stopped to run some errands at the local markets, before finally getting home. It was a good day, but we were eager to get some rest. The rest of the weekend was spent getting ready for the start of school the following week.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Settling In
In Libya, as in much of the Muslim world, the work week begins on Sunday and runs through Thursday. So, the next morning after our arrival, Judith, the school's director showed up at our doorstep early to take us to school. Much of that first week was filled with orientation activities, some having to do with work, but mostly having to do with getting settled in to our new homes. As a big group of new incoming teachers, we were taken around town and shown some of the best places to get our food and housewares.
But, definitely one of the highlights of that week was getting our company car. We were very fortunate to get a new VW Golf; the car's size and handling make it perfect for maneuvering through the streets of Libya with all its hazards and obstacles.
The first two mornings, we were taken to school by Judith in her car. She reminded us to take notes so that we would remember how to get home on our own when we received our car. She assured us that even if we got lost that we could call, using the cell phones they gave us, and that someone would come get us. Still, it was pretty nerve wracking those few days thinking about having to drive home for the first time.
If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand that not everyone follows the same kind of traffic rules as in the US. Yet, many say that Libya's low population can be very much attributed to its lack of traffic laws; to be more explicit, there are no traffic laws; none. The motto in Libya is, 'if there is pavement, fill it.' Maneuvers that we might consider as aggressive driving back home are very common place here and are done without any bad intentions. Here, one simply wants to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means squeezing between to cars in front of you on a 2 lane road . . . when one of the other two cars is going the opposite way.
Well, after getting our car, we carefully made our way home. Driving under these conditions might prompt some people towards slower more cautious driving, big mistake. While the roads seems full of crazy drivers, there is a certain flow to it; if you're the only timid driver on the road, then you're the dangerous one. Of course, Libyans will also do things on the road that make very little sense at all no matter how you look at it. Instead of slowing down to go over a speed bump, many will go off the pavement and drive over the dirt sidewalks to not have to press on their brakes, even going around a car slowing down for the speed bump.
We hit the road, turned left at the Libyan school, past the 4 or 5 mosques between our home and the school, through the intersection with the non-functioning traffic light, and the cops asleep in the police car that hasn't moved in weeks, another left where the day workers wait, right at the monument, then a left, past the final mosque, another left, and another left on Nopal Ave and around the corner to our Oasis. The gate opens and we pull into our driveway, our green lawn and blue pool welcome us home every afternoon.
Another highlight of the orientation days was a field trip to the Media, the old city of Tripoli. The Medina is still surrounded by high defensive walls, dissected by long narrow streets, and filled with shops and businesses of all kinds.
We drove to school and met there. A bus was waiting for us, we got on board and headed downtown. The bus driver was a young guy, probably late 20s early 30s, and was very welcoming. He joked about driving in Libya, as he maneuvered through the streets and battled it out for space on the road against the traffic. He talked about the upcoming Al Fatah, the anniversary of the revolution that toppled the monarchy and brought Gaddafi to power.
'It's a big party' he said, 'a big party for Gaddafi.' Some of us laughed at this, 'everything for Gaddafi, everything.' His tone was not typically sarcastic, negative or with any ill intent. Yet it was obviously a critique, but accusatory and permissive at the same time.
He joked about this while keeping his eyes on the other drivers, and with a big smile on his face, beneath his wrap around sunglasses. It was the first time that I heard a Libyan utter anything that seemed to resemble a critique of Gaddafi or his government. It was interesting to see the expression on his face while saying this.
In the U.S, as in much of the western world, you could criticize political leaders without fear. You could wear a 'Fuck Bush' t-shirt and not worry about being put on trial or worse. Libya isn't exactly a free country, Gaddafi's been in power for 40 years. But there also isn't a overt show of force. Most police that we see are sleeping in their cars. So far, I've only seen them act when a traffic accident happens. There are no roving bands of soldiers in fatigues intimidating anyone. Libyans seem content, this is one of the richest countries in Africa, after all.
Yet, when I think about our driver that day, he seemed relaxed, happy to be able to express his views in a non-confrontational way, saying very little while at the same time sharing deep insights into the Libyan political and social environment.
The bus moved on, through the two lane highway, past the traffic circles, and down the main road leading to Green Square, downtown Tripoli. We got off the bus and stood before a Medieval wall. The wall showed its ancient age, yet still stood tall and strong and was an intimidating sight.
Our tour guide took us around the side of the wall, and we walked along the shore, the waves of the Mediterranean flapping against the ground. He talked to us about the remains of the fort that once protected the city as we moved past it and into the Medina.
