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#24 get lost! ISSUE #16 get in the know! The Seine River starts in Burgundy and runs through north-western France to the English Channel.

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get in the know! The motto of Paris is a Latin phrase translated as ‘She is tossed by the waves but is not sunk’. ISSUE #16 get lost! #25

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NUMB R53

THE FRENCH CAPITAL IS DIVIDED INTO 20 arrondissements (municipalneighbourhoods) that curl around the

river in the shape of a snail, the ultimate Gallic stereotype. The minutiae of daily lifewithin these lively and varied arrondissementsmakes Paris more than just a well-worn stop on the tourist trail.

Paris – city of lights, capital of clichés and a place full ofsurprises. Beyond the picture-perfect views of the river Seineand routine pilgrimages to theEiffel Tower, the vibrancy ofParis is such that even the 16 million annual visitors don’t make a dent in thisanimated metropolis.

text: arwen summers

images: steve davey+manami yamazoe+various

PARI5BY

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#26 get lost! ISSUE #16 get in the know! In 2004, France implemented a law to ban the wearing of religious symbols in schools – including headscarves, causing controversy among the Islamic community.

8:00am 6th arrondissement Let’s Get PhysicalThe Jardin du Luxembourg was created almost400 years ago as a private park, but thanks tothe French Revolution, everyone can now visitthese beautiful formal gardens – and hell, they do. I beat the tourists by getting up early andjoining the morning joggers, avoiding theperfectly groomed Dior-wearing Parisienneswalking their French bulldogs. I admit there’sanother reason for my uncharacteristic urge toexercise: the morning is the best time to spot thevery fit local pompiers (firemen) doing a spot oftraining in rather tight black lycra leggings. Nodoubt the Parisiennes have been on to this foryears. With my fitness levels, however, anyattention I manage to attract from the boys inblack is likely to come from my wheezing andgasping rather than my gazelle-like stride.

9:40am 5th arrondissementInsha’llah (God Willing)Forget Notre Dame – from hijab shops to halalbutchers, the influence of Islam in Paris isevident, and nowhere more so than at the GreatMosque of Paris. Smack bang in the middle of a nondescript bourgeois quartier, the mosquedates from 1926 and was built to honour thenorth African countries that fought with Franceduring World War I. The beautiful white edifice isboth a striking slice of the Alhambra in downtownParis and a reminder that Islam is France’ssecond-largest religion. I take a seat at one of thecopper-topped cafe tables under the fig trees inthe courtyard and attempt to do the newspapercrossword while sipping on sweet mint tea.

The influence of Islam in Paris is evident, and nowheremore so than at the Great Mosque of Paris.

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9:15am 5th arrondissementA Fatal Weakness For PastriesThe Parisian attitude to breakfast seems to be –why bother? Black coffee and a cigarette sufficefor most, but I can’t survive without somethingsolid. I wander down rue Mouffetard, a narrowcobblestone road. It may have been one of themain Roman thoroughfares of Paris but I wouldn’tfancy trying to reverse-parallel park a chariothere. I get away from the tourists and buskersand head down the hill until I find the local marketat the bottom. Everything from pungently ripe brieto roasting chooks sits displayed in cabinets onthe side of the road, but I head straight for theboulangerie and grab a freshly baked chaussonaux pommes (an apple puree-filled croissant)before continuing on down the road to the Great Mosque of Paris.

image: emily hughes

image: thibaut guilpain

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get in the know! Despite the cliché of the smoking Frenchman, 70 per cent of people in France favour the ban on smoking in public places. ISSUE #16 get lost! #27

11:00am20th arrondissementTrash Or TreasureAfter the tranquillity of the mosque, I want someaction. I find it at the least organised and mostfascinating of all the Parisian fleamarkets. Thesprawling fleamarket at Porte de Montreuil is likethe strange love child of a huge garage sale andan oriental bazaar. As I emerge from the Métro I’m assailed by the total chaos of 500 stalls in a diminutive area. Hundreds of people jostle forspace in front of heaped piles of clothes and junk.The narrow market alleys are filled with the brightcolours of African prints on generous behinds andthe raised voices of hagglers put my timidbargaining skills to shame. This is the place topick up designer clothes for a steal, but after half an hour of rummaging through what looks likemy grandma’s cast-offs, I decide I’m probably not going to find any Chanel today. I resort tobrowsing the strange collection of other items forsale, from caged birds to bicycles and sneakersthat seem to have fallen off the back of a truck.

