*

Travels with Hubbie Part II

2012-01-31T15:46:00.001+01:00

Catching trout

While in the northern part of the Beqaa, we ran into a fish farm. They’re breeding trout in the Assi river, rainbow trout. I have lived here for a long time now, but have driven trough Hermel maybe once. And only last fall did I end up there by chance while taking the kids out on a rafting trip, and we were served trout for lunch. I didn’t even know they had trout in Lebanon. Well, they do. And good ones too.

Look at that weight; It think it was once part of a car engine

We used to have brown trout in Lebanon, but that one is practically extinct due to overfishing. The rainbow trout was introduced somewhere in the fifties and is 'characterized by a fast growth rate. Trout is raised in areas where a constant supply of high quality water is available all year round. Lebanese waters are predominantly calcareous and suitable for trout production. Water temperature is usually the most critical water quality factor. Trout Farms in Lebanon are mostly family owned businesses. An average yield of 30 kg/m2 is common.' If you are interested in fish, you can find the entire document here.

Catch of the day

The fish gets pulled out of the river right in front of you, gutted and weighed, and all that at $4 the kilo.

The average annual production of trout is around 1 100 tonnes (MOA figures). This is produced by 150 farms, 80 percent of which are in Hermel-North Bekaa, at a total value of USD 3.7 million and an estimated average yield of 10-12 tonnes (at approximately 1.5 Kg/liter/minute). (Taken from here)

The fish gets gutted and cleaned in front of you, and goes home for $4 a kilo.

Now all that hubbie needs is a wife that knows how to cook.

My Bank Sucks

2012-01-29T09:27:00.000+01:00

It is Sunday, and I am doing my banking online. 'Online' banking needs some explanation here. It isn't really that 'online'. For most transactions you still need to pass by the bank in person to get permission to do what you want to do online.
I want to transfer some Lebanese pounds to my Euro account. I get an error message. I try again. Same message. I call the help center of the bank.

“Oh, but you cannot transfer Lebanese pounds to Euros. Only Lebanese pounds to dollars,” says the man on the other side of the line.
Oh really? Well, how about the other 10 times when I was able to do it?
Silence.
“Maybe because it is Sunday. There are no rates.”

Maybe. Maybe not. That was helpful. Not.

Then I notice that my Euro account has 5 Euros less from last September. Now how did that happen? I check the account summary. Guess what I read?

I paid 5 Euros en 25 cents for service fees. Come again? I thought it was supposed to be the other way. Isn’t the bank supposed to give me money, as in interest?

It is that same sucky bank that offers me a credit card for MY account with MY salary, but who want my husband to come and sign.

Me thinks I need a new bank. Any suggestions out there?

Intermezzo

2012-01-28T19:52:00.001+01:00

They said it was going to storm this weekend. And so no one went skiing this today. I am kind of surprised that anyone still believes these weather forecasts because they are consistently two days off. It was a little foggy, and not all slopes were open, but it was lovely. Lovely and quiet, and so you go up and down and up and down.

For those unfamiliar with Feraya; do not think we've got a whole lot of trees on the slopes. These are the only ones

The best part of the day remains the evening though, when the slopes close down, and everyone goes home. It got horrendously icy suddenly, and we saw several cars running into the ditch or each other. My son went down with friends, and their car got banged up on both sides; one side by a lady coming from the opposite directions, the other side by a gasoline truck losing grip. I think somebody’s driver is getting fired tonight.

Going home

Travels with Hubbie Part I

2012-01-26T18:07:00.002+01:00

There’s this book, 'Travels with Charlie’ where the author John Steinbeck travels the back roads of America and writes about what he sees. I was inspired by that title. You see, my hubbie works some 360 days a year. But sometimes, he decides to take a break. And if you manage to direct him onto the road, you get to see stuff. Lots of stuff, because hubbie doesn’t like things half done. And so we roamed over the northern part of the Beqaa last week.

The channel of an old water mill near Hermel

And while roaming the northern part of Beqaa Valley, we stumbled upon a number of interesting things. None of my guidebooks gave an explanation, and as it was 0 degrees Celsius with a fiercely icy wind, none of the locals were out in the fields to ask for information. But I figured it out. Long live the Internet.

