One of the things that fascinated me most about the Middle East was the very idea of localized hiphop. They were words that just didn’t seem to go with each other in a sentence. Middle Eastern… hip… hop? Wasn’t this region supposed to be one where music was seen as a Western evil? Wasn’t Arabic that inscrutable language, not particularly well-suited to… rapping? Well, as most travellers in the Middle East quickly learn, everything you were told about the Middle East is probably wrong. Years of slanted media coverage does that for sure, and the only way to really get this region is to come here, and be among the wonderful people who call this troubled region home.

Hiphop is more sophisticated here than you’d think; they even made a brilliant film about it. Slingshot Hiphop may just be the first — and most important — documentary on this subject. Through featuring the daily struggles of Palestinian hiphop artistes like Dam, Abeer, Arapeyat and others, the film really drove home the point that no matter hiphop had become in America (bling-bling, sex, pointless lyrics and all that), hiphop lived on in the most unexpected place in the world: the Middle East. Not just in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, the idea of being neither here nor there reverberated also through the music of other hiphop artistes in the region. Whether it was The Narcicyst, Dubai-based Iraqi rapper (whose work speaks of ‘the rebirth of a nationless mind’), or the influential DAM (the successful Palestinian group currently on tour in the United States), the messages in the music were hauntingly clear.

And hauntingly beyond my comprehension, as someone who comes from a place with virtually no political drama, far from war or other disaster. I wanted to say I knew what this was like, or that I felt solidarity; but I really could not, so far from my realm of understanding all this was.

Which set me thinking. The work of my friend the spoken word poet Hiba Rasheed was, somehow, connected to all this. She, better than anyone else I knew, understood the idea of being neither here nor there. Sudanese by heritage, she’d been brought up in the United Arab Emirates in Dubai and Sharjah, and felt constantly at home in both and in neither at the same time. Her beautiful poetry, which she sometimes performs in conjunction with her brother’s hiphop group Diligent Thought, had a spiritual and political element which I appreciated.

I took her to Dubai’s historic Bastakiyah conservation area, thinking it might be fitting, and persuaded her into an impromptu performance of her poetry, hoping her words might help me bridge the gap and push me closer towards understanding the larger messages and concerns of the people I have had the luck to share my life with, in my short time in the Middle East.

Many of my opinions and world views were shaped profoundly by my time in this part of the world. One of the things I am taking away with me, and keeping close to my heart, is the friendship of people like Hiba Rasheed, and all my friends in Syria, Yemen, Lebanon, the UAE, who unselfishly let me into their world, and who shared some wonderful moments with me.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Thanks
Hiba Rasheed
Fresh Booza Productions

Credits
Jackie Reem Salloum’s Slingshot Hiphop
The Narcicyst feat. Shadia Mansour — “Hamdulilah (Gaza Remix)”
Diligent Thought feat. Miss Lyrikal Nuisance — MBS

other flavours:

• youtube
• quicktime

It’s been quite a while!

So I hit up Belgium recently to see one of my best friends, Lieselot. Being such a keen fan of beer (and I know you are too), it was quite the perfect weekend in so many ways. Think of beer and most beer connoisseurs automatically make the association with Belgium, makers of some of the best beers in the world (although the Germans may protest..). Here, like in Germany, beer culture goes a long way back in local history and folklore. Beyond the art of drinking it (which anyone can do), I guess you can say modern beer was perfected here, centuries ago. But where exactly?

It may or may not come as a surprise to you, but modern Belgian beer owes a large part of its existence to the ancient recipes of Trappist monks. For centuries, up until today, these mysterious hermit-like religious figures have been making small quantities of their beers, which are today regarded as some of the best brews ever made (according to contemporary beer awards, and to legions of fans around the world). There are seven Trappist breweries left worldwide; six of them are in Belgium.

I thought I was well-placed to try to find out the answers behind my burning questions: why do they do this, and how? Do they drink their own beer? Is there a monastic equivalent to happy hour?

While chilling out with Lieselot at her bar in downtown Brussels, we hit upon the idea of driving across the country to try to see if we could get some insights into monk-made beer, or at least worship at the temple of beer. We headed for Brouwerij Westvleteren (Westvleteren Brewery), not far from the hops-producing town of Poperinge, in the vain hope that we might find Trappist monks willing to speak to us.

Brouwerij Westvleteren was founded in 1838 at the Trappist Abbey of Saint Sixtus, and to this day produces three world-famous beers known collectively by their namesake. All three have acquired a formidable international reputation for their sheer taste and quality.