1:30pm 13th arrondissementThe Fruits Of My LabourParis has not one, but two Chinatowns, whichmakes it hard to decide where to go for lunch. By flipping a coin, I decide to head south to the13th arrondissement, home of the first Chinatownin Paris and the largest in Europe. This formerlyuninspiring working-class neighbourhood wastransformed in the late 1970s and early 1980swith the arrival of thousands of Chinese andVietnamese immigrants and now boasts some of the tastiest pho (rice noodles) this side of Ho Chi Minh City. After a bowl of the best from Pho Bi Da, I end up wandering around Tang Frères,the huge Asian supermarket built by two Laotianbrothers in a former railway warehouse. I try (and mostly fail) to identify some of the bizarre-looking fruit on display but somehow leave with a locquat and a persimmon.

4:30pm 18th arrondissementA Hair-raising ExperienceI cross the river to the foot of the Montmartre hill,avoiding the dodgy sex shops of Pigalle and thetourist hordes of Sacré Coeur to visit la Goutted’Or, one of the most down-to-earth parts of thecity. Home to a huge community of Africans, the neighbourhood is famous for its market, themarché Barbès, where all kinds of spices, tinnedsnails and a range of unidentified dried things areon offer. This is also the place to come if you’re indesperate need of corn rows or an emergencyhair straightening – every second shop is ahairdresser specialising in African hair, and if the shop’s not a hairdresser then it’s a beautician or a tailor, fulfilling all your fluorescent nailextension needs and bespoke requirements.

6:00pm 3rd arrondissementDon’t Forget To InhaleMy favourite French custom, the aperitif, consists of having a pre-dinner drink (or two) to get you in the mood for the evening to come. Today I decide to skip the drink(s) in favour of a shisha, or waterpipe, with its promise of honey-scentedtobacco. Shisha tea rooms first opened in Pariswith the arrival of north African immigrants and are no longer just places for nostalgic older folks to puff away the time. Much like karaoke, thepleasure of shisha is all in the social interactionthat goes on while you pass the dutchy to theleft-hand side. Although the youth of Paris havetaken to shisha tea rooms with gusto, I’m a littlenonplussed by the experience. Nonetheless, I’mglad I tried, as the total smoking ban in cafes thatcomes into effect in Paris in 2008 could spell theend of these sweetly scented cafes.

2:20pm 14th arrondissementBeing And NothingnessWhile Père Lachaise cemetery in the east of Paris swarms daily with Jim Morrison pilgrimsvisiting the grave of the Doors’ notorious singer,Montparnasse cemetery is a groupie-freenecropolis of tree-lined avenues and old tombs.Home to France’s intellectual and artistic elite (thedead ones, anyway), this peaceful cemetery is thefinal resting place of such notables as writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, singer SergeGainsbourg and poet Charles Baudelaire. If only Iunderstood Sartre’s conception of existentialism,I’m sure this would be the place to ponder it.

3:00pm 14th arrondissementNo Bones About ItI’m in the right frame of mind for a visit to theCatacombes, the creepy result of a novel approachto the overcrowded Parisian cemeteries in thelate 18th century. Thousands of bones wereexhumed, chucked willy-nilly into carts thatcrossed Paris late at night with priests chantingthe last rites, and were then tossed into a hugeRoman-era limestone quarry under most of thesouth of Paris. It was only later that some brightspark had the idea to arrange some of the remainsof these six million bodies in a ‘decorativemanner’ and open the place to the public. Mmm.Decorative manner. Surrounded on all sides byskulls, femurs and tibias, I try to avoid makingeye-socket contact with anything and trekthrough miles of bones before emerging at theexit to have my bag searched. Yep, the securityguard was happy to confirm that ‘bone theft’ is a daily problem. Haven’t these people heard of vengeful spirits?

image: linus mak


#30 get lost! ISSUE #16 get in the know! ‘Starboard’ comes from the Old English word ‘steorboard’, and was the side ships were steered on.

SAILING OUT OF KHASAB’S HARBOURshortly after daybreak on the open deck of a traditional wooden dhow,

it’s hard to decide where to look – should we direct our gaze at the pod of handsomebottlenose dolphins swimming playfully besideour boat or at the flotilla of some hundred or so speedboats heading directly toward us?