Same water mill, by the side of the road

The northern part of the Beqaa Valley is probably the most deserted part of Lebanon, as well as the most desert-like. It is a dry and windy plain, where people subsist on farming, and a marginal existence it is. It is one of the poorest regions in the country. In the ‘good old days’ people were able to make a living from hashish crops, but now that we try to be part of the ‘real’ world, they can barely scrape by.

Barren en bleak, and when the mist rolls in, the picture is complete.

The place is bleak; not a very inviting place. But a long time ago, it used to provide massive amounts of wheat or the Roman Empire. For wheat, you need water, and it doesn’t rain much. There are a number of rivers though, that were used to irrigate the region, and an extensive irrigation system was built.

A recently restored water mill near el Qaa

And so in the middle of the desert there are these stretches of ancient aqueducts. Most have fallen to ruins, such as the ones on the side of the road between Baalbeck and Hermel . (‘Don’t go there’, says the Dutch embassy. ‘Do go there’, says Sietske in Beirut) , and you cannot really figure out how they must have operated once. The area around Laboué, Maashouq et Nasryieh has several Roman aqueducts and canals and for long, the organization of such traditional irrigation was based on ways and customs, which were considered as law. (This bit of information was stolen from here)

The long wall which helps bring the water from ground level all the way up

They are intricate contraptions. Apparently they did not have windmills in the old days (although there’s plenty of wind, if you ask me), but they did need mills for grinding grain. In order to do that, they’d built a water canal, and while the ground would descend, they’d keep the canal level, until the water was elevated enough above the land to make a drop strong enough to run a mill.

On top of the wall

This is about similar mills, but in Jordan and Cyprus: (...) the vertical penstock chamber of the majority of mills ( . . ) , into which the water would flow from the water leat or channel, creating a forceful exit through the opening into the wheel chamber in front. This would create a force strong enough to turn the mill wheel, which was attached to the mill stone grinding the cereal above. (. . . ). In Jordan, many of the water mills had leats that abutted a natural upward slope from which the water would gain a greater momentum as it flowed into the penstock tower, hitting the mill wheel with a greater force. In Cyprus, many of the mills appeared to ave long water leats that did not incline with a slope,but continued on a horizontal level. (source, page 53)

The ground was teeming with these fuzzy caterpillars, no idea what kind they are.

One of them has been recently reconstructed. But how does it work? Who originally built these water irrigation systems? And who restored the one that is on the outskirts of al Aaq? It cannot be the government, now can it? That government that is not able to provide us with round the clock electricity. The installation is not a new one, as the architecture is identical to the one that has fallen to ruins near Baalbeck. So why did they restore this one, and not the others? Is it working? And if yes, how? The wall ends near a dilapidated goat farm, although I should not say dilapidated because everything looks dilapidated in that part of the country. Except for this wonderfully restored irrigation center/mill.

The roads after Baalbeck are courtesy of the Iranian government, it says under every single road sign (in blue). Lest you forget.

There is a story that Queen Zenobia of Palmyra once ordered an aqueduct to transport water from Lebanon to her oasis in the Syrian desert, but these channels and mills are for local use. Had this been in Rome, or Israel, for that matter, they'd have built a million-dollar visitors center around it. I couldn't even find a little wooden sign.

Snowy Slopes

2012-01-21T21:54:00.001+01:00

Feraya slopes

Whoever thought that today the weather wouldn’t be nice up in the mountains, or that there would be too many people skiing anyway, or that there would be too much traffic going up, boy, did you make a judgment error! I am glad you did though, because the slopes of Faraya were lovely and reasonably quiet, particularly in the Warde part (the slopes all the way to the left side of the map).

A little cold and foggy in the morning, but by 11 it was sunny, crispy snow and short lines.