The Medina is a mixture of people, architecture, history and culture. You can immediately see the influence of the various peoples and nations that have passed through Tripoli over the years. Italian architecture, in the form of a clock tower, cuts through the sky and rises above most of the buildings here. The Red Castle, from Islamic medieval times, casts a shadow over the streets around it. As we made our way deeper into the old city the streets became more narrow, and as time passed and the sun rose in the sky, they became more alive as well. Shop owners trickled in. First only a few, then a lot more, they raised the green metal gates to reveal small stands selling everything from basic everyday souvenirs to fine Libyan cloth and even some artifacts brought in from the desert and beyond.
We made our way west along the same roads first laid out by the Romans, millennia ago. As we walked, our guide pointed out some of the small telling signs of the history still present here. Jewish stars, Roman columns, all mixed and meshed together with Islamic overtones.
Along the way, old men sat on the sides of the narrow streets, watching curiously as this group of Americans gazed at their everyday lives as if it were all some exhibit in a museum. Kids ran past us, staring at us as we smiled at them. Their mothers hurried them past, clearly on a mission more important than we were to their children's eyes.
We looked up at the buildings, through the windows and the narrow alleys with the same curiosity and amusement as the locals looked upon us. I've never felt quite right being part of a tourist group, and this was not different. None the less, we continued on.
After a few minutes, turning some corners, dodging passing cars, and taking a few photos, we arrived at one of the highlights of the tour. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius (yes the same Marcus Aurelius from the Gladiator movie, the old one who dies at the beginning). The Arch is about 3-4 stories high. As you approach it, it doesn't seem to stand tall at all, until you get close enough to peer down at the base, about 20ft below the surface of the ground around it. The arch sits like a compass, two road intersect it, running through its four archways, running east to west, and north to south. The the roads are buried beneath 20ft of dirt, stone, metal, brick and centuries, the path they run still dictate the modern city plans of the Medina. The path we had been walking the whole time lays directly over the old Roman roads.
We spent a few minutes here, took pictures, and just tried to take it all in. Standing in the center, you can gaze up and see the inside of the dome, and as you bring you eyes down to rest your neck you see the Roman road, with its perfectly cut and aligned stones. You follow it our northwards, to the sea, and if you can focus your eyes on the road itself, and let everything else melt away, you can almost see the Marcus Aurelius himself, at the head of a Roman legion, marching into the city, here at the gate he built.
We walked back the way we came. The streets were more full, of people and energy. More shops were open and there was more to see and hear. Like in most places like this, you had your share of shops selling typical touristy stuff, things I've seen in other countries. But, there were also some things that set Libya apart. There were some shops with actually jewelry making happening, and you could buy some right from the maker. Some very beautiful pieces. Also, lots of clothing and fabric shops, with very elaborate dresses and clothing for both men and women.
As our group slowly made its way back, we stopped at one corner to listen to our tour guide. Carolina and I trailed behind a bit, and noticed a group of older men, sitting off to the side, calling to our group. When I listened I realized that they were saying hello, but no one else was responding.
"Hello," I answered him.
"Hello, are you from London?"
"London? No, we're not from London?"
"Oh, then where?"
"From the United States."
Their faces opened up, they looked at each other and smiled. "Welcome!" he said with outstretched arms. "Welcome," and something about enjoying Libya. Again I got the feeling that Libyans want from exchange with the west. They might not be fans of American actions in places like Iraq or Afghanistan, but they don't hate America or Americans. I also think that national pride has something to do with it as well. 'Come see what and who we are, and what we've done and what we can do,' is what I think I hear in their welcomes and their open arms.
"You have Libyan skin," he then continued.
I laughed, and went into the same conversation about being from Mexico.
"Are you from Libya?" I asked.
"Yes, see my skin is Libyan."
"And you," I asked his friend. "Are you from Libya?"
"No, I am from Cameroon."
"His skin is not Libyan, see." The first old man pointed to his friends black skin.
We shook hands and I caught up with the group as it had moved down the street.
After saying goodbye to our guide, but before heading back home, we had one more highlight of the day, a very yummy highlight. Tammi and Bruce, another teaching couple at the school, had made arrangements for us to have a late lunch at a great Turkish restaurant. We walked back past the Italian clock tower and into an open plaza, into one of the side buildings and up three flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the walls were covered in quilts of dark reds. We passed one floor of the restaurant, which looked like a smoking lounge, with a soccer game on the tv. We got to the top floor and to a long set of tables waiting for us. We started with some soup, some Turkish flat-bread, and a myriad of dipping sauces. I ordered the Lamb and loved it.
