Snow!

We’ve got ourselves some snow! It makes me feel right at home. I just had my FIL on the line, and I could hear his teeth chatter through the line. No, let’s rephrase that, I heard his teeth clapper. It’s cold in Beirut, 5 degrees outside, but up in the mountains where he is staying, it’s freezing. They got over 50 centimeters of snow yesterday, and today he could not get down to Beirut because the roads are closed. What’s more, he hasn’t had electricity since yesterday afternoon either. Now he’s got a chimney, and is happily stoking up the fireplace, but I doubt many of his neighbors have that luxury.

A huge snowstorm continued to hit Lebanon Thursday, isolating villages and towns and causing widespread havoc on roads with temperatures reaching below zero in many areas, including the capital.Many villages and towns at an altitude of 600 meters were blanketed by snow that also left thousands of people without power or telephone lines. (An Nahar)

The electricity situation has been shaky lately, to say the least, and this storm is not exactly helping matters much. I haven’t received much electricity today either, and that's in the heart of Beirut. The generator is groaning under the demand of the building. Every time someone gets into the elevator, everyone’s lights dim. If this continues, we’ll have to ration the generator as well.
And then it will be like in the old days, ‘el iyem min zamen’. Then we had to tell dinner guests at 10:55 PM that they had another 5 minutes left to pack it up and leave with the elevator, or otherwise they’d have to negotiate the 12 flights of stairs in the dark, because the building generator would be turned off at 11:00 PM sharp.

More pictures to come this weekend when I will immerse myself in snow.

On Rain & Random Thoughts

It’s been raining, hailing and storming all day and all night. And it looks like this night will be much the same. (Tonights forecast: Very windy with showers and thunderstorms, some heavy this evening; cloudy and cold with rain late. Winds from the WSW at 43 km/h. Realfeel®: 2 °C, Low: 8 °C. Courtesy of weatherbase.com)

The sewer system has been updated pretty good in my neighborhood, I noticed. Storms like this used to result in flooded streets. On the Corniche you’d have rows and rows of stalled cars, water up to the doors, and fogged up windows, while owners sat inside, contemplating whether to get out and push, or just wait till the water would recede. Or call a friend and ask to help out.
Sometimes it’d be so bad you couldn’t cross the street unless you were willing to wade up to your knees through the water. Ah, those were the days. This place is so civilized now. In some ways. The government must be happy with this kind of weather; nothing keeps street protesters home better than a good storm. But beauty will not be beaten by this weather, as you can see from the umbrellas at the entrance of the local beauty parlor. Beauty is big business in this place. A little rain won’t keep these ladies in.

And the chickens look very enticing too when it’s cold outside. I bought one for 12,000 LBP. My dinner partners say it is expensive. They used to sell them for 9,000 LBP, they say. Yeah, with the emphasis on ‘used to.’ It seems my grocery bill has increased with about 25% lately, haven't they noticed anything? Yes, they have, they admit.
They say it’s snowing at 600 meters tonight. That’s pretty low. I’m thinking skiing. And to show you what we’ve become, a colleague of mine voiced the hope that if – "I’m just saying if, it’s not that I want this to happen, no, God forbid, but just if” – a bomb is going to explode, then let it be on Thursday. This way Friday will be off, and we’ll have a long weekend. I am thinking Friday. Then Saturday will be a day of mourning, and I’ll have the slopes for myself again.
So now we’re integrating explosions into our daily life.

My son has a dinner date tonight. It started at 8. What 14 year old has a dinner date on a week night that starts at 8:00? What's wrong with dinner at 6:00? It's not really family policy to be out of the house that late on a weekday, but this is a special occasion. It's a girl in his class, and she is leaving the country tomorrow. 'Because of the situation', she says. The family leaves the country mid-year, because they do not think it is safe anymore. Now that should tell you something.

Remember the ship.

Funny

You have to read this post of fellow Dutch blogger Nicolien. It’s absolutely hilarious (but then again, so is politics in this place, sometimes)

It concerns a conversation (across country as these gentlemen will never sit eye to eye due to past ‘issues’) between two politicians, both christians.