H and L (her friend)

I cannot say my daughter was as jubilant as I was. My friends pity my daughter. They say things like ‘poor thing’ and ‘when she grows up she’ll never forgive you for this’ or ‘why don’t you just leave her at home if she doesn’t like it?’ You see, my daughter hates skiing. Not necessarily with a vengeance, but it is an activity that – as far as she is concerned – she can do without. I come from a country where you cannot ski, and people pay a fortune just to go to Switzerland to learn how to ski. I live an hour away from a slope, so it is ridiculous, as far as I am concerned, that she would not know how to ski. And so I religiously drag her to the mountains those 2 ½ months a year that we get snow.

A couple of dare-devils (notice the boy on the bottom; he's jumping off a cliff. Could be my son, except I know he's a boarder. It's probably a good thing I don't see him snow-board; my heart would stop)

It goes well for a while, but then after one fall, the moaning and whining begins. It helps if you drag along other munchkins, it seems to alleviate her incessant suffering. She’ll thank me for it, one day. Or not.

Her brother became an adult this Friday. How did we celebrate it? Well, I saw my son 5 minutes that evening, just as I came in the door back from work and he was on his way out the door on his way to Faraya. I saw him maybe for a split second today on the slopes, as this shadow flew by me and I heard a ‘Hi Mom’, but that might have been someone else’s son. Needles to say no picutre of him on the slope. And now he just got home and crashed on the couch, asleep. I guess we’ll celebrate tomorrow then. If he’s got time.

He wanted a car for his birthday, That plan got axed quite quickly. Apart from the logistical issue (‘Where are you going to park it?” ‘Wherever you need to be the coming 2 years is within walking distance.’ ‘A service is cheaper’ and ‘So who will drive if you had a drink at night?’), it doesn’t really build much character. If he wants a car, he better get a job and work for it. I do not foresee a car in his near future. Not sure what he wants instead of a car. I’ll try and find out when he wakes up.

Winter Wonderland

2012-01-20T20:04:00.002+01:00

Winter has been late this year, but it has finally arrived. This morning it was 7 degrees Celsius in Beirut. I think that is as low as it gets in this town. On the way to the Beqaa Valley, the police were stopping cars to check for snow chains.

Apparently they had gotten tired of pulling people out of the snow at the mountain pass. I had to go to the Barouk Cedar Reserve, and it was right after the storm, so everything was covered with virgin snow, and I was the first one to make a trail.

There’s a lot to be sa(i)d about Lebanon’s urbanization, and in many ways, this is no longer such a pretty country. But if you get way up in the mountains, far away from cities and villages, there are areas that are postcard material. It is a pity I already sent out my Christmas cards, because today was a real Winter Wonderland. I might try and make it to the ski slopes tomorrow, although I fear the rest of the country may be of the same thought, and I’ll end up in a traffic jam to the ski slope instead of at the ski slope, but we’ll see.

Beirut on Ice

2012-01-16T17:47:00.000+01:00

Well, a building came crashing down in Beirut last night, (here is a face to the building, much more interesting than any newspaper article, and it's got a powerful quote: "So in simple terms: the rental law in Lebanon is hurtful for both the tenant and the landlord.") and Lebanese designers dominated the Golden Globe Awards .

And all I can come up with is some skating rink in downtown Beirut. Methinks I should get back into journalism really soon.

I used to laugh at those Arabs on skis in the Dubai mall. I mean, really, what were they thinking, creating a ski slope in a shopping mall in the middle of a hot desert?

Well, Saturday I went to that skating rink in downtown Beirut, and I think some westerners who were passing by must have thought; “Really, what are these Arabs thinking, creating a ski rink in the middle of downtown Beirut?”

They’re probably right.

The rink is about an eight of the size of any home-made-neighborhood skating rink in Northern Europe. The ice was way too hard, with a layer of water on top of it, ensuring that if you fall - which is quite inevitable, considering that you stick a bunch of non-skaters on dull ice skates on a slab of non-natural ice – you’ll be wet from top to bottom, and the price is probably out of reach for most Lebanese, especially of you have a family of 3 kids or more. I don’t understand why they ask so much. If you go for 5,000 for an hour, you get 5 times the amount of kids, and a full rink always looks better than a rink with just 15 suckers on skates. (Here’s home economics speaking) .

But what the heck, you’ve got four kids running around in your house, it’s been raining all week now, and cabin fever is all abound.