Soon, we were heading back to the bus and to our smiling drivers. We went back along the busy streets, to our school and to our homes. We were eager to go back out, to learn more about what's around us, and to meet more people and to compare our skin colors if that's what it takes. Hopefully soon we'll be able to share more about the people who welcome us and are ready share their country with us.
But, definitely one of the highlights of that week was getting our company car. We were very fortunate to get a new VW Golf; the car's size and handling make it perfect for maneuvering through the streets of Libya with all its hazards and obstacles.
The first two mornings, we were taken to school by Judith in her car. She reminded us to take notes so that we would remember how to get home on our own when we received our car. She assured us that even if we got lost that we could call, using the cell phones they gave us, and that someone would come get us. Still, it was pretty nerve wracking those few days thinking about having to drive home for the first time.
If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand that not everyone follows the same kind of traffic rules as in the US. Yet, many say that Libya's low population can be very much attributed to its lack of traffic laws; to be more explicit, there are no traffic laws; none. The motto in Libya is, 'if there is pavement, fill it.' Maneuvers that we might consider as aggressive driving back home are very common place here and are done without any bad intentions. Here, one simply wants to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means squeezing between to cars in front of you on a 2 lane road . . . when one of the other two cars is going the opposite way.
Well, after getting our car, we carefully made our way home. Driving under these conditions might prompt some people towards slower more cautious driving, big mistake. While the roads seems full of crazy drivers, there is a certain flow to it; if you're the only timid driver on the road, then you're the dangerous one. Of course, Libyans will also do things on the road that make very little sense at all no matter how you look at it. Instead of slowing down to go over a speed bump, many will go off the pavement and drive over the dirt sidewalks to not have to press on their brakes, even going around a car slowing down for the speed bump.
We hit the road, turned left at the Libyan school, past the 4 or 5 mosques between our home and the school, through the intersection with the non-functioning traffic light, and the cops asleep in the police car that hasn't moved in weeks, another left where the day workers wait, right at the monument, then a left, past the final mosque, another left, and another left on Nopal Ave and around the corner to our Oasis. The gate opens and we pull into our driveway, our green lawn and blue pool welcome us home every afternoon.
Another highlight of the orientation days was a field trip to the Media, the old city of Tripoli. The Medina is still surrounded by high defensive walls, dissected by long narrow streets, and filled with shops and businesses of all kinds.
We drove to school and met there. A bus was waiting for us, we got on board and headed downtown. The bus driver was a young guy, probably late 20s early 30s, and was very welcoming. He joked about driving in Libya, as he maneuvered through the streets and battled it out for space on the road against the traffic. He talked about the upcoming Al Fatah, the anniversary of the revolution that toppled the monarchy and brought Gaddafi to power.
'It's a big party' he said, 'a big party for Gaddafi.' Some of us laughed at this, 'everything for Gaddafi, everything.' His tone was not typically sarcastic, negative or with any ill intent. Yet it was obviously a critique, but accusatory and permissive at the same time.
He joked about this while keeping his eyes on the other drivers, and with a big smile on his face, beneath his wrap around sunglasses. It was the first time that I heard a Libyan utter anything that seemed to resemble a critique of Gaddafi or his government. It was interesting to see the expression on his face while saying this.
In the U.S, as in much of the western world, you could criticize political leaders without fear. You could wear a 'Fuck Bush' t-shirt and not worry about being put on trial or worse. Libya isn't exactly a free country, Gaddafi's been in power for 40 years. But there also isn't a overt show of force. Most police that we see are sleeping in their cars. So far, I've only seen them act when a traffic accident happens. There are no roving bands of soldiers in fatigues intimidating anyone. Libyans seem content, this is one of the richest countries in Africa, after all.
Yet, when I think about our driver that day, he seemed relaxed, happy to be able to express his views in a non-confrontational way, saying very little while at the same time sharing deep insights into the Libyan political and social environment.
The bus moved on, through the two lane highway, past the traffic circles, and down the main road leading to Green Square, downtown Tripoli. We got off the bus and stood before a Medieval wall. The wall showed its ancient age, yet still stood tall and strong and was an intimidating sight.
Our tour guide took us around the side of the wall, and we walked along the shore, the waves of the Mediterranean flapping against the ground. He talked to us about the remains of the fort that once protected the city as we moved past it and into the Medina.