According to Nicolien:

Geagea (a Maronite leader who supports the Government) let it be known that ‘Franjieh should be respectful towards Bkirki and treat it like it is his mother‘.
Upon which Franjieh (a Maronite Christian leader who supports the Opposition) replies: ‘If Geagea had left my mother alive, I would have known how to treat her well.’

For the non-informed; Geagea is unofficially considered the one that was involved killing Frangieh's mom, dad, a large number of family members and the family dog
.

Thanks, But No Thanks

Poor Michel Sleiman; our ‘is-he-or-isn’t-he-going-to-be-president?’ When they first came up with his name, I had my doubts. Another military man? The last one created more problems than he solved. Besides, a military man has no business in a democracy.

Anyway, he was pretty much the man, it seemed.
I understood that the government parties didn’t quite trust him. Too much of a Damascus man, it seems. They reluctantly went ahead with the choice. Now I read that Damascus doesn’t trust him anymore either.

So maybe he was the right guy after all. Too late now, I guess.

But what an insult. You ask a man to be the candidate, and then you change your mind. ‘Well general, we wanted you to be president, but now we are not sure anymore. We still have to think about it. Do you mind waiting?’

His portraits were suddenly hanging all over town. His wife probably overhauled her entire wardrobe, making it fit for a ‘Mrs. President.’ Invited all her friends over for lunch and discussed in detail how she’d get them all on the bandwagon, and party circuit. He probably overhauled his car, rehearsed his inauguration speech in the bathroom time and time again. His kids were probably gloating over the immense amount of wasta this was going to involve. Never again having to wait in a government office in a line up with another 365 Lebanese and 27 copies of copies of copies in a brown envelope in your hand because you need to get a stamp and a signature so you can get a paper to prove that you . . . etc (you all know the routine. Do you feel the frustration?).

And then they let you wait. And wait. And wait some more.

How embarrassing.
There is another parliamentary session planned on February the 11th. It will be the 13th attempt to vote for a president.

If I were him, and they finally do ask me, I’d reply; “Well, I thought about it, but ah, no, I think have changed my mind. Sorry guys, thanks, but no thanks.”

But you know he won’t.

Therapy

I went to the snow today.

I thought that might be a good therapy for car bomb threats. I have not gotten to the point where I will avoid traffic jams and roads with cars parked on the sides, as it would mean I would have to stay home all day, but the number of friends and/or acquaintances who experienced near-misses is adding up.
We will ignore that quite conveniently though.
I thought the rest of the Lebanese population might go for the same therapy, but I was wrong; the slopes were absolutely empty! It was as if they were operating the lifts for my sake only.

But I knew I was on the right track when I spotted this car in front of me while driving up; an Iraqi from Baghdad. You rarely see Iraqi license plates in this town. Now if anyone knows what to do in case of a system overload due to car bombs, he does. After all, they have 'em all the time. So what are we complaining about?

A Story

Hubbie relates his morning.

He bought a new phone yesterday morning, and this morning he decides to try it. So he takes his GSM card from his old phone, (which was working fine, by the way) and plugs it into the new phone.
And he waits.
And waits.
But no reception.
He tries all kinds of things, pushes all kinds of buttons, reads the manual, but to no avail.
No reception.
So he bought a new phone that’s broken from the start.

Frustrated, he takes out the GSM card and puts it back in his old phone.
What do you know! No reception either. Goddang, now my card is ruined, he thinks.
He waits and waits, and suddenly, after 6 minutes, he’s got reception. Aha, it works!
So let’s check the new phone again. Just to make sure.

He switches cards again.

He waits and waits.
No reception.
Tired of it all, he puts it back in the old phone and wants to call the helpdesk.

But now the old phone doesn’t have any reception either. Not even after 6 minutes. Or 10 minutes.
He checks his other (business) line.
No reception either.

Suddenly a little bell starts to ring (inside his head).
Let’s check the news.
He turns on the TV.

And indeed, and explosion.

It blocks the mobile phone net every time.

Well, at least my sunsets and sunrises remain constant.Beirut, January 25, 17:32 P.M. (a little after sunset)

Beirut, January 23, 06:32 A.M. (a little before sunrise)

I already posted the sunrise a couple of days ago, but now you have a sunset to go with it.

ANother One

The head of security suddenly appears on the floor. You do not see his face inside the building very often.

Colleagues clump together at door ways, talking in hushed voices.

