Yet Another Weather Picture

There isn't much to say these days. Politicians are keeping quiet, no major catastrophies; it's just the weather that's providing the fireworks these days. And thus yet another weather picture; a sunset.

More Thunderstorm Shots

Yesterday night’s thunder storm was really something. Look what this guy shot last night. This is taken from the mountains, Ain Saade; a view over Beirut.

If You Like . . .

thunderstorms, you should definitely come to Beirut.

Rain

Let’s talk about the weather. I have no other topic today.

Today was a gorgeous day, but yesterday was gorgeous-er, because we had rain. We do not get a whole lot of rain in Beirut, and if we get it, it is all concentrated in a two month period, so I (being Dutch) get a little rain-craved now and then. When I am in Holland, and it rains all the time, I nag to no extent, and then when I am back in Beirut, I almost welcome every little drop. I’m glad to report that other Dutch in Lebanon feel the same way.
Rain showers here are much more intensive than in Holland (as are most other things), and so are the thunderstorms. Yesterday we had a very intensive one in the morning. About the time I got to work, it was all over.

When I first got to Beirut, and the sewer systems had not been maintained for some 10 years or so, a rain shower would create torrents on the roads. It would be impossible to cross little streets, unless you were willing to wade through the water flow up to your ankles. The Corniche would be flooded up to your hub caps, and everybody would get stranded in; hundreds of cars standing alone, fogged up windows, surrounded by water.

It’s gotten better, but apparently not good enough. The Minister of Public Works says he’ll resign over this one. I guess I should consider myself lucky living on a hill in this town. Those in the lower parts did not fare so well.

Is that a TV floating around?
Lebanese men tried to salvage some of their belongings from their flooded home after heavy rain hit the capital, Beirut, Wednesday.
(Ahmad Omar/Associated Press, source)

Lebanese Royalty

We do not have any official royalty in Lebanon. At least not that I know of. There are of few ‘princes’ hanging around in my extended circle of acquaintances, but personally I have yet to understand what exactly that entails. “Yes, he is really a prince. His name is Emir so-and-so,” a friend told me. An emir fallen on hard times maybe, who now lives in the servants quarters while he’s had to sell the by now delapidated family mansion to the post-war riche.

In summer the ratio of ‘princes to people’ significantly increases with all the Saudis coming here for a vacation; there are more princes in Saudi Arabia then that there are Saudis themselves, I have the feeling.

But I have royalty living under my roof; it is a Lebanese Princess.

I had only just weaned off my son (he can now navigate through most of Beirut on his own with our intricate service system) when the Lebanese Princess announced her arrival on the Socialite Scene. I know that in the States girls are introduced to society at the age of maturity. Country bumpkins they are, compared to their Lebanese counterparts. They do it a little earlier here. This Lebanese Princess at age 5 is networking like there is no tomorrow.

One of her main issues is not about getting a new Barbie doll, but about having a driver. “So how come we can’t have a driver?”

And so I would like to share with you her agenda of the last week. Maybe you will have pity on me. You should. It’s not easy living with Lebanese royalty.

Wednesday
The Princess decides she is in for a haircut. And while her Mom escorts her to the hairdresser, the princess throws in a brushing as well. “Yes, that’s okay,” she says, as the hair dresser shows her the results.
Thursday
The Princess decides that she wants to be ‘Tinkerbell’ for Halloween, and she says she needs to go to the dressmaker (‘like now, duh”) to pick out textiles, and have her measurement taken. Mom has to escort her.

Friday
Princess has a birthday and so Mom has to chauffeur her to and from the venue.
Saturday
Princess is invited for yet another birthday and so Mom has to chauffeur her to and from the venue again.
Sunday

Princess needs to rest and so her mother may rest too. The Lebanese Princess decides to go to the beach. Mom may esciort her.

Monday

Princess has organized a play date at her friend V.’s house and so Mom may pick her up at 6.

Tuesday

Princess has her first fitting for the Tinkerbell costume. She deems it too ‘itchy’, and so she orders extra lining. Mom has to escort her.