For the moment, the scores of shiny aluminiumboats with their enormous outboard motors haveour attention. Occasionally airborne in the chop of the sea, they buzz by us, their cargo of sheep and goats looking decidedly uncomfortable as theybounce hard across the waves – although not asuncomfortable as they’ll be when they reach shoreand have to clamber over massive grey boulders to livestock trucks. We look enquiringly toward ourOmani host Abdulfatah. “Iranians”, he tells us with a grin. “They’re going shopping.”

Every day Iranian smugglers make the trip to Oman in the early morning and sell theircontraband to the waiting buyers from Oman and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) before

hitting Khasab’s ‘Iranian market’, a small quarter of wholesale stores. The bronzed smugglers hangout in the coffee shops until the temperature drops,making the return journey in the late afternoon,boats laden with groceries, household items,electronics and, most importantly, cigarettes. The illegal American cigarettes Lucky Strike, PallMall and Kent are the most desirable in Iran. As long as the Omanis still want Iranian goats, thesmugglers will make their way here.

Once the speedboats have passed, the dolphinsprove highly distracting – despite the spectacularsurroundings of Khasab’s harbour, with its craggyapricot-coloured cliffs and sparkling turquoise sea.Swimming in a school of around a dozen, the glossygrey creatures play with the bow waves of our boat.They’re smiling and have a glint in their eyes, or soit seems. While this may be my imagination, theyare certainly cheeky. The captain and his crew keepwatch, darting back and forth across the carpeteddeck of the dhow, whistling and clicking theirtongues to call the dolphins over. When the crewsignals to us that they’re swimming on the

starboard side, we cautiously make our way to thatside of the boat, and cling to the nearest pole sothat we can watch them without reeling overboard.But the mischievous creatures give us just enoughtime to snap a photo before – with a wink of an eye– they plunge underwater and disappear. It soonbecomes apparent they’re swimming beneath the boat. A short time later the captain signals tous, pointing to the port side where they havereappeared and are now riding the waves onceagain. They clearly enjoy their morning surf.

Abdulfatah tells us the dolphins play the samegames with his dhows every day, so when wedon’t get the shots we’d hoped for, because it’s a little windy and the water is chopped up,Abdulfatah invites us out on his boat the nextday. This is how we find ourselves, less than 24hours later, sailing again out of the stunninglysituated port of Khasab, the small low-key capital of the remote Musandam Peninsula. This tinyenclave of Oman is separated from the rest of thecountry and is situated on the northern-most tipof the Arabian Peninsula. Surrounded by the UAE

dhows,dolphins cigarette

text: lara dunstan

images: terry carter

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get in the know! The sails on dhows are called ‘lateen’ sails – and have been in use since the 8th century. ISSUE #16 get lost! #31

oman

and the beautiful waters of the Persian Gulf, orArabian Gulf, as the Gulf countries prefer to call it, the Musandam at its closest point is only 55kilometres from Iran. The journey across the Gulf can be completed in just over two hours,explaining the daily stream of visitors.

The Musandam is easy to visit from Dubai as well as from Oman’s capital, Muscat. WhileMuscat is an hour and a half away by plane,Dubai is only a relatively simple three-hour drive away, depending on traffic and the length of procedures at the sleepy border. But thepeninsula is worlds away from Dubai in look and feel, and you notice the differences themoment you cross the border from the UAE.

Oman is cleaner and has been more sensitively developed than its neighbour,

The Musandam’s arid and arrestinglandscape is pristine.

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sm gglers Only hours from the bright lights ofDubai, the Musandam Peninsula inOman couldn’t be further away inatmosphere and natural beauty.

oman


#32 get lost! ISSUE #16

and the Musandam’s arid and arresting landscape is pristine. There’s not a speck of litter. Nor are there any of the ugly, enormous electricitytransmission towers that crisscross the UAE,marring its majestic mountains just over theborder. The low-rise, whitewashed Omani homesare more modest than the Emiratis’ imposingthree-storey villas. And the understated Musandammosques are squat, with bulbous blue domes, in stark contrast to the UAE’s slender, intricatelydecorated mosques. The swollen domes,decorative arches and flourishes of extravagantdetail hark back to Oman’s historic ties to Mogul India and the East African colonies of Zanzibar and Mombasa.