In retrospect, it was quite fun. And who liked it the most of all? The Ethiopian housekeeper! Never seen ice before, let alone skate on it. I have respect for this lady.

On Soil and the Beqaa Valley

2012-01-11T16:05:00.003+01:00

In the middle of the Beqaa Valley, looking west (Lebanon mountains)

I’ve been plodding around the Beqaa Valley quite a bit these last two weeks. Quite against the advice of the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs (scroll to onveilige gebieden), who believes most horrific things might befall upon me, due to criminal activities over there of a serious degree. Specifically Hermel, Brital, Ersal, Majdel Anjar en Anjar. Hmmm. I think I’ve driven through there just last weekend, although we avoided Brital, out of fear for my car, not my life.

Why the Beqaa Valley? Courtesy of hubbie, who has decided he is in need of a piece of land on which he is going to build a little shack where he can sit and contemplate life. The mountain house won’t do. He wants something more . . . I don’t know what. Isolated, I think it is.

Working outdoors; the shoemaker and the tailor.

I have stipulated I want to be able to see the sea from my chair. He has decided it is going to be somewhere in the Beqaa Valley. I have mentioned that I wouldn’t mind having a supermarket nearby. He’s set on having a herd of sheep next door. I want the hills, he wants the valley floor.

I think it has to do with the fact that he’s fed up with people and clutter, two things the Beqaa Valley is quite void of. Relatively speaking, of course.

My prospective neighbors? I think not.

But as a good wife, I slug along, stare intensely at plots of land, and then give some well-thought of advice. Such as; “If it floods, you’ll need a boat here.” Or; “So how are you going to hook on to the main sewer system?”, and “Do you think you’ll have much in common with your neighbors? What are you going to talk to them about?” nodding at some Bedouin tents in the field.

But as he is quite set in his ways, and as I know him, he will throw all my well-meant advice into the wind. That doesn’t really matter. I greatly enjoy driving around with him and looking at things. There’s just so much to see in the Beqaa Valley.

An odd sight; this guy had all his plastic household stuff in one color only.

This week I had a conversation with a soil expert. He specializes in soil chemistry, and helps farmers improve their soil and crops. He mentioned that he was a very poor driver (his wife confirmed that) because everywhere he drives, he looks at soil. He is fascinated by soil. So passionate in fact, that in a one hour conversation, this passion was passed on. I learned about young soil and old soil. That is takes a 1,000 years to make just 2 centimeters of soil in Lebanon, that the soil in the Beqaa Valley is some 90 million years old (I might be a few million years off here) and that of the 12 different types of soil in the world, only 2 of these exist in Lebanon.

Olives (the new harvest is in. Lovely spicy)

Forgive me if I cannot cite the exact names, but one of them has to do with something ‘verti’. This soil expands and contracts with moisture, and as a result develops vertical cracks, which then are filled-in again with soil. And there’s only one patch of it in Lebanon; on the right side of the road as you drive into the Beqaa Valley, just above Shtoura.

\That patch of vertisol (if I got the name right)

I could go on for quite a bit, but I realize that you as a reader may not be necessarily very interested in soil. But when you drive around this country, and you see so many things, it becomes all fascinating. A life time is just too short to figure it all out. I still need to study geology, and archeology, and I don’t know enough about the ancient history of this place, particular the Roman and the Neolithic times.

Part of the Beqaa Roman ruins.

So much to learn, so little time. Maybe this Beqaa valley project is not such a bad idea. I could sit next to this contempating guy, and study in peace.

Early Morning

2012-01-10T17:11:00.001+01:00

I arrived a little early to work this morning, and so I took my time and made a long-cut (as opposed to short cut, but I am sure it has another name, deviation maybe) as I walked the last stretch along the Corniche. The light was beautiful. And that’s all I’ve got to offer you toda; a view of 'early Beirut;, although 7:00 AM isn't really that early. When I walk my dog at 6:16, people are already up and about.

What really got to me, when I was in Holland this Christmas, was the light. At 9:30 AM it would still be dark, and night would set again at 4:45 PM. That would mean, in my case, that I’d go to work in the dark, leave work in the dark, and basically not see any (sun)light throughout the winter. And I know that in summer we (as in ‘we Dutch’) have light until 10:30 or even 11 at night, but still, that dark period in winter would be one reason on its own not to go back.

