Why I Live in Lebanon . . .

. . .  because this is what it looked like this morning back home in Holland; Lovely to look at, horrendous to bike through early morning on your way to work or university. (click on picture for link)



Feral Houses

I just learned a new word; a feral house. I had heard of a feral cat, which in Lebanon we would call a street cat, or wild cat, but the term ‘feral house’ was new to me. (Learned it here ).

I just found out, because I was googling 'Lebanon + abandoned houses'. Lebanon is teeming with abandoned summer residences. I was in the mountains over the weekend, and on a hike through the woods, I discovered several of them. Many of the feral houses in the mountains above Beirut are monumental villas on large lots, dating back to happier times, i.e. pre-war.

During the civil war many of these houses became inaccessible for a while, and were subsequently looted by people that were obviously on good terms with the local militia that ruled the area. First the furniture would disappear, and the kitchen appliances, and then the doors. They would be stripped of their toilets, sinks, iron railings, marble mantle pieces, wooden door frames and shutters. Everything would vanish, light switches and electrical outlets included, until after some years, all what was left were the walls.

Hubbie’s parental house in Shimlan suffered the same fate. What bothered him most was that his entire record collection was there. They had not yet packed up for the winter (they only lived there in summer), and when the war moved to that village, his parents would not go back to pick up his records. As a teenager, what could be more important than your record collection? Years later, while going through the rubble of the house, he would recognize items from the old days.

This particular house is at the end of a very long and beautiful lane, lined with trees. It comes with a lot of land, pine trees, olive trees and a variety of fruit trees. It's got several buildings on the ground. The house itself orginally had an elevator (2 stories only!), and a fantastic view over the valley! The children of the former owner are spread over the States, France and Rabieh (Lebanon) 

War time was not a good time to refurbish your house, and many were left that way with the thought in mind that ‘after the war’, they would be restored to their former glory. However, the war took a little longer than was expected, and owners died. Their children - often dispersed over the globe because Lebanon in those days was not very hopeful and they continued their education and life abroad - do not have the same connection with the house. And what’s more; the finances. The one house we wandered through would need about $350,000 to have the house and grounds restored nicely.

Selling is an option, but there are always a few in the family that don’t really need the money, so they’ll ask a ridiculously high price, which makes properties like this useless for buyers. And so these houses remain empty forever; abandoned, neglected and feral.

And quite interesting to photograph. Some Lebanese bloggers blogged on them before, such as Liliane, and Ziad (here and here) . And here's a very old article from the Washington POst discussing those houses.

Mellow

The things you can do with Google! Courtesy of Mrs. B.

It seems my little tift at the ABC Ashrafieh struck a chord with many of you. It appears you’ve all been there. But I’ve regained my composure, the genie is back in the bottle, and I’m all Zen and mellow again (for the next 6 months at least).

I should be, it’s been a relaxing week. Today’s off because it is Thanksgiving. That’s what you get when you work for an American cooperation. Monday was off as well, because it was Independence Day; that’s what you get when you live in Lebanon. And next Sunday we’re having a party; Sinterklaas  is coming to town. That’s what you get when you’re Dutch. We’re still having our dinners outside on the terrace, because winter has so far failed to descend upon us, unlike in Holland, and so life is all about relaxation, thanks to this quintessential multi-cultural society set in a climate zone that seems to be moving ever closer to the Tropics thanks to Global Warming.

Lebanese Police on the Harley

And so I leave you with some mellow scenes of Beirut. After all, we live in a fantastic country. We don’t just have a clock tower downtown, no, it’s a Rolex . And our policemen do not just ride around on silly bikes, no, they move on Harleys.

And our service industry is so well developed that you can have just about anything delivered; Burger King , Kababjeh, and even your nargileh.

The Nargileh Delivery Boys on the road (The little device in his right hand holds the coals)

On Zen, the ABC Christmas Tree and Anger Management

I’d say I’m pretty Zen these days. I rarely ever lose my temper anymore. I made that oath to myself last summer, and I must say, I have done quite well so far. Maybe it’s the age. Maybe it’s the experience. But I tell you, there isn’t much that gets me upset. Except stupidity. There’s plenty of that around here, I’d say, but even that rarely gets me in distress.

Scooters driving against traffic at night without light and helmet at breakneck speed? Cars backing up on the highway? Socialites cutting me off in their Porsche Cayenne while on the phone? It doesn’t faze me. Soldiers that observe you while you park in an incredibly tight, but perfectly legal spot, let you go back and forth 20 times, see you getting out of the car and locking your door and while you walk off proceed to tell you they’re going to park their tank there? I’m cool.

But today I lost my cool. It was over that ‘mamnouah’ thing.