I see all my co-workers on their cell phones.

Oh. I get it. Another one?

Yep. Another one.

Sunrise

Although a strike was promised, I didn't notice much of it. The morning started with an absolute stunning sunrise, and the day proceeded pretty much in a similar fashion.

And I realized that I see a sunrise (as in the sun coming out over the mountains) 5 out of 7 days a week, and a sunset (sun setting in the sea) 7 out of 7 days.

Unobstructed by man-made objects, I might add, but I do not think that's going to last much longer; they're building like mad in this neighborhood.

Enough History for One Night

Two old aunts pass by. They’re cleaning house, and one of them has got this big Manila folder with her, brimming with pictures of my in-laws in the early stages of their marriage. Maybe you want them, she says.

Life was good back then, it seems, because it is a collection of black and white pictures taken in a wide variety of social settings in Lebanon. Night clubs, dinners at the Phoenicia and the Casino du Liban, dances in Broumana and I don’t know what. The hairdos are absolutely amazing, and men in suits wear dark sunglasses at night. It’s like I am looking at an old Oum Kaltoum movie. My in-laws social night life was definitely more glamorous and busy than mine (has ever been, I might add). So how come there aren’t any pictures of the children when they were young? I ask. I think that for as long as I have been married, I must have seen a total of 2 pictures of my husband as a child.

“Oh, they were in the house at Kantari,” she replies, as a matter of fact.
At the beginning stages of the war, in 1975, fighting erupted right in front of their doorsteps and the family had to flee to another neighborhood. The house ended up in a militarized zone, although the term militia-lized zone would be more accurate, and was no longer accessible. When they could finally return - some months later - the house was looted of pretty much everything.
“The furniture, the paintings, everything, including the family photographs,” she says. “Oh, and there were so many of your husband and his brother. Your father in-law would make pictures all the time. Oh well, all gone.”

And while they are shuffling through the stack of pictures, I hear one of them say “You remember Salim? They burned his hand and shot him. He was a friend of the family.” It’s a picture taken during a dinner at the Phoenicia hotel, when it was still right at the sea side. “That’s him, next to your mother in-law (with the flowers in her hair),” and they point him out. The first guy on her left.
I had to Google him. This is what I found. He was a publisher of a Lebanese magazine called al-Hawadess. His name was Salim Al-Lawzi. When the war in Lebanon broke out he felt he could no longer report from there, so he went to Paris. In 1980 he had to return to Lebanon on a family emergency. On his way back to the airport to head to France, his car was stopped. His wife and driver were let go. Salim Al-Lawzi disappeared for about ten days to two weeks, only to reappear as a body amidst some bushes. His writing hand had been almost skinned to the bone, either by the use of acid or by sharp instruments. And his body had been pierced in several places before being finished by a shot to the head.(As told by Al Jazeera founder Omar Al-Issawi )
What did he owe that too? He had written an article criticizing Syria's Baath regime.

This place is so loaded with history that it’s incredible! The family pictures got looted during the civil war and a family friend assassinated. That’s enough history for one night.

In Retrospect

In retrospect, not being able to drink your coffee and eat those pancakes is really not such a big deal. (Has she taken her happy pills?) After all, nothing can beat the local produce.
This is part of the merchandise of my local grocer. With the stress on ‘part of’, as this is only what’s outside on the pavement. He’s got more stuff inside. And he's really not such a unusually large grocer.
Half of these vegetables I don’t even know how to cook (well, that’s easy), and a large number have names I’ve never heard of. Some vegetables I’ve never even seen before.

Signs on the Wall Indeed

Read Riemer’s Signs on the Wall post. I’ve said it before, and so has he.

He writes “People are tense, tired and simply fed up with it all.”

I - for a fact - am so tired of it all that I can’t even blog about it anymore, and had to borrow someone’ else’s blog post.
I had a conversation with a fellow Dutch on Saturday, and I mentioned to her that in the 17 years that I have lived here, I always loved it. But it seems that even I have reached my breaking point. The ship is sinking rapidly now. Can't even get my coffee anymore, and Aunt Jemima's 'Just Add Water' Buttermilk Pancakes has gone off the shelves in the supermarkets as well. You may think that is something trivial. But everything is. It just adds up, and adds up, and then adds up some more . . . . .

