On Conversations We Have (Part IV)

Lebanese cowboy (in the end he did it with one hand).

It is evening; I am sitting on my balcony and read. The weather is wonderful. There is some shooting in the distance. It is not fireworks (different sound), it is not constant enough to be celebratory fire, it is too little to be a full-scale gun fight, and it is too far away to worry about.

Later, a friend calls from Broumana (her town); she needs to go down to Hamra (my neighborhood), and is wondering whether there’s fighting going on.

“Fighting?” I say.
“Yes, fighting. They say they’re shooting on Hamra,” she replies.

“No, no fighting. I’ve sat on my balcony all evening, and there’s no fighting. Maybe some shooting. Who says they’re fighting?”
“Who says they’re fighting?” you hear her ask someone in the background.

“It was on the news,” she comes back. “On the news they said they were fighting on Hamra.”

I ask hubbie, who watched the news, whether they were fighting on Hamra. He says that no, they were not fighting on Hamra.
“No, no fighting. Just some shooting,” I tell her.
“Oh, okay. So I’ll come down then.”

When she hangs up, hubbie says dryly: “They’re fighting in Aisha Bakkar.”
Aisha Bakkar is the neighborhood next to Hamra. You’d think these men had some more sense, no?

'I am going to the beach, and I am taking . . . .'

(Apart from the chairs, notice the tool he's holding in his left-hand; it is a (don't know the name) with which you prepare the coals for the argileh, the water pipe. You cannot see the waterpipe on this picture, but it is between the legs of the driver).

Celebratory (Gun) Fire Works

I used to associate fireworks with New Year. That was until I moved to Beirut.

Fireworks for the new PM

Now I associate it with weddings and politics. In summertime it is usually weddings. These fireworks display can cost up to $25,000 for a good wedding. I think my entire wedding cost me a total of 100,000 LBP. That’s $66, for the wedding license. We didn’t have fireworks. That saved me $24,934. I’m not sure where it all that went, but I know it is spent.

We had fireworks earlier this week for the new Speaker of Parliament

And anytime a political leader speaks, or gets elected, there’s fireworks in town. For the more simple politicians, the usual Kalashnikoff tracers will suffice. The more elaborate politicians will go for the real deal. This week parliamentary speaker Nabih Berri got re-elected, and Saad Hariri got a job as Prime-minister; two occasions to celebrate with some explosive displays.

Fireworks. The red lines are kalashnikoff tracers.

I don’t mind the fireworks. Last night’s firework was quite impressive. I bet over $50,000 went up in the air, if not more.

I’m not too happy about the Kalshnikoff bullets. A year ago Mythbusters did an emission on that. They were checking the statement that ‘ Bullets fired into the air maintain their lethal capability when they eventually fall back down’. The myth was not busted.

Because everything that goes up, has to come down in somebody’s neighborhood. I once lost a window due to an incoming bullet from up above. It didn’t hit the window but the tiles on the balcony, which than shattered and the debris went through a window. My very first car received a bullet in the roof in the summer of ’96 (sounds like the title of a song); a fact which I did not notice until wintertime, when the car started leaking during rain showers.

I don’t know of anyone getting hit by a bullet from above, but I am sure somebody must have been hit in Lebanon, if you see what goes up during these ‘celebrations’. It’s not just a Lebanese thing though; other regions seem to experience problems as well.

Now we wait for the next display. A speech from Hezbollah's secretary Nasrallah is usually good for some fireworks.

A Touch of Dutch

Dutch ladies in Gemmayze

It's funny how come we're not all on the picture here; we have (albeit only just, I might add) entered the age where we have to start picking up our kids from late night parties, and so 3 of us are missing.

Last night we bade farewell to a fellow Dutchie; she’ll be making the streets of Nairobi unsafe pretty soon, and Beirut will be a quieter place for it (If Bill Gates says ‘ quieter’ is correct, than so it is!). We had dinner in Gemmayze.

