Latest news with #SceneTraveller
CairoScene
01-08-2025
- CairoScene
Maryam Abdullah on Being the First Arab Woman to Visit Every Country
Maryam Abdullah on Being the First Arab Woman to Visit Every Country Maryam Abdullah didn't set out to visit every country in the world. But by 2024, she had quietly become the first Arab woman to do so. When Maryam Abdullah stepped into the final country on the map in June 2024, the moment felt unexpectedly quiet. No fanfare, no finish-line adrenaline. 'I didn't feel the usual rush of excitement or triumph,' she tells SceneTraveller. 'It wasn't about ticking off a list or achieving a goal—it was more like a quiet awakening.' That stillness marked the end of a 12-year journey. The Kuwaiti engineer—armed with an MBA and an insatiable curiosity—hadn't set out to break records. But when she boarded a flight to Brazil in 2012, she unknowingly began a path that would lead her to all 197 countries in the world, becoming the first Arab woman to do so. 'I never set out with the goal of visiting every country,' she says. 'I just wanted to understand how people lived, how they treated each other, how they welcomed strangers.' As the list of unexplored places dwindled, the scale of what she was doing began to reveal itself. 'It became harder to find places I hadn't already explored. That was the moment it truly hit me: I was nearing the finish line." From the very beginning, Abdullah gravitated toward places untouched by globalization—Madagascar, Afghanistan, Iran, North Korea—seeking experiences unfiltered by Western cafés or fast food chains. 'I wanted to witness life on its own terms, not shaped by the same brands or habits we see everywhere.' The road wasn't always smooth. Crossing borders in West Africa during the COVID-19 pandemic meant facing curfews, shuttered transit, and impassable roads. 'Sometimes I had to hitchhike,' she says. 'There were places known for robbery, places where the only help came from locals who were struggling themselves.' What struck her most wasn't the hardship—it was the generosity. Her definition of 'every country' wasn't dictated by convenience or politics. 'If a country was open to travellers and I could safely engage with its people, then it was part of my journey.' She carried a camera, not to document landscapes, but people—the faces and conversations that shaped her understanding of the world. Travelling as an Arab woman added a layer of complexity: 'Sometimes I was met with suspicion, other times, fascination. Either way, I learned to move through it.' Her strongest lesson? 'It's been a journey of self-empowerment. My core stayed rooted—but my outer shape became universal.' Even in conflict zones, Abdullah prioritized adaptability and connection. 'Plans had to change constantly, and sometimes that meant leaving a place suddenly or changing direction entirely.' That flexibility, she says, was the key to staying safe—and understanding the human stories unfolding within conflict. Over time, the more she saw of the world, the more clearly she understood home. 'Travel actually sharpened my connection to my roots. But I also feel less tied to any singular identity. I've become fluent in this language of belonging that doesn't need borders.' Now, she seeks depth over novelty. 'Boredom comes when I'm in environments that lack curiosity or meaning. What surprises me now isn't the view—it's the spirit of a place, the way people break your expectations with kindness.' For Maryam, ticking off every country was never the goal—it was simply the vessel. The real destination was always deeper: building confidence in unfamiliar spaces, seeing herself reflected in strangers, and representing an Arab womanhood that is bold, curious, and unafraid. Only after all that could she offer advice—not as a checklist champion, but as someone who learned how to belong anywhere by being fully herself. 'Don't let those limits define you. Those invisible red lines we're taught not to cross? They vanish the moment you step into the unknown."