But if you read her post, I think she's just about had it too.

A Hint from Blogger

Blogger has decided it is high time for me that I start learning Arabic. My toolbar comes up in Arabic only.

I shoudn't complain; at work it pops up in Croatian, if I am not mistaken. Or maybe it's Russian. Cannot read it (either).

It does interfere with my spell checking, as you can see.

Ashoura in Nabatiya

It is Ashoura today, a special day for the shia muslims, as today they commemorate the death of Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Mohammad, on the battlefield of Kerbala, Iraq. The death of Hussein was the beginning of the sunni/shia split, which continues in Islam to this day
It is a day of mourning in most of the shia populated regions around the Middle East. It usually involves processions and demonstrations.

In Nabatiya, in southern Lebanon, they celebrate it in an unusual way, complete with self-flagellation. It’s a bloody affair. And although it is supposed to be a sad day, there’s a twinge of festivity in the air.
Islam does not appreciate the spilling of blood, and in recent years, both the spiritual shia leader Fadlallah and Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, have issued bans on this type of commemoration. But as it has become more of a culture tradition for the young men rather than a religious one, it seems to be too difficult too root out. You do not see many older guy in the processions, and most defenitely no women.

Hezbollah has organized blood banks, in order to persuade the crowd to donate blood instead of just wasting it, and although this system seems to be working in the Hezbollah controlled southern-suburbs, here in Nabatiya the people are more free spirited.

The thing to do is (if you are male and between 17 and 35) to wear something white, go the mosque and get someone with a razorblade to tap you on the fore head two or three times. The subsequent cut will start to bleed, and you must then walk a tour through town, will hitting you head (otherwise the blood will cloth and the bleeding will stop), meanwhile calling out Hussein’s name. You do that in groups, with first-aid personnel walking by the side for any fainters. There were not many this time, it’s a lot worse during summer.

I enjoy going there during Ashoura, much to the disgust of just about everyone I know. “Yeeeeh, are you going there, with those people,” is one remark you get, “they are like barbarians there.” But even among many shia, the tradition is not looked upon favorably. “It’s a waste of blood,” said one man I talked to, “this is against our religion.”

But I like watching it. It has something medieval, something very historical (although I can’t found out since when they have been celebrating it this way in Nabatiya).
So here are some pictures for your enjoyment. If you can’t stomach blood, I suggest you surf on.

It starts early in the morning, and around 9 o’clock there are already many people in town. Everyone walks around with massive blades like this. No incidents of knifing though are reported. The only time it ever went wrong was when the Israelis in 1982 decided to drive through the procession with their tanks. That did not go down very well, I understand.
The little kids go early. Yes, you have kids as little as 2, 3 years old. This mom makes a picture while they are still white. It is not necessary to be bleeding. Just hitting the head suffices, but the majority goes for the bloodletting part.
As the morning proceeds, it gets busier and busier, and bloodier and bloodier.
This particular one was mesmerized by the blood on his hands. He kept turning them and looking at them while his dad bandaged his head. He was done for the day.
They move in groups, separated by stretcher bearers. There does not seem to be some type of organization behind this, it looks as if it is a spontaneous manifestation, but somehow there is order in it. It is not one massive stream of bloody faces; they move in groups of up to 50 men, and there is space in between the different groups.
With every round, they return to the mosque, hang around a bit, and then move out again on the streets for another round.
Not everyone can stomach the smell of blood, which smells like faint iron (even though the guy has to carry the stretcher).
Just before noon is the high point; everyone is out now, and as bloody as can be.
There is some police presence, but overall you do not see a lot of police around the route they walk. I wonder what some of these policemen must think. Lebanon is a very segregated society in many ways, and christians from Jounieh would not set a foot here. And even if they are muslim, they may be sunni, and then again they’d have no reason to ever visit this shia-dominated town. So they may have never ever witnessed this before. One policeman I talked to seemed a bit flabbergasted. He didn’t know what to think of it. ‘Haram’, was all he could say. (Haram could be translated as ‘pity’, but also as ‘shame’)
The Red Cross people keep ‘em on their feet.
In France, in summer time, there are many towns and villages that stage medieval festivals, complete with medieval music, fighting knights and BBQ’s where entire pigs are grilled on a spit and you have to eat with your hands. I got reminded of that when I saw the BBQ with the BYO meat. I assume this is grilled lamb.
Meanwhile, on the village square, the local theater company (I’m making this up, but somebody has been rehearsing here) is presenting the ‘Battle of Kerbela’, where Hussein and family finally meet their tragic (and gruesome) end.
In case you are wondering why most people are in black; it’s a mourning.
These guys are resting in the mosque entrée, drinking juice and smoking a cigarette. Meanwhile the mosque is just about overrunning with blood. This is what upsets Hezbollah greatly, but they are not the once who are in charge here. The push it out onto the streets.
And then they get to go back home with their girls.