Stairs of Gemmayze (looking down)

The stairs of Gemmayze, 125 steps and 500 meters (which I negotiated twice on my high heels as I couldn’t find the restaurant), had their bi-annual art exhibition going on. They’re actually called the St. Nicholas stairs, but everyone knows them as the stairs of Gemmayze (Art Exhibition is on till 28th of June.) Most of the art on display is the type of stuff you will see in Montmartre, Paris, but there were some nice things.

Stairs of Gemmayze (looking up)

The stairs are lined with houses, all very idyllic looking, but the thought of having to go up and down those stairs on a daily basis, with your bags of groceries, somehow is not very appealing. Add to this that the place is the number one night district of Beirut these days, with loud music, people and cars deep until the night, I’m glad I don’t live there.

Liesbeth is leaving

Tonight of course, was Michael Jackson night; they played MJ in the restaurant, they played MJ in the bar. Very appropriate, as the ladies in question were all in their teens when the guy was a hit. Yes, we’re in our twenties.

DJette Anne playing MJ all night

When I went home, I was very glad I found my car where I had left it. When I parked it earlier, there was yellow police tape on both sides of the street with ‘no parking’ written on it; both in Arabic and English. I chose to ignore it, even though a policeman down the road was yelling at everyone to park somewhere else. I figured there would be no American dignitary or Lebanese politician passing by that night (pretty much the only ones they tape off the streets for), and so they wouldn’t be towing cars away. They do that to eliminate the threat of car bombs. Mind you, they do that frequently though, and twice I’ve come out of my work in the afternoon with my car gone. The first time I thought it was stolen, and when I went to the police station to report theft, they said, after I explained where it had gone missing; ‘Oh, just look around the neighborhood, we probably towed it away and parked it in some street nearby.” It was indeed parked 3 blocks up. Thank you so much for not telling me, I thought.

The second time I was smarter, and went looking around straight away. And found it down the road. So when you lose a car in Beirut, first check if some hotshot passed by that day, and if that’s the case, check for your car in the side streets.

Anyway, my car was still there. And Liesbeth will be leaving Beirut next week. But she has vouched that if she doesn’t like Nairobi, she’s coming back to Beirut.

Notice how – when time comes to pay the bill (remember that one, when you dine out with foreigners?) – we mix Lebanese with American dollars? This is a multi-cultural society.

Relaxed

Sign hanging on a (closed) Mana'ish shop somehwere in the mountains. It reads (I think); " I am at the old lady on the second floor; kindly yell ‘Imm Mazen’."
So we yelled "Imm Mazen!", and we got served. Now isn't that relaxed?

Summer’s Here!

Neighborhoods kids in a water fight

School’s out for one of my kids. The second one is wrestling himself through finals, but Friday will be his last day as well. And then the summer officially starts.

11 weeks of summer holiday. That’s for the schools with an American/French curriculum. The ones with an Arabic curriculum have even longer summer breaks. Compare that to Holland, where you get 6 to 7 weeks, and even that is considered too long by some.

Why? Because it is difficult for working parents to find child care, and in summer there’s a shortage of manpower. No such problems in Lebanon. The majority of Lebanese women do not work outside their homes, and when they do, childcare is cheap. And I don’t think we have an issue of labor shortage here either.

And the heat is on.

And in case you wonder why there are only boys in the water fight? The girls were in the sand box. It is strange how at a very young age a division of labor seems to take place naturally.

The Plumber

I have been out of Holland for a long time now, so I wouldn’t really know about the technical know-how of your average repair man, but I can tell you plenty about the technical know-how of some technicians in this place. Here’s an example.

When I walk into the upstairs bathroom this morning, I step in a puddle of water. I look around. It is dry around the toilet, but wet around the sink, so obviously there must be something leaking around the sink. I check the tabs. I check the pipes, but I see no water dripping. It’s got to be somewhere complicated, and so I call the plumber.

He shows up.

He checks the tabs. He checks the pipes. And he has a verdict.

“When you wash your hands (and he opens the tabs and washes his hands to prove his point), water spills over to the top of the sink, and then drops down. That’s where the water comes from.”

I look at him. The old aunt looks at him. We look at each other. Is this guy serious?