On Electricity or the Lack of It

2012-01-08T12:14:00.003+01:00

I’ve spent the past 24 hours in the mountains. Apart from the fact that it has rained for 24 hours straight, I’ve had like a total of 138 minutes of electricity. Government electricity, that is. How do these people accept this? They pay their taxes. They pay their mecanique fees, they pay the 10% VAT. Yet they get a lousy 138 minutes of electricity. Out of 24 hours!!

My view

We have a new housekeeper. From Ethiopia. A country you probably associate with poverty and hunger. One of the many underdeveloped nations of Africa. Yet she is astonished at the frequent cuts. “Shou haida?” she says in surprise, as the lights all go out. Again.

You probably wonder where I have been all these years. All these power cuts are nothing new. But in Beirut, I live in the proximity of some high government official and as a result, our power cuts are infrequent and according to schedule. And whenever we do not get any government electricity, then the building’s generator kicks in. So you barely notice the pathetic electricity situation.

But here in the mountains, far from anyone who’s got some cloud on a government level, it’s a different ball game.

We’re almost cut off the grid here. I have been fumigating pretty muc th entire neighborhood with my very smelly and noisy and highly polluting generator. It is either that, or sitting by candle light half the day. Very romantic, I agree, and I can sort of understand now why in the old days people had big families.

Some mountain people . . . ohh wait, it's family!! Well, some of them.

But it is totally unacceptable. We’ve got 19-year old kids driving around town with Hummers, everyone and their grandmother has a housekeeper, we sell 1 million dollar apartments, and yet we cannot provide our own people with 24 hour electricity?! For god sake, the Syrians get electricity around the clock! But not us. It’s just too bizarre for words. Some 21 years after a civil war. Some 5 years after a war. Some 3 years after an ‘internal’ conflict, we do not have 24 hours electricity.

The only time I’ve experienced long stretches of electricity in the mountains this past month, is at night. Now how useful is that? It could of course heat up your water. That is, if there is any, because that commodity doesn’t come 24/7 either.

I get it why we do not have an Opera House, a Beirut Symphonic Orchestra, public neighborhood libraries and white lines on the road. But no electricity and water? Why is no one getting upset over this? I think it is time for a revolution.

Ghost Houses

2012-01-05T18:53:00.000+01:00

A crack in the wall

While in the mountains, we ran into lots of ‘ghost houses’. I’ve written about them before; they were the summer residences of people living in Beirut, and when the civil war moved to the mountains, these houses were abandoned, and subsequently targeted, emptied of their contents by looters (read local militias, Syrians, and anyone trying to make a buck), shot to pieces, and neglected.

Nothing left standing but the walls

Because the war lasted quite a bit longer than most people anticipated, the original owners often died, and the property was inherited by their children or other family members. And now these – often monumental – villas are owned by several people who are usually not on the same wave length when it comes to restoring. One wants to restore, the other cannot spent that kind of money on a secondary house. One wants to sell, another doesn’t, and as a result, they just stand there, year after the year.

The mountains above Beirut are teeming with buildings like this

In the past, I’ve seen plenty of places that we were interested in buying, but when we would go around and locate the owners, there were sometimes more than 7 different people you had to convince, and there’s always one that really isn’t interested, and doesn’t need the money, and that’s where the deal stops.

I found a beautiful tile floor

When you see these places, it is clear that at one point in time, Lebanon must have been a very rich nation. I wonder what will happen to these houses. All over the mountains, they are building new residences. Beirut itself is one huge building pit, cranes popping up left and right. Yet very few of these old houses are being restored.

Left-over belongings of an era gone by

It’s a pity, because many are architectural masterpieces. Okay, that may be a little overrated. But they do exhale the ‘old’ Lebanon.

Golden Hour

2012-01-04T18:42:00.000+01:00

They call it the golden hour; the hour when the sun is about to set, and casts a golden glow all over the land. I learned that in my photography course. The golden hour is one of the best moments of the day to take pictures, because all pictures look good when the light is good. It’s one of my favorite time of the day as well. I happened to be hiking at that hour above Hamana, in an attempt to reach the top part of a waterfall.