The Medina is a mixture of people, architecture, history and culture. You can immediately see the influence of the various peoples and nations that have passed through Tripoli over the years. Italian architecture, in the form of a clock tower, cuts through the sky and rises above most of the buildings here. The Red Castle, from Islamic medieval times, casts a shadow over the streets around it. As we made our way deeper into the old city the streets became more narrow, and as time passed and the sun rose in the sky, they became more alive as well. Shop owners trickled in. First only a few, then a lot more, they raised the green metal gates to reveal small stands selling everything from basic everyday souvenirs to fine Libyan cloth and even some artifacts brought in from the desert and beyond.
We made our way west along the same roads first laid out by the Romans, millennia ago. As we walked, our guide pointed out some of the small telling signs of the history still present here. Jewish stars, Roman columns, all mixed and meshed together with Islamic overtones.
Along the way, old men sat on the sides of the narrow streets, watching curiously as this group of Americans gazed at their everyday lives as if it were all some exhibit in a museum. Kids ran past us, staring at us as we smiled at them. Their mothers hurried them past, clearly on a mission more important than we were to their children's eyes.
We looked up at the buildings, through the windows and the narrow alleys with the same curiosity and amusement as the locals looked upon us. I've never felt quite right being part of a tourist group, and this was not different. None the less, we continued on.
After a few minutes, turning some corners, dodging passing cars, and taking a few photos, we arrived at one of the highlights of the tour. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius (yes the same Marcus Aurelius from the Gladiator movie, the old one who dies at the beginning). The Arch is about 3-4 stories high. As you approach it, it doesn't seem to stand tall at all, until you get close enough to peer down at the base, about 20ft below the surface of the ground around it. The arch sits like a compass, two road intersect it, running through its four archways, running east to west, and north to south. The the roads are buried beneath 20ft of dirt, stone, metal, brick and centuries, the path they run still dictate the modern city plans of the Medina. The path we had been walking the whole time lays directly over the old Roman roads.
We spent a few minutes here, took pictures, and just tried to take it all in. Standing in the center, you can gaze up and see the inside of the dome, and as you bring you eyes down to rest your neck you see the Roman road, with its perfectly cut and aligned stones. You follow it our northwards, to the sea, and if you can focus your eyes on the road itself, and let everything else melt away, you can almost see the Marcus Aurelius himself, at the head of a Roman legion, marching into the city, here at the gate he built.
We walked back the way we came. The streets were more full, of people and energy. More shops were open and there was more to see and hear. Like in most places like this, you had your share of shops selling typical touristy stuff, things I've seen in other countries. But, there were also some things that set Libya apart. There were some shops with actually jewelry making happening, and you could buy some right from the maker. Some very beautiful pieces. Also, lots of clothing and fabric shops, with very elaborate dresses and clothing for both men and women.
As our group slowly made its way back, we stopped at one corner to listen to our tour guide. Carolina and I trailed behind a bit, and noticed a group of older men, sitting off to the side, calling to our group. When I listened I realized that they were saying hello, but no one else was responding.
"Hello," I answered him.
"Hello, are you from London?"
"London? No, we're not from London?"
"Oh, then where?"
"From the United States."
Their faces opened up, they looked at each other and smiled. "Welcome!" he said with outstretched arms. "Welcome," and something about enjoying Libya. Again I got the feeling that Libyans want from exchange with the west. They might not be fans of American actions in places like Iraq or Afghanistan, but they don't hate America or Americans. I also think that national pride has something to do with it as well. 'Come see what and who we are, and what we've done and what we can do,' is what I think I hear in their welcomes and their open arms.
"You have Libyan skin," he then continued.
I laughed, and went into the same conversation about being from Mexico.
"Are you from Libya?" I asked.
"Yes, see my skin is Libyan."
"And you," I asked his friend. "Are you from Libya?"
"No, I am from Cameroon."
"His skin is not Libyan, see." The first old man pointed to his friends black skin.
We shook hands and I caught up with the group as it had moved down the street.
After saying goodbye to our guide, but before heading back home, we had one more highlight of the day, a very yummy highlight. Tammi and Bruce, another teaching couple at the school, had made arrangements for us to have a late lunch at a great Turkish restaurant. We walked back past the Italian clock tower and into an open plaza, into one of the side buildings and up three flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the walls were covered in quilts of dark reds. We passed one floor of the restaurant, which looked like a smoking lounge, with a soccer game on the tv. We got to the top floor and to a long set of tables waiting for us. We started with some soup, some Turkish flat-bread, and a myriad of dipping sauces. I ordered the Lamb and loved it.
Soon, we were heading back to the bus and to our smiling drivers. We went back along the busy streets, to our school and to our homes. We were eager to go back out, to learn more about what's around us, and to meet more people and to compare our skin colors if that's what it takes. Hopefully soon we'll be able to share more about the people who welcome us and are ready share their country with us.
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