CairoScene
27-07-2025
- Sport
- CairoScene
Fatima AlAwadhi on Becoming the Youngest Emirati to Summit Elbrus
At just 17, Fatima Al Awadhi climbed Mount Elbrus and set a national record. We spoke to her about altitude sickness, school stress, and why Emirati girls belong outdoors and in leadership. On a quiet night by a campfire, surrounded by friends, 17-year-old Fatima Al Awadhi took out her phone and typed a question into Google: What records can I break? Earlier that day, one of her teachers had joked that she'd seen Fatima on Mount Everest. The remark, meant in jest, lodged itself somewhere more serious. "That's why I decided I wanted to climb the seven summits and be the youngest to do so.' Fatima shares with SceneTraveller, calm and matter-of-fact. Six months later, she stood at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. Another six, and she was on Mount Elbrus—Europe's highest peak—planting the UAE flag in the snow at 5,642 metres above sea level, and breaking a national record in the process. 'I wanted to show young Emirati girls that we belong outdoors, in challenge, and in leadership.' It's not a rallying cry. But it lands with quiet conviction—as self-definition. Climbing the Seven Summits isn't just a mountaineering milestone—it's a global proving ground, a rarefied pursuit often dominated by older, male adventurers from colder climates, backed by well-funded expeditions. Fatima, however, is stitching her ambitions between A-level coursework and the usual teenage rites of passage. 'I went through my A-level exams right before Elbrus,' she says. 'I graduated about a week before I summited.' Her prep was improvised—light gym sessions and runs where possible. 'It was actually quite hard to prepare for it because I was too busy studying.' Despite the minimal training, she made it. But day one nearly ended it. 'I got altitude sickness,' she recalls. 'I think I overexerted myself during training and it made me question whether I belonged on the mountains.' She pauses, then adds: 'But I was back at it the next day.' The climb itself took three days. 'We spent the first two days training—learning how to use the ice axe, wearing crampons,' she explains. 'Then, around midnight on the second day, we started the summit push. We didn't reach the top until sunrise.' The biggest challenge wasn't the tools or the terrain—it was staying mentally present. 'It's hard when you're walking on snow for hours—it feels like it's never-ending. That's the biggest lesson I learned—to motivate myself without any external forces.' But that's not the only wisdom she carries. For aspiring mountaineers—or anyone staring down an intimidating goal—Fatima is practical: 'Don't wait. Just do your research, know your limits, and most importantly: stay safe.' Her next summit attempt is already in the works. But what excites her most now is tying her climbs to something greater. 'My goal is not only to climb mountains—I want to integrate community service into it. Whether it's for specific people or the environment, I want it to matter.' Fatima Al Awadhi isn't trying to be a symbol. But symbols don't always come from intention—they emerge from action. In a region where ambition, especially female ambition, is often packaged to fit a mold, Fatima is neither scripted nor ceremonial. She is focused. Methodical. Her voice steady. Her lessons earned. She still remembers the altitude sickness. The heavy water bottle she carried and never used. The too-small backpack that barely fit the essentials. Her only regret? 'I didn't take enough pictures.' But she'll take more—of summits, of snow, of whatever comes next.
CairoScene
09-07-2025
- CairoScene
The 100-Year Story of Lebanon's Beit Noun Guesthouse
The 100-Year Story of Lebanon's Beit Noun Guesthouse In the village of Mechmech in Lebanon, you spend your days laying underneath swaying pine and cedar trees, while your evenings are spent sipping a fruity cocktail or an icy beer. Scenic views stretch before you - the greens of the forest and the blues of the sky, which change to soft orange and purple by dusk. In this picturesque region, 900 metres above sea-level, lies Beit Noun - a boutique guesthouse with a wealth of history. From the nation's Golden Era in the 50s, up to its devastating Civil War in the 70s, the Lebanese countryside and coasts attracted the crème de la crème of the world - and nothing drew them in more than Jbeil. The glistening Mediterranean marina of this mountainous district has yachted Hollywood stars like Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando, while the forests made up of the country's signature cedar tree were dotted with picturesque villages. Then, just as it does now, you could stroll past houses of red-tiled roofs and ancient masonry, beach-side bars and breezy restaurants. Situated just below the hallowed pilgrimage site of Mar Charbel, the patron saint of Lebanon, Beit Noun was originally developed by Edouard and Isabelle Noun nee El Khoury, a relative of Lebanon's first president Bechara El Khoury. They built it as a private residence in the 1920s, flanked by groves of fragrant olive, fig, cherry and apple trees, and perched at the tip of the mountain. 'Edouard and Isabelle were a pillar of Lebanon's high society, and used the estate as a gathering point of political elites, who would often be hosted in a pine tree-covered private garden besides the main house,' Mia Noun, manager at Beit Noun and great-granddaughter of the founders, tells SceneTraveller. 'Their personal belongings still decorate the house. Isabelle was a collector of fine mirrors which we have placed around Beit Noun. Her gloves - she had very small hands - and Edouard's canes remind us of them. We try to run Beit Noun with their spirit and in their memory.' The house was built in the Art Deco style that was popular in that era, and employs red tiles and traditional Lebanese artisanry to accentuate the serenity of the region. The main house took 25 years to complete; Edouard employed villagers from the surrounding areas in its construction. Stones were carried from the nearby villages, which still stand strong to this day. The creation of the estate on which Beit Noun stands also saw the building of the first roads in the region as well as the canalisation of water, which made the estate a focal point for the villages. While preserving the classic design and layout of the house, celebrated regional architect Galal Mahmoud reimagined the space with a modern take. 