Mamnouah, for non Arab speakers, means ‘not allowed’. And the weirdest things are not allowed in this place. I can throw my housekeeper off the balcony without so much as a visit to the police station, triple park and block the entire traffic flow during rush hour, or buy under-the-counter-counterfeit DVD’s over the counter, but boy, once you start taking pictures of things, some pretty weird rules come out of the closets. Actually, I seriously doubt they’re existing rules. Just some idiot behind a desk who decides because he can.

I was in the ABC mall this afternoon, shopping with my daughter for her birthday present. These days she wants an active say in what I buy her, otherwise I risk having to exchange it.

And so we pass by this gigantic Christmas tree made out of teddy bears in the ABC store. There must be thousands of bears on that tree; the thing is four stories high, if not more. And so H. decides she needs a picture of her in front of that tree. As I am making a picture, a security guard comes to me.

“Madame, mamnouah,” he says.

I don’t get it. What on Earth could be forbidden here? I’m not taking pictures of the merchandise, I’m not photographing veiled women, I’m not engaging in anything dangerous, my daughter’s not spitting over the balustrade, there’s no celebrity on the floor; What on Earth could be ‘mamnouah’ about me photographing my daughter in front of a Christmas tree with a million or something teddy bears.

“The tree. It’s mamnouah.”

It is amazing how this poor teenager in zits and a uniform managed to unleash this horrendous rage in me. Have you ever heard of a nano second? Some say that in Lebanon it is the time between the light turning green and the first car honking its horn behind you. Well, you can ask that security guard how fast I got upset. It must have been a split nano second.

“Mamnouah!? Taking a picture of the tree is forbidden? Where’s your boss? Go get your boss. Get your boss right now!” The gates of hell had opened, I tell you that. It will be months before I can show my face in that part of town again.

I played my role as the bitchy foreigner quite well, I must say. The poor kid couldn’t do anything about it, of course, some idiot in the office had obviously outdone themselves and given him this pathetically idiotic order; “nobody is supposed to take pictures of the Christmas tree. It is a matter of national security.” I can imagine him going home tonight to his family. “And how was your day today?” “Well, I encountered this menopausal woman who totally blew her top over a simple request.”

The boss never materialized. This ranting and raving woman took him obviously quite by surprise. I tell you, had he made a move for my camera, he’d gone over the balustrade. I eventually was escorted out of the shop by my daughter who was afraid we’d end up in jail and she apologized to the guard that her mother was known for having ‘anger management issues.’

I do not have anger management issues; but christ on earth, what could possibly be ‘mamnouah’ about taking pictures of a Christmas tree? I therefore have a request for you. Please, all of you, go to the ABC mall, and make many many many pictures of that friggin’ bear tree, will you.

I think we should even organize a flash mob event there, right around the darn tree. Boy, they will remember the day they forbade me to make a stupid picture of their stupid tree.

 

And you get to see the tree twice! Just because I was not allowed to picture it. Please, spread this state secret around.Highly secretive tree.

Things that Make You Go Hmmmmm.

Now and then, you read these things that make you go “Hhhmmm.”

Like this one. It seems the village of Gajar was taken from Syria by the Israelis in 1967. Israel occupied the southern part, Syria had the northern part. During a readjustment of the demarcation line, Gajar was then moved into Lebanese territory. A UN blue line has split the village of some 2000 inhabitants in two since 1967. Now according to this BBC article, most of the inhabitants consider themselves Syrian, but have, for whatever reason, accepted Israeli citizenship during the long years of occupation. The Israelis are going to pull out, leaving it in the hands of the Lebanese. Now read this: “the majority is opposed to being under Lebanese control."

 

Lovely. They rather live with the Israelis than under Lebanese control? Ouch, that hurts.

And so I leave you with a picture of a Beirut street cat, and a rather feisty one at that. He looks odd, think he got his ears clipped during a fight.

Look what the Cat Dragged in . . .

. . . . this morning. Hmmm. Lovely, no, for an arachnophobe like me?

I tell you, this cat is one dead kitty (spider is already a goner, although it did move a little bit. But with 2 legs missing, it's hard to get around).

I cannot find any information at all on this species on the web, but my guess is a Lebanese tarantula . All I know it’s one of the Theraphosidae family, but that’s where the story ends. It could be a Chaetopelma olivaceum or an Idiops syriacus , but I go for the first. These are the only two types of tarantulas we have in Lebanon.

I will now have to go out an buy a year's supply of PiffPaff  in order to fumigate the house from top to bottom. Maybe by some freak-trick of nature, this thing will clone itself in my house, which would result in me having to sell the house.

Not the Beirut Marathon

Taanayel Farm, part of the The Monastery of the Jesuit Fathers

Sorry. This is not a post about the Beirut Marathon. While Beirut was running its 8^th marathon, I went with fellow Dutchie Marijke back to (The Monastery of the Jesuit Fathers of) Taanayel. We both like to bike, something we can’t really do in Beirut. You can, but it would be quite an obstacle course. 