It had rained all that day and the previous night so the ground was all wet and soggy. In order to get to the top of the waterfall we should have set out at 8 in the morning, but before you get everyone convinced of the meaning/purpose of a hike and subsequently organized, you’re some six hours further in my household. And then, in the end, you still end up going with only one guy.

So we never made it to the top of the waterfall. This river comes straight out of the mountain, fed by one of the many aquifers in Lebanon. It then runs all the way through a valley and ends (if I have my topography right) up next to the Forum of Beirut in some sort of a sewer canal, which goes by the name of Beirut River.

Over Christmas, an American climber fell to his death in a part of these mountains, the Sanine Mountains. That’s quite unusual, you don’t hear of many climbers here falling to their death. First of all because not many people do any serious climbing. And secondly, it hardly is the Alps over here. How on Earth do you manage to fall to your death here? You have to be really unlucky. But then again, luck does not always run your way. (More info here)

New Year's Eve

2012-01-03T18:06:00.002+01:00

I just 'came down the mountain', as we say in Lebanon, where I spent New Year’s Eve.
I read lots of blog posts on where to spend your New Year’s Eve in Beirut, but when you’re as wise (read ‘old’) as I am, you realize that all of these events and venues are usually much overrated. And when you get to see the price tag that goes with it, you know they’re totally overrated. Add to that a horrendous hangover, and the decision is made; we’re staying home this New Year.
Or actually, we went 'to the mountains', where we have a little house.

I bought fireworks, but when the clock struck 12, I think our house was pretty much the only one in the neighborhood that had fireworks. Actually, we were the only ones in town. I can see the entire mountain face from my house, but I am pretty sure that there were about 3 other people with fireworks. There were a couple of Kalashnikoffs out there; you can recognize them from their orange trace lights. Oh well, I was thinking, the Lebanese are not into fireworks as much as much as the Dutch are.
And then I hear from my son, who stayed in Beirut with the ‘real’ people, as he calls it, that they had a huge firework display downtown for some 10 minutes straight. Tell me that isn’t true, please.

Well, I spent it with family (minus the soon to be adult teenager of our household) in front of the fireplace and it was good. Although next year I might invest a little more in the fireworks.
And so from Beirut, I wish you (slightly belated) that this year may bring you four F's; Good times with Family and Friends, a good Financial Situation and great Physical health (okay, that one just sounds like an F). As far s I am concerned, that just about sums it all up.

A very Merry Christmas

2011-12-25T19:00:00.000+01:00

A very merry Christmas from Holland (not Beirut), where I spent Christmas in the company of family and friends. Due to a misunderstanding – a common thing in our family – half of the family thought we had the traditional Christmas dinner last night, while the other half was getting ready for tonight. My SIL had mentioned we’d do the dinner on Christmas Eve, which was understood by two of my brothers as the evening of Christmas day, not the evening before Christmas. And that was quite a good thing, because as a result, we are having two family Christmas dinners.

Unfortunately it is not a white Christmas, unlike the last two years, and so I am cheating and leave you with a picture of last year; the Christmas tree yard in my village, where people come to buy their tree. This one was taken right before Christmas, and all the big/good trees were gone.

And so a merry Christmas, and a happy and healthy 2012 to all.

It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas

2011-12-23T17:59:00.001+01:00

Hubbie said he wanted to go to the mountain house over the weekend.

I’m no great fan of mountain houses. It’s a major migration, as far as I am concerned. You have to haul up an incredible amount of junk with you, because you cannot really remember anymore whether you have sugar up there, or matches, or salt, or water, or clean sheets and towels, and so you drag it all up, and once up there, you realize you were thinking exactly the same last time, the time before, and so you end up with an obnoxious amount of sugar and salt and the rest. You forgot the wine of course, and the onions, and the coffee, so you end up having to go to the local supermarket anyways. Who’s going to feed the cats and the birds while you’re gone, and what dog comes along and what dog stays behind? Your children pack for 16 days, instead of a two day weekend, it doesn’t all fit in the car, the gas bottle is always empty once you get there (we cook on bottled gas in Lebanon, yes yes). Once there, you spent the entire Saturday cleaning the house, and Sunday you spent packing for the return trip to Beirut. And just when you are about to leave, the house has finally warmed up enough to sit in the living room without wearing a ski jacket.

