Monday in Tripoli

Since recent sectarian clashes it’s not been high on many must-see lists, but with no conflicts reported during the last few weeks, I wanted to go to Tripoli again, having first visited a few months ago. Foreigners were conspicuous by their absence. More soldiers walked around on the streets, most of them off-duty. However, it was safe with no tangible change in atmosphere. We filled ourselves up on delicious mezze for half of Beirut prices at a spacy restaurant in an old stone building with toilet doors that didn’t lock and a big window view of the street. The people working the stalls in the souq were friendly. Teenage girls followed us around the market, fascinated by the blonde hair of my Danish companions.

Fish, meat, vegetables, spices, religious pendants for hanging on car rearview mirrors. Hijabs, baggy trousers and other clothes made by tailors. An amount of shoes that seemed disproportionate. All this filled the souq, which is big enough for us not to be covering old ground by wandering through its narrow alleys. We came out on the side near the river and drank freshly-squeezed orange juice while looking towards the suburbs climbing the hill on the far side. In between was what looked like an abandoned market, or perhaps one that is only open at weekends. Old shoes littered the ground, big piles of them. Faded plastic shelters and tables stood untended.

Seeing what looked like another market on the far side, we walked across and found ourselves in a much poorer area. A few people glared at us out of surprise. Next to one old factory building in a state of advanced disrepair stood a mosque with several broken windows. At the end of the street a tank guarded what looked like the start of a different suburb as the road wound up a hill. The junction was blocked with barbed wire. This was possibly Bab al-Tabbaneh, where fatal clashes between pro and anti-Syrian government supporters occurred in May, but we weren't certain. We took a left turn and continued further into the suburb. A couple of people stopped to say hello. A stack of metal bars rested on a table in front of an ironmonger’s workshop on the right of the street. A boy of about ten picked one up, held it like a rifle and pretended to shoot us with it. Somehow it didn’t feel hostile. We walked past grey square crumbling apartment blocks with balconies stuck to their facades. Patches of rubble with scraps of cars filled the open space in front.

The town continued but we turned back towards the city centre, walking along in a main road until we were almost at the more upmarket el-Mina harbour area before ending up back at one of the main squares, Sahat al-Nour. Suffering from too much time exposed to the boiling heat, we stopped in the park to sit down and drink water. Nearby, fast food restaurants steamed by the street, preparing sandwiches, shawarmas and falafels as they always have. Craving the tasty Tripolitan street food, only our bloated stomachs from the earlier restaurant visit held us back. I bought some colourful flakes of soap from an old khan in the souq to freshen up the air in my apartment. We had chanced upon the ‘wrong’ side of town and returned unscathed with full stomachs and superficial shopping.