About an hour’s drive from Brussels, Westvleteren felt a world away from the big city lights of the capital. The endless greenery and low population density is perhaps fitting for a Trappist monastery, which was surrounded by miles of green, and so nondescript you couldn’t tell history was literally brewing behind its doors.

I suppose it was stupid of us to only remember the “Trappist” bit of “Trappist monk” in this equation. They did take the Trappist vow of silence for a reason! If modernity and the 21st century changed so little about their beers, the ways of their brewers changed even less. When we got there we were politely told, no, you cannot speak to monks, nor can you see the brewing, we are not a commercial brewery but a house of worship, but you’d be welcome to attend a church service right now if you like.

Disappointed, but not entirely surprised, we settled for a taste of fresh Westvleteren at a nearby cafe. We were told by beer connoisseurs that demand for Westvletern beer is extremely high due to their production methods: rather than operating like a commercial brewhouse, the monks stick to traditional methods, take their time with each batch, and are very strict about producing only specific amounts each time, nothing less, nothing more. The cafe even imposes strict quotas on the number of glasses of Westvleteren they could sell in a day, just to be sure they wouldn’t run out. The reason for this limited production, in their own words? “We are no brewers. We are monks. We brew beer to be able to afford being monks.”

At least it was a great road trip, a good story, and plenty of fabulous beer was sacrificed for the greater good, in the process of making this video.

Tip: Westvleteren is in such short supply, if you really want to score some fresh crates onsite, you need to first make a booking on the phone, and even then every car is restricted to 2 small cases — one, in the case of Westvleteren 12, their most famous brew (also voted Best Beer in the World)!

Thanks
Lieselot Vijncke: rockstar bartender, blonde goddess, sometimes beer historian

Westvleteren beer photo: Adams K (Creative Commons: Attribution-Noncommercial 2.0 Generic)

Music
The Xx — VCR
George Brassens — Marinette

other flavours:

• youtube
• quicktime

What we’re looking for: any great travel photo (or photos) you’ve got! Just to help you along, here are some themes you could strongly consider. Still not sure? Browse all the photos we’ve received so far in our submissions gallery.

live: Show us how a city lives everyday life; its culture, quirks, traditions, character.

play: Where do people go to play? How do they make music? Art? Bring us to the next show.

discover: Backlanes, basements, attics. City secrets you will never find unless you look a little deeper.

eat: A charming tavern, the city’s best eats, its favourite chefs, a dish you’ll find nowhere else.

Prizes:

• 1x Creative Vado
• 1x Mandarina Duck Flight Weekender
• 1x set of Wallpaper* City Guides (Barcelona, Berlin, New York, London, Tokyo, Paris)

How to take part:
Submit as many travel photos as you like before October 31. Make sure you own the copyright to the photos (i.e. you took them yourself), and that each file is 3MB or less. Use the form at the bottom of the page to send us your best shot, along with your name, email address, and a little description about the photo. That’s it!

When I met my female Yemeni hosts in their home I found it odd that they all seemed camera-shy, as they shimmied out of the way and tried hard to avoid being within view. I learned a few minutes after that for this largely conservative society, it was still frowned upon for Yemeni women to appear in public without a ‘balto’, and even worse for them for be photographed or video-ed without one.

As a tourist it is quite rare that you get to see the local women as they really are — quite stunningly beautiful — for in public they are always veiled, and seldom associate with strangers. Again, I had the brilliant chance to live with a real Yemeni family in the Old City quarters of Sana’a, and through them, managed to meet a great many more local women in informal situations than would have been the case. In public you do see women going to the market and things like that, but they are always covered from head to toe in their ‘balto’, a Yemeni version of what most people know as a burqa. They never eat at restaurants unless with family, and even then are usually hidden from view in the family room where they can, I imagine, remove their veils temporarily and eat in some peace.

I needed to find out what it was like.

I got Hiyat, the woman I lived with, to sell me one of her baltos — and to put it on for me. I then proceeded to go on an 8 hour road trip out of Sana’a in this very dress which covered not only my head, but also my eyes. In a three piece set, which wasn’t very easy to put on, I sweated and burned just so that I could say I know what it was like. I suppose one might get used to it, but… how do they do this every single day?

I also wanted to know what they wear inside those, at functions with their female friends or in the company of immediate male family members. Surely at parties and weddings, even if segregated by gender, they must have special outfits for every occasion?