But heck, the teenager (soon to be adult) announced he was not joining us, and so it would be just us and our daughter, and so I got suckered into this romantic getaway.

Then the old aunt decided she would join us.

So the housekeeper wanted to come along.

The old aunt had a friend over from Tripoli, and invited her too.

Then a friend of mine called with a request, she had a sudden work engagement; could her daughter sleep over at our house?

And finally my SIL had a medical emergency in the family, and along came two more children.

And so our romantic group of three became a troupe of nine.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas; "marshemellows (chestnuts) roasting on an (open) fire"

That’s much better. Mountain houses are more fun when there’s life in the place. And in the evening we roasted marshmallows on the fire. It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

I'll be spending this Christmas not in the mountains, but on the flat lands of the Netherlands. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas from there.

A Lovely Sunday Morning

2011-12-11T13:29:00.000+01:00

You see the Meditarreanean Sea on the left (hard to see maybe) and the snow up ahead?

By some miraculous occurrence, my kids and the cousin from a sleep-over were up and dressed and bundled up into my car by 9 A.M. Sunday morning. Had I planned it this way, it wouldn’t have happened. Not sure what made it happen.

This view always gives me a very luxurious feeling

I had to pick up something in the mountains early morning. I know why the teenager in the group came along; he had the option of ‘either you go study, or you go with your mom.’ I guess the second one tagged along because the teenager came, and the third came because the second one went.

And so early in the morning we drove up to the mountains. Early Sunday mornings in Beirut are gorgeous; there is almost no traffic. That’s what I like about the days after bomb explosions; everyone stays off the road, and Beirut is lovely without traffic.

Villages in the mountains

Driving along the Corniche, you can see the snow-capped mountains on the other side of the bay through the palm trees in between. This view always gives me a feeling of luxury. It’s like a mixture of Aspen and Monaco. While you drive in the sun, you can see the snow. It’s a cliché – and a rather incorrect one at that – that you can ski in the morning and swim in the afternoon in Lebanon. Traffic makes it virtually impossible.

Main street (often the only street as well)

The weather in Beirut is still warm, and way up near the snow very cold, but at about 6, 700 meters, - where we had to be – it is brisk and fresh. Too cold for T-shirts, too hot for jackets. And up in the mountains, when you drive through the villages, the smell of manakish permeates the air.

The cheese manakish ready for the oven

The manakish goes into the oven (I'm a sage person myself),

Colin Thubron wrote in his book ‘The Hills of Andonis’ that the christian villages in the mountains are separated from the druze villages by muslim villages. I wonder who told him that. It hardly is true. He may be forgiven; it was one of his very first travel books, and he wrote it in ’68. Many villages are mixed now (up to some extend). The separation is still there in the minds of people though. Different faiths may live next to each other, and they will mingle in daily life, but they will not marry each other.

while the kids wait outside and watch the traffic pass by

The kids wanted manakish for breakfast. (You don't think I had them fed by 9 A.M. as well, do you?) I like cheese, but in my family there’s a preference for zaatar (thyme). The village manakish store was busy, and in between the baking, the lady suggested I dress my children more warmly, asked me where I was from, whether my husband was Lebanese, what village he came from, whether I liked it better here or in Holland, and remarked that it was good I had three children. I decided not to tell her they weren’t all mine.

Cheese manakish . . .

. . . . and the zaatar.

We ate breakfast in the main street of the village. We were quite a sight. I don't think they see many 'foreigners' in winter time.

We all had one; the teenager ate four (?!). Where does it go?

And then, when I was done with my errand, we went down the mountain and back to Beirut, where by this time, traffic had picked up from the lunch crowd. A lovely Sunday morning, if I say so myself.