Wednesday

Princess has organized a play date at her friend T.’s house and so Mom may pick her up at 6.

Today (Thursday)

Princess has the second fitting of Tinkerbell costume; Mom has to escort her. The costume fits. She decides it needs beads and bangles, and so Mom must take her shopping. When they come back, she meets her friend Ali, and she dismisses her Mom with a “You can go now, I am going to play at Ali’s house.”
Mom is left alone on the parking lot with the shopping bags. She has just enough time to walk the Princess’s dog, before she is off to buy a present for a girl, because ...

Tomorrow (Friday)

the Princess has another birthday and so Mom will have to chauffeur her to and from the venue. "Oh, and by the way, when I celebrate my birthday, I want a big party OUTSIDE the house."

Yes, your highness.


When can I legally marry her off?

Skies over Beirut

Fall has definitely set in with some serious rain the past two days. These were the skies over Beirut this morning.
I always tell myself that one day - when I don't have to get up anymore at 6 am to go to work - I will still get up early to see the early morning skies over Beirut. They are amazing. But I already know now that there is no way on Earth this is actually going to happen. 6 am in the morning! The thought alone.

Summer’s Almost Over

Summer here ends on September 1st, when the Lebanese 'en masse' stop going to the beach, and everywhere else in the world it ends on September 22nd with the beginning of fall.

But for the die-hard Dutch (used to cold summers) in Lebanon, the summer ends when they can no longer go to the beach.

And it is getting there. The tents are dismantled, the chairs stacked, and the food counter closed. The kiddie pool no longer fills up, and you may now drown in the pool; the life guards have gone home.

Even for the Dutch in Lebanon, the summer of 2008 is slowly coming to an end.

What a pity. It was a good summer.
The Die-Hard Dutch are the only ones in the pool. At a mere 23C, Lebanese don’t do ‘beach’. We’ll keep in going on till we get blown of the beach by a November storm.
The tents are dismantled, the chairs stacked, the life guards have gone home. Dancing on the beach; There are still a few Lebanese that will keep coming for a while, but they come for the company rather than the pool. They bring in their own entertainment.
The kiddie pool will remain empty until end of May, 2009. It’s a long wait until next summer. Sigh

Bee-eaters

Remember my bee eater story? Well, National Geographic decided to spend an entire article on bee-eaters in their October issue. Check it out, it's an interesting bird.

False Alarm

Yesterday's was an absolute fabulous sunset on the Corniche

And so the emerging news story of two American journalists, who disappeared while in Lebanon, can be shelved again, as it turns out they were actual in the slammer in Syria. A false alarm. I wasn’t far off.

But then most people around here figured out that it was probably something benign like that. Blacksmith right away connected to the Dean Kevlin story. I had totally forgot about that one, but that gentleman was also feared missing, kidnapped maybe, until he emerged some days later with a massive hang-over; after a late-night party it had taken him some time to recover and appear in the world of men again.

You'd have to live in far-away places, such as New York, to assume the worst.

Late for school

But the word ‘Lebanon’ suggest all things catastrophic, it seems; the mere mentioning of ‘Beirut’ (they still mention the civil war in every single article, even though that one officially ended 18 years ago) right away brings up images of kidnappings, fighting and bombing, death and destruction.

The Scooter Brigade of the local sandwich shop; they're waiting for dinner time, when they'll all swarm over Beirut with chicken shwarmas on their bikes

Funny how I write this, as if everything is normal here; it’s been only been 5 months since I received 5 bullets in the façade of my house. Our short-term memory is basically non-existent. There is ample proof of that in this gold fish clip (hat tip Nicolien).

But really, this place is quite safe.

I guess you have to live here to believe it.

Which reminds me; does anyone remember what the official start of the Lebanese war was, on April 13, 1975? It was the attack on a busload of Palestinian workers. Quite similar to this bus, which I saw while dropping my son off at a paint ball session. It seems we do want to instill some memories in our youth. Not the best ones, though.