Our new mode of transportation

We biked all over the farm this time, hung out with the cows and tried out the various tractors.

What is it they say sometimes; You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl? Both of us were raised in the city, but somehow being Dutch creates an automatic connection with cows. This was quite clear; while we inhaled the odors in the stable with vigor, remarking how well it all smelled, her daughter –a half-Dutchie – was walking around with a face that spoke volumes.  

The main building has a very un-Lebanese character, it's more like the architecture of a French mas.

They have about a 120 Dutch milk cows (we connected J), whom they milk twice a day (This bit of information is for those who know absolutely nothing about cows. Don’t worry, I only learned that cows start giving milk once they’ve had their first calves just some years ago. I used to think they were automatically born with the ability to give milk. A good cow can give up to 40 liters a day. A not so good cow can squeeze out a mere 25 liters.

The main stable

I know they used to have pigs as well, but we couldn’t find those. Pigs smell significantly different from cows. Whereas cows smell good, pigs stink. Her daughter disagreed with us. She thought everything stank. And we were all lyrical about the smell.

“Eeeew, what’s that under my shoe?!”

We found a small cemetery where the Jesuits apparently have been burying their own. It is a small, walled compound, in the woods, quite idyllic. One of the earliest is from the end of the 17th century, when they just got the farm. In the early days, Taanayel was swamp land, and quite a few of them seem to have died of malaria. The Dutch Father Kluiters, also lies buried here.

The Jesuit cemetery in Taanayel

A reader of this blog commented last week that ‘you take such nice pictures; you should take a photography course’. This would imply, however, that I need one, and thus my pictures lack all sort of things. I suspect one of my friends for making that comment, or probably a family member. Anyway, I have taken it to heart, and started with a course just this weekend.

The teacher is an enthusiast; he went through the entire history of photography, all the possible buttons on a camera, what they do and how they can be manipulated in a mere 3 hours. One more lesson in this pace, and by next week I can take a digital camera apart and put it back again. In two weeks time? Ansel Adams at your doorsteps.

Homework assignment #1? Find the catalogue of your camera and read it.  I thought that was a good one. Assignment #2? Make pictures with different aperture. Well, I would be able to do that, if only I could find the catalogue of that camera, because I don’t know how to change the aperture (yet). I’ll get there. What’s wrong with automatic anyway? 

  
T, M and S.

Why two pictures that are the same? Not quite; Spot the difference
(it’s standing on a log of wood).

And in case you wonder why I didn’t walk the marathon? I forgot to sign up in time. I made myself a promise that next year I WILL sign up. And then you get pictures from the Beirut marathon. I thought other bloggers would probably cover the marathon, but I haven’t seen any posts yet.

Not Inspired

I haven't been greatly inspired as of lately, and so I leave you with someone's else's inspiration.

It will take about two hours to complete load, however, if you live in Beirut. Or Lebanon. That's added charm, so to speak.

Must Be the Time of the Year

When I got out of work today, the weather was wonderful, so soft and mild. The light was just right, getting close to dusk, and the sun was low.

 Beirut Corniche at 5:00 P.M.

I had just gotten out of a meeting with some Lebanese colleagues of mine, and boy, those meetings are fun, and I am not being sarcastic. There’s something in the air when you get a group of married Lebanese women together; there’s nothing that will fool them. “I paid the price once, honey, and I don’t intend to pay all my life,” one of them once told me. Strong women. The mood was good and so I decided to take the long way back home, along the seaside.

The Corniche is at its best just around 5; almost empty. There are a few joggers here and there, some couples walking, but that’s it.

My Jumping Jack Flash with her mix & match socks

The sunflower-seed-spitters are gone, the ‘shebab’ who will try their luck with anything female, whether 15 or 55, are at home with their mommies, the families with 23 kids on tricycles are having dinner, and the miss world inline skaters are probably in the gym.

And so you have the Corniche to yourself. The sun is setting in the sea, the Lebanon Mountains are bathed in a salmon-pinkish light, and the copper reflection of the window panes in the east make it look like there’s little fires all over the hills. This is the only time of the day you get to see the mountains clearly, all the way to Jbeil (Byblos).
So if you ever plan to 'do' Beirut, only walk the Corniche around sunset.

Two ladies hanging out

I’m all lyrical about the Corniche, yet there are people that won’t set a foot there. My hubbie, being one of them. Another friend says she’d rather stay home than walk ‘there’. Other friends, however, walk the stretch from the ‘hamem el-askari’ (Military Beach) to McDonalds and back again every evening with their husbands.

I don’t walk it often enough, but if I check my blog posts, I walked here about the same time last year, and I was equally lyrical then. Must be the time of the year.

Time to go home