Mother has been an unwitting resource provider this week: I was teaching paragraphs, so I used one of her emails as an example of how not to do it - one long stream of consciousness is not ideal when it comes to creative writing. Not only are all the students masters of paragraphs now, they also know a lot about my family, and the culture of England. And they may well contact my mother to thank her for her help.
Despite my thinking that my car had escaped unscathed from last weekend's adventure, there was a niggling noise from the brakes, so one of my students took me round to a garage to have it checked out. Part of the brake housing had broken loose, and was rattling around, so this was fixed, and all was right as rain. No charge of course - all part of the service of being friendly to foreigners.
I thought I might as well get the handbrake fixed as well (it hasn't worked since I bought the car), so arranged to take the car back this morning. In Libya, you go to one garage for electrics, another for engines, and another for bodywork, and you take the parts you want replacing with you from another place. I arrived with no parts, so the proprietor drove me to various places in town to get the bits, and then fixed the car. Whilst I waited, I sat in the morning sun, being fed sweet, mint tea at regular intervals. Two hours labour: 6 pounds. Parts: 6 pounds. Happiness: Priceless.
On a roll, I thought I might as well get a new windscreen wiper (one of mine had mysteriously disappeared during the week), and I really need a jack in case I have a puncture on one of my long excursions, so I went round the shops getting these.
All of the discussions were conducted in Arabic (and sign language), so I am feely pretty chipper.
Whilst waiting for the car to be fixed, I reflected on all the time I used to spend with oily hands, mending my old cars, and I began to feel guilty sitting watching, rather than doing. Looking back, I quite enjoyed messing with engines and things. I also remembered emptying my house ready to come to Libya, and throwing away all my nuts, screws, bits of wire, old tools, switches, and so on which I'd accumulated over the years, including some bits of my 1957 Bantam motorbike, and my Mini Moke - I'd held on to them for 35 years 'just in case they come in handy'.
Yesterday, I finally made it to Apollonia. When I got to Susa, I decided to treat myself to a proper meal, the first since I've been in the east of the country. I went to the best hotel in town, and settled down for a full Sunday lunch, Libyan-style, and it was lovely. Four courses, and delicious. Then I was ready for the afternoon's exertions.
As I'm sure you'll guess, the site was stunning - right by the sea, under the Jebel Akhtar:
There had been an enormous earthquake in the 4th Century, affecting the entire north coast of Libya, including Sabratha and Leptis Magna, and the harbour of the city had been dragged below the sea. The outer harbour wall was surmounted by a lighthouse on top of the island to the right of the picture above.
The city itself had been established about 7000 years ago by the Greeks, but was then absorbed by the Romans, and finally the Byzantines who were in residence at the time of its demise. It was the port for Cyrene, higher up in the mountains, so its destruction precipitated the end of Cyrene.
It was a major ecclesiastical base for the area, and one of the largest churches in North Africa was sited here:
Although the churches have long ceased to function, prayer still takes place here. In the picture below, on the beach, there are two chaps doing one of their five daily prayer sessions. When I've been out with students, wherever we are, they always stop to pray, the oldest member of the party leading the 'service'. I used to find it mildly embarassing, but now recognise that it's a way of life here. On one occasion in Tripoli, I was out with Khalid and Mustafa in a shopping centre, and suddenly they decided that they needed to pray; just round a corner was a carpet laid out for that express purpose, so off they went.
The Greeks seem to have always been able to find idyllic spots for their theatres, and Apollonia is no exception:
On my way back to the car, I met an Iraqi who was over working on setting up electricity stations for the Libyan government. Perfect English. He bemoaned the pillaging of historic sites by the Italians in Libya, and then said the same has happened in Iraq, but in Iraq's case it has been done by the Iraqis themselves. Syria is a major centre for the transhipment of ancient relics, so I'm beginning to have some ideas on where my travels might take me next.