Headlines

Well, you don’t see that a whole lot anymore in this place.

My guess is they are probably stranded somewhere, or were invited to some monastery of orthodox monks and they’re enjoying the solitude, or maybe they fell down some sinkhole up in the mountains somewhere near Balaa. It’s got to be something benign. Or maybe something weird. Or odd. Or sad, like this case. But it can't be serious, can it?

If it is serious, then things are definitely spicing up in this place.

Illiterate

Lebanon's literacy rate hovers somewhere around the 90 percent. This thought comes to mind as I am standing with my sister in law in front of a road sign somewhere in the mountains above Beirut.

SIL: “Aba, aba, Abado?”

Me: “No, it’s Anata… Anathiye? No. Anadayo?”

SIL: ”Something Aba. Abadaya?”

I’ve lived here for some 18 years now, and SIL – on and off – since she was born. We speak fluent English and French and have a good command of the street Arabic. You’d think that together we’d be able to read those signs, no?

(Source: Write your name in Arabic)

Me: “Anadaya?”

SIL: “No, it’s is not an n. If the points are up, it’s an n. They are down.”
Me: “Aba… Abou.. Abi maybe?”

SIL: ”What’s that one the end? An I? I always mix up between the two.”

We have a literate teenager with an IPod in the back, but it has taken all our negotiation expertise to convince him to get in the car and join the family on a day out.
For fear of releasing his unrelentless wrath, we dare not consult his superior command of the Arabic language, and so we employ our peace keeping skills and leave him be. There is only so much you can ask (from) a teenager.

And so we stand, and decipher.

An old man passes by.

“Ya isteez, shoe isma al-daya honeek?”

“Abadiya.”

Ah, yes. Of course. Abadiyeh.

We knew that. Almost.

And that is when the quote ‘Lebanon's literacy rate hovers somewhere around the 90 percent’ goes through my mind. We are the 10 percent.

“What were you talking about with that man,” asks the teenager from the back, who has deemed us worthy enough to be temporarily addressed.

You think we are going to tell him? Confirm what he knew all along; that we are stupid? No way.

“We asked him whether he lived here.”

A sigh comes from the back seat.

“What a stupid question. Of course he lives here. What do you think, he came walking all the way from Beirut?”

You never win.

BPD

I’m driving on the highway from Beirut to the airport when I see a black Dodge Charger. The Beirut Police Department (BPD) has received a shipment of 97 used Dodge Charger police vehicles.

They are straight out of those TV series, LAPD and the like. Police cars like these give you the impression that we are either a very rich country - which we are not-, or that the Lebanese police force is of an incredible sophistication. You be the judge of that one.

Our Sunset Boulevard; Beirut Corniche at sunset

For a moment you could almost imagine yourself on the LA freeway. It’s a nice feeling. For a while I trail behind him.

Suddenly, he swerves to the right. And as I pass him, I see the officer behind the wheel lighting up a cigarette with his left hand as he holds a small brown plastic cup of coffee (Arabic coffee, or Turkish coffee as some call it, is served in tiny brown cups) in his right.

Yeah, that looks much better. Now it is real.

Beirut Traffic Cop directing traffic while on his cell phone with his boss (the wife, maybe?)

Talking About Service

I’m in the house in the mountains, and I mention to a friend of mine that we have had electricity for over 48 hours now (yes, electricity is a topic of conversation in this place). That’s a bit of a record; we usually don’t get more than 8 hours a day in the village we are in.

“Oh, the guy that cuts the electricity is probably on a holiday.”

I tell her that I seriously doubt that this is the case. I mean, we have issues in Lebanon, but we’re not THAT underdeveloped.

And she tells me a story how two years ago, after an enormous storm, a tree next to her house fell into the electricity line on a Friday night, and the power in her house got cut. It was cold, and dark, and rainy, but when she calls the electricity company, they tell her, since it is her house alone and not the entire neighborhood, and there is a religious holiday, that they will not send anyone until Tuesday.

She calls the guy that runs the neighborhood generator, and asks him to turn on the generator.