There is a particularly charming fort at Bukha, the first town past the border, with a singlechubby watchtower, scenically sited by theshallow azure-coloured sea. If you stand ‘just so’you’ll see another small, creamy-coloured stone

fort (really just a walled watchtower) on the hill overlooking this unassumingadministrative town. The road up here is easy to find, and the view – across lush date palm oases and into the palm-filledyards of homes ordinarily concealed byhigh walls – is fascinating.

The road from Bukha onwards to Khasabmust be one of the world’s great drives. We loved it so much we drove it twice in one weekend. The smooth, sealed,

two-lane road skirts the coastline thewhole way, hugging the majestic Hajjar

Mountains. Aside from the mountains’immensity, their rough and rugged form

and their stark beauty, it’s the colours of thisimposing range that make it so memorable.

get in the know! Minarets mean ‘beacon’ in Arabic, and are where the call to prayer is issued from.


get in the know! Telegraph Island was part of a telegraph link built between Britain and India in the late 19th century.

Even in the haze that often gathers around themountains’ jagged peaks, softening the wholescene like a watercolour, they are still striking. The colours of the outcrops play a large part in this, with their stripes of silver-grey, orange, rust red, apricot, peach, and cream-colouredstone, their clearly delineated layers of history and time. These mountains took shape some 70million years ago and the bands of rock and lavaand oceanic sedimentary strata found within are rare on the surface of the earth.

Opposite the mountains, narrow creamy sandbeaches separate the clear shimmering sea fromthe road. A simple mosque sits serenely on onebeach, the peeling hull of an old wooden dhow isstrategically positioned for a photo op on another.Other than these sights, there is only theoccasional palm-frond shelter, beneath whichcraggy-faced old fishermen maintain theirmassive nets or simply watch and wait patiently for the boats to come in with the day’s catch.When the boats do come in, the men bound into the water with their dishdashas hitched up sarong-style around their waists.

We drive with the mountains on our right. At their base, a short distance from the road, and secluded within dramatic ravines, sit smallfishing villages. They’re scattered along the coastand as we drive around each successive bay we come across another. Fish and dates are themain sources of income in the Musandam, alongwith trade with the Iranians.

At each village we come to, we drive away from the coast into the sleepy main street toexplore. Most of the villages consist of housesthat are modern and modest, with colourfullypainted iron doors decorated with outlines ofkitsch palm trees, arabesque patterns or theOmani flag. Occasionally there are remnants of old stone houses in serious disrepair, and in the tiny town of Al Jadi there are so many in one quarter that it resembles a ghost town.Some of the crumbling buildings boast prettystar-patterned decorations at the top of theirstucco walls and there are disintegratingdoorframes through which you can frameNational Geographic-style shots of minaretssurrounded by date palms. Everywhere there are goats clambering over piles of stones,munching on the weeds that climb between the mounds of rocks.

Each village is fascinating in its own small wayand each is worth a stop. Al Jerry has a picturesquebeach lined with fishing boats and a blue-domedmosque. At Al Harf, on top of an empty plateau atthe most northern point of the peninsula proper,you may get to watch an enthusiastic game offootball on a rocky makeshift field. Have yourcamera ready, as the drive from Al Harf aroundthe point, down to Hana and on to Khasab, is the most scenic part of the route. It offers

spectacular views of the pale cliffs along the rocky coast and the Musandam’s famedkhors, or inlets.

People are more open to strangers in Omanthan they are in the UAE. Maybe it’s because lifeis simpler here in the Musandam, but as we travelthrough the villages we see old men sitting onchairs outside their homes chatting, smoking andreading the newspaper. Sometimes they stare as we drive by, as locals do to strangers in smalltowns everywhere, but mostly they smile andwave. Even the women are more at ease withforeigners. One looks out from behind a half-closed door as she combs her freshly washedhair and smiles. Another lady, covered in blackand wearing a delicate gold burqa mask on herface, sweeps her courtyard. She turns as we passslowly to see who is cruising down her littlestreet and returns my smile with one twice aswide. Everywhere there are goats. They wanderthrough the dusty streets of the sleepy capital,Khasab, down the labyrinthine lanes that snakethrough the town’s myriad date palm oases. They loiter outside the mosques, forts and souqs,eating the scraps people feed them and whateverelse they can find in the trash.

