December 2007
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The Libyan capital's easy elegance, endlessly hospitable inhabitants and mesmerising medinas have put it firmly back on the tourist's map, says Justin Marozzi
My father introduced me to Tripoli when I was a callow youth in my early twenties. I fell in love with the place immediately, which was a surprise because I hadn't been expecting to. It was a business trip, after all, not a holiday. My father was an agent for several companies selling tobacco and medical instruments - I always liked the juxtaposition - to Libya. Throughout my childhood in the 1970s, I was dimly aware of a city to which he kept disappearing, leaving England with several suitcases stuffed with presents from Laura Ashley and Liberty for the wives of friends, returning a couple of weeks later with the juiciest blood oranges.
I suppose I was intrigued by all of this, but when, years later, the time came to make my debut in Tripoli, romance didn't spring to mind. Being something of an autocrat who had grown up in the Middle East, my father had put me off the whole visit by lecturing me on the appropriate behaviour in front of his Libyan colleagues. It seemed my role was to wear a suit and keep schtum. Basically, I was his bag carrier.
It is always good to arrive somewhere new with low expectations. Within a couple of days I was hooked, entranced by the easy elegance of a city, which, thanks to its eccentric leader, was completely off the beaten track. Behind the reception of our fairly uninspiring hotel, I spotted a huge picture of a youthful Gaddafi posing in front of vast pipes flooding the arid desert with water. The legend read: 'The Great Man-River Builder.' We had a word with the manager about where we could find such a splendid picture in town. He presented it to us as a gift. I've treasured it ever since. It was my first experience of the endless hospitality and generosity of Tripolines. Travellers to this city have been making the same observation for hundreds of years.
Every afternoon, after the business meetings were over, we drove around Tripoli with my father's old friend Othman in his Peugeot 504, an ancient hulk of a machine. We rattled along the nostalgic corniche, palm trees dipping in the breeze, cooled by the Mediterranean zephyrs that wafted through the open windows. This streaming breeze that never lets up is one of the delights of the city. 'We call Tripoli ar Roz al Bahr, the Bride of the Sea,' Othman told me.
In later trips to Libya, travelling alone, I have always made a point of idling in Green Square, watching the life of Tripoli flood past this great focal point. On one side stands the formidable bulk of the medieval castle, which houses the national museum; to the north, the wind-ruffled sea. An Italian fountain plays lazily in the centre, in front of handsome colonnaded buildings from the colonial era. Traffic pushes and shoves its way around the square in a maelstrom of hooting and recrimination. A short walk away is the port and the fish market where men fuss over the latest catch, hounded by haggling housewives, and hurl octopuses against the pavement to tenderise the flesh. A stone's throw away again, you can escape the draining sun by firing up a shisha water-pipe in a shaded café, puffing away contentedly as the city throbs around you.
Green Square is at the heart of it all. I remember the first time I walked through Bab al Bahr, the gateway from the old square to the medina and rambling markets. This was once the terminus of the Saharan slave trade. In a flash, the Mediterranean of the square gave way to the Africa of the interior. Skin tones darkened, the colour of people's clothes intensified and I was lost in crowds of Sudanese and Chadian pedlars, blinded by sunlight reflecting off whitewashed walls. You can drift along in the markets for hours, borne along on a wave of music from Oum Kalthoum, queen of Arab singers, following your nose to find the best herbs and spices, and admiring the restoration of Italian-era villas that were crumbling to destruction when I first arrived.
As far as Roman ruins go, Tripoli is not well served. There's the gloomy triumphal arch of Marcus Aurelius, and that's about it. But with the imperial glory of Leptis Magna and sublime Sabratha within easy striking distance of the city - both of them among the finest examples in the Mediterranean - you don't have to worry.
One more discovery to report. If it hadn't been for my father, I would never have come across the 19th-century British explorer George Lyon's high-spirited story of his calamitous camel expedition into the Libyan exterior (A Narrative of Travels in Northern Africa in the Years 1818-20). It is the sort of book that is dangerous to read if you are a certain age. Six years later, having devoured it and lusted for the desert ever after, I found myself at the head of a caravan of five camels embarking on a rather less calamitous expedition 1,200 miles across the Libyan Sahara. I have my father - and Tripoli - to thank for it.
Justin Marozzi's South from Barbary: Along the Slave routes of the Libyan Sahara (£7.99, HarperCollins) is out now.