This year no Hezbollah participation. When they get down to business, there's this blanket that descends upon the town. End of the fun.

Nobody Important

Another car bomb has rocked the city. This time it is in the east, along a road that I took only last Sunday. An American embassy car was targeted, but since they drive armored cars, everyone else but the Americans got hurt. 4 dead so far. Harry’s got more information, as it was his neighborhood this time.

I didn’t know about it – as usual (some journalist I am, you may wonder, but I can assure you, I am not that kind of journalist, I do mainly background. Besides, the wire always beats you to it anyway) – until an old aunt passed by with the news.

‘Sma’et el-akhbar? Ken fie Infisjar,” she says. (Did you hear the news? There was an explosion.”)

My son is in his room studying for a particular challenging social studies test tomorrow, but at the mentioning of ‘Infisjar’ appears faster than the speed of light.

“Infisjar?” he inquirers, with a smile that splits his face in two. “So no school tomorrow?”

“What do you mean, no school tomorrow?”, says the aunt. “It’s on the other side of town.”

That is not quite true. It is actually only 3 kilometers from our house, but the aunt, who is old school, still abides by the ‘this part of town’ and ‘the other side’ philosophy. This way of thinking dates from the civil war, when East and West-Beirut were often physically separated from each other for long periods of time, just like the Berlin Wall. I sometimes still use the old separation in conversations. Like in ‘No, he lives on the other side of town’ when the person does not actually live on the other side of town, but rather on the other side of the old demarcation line.

“Besides, no one died,” she adds. “So why would they close the schools?”
“I thought 4 people died,” says hubbie.
“Yes, four people,” she says, ‘but nobody important.”

She means, not anyone that is of any political importance, i.e. a politician or an American. Not anyone that would make the government decide we need a day of mourning.

“Dang,” replies son, and he returns to his studies.

Later, when I see the images on the news, and see the white sheets (I think they used paper this time) covering the bits and pieces of the victims, I think about her words again.

‘Nobody important.’

These were people on their way home from work. (It happened during the evening rush hour, and this particular road is a road used by commuters that return to Beirut).
I work with a girl that uses that road twice a day. And this was around the time that she is supposed to be passing by.

‘Nobody important.’

I pull up my list of bombings I have in my reference files, and wonder; ‘How do I add this one to the list?’ Nobody important died. There have been plenty of other bombings since 2004, and people were killed, and I did not add those either. After all, nobody important died. Yet this one is a significant attack. Americans were targeted.
And I realize that somehow ‘an American’ makes it more significant than ‘a Lebanese’.
It is not the way it sounds. It is not a matter of importance but rather the effect it will have on our situation. I look at my list of ‘important people’,

Politician Hamade (survived) 2004
Politician Hariri, 2005
Journalist Kassir, 2005
Politician Hawi, 2005
Politician Murr, (survived) 2005
Journalist Chidiac, (survived) 2005
Journalist Tueni, 2005
Politician gemayel, 2006
Politician Eido, 2007
Politician Ghanem, 2007
General Hajj, 2007

and I wonder, Is anyone keeping track of the ‘not important’ people that have died since 2004?

Memories

As I was driving behind this car yesterday, I was reminded of an old photograph I have of my father while he was in Lebanon, way back in the fifties or sixties. I think it was the luggage rack that made the connections. Although the car in the picture is obviously older, the rack is almost identical. I am not sure where the old pictures were taken. Somewhere between Beirut and Damascus, is my guess. Maybe the Bekaa Valley. They are a KLM crew. My Dad is the one with the Ray Bans. From the way it looks, the cab overheated.