Three Sana’a ladies (though you can’t see them in the video) decided to show me how it was done. They dressed me up in different outfits, one for every occasion. There was one for hanging out with your husband, another one for wedding parties. There was one that a local woman might put on after she’d given birth, and friends came around to shower gifts and blessings on her.

And because none of these women could be in the video, I had to demonstrate by putting on every single piece and allowing them to put makeup and henna on me… a luxury I rarely indulge anybody in!

All so that you, and the rest of the people reading this, can see for themselves what life might be like, under the veil, for the eyes of a select few only.

I just wish I knew how they did it without feeling like melting because I certainly did.

Sana’a, Yemen

Thanks
Ziad Ali of Ziad Tours, highly recommended inbound travel agency
Hiyat and sister and neighbour
Wake Me Up Music

Music
Beirut — “Bratislava”
Plainsunset — “Interference”

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube

Paris — the city of love, the Eiffel Tower, Edith Piaf, La Vie en Rose and all that jazz. Who wouldn’t fall in love with that Paris, the city of romance and lovely sidewalk cafes? On a recent visit to Paris, the first time I’ve been since a family holiday as a child (one I hardly remember), I was introduced to a different take on the city. You see, I asked my ragtag crew of Parisian musician/artist friends to take me to a place that defined Paris for them. I was expecting something else, but they took me to the cemetery instead.

Yup, the cemetery. Not just any cemetery mind you, but the Père Lachaise, possibly one of the largest cemeteries in the world with more than 300 000 graves, encompassing the size of 110 football fields.. or more. Where I come from, and I’m sure it’s the same elsewhere too, cemeteries are supposed to be eerie. They’re supposed to be interesting only to the most morbid of folks. Not this one. It was bright and cheery, almost like a park. People went there to hang out, just like my friends and I that weekend afternoon.

It’s like taking a stroll through a who’s-who of Western culture, art, music, literature and history. Consider the famous inhabitants of Père Lachaise: Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, Chopin. Balzac, Delacroix, Proust, Sadeq Hedayat, La Fontaine, Molière. You know how they say that because we all die alone, and take nothing with us, death is the greatest equalizer of all? Here, you see first hand how the famous experience even death differently from the rest of us. Jim Morrison’s grave is a hotspot for copulating lovers, and Oscar Wilde’s is full of fanmail in the form of graveyard graffiti. In some odd way, it’s all rather charming.

Matilde and I spent a fun afternoon just chilling out by the graves. She brought her baglama (Turkish lute) and we hung out with some random Portuguese nomads we’d met there. Think of it as providing entertainment to the long gone, though I wonder what Madame Piaf might have said about the racket we made.

Thanks
Mathilde Béchet for her fantastic company and her charms on the ukelele. Faire la bamboula!

Music
Keely Smith – April in Paris
The Doors - Light My Fire
Edith Piaf - La Vie en Rose
Chopin – Prelude in E minor Opus 28 n.4 (by pianist Ivan Ilic)

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube

It’s taken some time for me to get my notes from Yemen out — life got busy, and internet connections got slower and slower as I moved through the Middle East. Well, here it is. As you know, I spent a lovely week in Yemen and fell in love with the country.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Travelling to Yemen alone was nerve-wrecking. There was a dearth of available information on what it was like, what to expect, there was little to no travel information available at all other than “stay away from Yemen! It’s not safe!” Well. I think it’s already known that short of Afghanistan, Iraq, the Swat Valley and Somalia, I will happily ignore any travel advisory.

I’m glad I did. I had the brilliant opportunity to live in a traditional house with a local family in the Old City of Sana’a, in itself a World Heritage site. It’s just like in the postcards: brownstone buildings, painted beautifully and inset with stained glass. My local host, a woman named Hiyat, is a brilliant cook. I wish I could have taken photos or videos of her, especially while cooking (since she fed me so well), but here in Yemen it is largely considered a shame for a woman to be in a photograph or video, unveiled.

Anyway, I was particularly taken by a dish called salta. It’s a Yemeni chicken stew with fenugreek as the next most important ingredient (other than.. chicken?) and it is quite unreal. You typically eat it with bread (don’t get me started on bread here.. fresh Yemeni breads are divine), folding it to form a scoop, and using it as a spoon, scoop up a salsa-like-chilli mix. Swirl with salta, and you have the meal that Yemenis eat just about every lunch time.