“Nobody washed his hands during the night in this bathroom. And yet, there is water,” says the aunt, “go explain that.”

“Besides,” I add, “I’ve been living in this house 16 years now. And this is the first time it has happened. So you’re telling me we never ever washed our hands here?”

“Well, then where is it from?” he says a little irritated.

“Now who’s the plumber here?” asks the aunt. “You or me?”

Pink Cadillac

“Look, check out this fantastic pink Cadillac I saw on the road,” I say to hubbie.

We’re not exactly Cuba here, (although in Syria you see lots of these oldies still driving), and so an original old American car (definitely now that they are all going bankrupt) is something of a sight.

Hubbie looks across the room to my computer screen, and says without batting an eye-lid; “It’s a Ford Galaxie, not a Cadillac. “

Now how the hell would he know that? He’s like Marisa Tomei in ‘My Cousin Vinny’ (Scroll down to the ‘fun stuff’). I'm impressed.

Cherry Festival

There was a cherry festival up in Hammana, a mountain village some 40 km above Beirut. I always thought that all fruit was harvested in fall, but then I am obviously a city girl. Hammana seems to be famous for its cherries; another fact I was unaware of.

A. stayed home; there are only so many activities you can drag a disinterested teenager to, and a cherry festival is not one of them. And so it was just H. and I.

There wasn’t much at the festival, apart from cherries, of course, and so I was glad to have left that teenager lying on the couch at home, switching between the TV, his phone, MSN and his Facebook account.

There was cherry picking though. We were given a lesson on how to pick cherries; by the stem, don’t rip off the entire branch, and dark red cherries only. You wonder what kind of people they must get picking cherries, if these are the instructions given. And while the lady warned ‘not to touch the branches’, I saw H. disappearing up into a tree. It was funny to see that the majority of the cherry pickers were foreigners, just as there was a rather large representation of the foreign community at the festival. On the other hand, if you go to these summer village festivals in France, the majority of the visitors are tourists as well, so maybe it makes perfect sense. The scenery is stunning, against a backdrop of the Sanine mountain. The waterfall I had visited recently had already dried up. And with bags and bags of personally picked cherries (who – by the way – costs just as much as pre-picked cherries), we went home again. And now I’ve got to find myself some cherry pie recipes.

Eco Village

The moment your road is starting to look like this, you know you're on the right track to some nice place.

And it gets narrower and narrower (a small irrigation channel runs on the right).

For all those Lebanese that have been living here (in Lebanon) all their lives, and are wondering how come they don’t know about all these beautiful places in Lebanon; don’t worry. While on my way to this place today, I was talking to a Dutch friend and it turns out I never ever have been to any of the – incredibly beautiful and very popular with tourists – islands in the north of Holland. Even though I am from the north of Holland.

So you don’t have to feel guilty. You in general visit foreign places much more intensively than your own. The watering hole; a part of the Damour River in the Chouf Mountains.

This particular place I didn’t find myself, but a fellow Dutchie, Allison, was the one who spotted it. And this place is actually meant to be visited by people.

A. on the left, J (you can see her feet only) on the right.

It is an eco-village, right on the river. Since they maintain the place really well, and are very conscious about the environment (it’s all about the environment here), the place lacks all of the standard issued garbage you usually get here in Lebanon when you go out in the field. No plastic plates in the bushes, no chips bags flying around and no car tires in the river.
There is something about rocks in a river; boys just have to jump off them.

And then complain how cold the water is.

Three half Dutch boys, our sons; A, L and W. (Phone numbers will not be made available ladies, they are all still under-aged. Although L. will have his 18th birthday this month. He had his very last day of school today, very last day ever!)

They have an organic farm, sell their own produce, and for a small fee, you can even spend the night there in tents, of huts. The village is run by a group of young hipsters; the place has the potential of becoming a nice hippie colony. I mean, check this out.

Change has to start somewhere, and this is as good a place as any. If any people in Holland are interested; it seems you can even stay here for free if you are willing to help in the daily running of the farm. I won’t go into detail about the place, but they have a web site, with all the information.

Lady with an attitude on a river rock.