That too is pretty familiar. Every time I go to Damascus with a cab, the thing breaks down. The last time was last winter. It was freezing cold, and there was sludge and snow on the mountain pass at Deir el-Ahmar. I was in a shared cab, with another five guys who made a concerted effort to keep Phillip Morris out of the red digits. I rolled down the window, but the five of them were puffing away the cold, fresh mountain air.

Within an hour, we had overcome an empty gas tank, an empty battery, and finally a flat tire without spare and jack. All this before the Syrian border.

I couldn’t care less; I was not on a schedule, and I did not have to push the wreck all the way to Damascus. That’s one of the perks of being a woman in the Middle East.

It is funny how life runs. For every child, my father bought my mother gold. As it happened, when I was born, he bought my mom a gold watch, and he bought it in . . . Beirut. My mom had never been in Beirut, and for his work, he just happened to pass through Beirut. Who’d have guessed that baby would end up in Beirut some 25 years later?

You can read the license plate; 14008. I wonder if that one is still around. Anyone recognizes it?

Mute Them All

This particular clip was sent to me by a colleague. ‘Might make you smile,’ she added. Yes, it did. It is a relatively accurate depiction of the current Lebanese political scene. There are some players missing (most notoriously the foreign players), but the main characters are all there.

Crank up that volume button, and enjoy.

The Logic of It

To get a new residency permit, you need a valid work contract.
To get a valid work contract, you need a valid work permit.
To get a valid work permit, you need a valid residency permit.

You get the drift?

Now they all have to be in pristine condition, it seems.

The man at the Ministry of Work deemed the residency permit (that needed renewal) to be unclear. “It looks washed.”

He therefore did not give out the yellow paper needed at the General Security to start the paperwork for the new residency permit.
So back to the General Security, to get a stamp that indicates that they think the old residency permit is clear.
They do not do that kind of stuff at the Office of the General Security, so they will start an investigation, which would indicate – after two weeks – that the old residency permit needs to be replaced, and you get a new ‘old’ residency permit. And that one is definitely clear, as it is brand new. Expired, mind you, but brand new.
With this new ‘old and expired’ residency permit you can then go the Ministry of Work, where they will give the yellow paper, and with this yellow paper you go back to the Office of the General Security, where they will finally start the paperwork for the new residency permit.

I’ve tried to have them explain the logic to me.
“Logic? What logic?” said the first officer (I swear I am not making up his words)
They sent me to the lieutenant, who sent me to the captain who sent me to the colonel.

“She’s a woman, ya’ani,” the captain said politely. “Maybe she can explain it better to you.”
“Maybe we can relate better, is that what you’re saying?” I asked him.
He smiled.
The colonel did not.
She took one tired look at me, and said to the captain in Arabic: “What does she want? It’s almost one o’clock, I want to go home. You explain whatever it is that needs to be explained.”

And so we were all at a loss for words. (Get that fixer on the line again).

Gone Skiin'

These were taken today in Feraya, 55 kilometers above Beirut. The snow was fantastic.

One little sour note; although the slopes are public space, and in theory, every Lebanese could enjoy this, I do notice that every year I see fewer and fewer people that come skiing. The economy is not doing well, has not been doing well for quite some years now, and a day of skiing can cost as much as what some people make here in a week. That's not funny.

On Defeat & Fixers

It’s January. Which means it’s time for the annual trek to the Amn el-Aam (General Security offices) to renew the papers of the housekeeper. This is an excruciating long and complicated process that involves as many trips as possible to as many different offices as possible. The officers in charge make it their business to ask for that one paper that you do not have, or that one form that you not copied triple but only double, that one signature that is not quite clear, or that one picture that does not resemble quite accurately the person concerned.

Well, one blogger pointed out to me that there is a web site of the Lebanese government (The Office of the Minister of State for Administrative Reform (OMSAR) that tells you exactly what papers and forms are needed and where. It’s all about transparency these days. I checked out the site. It states the following:

Application for an annual residence permit or renewal of an annual residence permit for holders of a work permit of Category 4 (housemaids): 1st housemaid – 2nd housemaid – 3rd housemaid and more.

Documents required:

1. A foreign passport valid for at least 12 months, along with three copies of it.
2. A work permit valid for more than 6 months.
3. The employer’s family civil status record.
4. Two 4 x 4 ID photos.
5. A copy of all requested documents.