Back on the waters of Khasab harbour, thedolphins finally leave our dhow as we turn the

ISSUE #16 get lost! #33

The road from Bukhaonwards to Khasab must be one of the world’s great drives. We loved it so much we drove it twice in one weekend.

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#96 get lost! ISSUE #16 get in the know! Guantanamo Bay was first invaded by the USA in June, 1898.

with all the Cubans we met who told us similarstories – but we had a mission to consider.

The next day we said goodbye to Harbey andpunched the whole 500 kilometres to Gitmo in a stretch. Guantanamo Bay is an unassumingcoastal town full of stores with bare shelves and dissatisfied window shoppers. We were alsounable to find what we were searching for: a signto the naval base. This huge US compound, known the world over, was nowhere to be seen.The Cuban government regards the US as illegallyoccupying the land, so the lack of advertisingwas perhaps understandable.

After hours of following bad directions fromlocals, we found the entrance – a rickety boomgate manned by a single Cuban guard. My friendsand I hadn’t banked on such flimsy security andstarted to high five each other.

Our joy was short lived. This entrance was in fact 60 kilometres from the actual base andthe Cuban guard, standing between us and glory,refused us entry.

Undeterred, we scoured for another way in andfound a local who told us of a secret route alongthe coast – the ‘back way’ into Guantanamo Bay.

When, at the end of this suggested road, we found two Cuban policemen, we felt hurt andbetrayed. A trap? We soon found ourselves in aninterrogation room fielding a barrage of questionsin Spanish, the most repeated being, “Why thefuck are you looking for David Hicks?” (directtranslation). My story was that we wanted to geta photo to send to his mother. The cop narrowed

his eyes and asked the one question that he hadwanted to ask since our arrival: “Are you from AlQaeda?” This was too ridiculous. With Chris andOlly suddenly looking quite serious, I stood upand admitted that we were three bored travellerswho thought liberating a prisoner of war would be a fun way to pass the time. Now that we werehere, arrested and accused of terrorism, themission seemed unrealistic. “Just let us go andwe won’t do it again”, we promised. And so, witha chuckle, our interrogator did.

That night we were on our way back to Harbey’shouse. David Hicks was not in the boot. We didpass a surprisingly well-stocked appliances storehowever, and the next day we were able to drop atelevision on Harbey’s bed. Harbey’s handshakesquickly turned into hugs and he refused to let goagain. Hicksy is now out of prison and we havereceived a letter from Harbey. He reports that hisson now stays at home most afternoons. Mission(somewhat) accomplished.

We soon found ourselvesin an interrogation roomfielding a barrage of questionsin Spanish, the most repeatedbeing, “Why the fuck are youlooking for David Hicks?”

THE YEAR WAS 2003. THE HOWARDGovernment had left its nation’s mostfamous ‘traitor’ languishing in the US

prison at Guantanamo Bay for two years. Forgethis alleged faults, we reasoned, Hicksy was afellow Australian and deserved a good rescue. Our plan was vague – drive a hired car to Gitmo(600 kilometres away), storm the base (home to 10,000 soldiers trained to shoot intruders onsight) and drive away. With Hicksy in the boot.

We hired a hatchback and set off. The problemwith missions in Cuba is the Cubans. They have norespect for a grand plan and would much prefer youtalk about it over dinner than complete it. Harbey,a waiter with a ridiculous moustache who servedus our first Cuban lunch, was also the first obstacle to our success. Harbey had seen just one othergringo in his life and once he shook our hands herefused to let go. On the first night of our mission,we enjoyed a ride on Harbey’s horse and cart, a trip to the cinema (a television on a stage at thelocal school – when you’re earning the equivalentof 30 cents a day, shouting gringos to a movie is no small gesture) and a home-cooked meal.When we tried to leave, Harbey told us a sad taleabout his five-year-old son who was addicted to television. The child spent most afternoonsperched in front of an old black-and-white set athis grandmother’s house. Harbey had already soldhis favourite pig to buy his hut and had no moremoney. To get a television, and thus to get his sonback, Harbey would have to save for another twoyears. We sympathised with him – we sympathised

After a lazy three months travelling through Latin America,my friends and I were feeling useless. While in Cuba wedecided to we would do something worthwhile. We settledon liberating David Hicks.

text: tom maclachlan

images: magda bytnerowicz

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