'The estate is known fondly by the local villagers as El Hara, because since its inception, it was founded as a place of gathering and of community,' Mia Noun says. The Noun family created a house with a warm family atmosphere filled with family lunches, society dinners with presidents and ministers, and - in the days of Mia's grandfather Pierre Noun ('he was a bit of a hippy,' Mia says) - nights around the fire enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the highlands. Today, the house has been re-established as a guesthouse that is still run by the Noun family. Newly opened, it aspires to reimagine the essence of the place. 'We opened the guesthouse in the middle of the crisis in Lebanon, and it just made sense to do so,' Mia says. 'It is a place meant to be filled with people.' Whether it be a swim in the pool or the nearby azure mountain lakes, fruit picking in the gardens, trekking in the sprawling mountains, or just a relaxing massage and yoga, the guesthouse offers plentiful opportunities to unwind and immerse yourself in the traditions and history of the estate. The natural environment around the house, including organic vegetable gardens and beehives, serve as the ideal break from city life. The menu mirrors the seasons, and mostly uses fresh produce from the gardens and villages. Older women from the villages come in to cook typical North Lebanese fare such as Kibbeh Nayye and meat stews which have been heated above charcoal for six hours. To quench your thirst, there is the estate's wine bar, Le Bistro de Zahra ('Named after the cow of Heikal, one of the first gardeners on the estate,' Mia shares). It is placed in the very first house on the estate, which was built by the father of Edouard Noun, who was a priest and a butcher. From USD 275 a night, guests can enjoy one of Beit Noun's 13 rooms divided between the main house, the garden house and the pool house. Each room reflects its own character through unique colour palettes. Local artisans are still used in the upkeep of the house to maintain its original and traditional Lebanese country feel. According to Mia, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the villagers who assisted Edouard in developing the estate are still employed there, and view the place as a second home.
CairoScene
04-07-2025
- CairoScene
How Karen Garcia Became the Go-To Guide for Mexicans in Egypt
How Karen Garcia Became the Go-To Guide for Mexicans in Egypt When Karen first moved to Egypt from Mexico, she didn't plan on staying. Now, nine years later, she travels around the country, documenting it for Spanish-speaking travellers. When Karen Garcia first stepped onto Egyptian soil on a cool January night in 2016, the plan was simple: teach Spanish for a short while, then move on. But plans, as she quickly learned, have a way of shifting when you're in Egypt. The first week was a blur of uncertainty—loud voices, honking cars, the sheer density of life. For seven days, she barely left the compound where she was staying, wondering if she had made a mistake. But then she allowed herself to step outside. Cairo wrapped itself around her like a chaotic embrace—warm, unfiltered, and full of contradictions. Shopkeepers called out greetings, the scent of freshly baked baladi bread wafted through the air, and— despite the apparent disorder—she found an unexpected rhythm to it all. Her world expanded in ways she hadn't foreseen. A chance encounter led her to begin helping Spanish-speaking travellers navigate Egypt. At first, it was just a favour—friends of friends staying in her spare room, people asking for advice on where to go. Before she knew it, she was collaborating with tour agencies, ensuring Spanish-speaking visitors experienced more than just pyramids and papyrus shops. She wasn't a licensed guide, but she was something else—a bridge between Egypt and people who, like her, were about to discover a whole new world. 'I wish I had someone like me when I first arrived,' Karen tells SceneTraveller. 'It would have made everything easier.' Now, she does for others what she once needed herself. She helps them settle in, find the right places, and get comfortable with the chaos of Cairo. Some stay in her home, renting out a room for a few nights or weeks, and through them, she gets to see Egypt for the first time again and again. 'Sometimes, people arrive feeling overwhelmed, so, if there's one special thing I do, it's to make them feel at home.' Karen's approach is refreshingly unpretentious, which is perhaps the key to her success. She doesn't call herself a guide, nor does she see what she does as a business. 'If I have an extra bed, why not let someone stay? If I'm going to Luxor and someone else wants to come, why not go together?' Yet, despite Karen's nine-year run in the country of pharaohs, she still wavers. Every year, she tells herself she might leave, that this will be the year she moves on. Yet, every year, she stays. The idea of Kuwait or Saudi Arabia hovers on the horizon, but so does something deeper—the realisation that Egypt has shaped her in ways she never anticipated. She no longer fights the system. Where once she bristled at inefficiencies, she now watches a sunset from a stalled taxi and sees beauty instead of delay. 'Every time you go out of your house in Egypt you will have an experience—either good or bad—but you will have something to tell after. That's the magic of this country.' Egypt, she has come to understand, isn't a place you control—it's a place you surrender to. And in that surrender, she has found something close to home.