“No Madam, you are the only one in the neighborhood, everyone else has electricity, so we cannot run the generator for you alone.”

Three days in the dark, no heater, and without hot showers? She calls the electricity company again, and she explains her dire circumstances. She’s got little babies, and it is really very very cold and . . .”

“Tayeb tayeb (okay, okay),” replies the guy, “I’ll see what I can do. “

Five minutes later, the power in the entire neighborhood is cut off, and the neighborhood generator is turned on.

The electricity company calls her: “Is this better? I’ll try and keep it this way until Tuesday.”

Now that’s what we call service.

Another Rescue Operation (Or 'Then There Were Two')

Our bearded collie is getting old. Very old. Dogs like that have an average life span of 12 years, we were told when we bought him, and that was 15 years ago.

He’s partially blind, extremely near-sighted, and more than partially deaf. He still loves going out on trips with us, he’s an excellent walker, and he follows us on smell instead of sight and sound. But whenever he falls behind, he has difficulties picking up our scent, and then tends to turn around and walk off in search of us, no matter how loud we scream, yell, whistle or wave at him. So most of our time is spent running after the dog to help him get back on track.

And thus the discussion in our home has been revolving lately around the kind of dog we will get once Boeffie (the bearded collie) has kicked the bucket.

Eddie wants a ‘mean’ dog, Hana wants a puppy, and I want a low-maintenance dog, preferably without hair. Hubbie however, has vetoed those plans, because he wants a ‘no dog’. He doesn’t want another ‘pisser’ (as he calls the dog) in the house.

'Spot Spike'

True, Boeffie has a quaint habit. Whenever we are not at home, he manages to pry open the sliding doors, and piss in every corner of the house. And I mean ‘every’ corner. He doesn’t do it when we are around; only when he’s left alone. Another habit of his is to piss on everything we leave out on the terrace. And so, while reading a book on the balcony, and the phone rings, you put the book on the floor, and when you come back you will find it back in a yellow puddle. The children’s toys, Hana’s bucket with street chalk, the tricycle, anything will do.

Last week we had an electrician working on the balcony, and they had left their tool box open on the floor. You should have seen their faces when they noticed there was water all over their tools. They looked up, but there was no water anywhere. And then they saw the dog, sitting there in the corner, looking innocently at them. They were good sports about it; didn’t open their mouths. But I can just see them cursing my dog and my entire household while driving back home.

'And then there were two'

Anyway, hubbie has decided on a ‘no more dogs’ policy, and we sort of had made peace with that decision. After all, it’s not like we lack animals; we still have 2 cats, 3 squirrels, 3 birds and a school of fish.

That was until this weekend, when on a narrow mountain road near Sbaniyeh, far away from civilization in the mountains, we encountered a white fluffy little dog with a long leash trailing behind him. Sort of a leash. It was more a collection of metal chains and pieces of cloth. We followed it. 100 meters, 200 meters, 500 meters, 1,000 meters. There were no houses in sight. No people in sight. We followed it some more, but it did not seem to be running in any clear direction. Left, right, forward and back again.

When we stopped the car, it quickly came running, and wanted to jump in. And so we let it in.

We drove around the neighborhood, asking people if they knew the dog. Nobody did. We drove to the nearby supermarket. Had anyone ever seen the dog? No one had. We drove to the village police station. No reports on a missing dog. They took my number with the promise that they would call if the owner showed up. Nobody has called.

And so the discussion about what kind of dog we will take once Boeffie (the bearded collie) has died seems to have solved itself.

We didn’t get a mean one, we didn’t get a puppy, we did not get a hairless one and we didn’t get a ‘no dog’ either.

We got a runaway.

What did the hubbie of the ‘no more dog’ policy say when we showed him the white fluffy dog?

“So what are you going to call it?” Aaah, Lebanese men, they are such softies. (Or just poor policy makers.)
"Spike," said Hana.

Now if anyone recognizes this dog (the one on the left) as his/hers, and can tell me what color collar it was wearing, (s)he can pick the dog up from my place.