There’s a very cool and relaxed feel to it. When we got there, they were trying out their open-air sound system (nice techno drum in the middle of the jungle), as preparation for a party that night to celebrate the homecoming of one of their people. He’d spend some time in Sweden, he said. “Very cold. I ran away, back to Lebanon.”

15 year old Boeffie, a bearded-collie, swimming around in circles, because he's so blind he cannot see the river bank.

And so we spent our Saturday, floating on the Damour river, in the Chouf mountains of Lebanon. Tomorrow, I might try the cherry festival in Hamana. Who says there’s nothing to do in this place?

Voting in Lebanon; A Cultural Experience

Today were the parliamentary elections in Lebanon. Usually they spread the elections over four consecutive Sundays, but for some reason, this time it was done in one batch. I never voted in Lebanon, never saw the need for it, but since so many people in my surroundings were planning on casting their vote, I figured I’d give it a try. A type of participating journalism, so to speak.

And so, this morning, I proceeded to the polling station. There’s one next to my house, but you cannot just vote anywhere you want, you have to go to the district where you are registered. ‘My’ polling station was in a school in Hamra. The mood on the street was good.

When I walked into the school yard, my heart sank; there must have been over 500 women standing in front of the door. Where were the men? They voted somewhere else. There were no lines (who needs lines when you can shove your way inside?), and so I elbowed myself a good distance to the door.

But when I had worked my way halfway the crowd, I got stuck. I couldn’t move one more inch. As I am quite a bit taller than most Lebanese women, I stood out, and it didn’t take long before I was asked; “Are you christian? If you’re christian, you do not have to wait.”

I’m all for positive discrimination; and under a “move aside, ya shjamea, here comes a christian,” I was hailed to the door by the ladies, and left the 500 or-something muslim women behind me.

I must say, it left a slightly odd feeling, that based on your religion you receive an obvious preferential treatment, but as nobody else seemed to mind, in I went.

I thought that was it as far as crowds go, but inside the building, it was even worse. I was sent from room to room, floor to floor, as nobody could quite figure out where to place me. Roman catholic, does that go under ‘roum” (Greek orthodox), or was I a “marouni” (Lebanese version of catholicism) ? Apparently you vote according to you religion as well. But no roman catholic was to be found in my district. After some phone calls, someone figured out I had been placed on the sunni list, and thus, I was to vote with the muslim ladies, who I had so very elegantly left behind me in the courtyard.

Or so I thought.

Because once I got to the room in question, there was an immense crowd of women. And one door. With a policeman. And he’d let one lady in, as another lady went out. But for some reason or another, this process went very slowly. VERY slowly. Did I say it went slowly? From the other side however, more women arrived. It was hot, there was no AC, no fresh air, no chairs, no water, and the ladies kept coming in. And in. And in.

And before long, the grumbling started. The older ladies were the fiercest of all. They’d elbow their way, all the way from the back, to the front, in no time at all, all the while screaming about ‘amaliyeh (operation), ‘marida’ (sick) and what not all. Women accompanying elderly ladies cunningly took advantage of that while shoving their geriatric relatives in front of them towards the door. And then came the pregnant ladies, and then the handicapped.

It was clear that a small revolution was brewing in this overheated menopausal crowd. Do not underestimate angry women. The fact that in the meantime, all the other rooms, where the greek-orthodox, and the maronites were voting, had nice, quiet line-ups, did not help much either to calm the angry mob.This poor guy had to do crowd control on his own. This is from inside the voting room; the angry mob is on the other side.

When another older lady was pushed towards the front by her daughter, all hell broke loose.

Angry women (lower the volume).

‘Ya zuma’a, we’re all old! We’ve been standing here for two hours now, what is this?’ Another woman yelled that they were old and pregnant too, and then the fighting started among each other. They insulted the police man, they insulted the people inside and they insulted the people next to them.

And in between I stood, with several other ladies, who thought it was very funny, and fired up the angry crowed some more with “Well said!”, “You’re right! Totally unacceptable!” and “There you go, granny! You tell 'em.”