And so I got all these papers ready, made three copies of each, just in case. And this morning I went, in a fantastic mood, to the Amn el-Aam. After all, what could go wrong? I was sooooo prepared.

Aah, do I hear people chuckle already? After last year’s experience, you’d think I would have learned a thing or two. Hey, I did exactly as asked. What could go wrong, right?

Right. So I stand in line. I quite like lines. And everyone was standing in line. When someone jumped the line, the men behind the counter quickly and resolutely asked the person to return to the line. I was getting more and more impressed. This was looking really good.

And then it was my turn. The officer asked for her passport.
I had it.
Three copies?
Here you go.
Work permit?
Got it.
Khrash elkeit el-ayle (family civil status record) ?
Yep.
Copy?
Here you go.
Two passport pictures?
I got even three!
Work contract?
…..
Her work contract?
Excuse me?
Her contract?
What contract?
Her work contract.
Well, it doesn’t say in the web site.
What web site?

Your web site!

I don’t have a web site.
Yes you do. Well, your ministry does. It doesn’t say I need a work contract.
Well, you do.
But what about the web site?
Shoe gasni el web site (What do I have to do with the web site)?
Well, it said the papers I needed, and it didn’t say work a work contract.
Sorry, but I cannot help you without the work contract. NEXT!

Picture up: My fixer, on his way to the Adlieh Office for yet another form, a stamp a signature or all three. I love the way he looks, with his woolen scarf and hat. Very traditional.

And that was the end of that. Defeated again by the Lebanese bureaucracy (do you read this, KG? Please check your pulse.)

But I did learn from last year’s experience. I got my fixer on the line. And he fixed it for me. He thought it was quite funny. He remembered me from last year.

“Why did you not call me right away”, he asked.
“Well, I thought I had everything in order”, I replied.
“Hahahaha,” he laughed. He obviously thought that was quite a good one.
“Listen,” he said, “why don’t I put you in my agenda for December 2008, and I’ll give you a call, to remind you about her papers, and I’ll come to your house, pick them up, and do it for you. Doesn’t cost much. What do you think?”

What do I think? You da man!

On another note: Suddenly I see chairs everywhere. Remember this one? It is still there. Get the other one, and you have (not a matching) a set.
Which reminds me; THE chair is still not filled.
Another thing that caught my eye today. You do not see this very often anymore; shrapnel remains. My guess this one dates from the war between Aoun and Geagea, back in 1989.

Impressive

We went to Majdel Anjar (33°42’42.84” N & 35°54’05.87” E on Google Earth) in the Bekaa Valley. The place doesn’t get a whole lot of visitors, I get the impression. It doesn’t have any signs directing towards it (in English, that is). And I couldn’t find any information on the temple other than that it is Roman. View of the Beqaa Valley

I got in through the back, it seems. There is no real fence around it, no ticket booth, nothing. It is funny how you can climb all over a 2,000 year old Roman monument undisturbed. No guards in sight.I bet that if I offer the right amount, nobody would object to me passing by at night and hauling one of those wonderful capitals away. Would do wonderful as a base for a table. I sometimes see beautiful Roman pieces in people’s houses. I understand that during the (civil) war, it was quite easy to get your hands on priceless pieces like that.

Visitors must be so rare in fact that - as we were visiting the ruins - some townspeople came by and checked out the visitors.

I was talking to a farmer, while the two boys that were with me met up with some local boys. They were aged 9, 11 and 13. I think it was quite a cultural experience for my two simple city slickers. All three children were smoking; a fact that so shocked my two that they ran to tell me. None of the three boys were in school. They all worked as mechanics in a local garage of the uncle of one the boys. They made $40 a month, except for the oldest, who got $45 a month. They were quite proud of that fact. $40 obviously is quite an amount. I could hear the numbers crunch in my son’s head. $40 is about what he gets in a month as pocket money, and all he has to do for that is go to school.
Child labor is still pretty rampant in certain areas. Education is compulsory in Lebanon just to the age of 12.

I was pretty impressed by this temple. I tried to interest the kids in the back of the car about the importance of knowledge about the Roman empire, and how it has shaped our civilization.

But on the way back to Beirut all the boys could talk about was the smoking and the $40 salary.