I persuaded Hiyat to do a cooking demo for me. Again, as I couldn’t take photos or videos of her, you’ll have to be content with a ‘hands-only’ cooking show. There will be more instructions, and maybe even a recipe, later once I get the Arabic translated, but for now… salta is wonderful. Next time I come to see you in London I will be keeping my eyes out for any Yemeni stores (I’m told there are several) so I can buy fenugreek paste (’hulba’) and a ‘madr’ (the special bowl used) and attempt to make it for you! Be very very afraid!

Here’s a recipe, in the meantime.

Next week’s video will also be about Yemeni food, but focusing on something more… narcotic, chewable and plant-like. :)

Thanks
Ziad, who I highly recommend as your travel agent in Yemen

Music
Kobayashi — “Shasta”
Traditional Yemeni music, title forthcoming

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube

Roller derby is one of my favourite London discoveries to date. The thing about a city that has a bit of everything is that it gets hard to find something original; something still purely fun and bold and arresting to the senses. But when I walked into my first ever derby match that day, I thought “wow”.

The crowd wasn’t your latte-toting, high street variety and neither was it the plaid-wearing, skinny-jeaned breed of East London kitsch. Saturday afternoon in this nondescript sports hall in Bethnal Green was a lot of leather, piercings and tattoos.

The players were warming up, whizzing by, practising falls. Beer flowed freely. And in a very un-British manner, people sat around the track lines on the wooden floor. Most of the crowd was there to support the home team, the London Rockin’ Rollers, who were playing Glasgow’s Irn Bruisers. I didn’t know which team I was rooting for, so I just sat with the crowd that seemed happier and more lathered up.

My first five minutes in there, I wasn’t sure if I’d fit in. I thought I needed to speak some secret language to make up for the fact that I only had one tattoo and really boring hair. Then the guy next to me said hello in very plain English, and all was well.

I don’t know if my videos do it enough justice, but roller derby is more skill and speed than it looks. The girls are set to entertain, no doubt about it, but it’s as intense as any contact sport I’ve seen. Players have been known to break bones and on ocassion suffer more serious injuries. Spectators below 18 are made to keep at least one meter away from the track. It’s like the WWF (the lights! the music! the nicknames!) but without the fake routines and with far more attractive subjects.

Much has been said about the sport of roller derby. It’s certainly come a long way from a sporting culture that was revived purely from a grassroots level, gathering a following of quiet but earnest fans and players across America and Europe and even as far as New Zealand. Some even go further to position it within larger sociocultural contexts, as an homage to a “satirical punk” and third-wave feminism aesthetic.

Me? I’m just in awe of any girl who can dress up in a short skirt and makeup, and still kick so much ass.

London

Music
Joan Jett and The Blackhearts – Bad Reputation

Photo
Natalie Ujuk

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube

Sorry about the delay in this week’s video — I was in Yemen and (1) narrowly avoided a bomb as well as (2) had tremendously slow internet for most of it.

As you know, I really like my camels (see: here and here). Some weeks back I showed you what the camel market in Al Ain was like; and in one of my last weeks in the United Arab Emirates, I made the trip out to Abu Dhabi’s Al Wathba camel race track, to watch one such race.

I was particularly taken by the robots that ride these camels. Robots, you say? For a long time these camels had little children as camel jockeys (still a highly sensitive topic, never discuss this, especially if you’re a journalist). Children were preferred because they were ‘the right size’. Accusations of human rights abuse, slavery and trafficking ensued, given how most of these children were from the Indian subcontinent, and incredibly young. These days the children camel jockeys are no longer — they’ve been replaced by robots, designed in Switzerland.

Their owners and handlers control these robot jockeys using remote controls, which means they drive alongside their camels during the race. And these things don’t come cheap — I believe one robot alone costs around US$5000 or more. Small change, though, for these camel owners; each racing camel easily costs as much as US$1 million, maybe even more. Most members of the royal family have entire stables of them, complete with skilled teams of the best camel handlers from across the region.

Winter is the best season for watching these races, because the weather’s much cooler then. From October until around March or April, Dubai and Abu Dhabi play host to camel races at their Meydan (formerly Nad Al Sheba) and Al Wathba racetracks, the championship races of a far more impressive scale than the one I just witnessed. When the championship comes around, like it did between 1 and 10 March this year, they kick off in Dubai then move over to Abu Dhabi a few days later, and teams and owners from all over the Gulf, especially Qatar and Saudi Arabia, come to have a shot at the prize money (and prestige).

While most people might find this camel obsession inexplicable, I for one found all my ‘camel weekends’ in the UAE to be my best yet in this part of the world.