CairoScene
13-06-2025
- CairoScene
This Tunisian Architect Makes Travel Videos for, Well, Architects
A 26-year-old architecture student from Tunisia, Ahmed Bedoui turned street photography into a career—one frame at a time. We've all fallen down that rabbit hole: the infinite scroll of candy-coloured Santorini balconies, Bali infinity pools, and cherry blossom tunnels that bleed into one homogenised daydream. Travel content has become a global hall of mirrors: same angles, same trending audios, same stolen sunsets. Some creators combat the sameness with increasingly outrageous stunts like handstanding on volcanoes or kissing cobras. Others disappear into AI-generated landscapes where even the dirt looks filtered. But a rare few understand that true discovery happens not when you chase novelty, but when you learn to see the ordinary through extraordinary eyes. Ahmed Bedoui, a 26-year-old Tunisian architect-turned-travel-influencer, treats Instagram not as a highlight reel, but as a forensic lab for place and memory. In his world, the cracks in cobalt paint on a weathered Medina door reveal generations of salt-laden winds; its iron studs map forgotten blacksmith techniques. While others frame Morocco's riads for their "instagrammable arches," Bedoui asks: How does this curvature trap cool air? Why does this shadow fall at 32 degrees in December? Whose calloused hands mixed this plaster? For Bedoui, content creation was never about fame or algorithms—it began with a love for beauty, culture, and the built environment. Born and raised in Tunisia, he's completing his architectural studies in Sidi Bou Said, the white-and-blue coastal village that shaped his visual sensibilities—and where, accidentally, he began telling a different kind of story… His Instagram handle, @ is both identity and manifesto. 'Bedouin' (from the Arabic badija, meaning desert dweller) historically signified nomadic Arab tribes traversing borders from Syria to the Sahara. Though Tunisia's first president, Habib Bourguiba, urbanised many Bedouins in the 1950s, their spirit persists: hospitality as sacred covenant, movement as birthright, community as survival. Bedoui reclaims this legacy. And so, what began as a 2020 hobby—photographing the streets of Tunisia—quickly gained traction, with viral videos shot in Istanbul and Egypt introducing him to the power of short-form content on TikTok and Instagram. 'We're often told that Tunisia, Morocco, Egypt are 'unsafe,'' Ahmed shares with SceneTraveller. 'That's why I started showing the doors left unlocked for strangers.' But it was Morocco that really launched his journey. 'The first time I went, I tagged the hotels in my stories. A month later, one invited me back for a free stay,' he says, still surprised at the memory. 'I didn't even know what a collab was.' That turning point opened his eyes to the world of professional content creation. Encouraged by friends and some early collaborators, he began charging for his work and building a thoughtful, sustainable brand. So, early on, he created his own 50/50 manifesto: half his work would showcase collaborators; half would spotlight the culture and the unseen—crumbling courtyard homes with sunken zellij fountains, hidden hammams behind unmarked doors, and the echo of footsteps in domes built to whisper. 'People always ask what camera I use—and they're shocked when I say my iPhone,' he says. 'But it's not the device—it's the eye. As an architect, you learn to notice light, shadow, and the meaning behind spaces.' He sees content creation not as a detour from architecture, but an extension of it, letting local design guide his lens. Visiting cities like Cairo and studying the work of architects such as Hassan Fathy helped him see how built environments reflect local culture and climate. This sensibility bleeds into every aspect of his work. His Instagram grid is carefully curated with complementary tones and textures, often highlighting intricate local craftsmanship. 'I only share what I genuinely believe in. I see it as a responsibility.' Still, despite the taxing nature of meticulously curating content, his audience often only sees the polished final product, not the effort behind it: long hours of planning, multiple visits to a location for better light, or even setbacks like having his phone stolen mid-shoot. 'People often don't realise the work that goes into a single 30-second video.' Eventually, Ahmed dreams of building something tangible—a guesthouse by the sea, maybe in Essaouira, infused with his aesthetic. But for now, graduation is just weeks away. And though his studies might hold his attention for a bit longer, someday soon the road will open up—and he plans to walk it with intention, and the eye of a true (and certified) architect of travel.