A colonel was sent in, trying to calm the crowd, but it was not to be. Stars and stripes did not impress the ladies. He tried to get away with some jokes, but that didn’t fool them either. So he gave up.

And then, finally, the soldier lost his cool. He was the only barrier between the hot and angry crowd and the voting room. He had been pushed and pushed and pushed as each woman tried to worm and wiggle her way in. “ENOUGH!” he shouted. “BACK UP! BACK UP!”

There was silence.

For like a split second.

And then they erupted again. It was a fantastic experience. Next elections, count me in!

Some two hours later, I had shoveled my way all the way to the door, leaving behind me a group of very disgruntled women. Sweaty and smelly, I finally was able to deliver my vote.Which totally ruined my manicure.

On Weird Dinner Conversations

These conversations never cease to amuse/intrigue me. Tonight, over dinner, we are discussing our weekend plans.

It’s a long weekend, since Sunday are the parliamentary elections, and we here in Lebanon always need an extra day to pour oil on troubled waters, so Monday’s off as well. Some schools were off today too. The times are uncertain, as this is an important election. Are we to follows the Saudis & the Americans, or will we go local and run after Syria and Iran?

Yet Another Sunset (at 5:49 P.M. indeed)

Saturday is deemed ‘safe’, and so we plan to do something outside the house. Sunday is doubtful. Shall we go on a road trip, or should we stay around the house, just in case? We suspect Sunday will be quiet; if things are going to stir up, it is likely going to be on Monday. The tension has been screwed to the sticking point, and is likely going to be released once – on Monday night – the results are out. Each member of the family argues his or her case, and we talk as if we have insider’s knowledge of the intricate emotions that motivate a person to go onto the street and shoot other people.

“Well”, argues hubbie, “if they are going to fight like last May, we’re going to the mountain house.”

The other family members are not enthusiastic about that idea. Nothing ever happens in the mountains; we want to be around where the action is. It was after all, explains my son, a great experience, the street fighting of last May.

I cannot argue with that. Needless to say we did not live through 15 years of civil war, and were lying at some beach in France during the 2006 summer war.

But we will not move around the house anymore like before, I announce. After I discovered all those bullet holes in the façade of my apartment, it is clear that my downstairs neighbors – who I disdainfully described as lemmings barricading themselves in the hallway - did have a point.

“Fine”, says hubbie, “if you want to spend your time hauled up like rats in a windowless hallway, instead of sitting in the sun on your terrace in the mountains, be my guest.”

I mention that we have Wi-Fi, and so we can take our laptops to the hallways.

“Cool,” says my son, “then I can Facebook and MSN all day.”

And I wonder, while overlooking the Mediterranean sunset, if people in other countries have weird conversations like this? Where will you spend your election weekend?

Today's Sunset

This was today's sunset (7:45 P.M.), less than 5 minutes ago. The mosques are not even done with their prayer calls (The one before last call for prayer is at sunset).

A sun setting in the Meditarranean. Summer is definitely here.

Looks Like Beirut

“Isn’t it difficult for you, living in Beirut,” a friend of mine from Holland - who I hadn’t spoken with in ages - asks me. “I mean, with all this war and such?”

Sunday by the pool; S, H and M

(Marijke, kijk, ik heb je er niet afgeknipt)

I ponder over this question while lying on the edge of the pool, and I pour myself another glass of wine. Let’s ask if the waiter can move the parasol a bit to the left, the sun is bothering me. So what shall we have for dinner tonight? Too difficult to think about that now, let’s just call the housekeeper, she’ll think of something. And I think, ‘Ah yes, life in Beirut is very difficult’.

H. can swim!

This reminds me of the ‘Looks Like Beirut’ Award. One Lebanese blogger is keeping track of the times when Beirut is used as a comparison to indicate how terrible something was.
Arsonists torch five cars in a street in the UK? Firefighters described the scene as ‘something out of downtown Beirut’ when they tackled the blazing motors yesterday morning.
The explosions in Terminator Salvation? more shouting and explosions than a Super Bowl in Beirut.’

He’s got like 17 awards already on his web site, so check it out.

A and M in the pool, practicing double jumps.