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube

So. Coming back to London from Valencia was a complete bummer.

It’s just a two-hour flight away, but it feels like crossing worlds. It’s leaping from 19C weather back into a proper British winter. Trading long lunches for a cardboardy prawn mayo sandwich from Pret. Switching from long afternoons on the Malvarossa beach to a crammed carriage on the Circle Line.

Valencia lives and breathes like a typical coastal city: unhurried, calm, and accommodating. Neither business district nor summer resort cliche, it moves at a pace equally dictated by obligation and leisure. People emerge in the mornings for work as they should, but the streets empty out by noon during siesta. Dinner is always late – restaurants are bare at 8pm but fill up closer to 10.

It reminded me a lot of Italy when I used to live there. People took their personal time very seriously. Siesta, or the Italian pausa was sacred — you didn’t set up appointments at noon. You wouldn’t try to nip over to the post office to run errands on your lunch break.

I spent my first few days as a clueless foreigner wondering why the shutters were mysteriously drawn on all the shops along my street at 1pm. I couldn’t guess where everyone disappeared to for two hours in the middle of the day! When my flatmate explained the centrality of pausa – a break, a necessary interlude – in the day’s proceedings, I began to see how it represented a larger commitment to moderation. People were purposeful without being stressed, they ate well but not excessively. Daily life was a routine that could be appreciated.

Valencia has that same familiar hum in its streets. It urges you to stroll instead of stride. It makes you wait patiently for your lunch when you’re at a restaurant, because you can’t rush freshly-made paella. It reminds you to slow the hell down.

And while I adore London and all its imperfections, I can’t wait for my next trip to the Mediterranean coast.

Valencia, Spain

Music
Vetiver – Las pajaros del Rio

other flavours:

• youtube
• quicktime

Dubai is 85% expat, and more than half of the resident population originally came from India or Pakistan. Many of them are men; many of them working in low-paying jobs here. While trying to practise my broken Urdu, I once asked a Pakistani taxi driver what he got up to on weekends. And he let me in on a little secret.

Somewhere near the fish market, across from the Hyatt Regency, is where traditional wrestling takes place every Friday. You know it by the size of the crowds, and the noise emanating from the impromptu circle of people, standing on the roofs of cars or on each other’s shoulders.

That’s when you know you’ve stepped foot into another world.

Kushti is a wrestling sport that’s popular in India, Pakistan, and even in Afghanistan and Iran. The objective is to throw, trip, or cajole your opponent onto the ground, as is the case with most forms of wrestling — but instead of the violently physical sorts we’re used to on TV, kushti moves seem rather… mild, even tactical.

According to referee Mughal-e-Az, the sport was brought to Dubai 25 years ago when a man named Afsab started the first matches. He himself was involved in it for more than 10 years, though his wrestling credentials go way back to when he was back in Pakistan, training as a young boy, and later on in the Pakistani army.

I asked him how he decides the winner, and he told me even if one party falls to the ground, and his opponent is sitting on him, all’s not lost — the guy being pinned down is not considered to have lost yet, not until the guy pinning him down is able to rest his hands on the ground. All this was completely beyond me — I’m not sure I understand the inherent male need to strut about in ugly underwear and sit on each other — but I’m glad the hundreds of Pakistanis and Indians around me enjoyed it.

They even have a championship! The ref says the last two men standing in the season will face off against each other, and the winner declared the Rustam-i-Dubai (champion of Dubai). “We’ll even have a tent! Chairs! And admission tickets!” From time to time, challengers such as the champions of Iran might be brought in for a grander match, or at least that used to be the case when their Pakistani patron was funding the competition. He’s no longer active in the scene, so what happens here these days operates on a policy that every Dubai resident is familiar with — that inshallah (if God wills it), it will happen (and it doesn’t).

But me, I’m pretty happy sitting on the rooftops of vans watching these matches every Friday. So much so that I might have even given them a new sport for post-wrestling: cheer on the Chinese girl trying to climb off a van.

It’s a side of Dubai that not many expats willingly seek out, but if you ask me, this is probably my favourite part of Dubai.

Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates

Thanks
Kedar Iyer, for interviews and translations, and pretending to be my husband
DaddyBird for mooting the idea

Music
Buster Johnson — Undertaker Blues
Mughal-e-Azam soundtrack — Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya
Sarah Vaughan — Peter Gunn (Max Sedgley Remix)

other flavours:

• quicktime
• youtube