View over Beirut

Saint Nicolas in Beirut

2011-12-06T07:06:00.000+01:00

A Christmas tree and somebody's legs

I already had my Christmas tree up a week ago. No self-respecting Dutch decorates their Christmas tree before St. Nicolas, which in Holland is celebrated on the eve of December 5th, but I’ve been out of the country for so long that that is a tradition I have ditched. However, we did celebrate Saint Nicolas on Sunday, and so now I can come out of the closet with my tree.

Saint Nicolas is checking in his Big Book to see whether she has been nice

The Dutch community in Lebanon is a small, but pretty tight one. Quite a few of them are ‘doing life’ which is what you get when you marry a local boy. And on Sunday we drove to the mountains above Beirut to celebrate Saint Nicolas. It is quite close to the Lebanese tradition of Saint Barbara , but that’s a different saint all together.

Of the few tradition we Dutch have, Saint Nicolas is one you celebrate if you have ‘believers’ in the family. ‘Believers’ are in general small children up to the age of 12. After that (or probably way before that, but they still play along in order to get gifts) they no longer believe in this bishop of Spain who miraculously drops by on the night of December the fifth, and doles out presents to all the Dutch children, no matter where on Earth they live.

Two apprensive children, waiting for the verdict of Black Pete to see if they get a present or not

I still have one believer in the house, a nine year old, who was slightly disappointed this year over the gift that Saint Nicolas had chosen for her. “I wouldn’t have gone for a suit case,” she said, after viewing the little blue suitcase on wheels. Well, better luck next year (if you still believe by then; otherwise, no gifts).

We’re lucky that we’re still celebrating it with Zwarte Piet (black Pete), Saint Nicolas helpers. In Holland there’s been a debate going on for quite some time about the possible racist implications of Saint Nicolas’s black helpers. In Canada, the Dutch community was not allowed to celebrate it with the black helpers. (You read this, H? That's right next door to you. Oh, those Canadians).

No worries about this in Lebanon.

December

2011-12-04T12:02:00.000+01:00

Too much work, too many things to organize, no time to chill and December - one of the busiest months - has barely started. I am soo ready for my retirement. Birthdays and holidays and celebrations and dinners and meetings and what not. I am busy like there is no tomorrow. And for some reason, the older you get, the fewer friends you’ve got left, yet the busier my social life has gotten. Go explain that equation. And so I cherish the slow moment.

Like this one, when I picked up my daughter from school after work, and we walked home along the seaside. No need for jackets just yet. A one hour of peace.

More Walking

2011-11-28T16:53:00.004+01:00

Here’s another piece on walking. Okay, so I am about 6 months late with this, but better late than never. And I got it from someone else (hat tip Allyson!!! Prachtige link die ik van je feestboek plukte!) And now that the internet supposedly got so much faster, you can all view this.

It is called ‘The Walk of Causes’, and it is a web series of twelve episodes, each around five minutes, about the adventure of two foreign guys crossing Lebanon on foot..

“Without much preparation, Matias and Jorgen embarked on an epic journey that would bring them from the North of Lebanon to the South – a journey that took them through wild forests and dessert-like areas, over steep mountains and dangerous mine fields. Passports were being checked regularly at official military check-points, as well as by the almost-official Hezbollah ”check-points”.

Most images from the Middle East show a depressing reality of countries in crises. In this webseries, the viewer gets the chance to discover people living their everyday lives in the stunning mountains of Lebanon. Matias and Jorgen's approach to these people may at times seem naive, as they enthusiastically and with an open mind walk up to strangers for a ”conversation” based on body language. In a country that officially recognizes18 different religious groups, they were met by many friendly faces of different faiths.

About fifty hours of footage have been recorded from this three week journey that took place in April and May 2010, but financial help is needed in order to edit the project. Lots of goodies are waiting for those willing to help!”

More on this project can be found here. Enjoy!

Made It!

2011-11-27T13:15:00.000+01:00

Hana and her mom, and cousin O. at the finish line. Adrian had passed the finish line some 100 minutes earlier.

We made it. The 10 K of the Beirut International Marathon. They call it the 10 K Fun Run. Wherever did they come up with such a name? But we made it, relatively unscathed, and with a medal. In only 2 hours and 10 minutes, or somewhere around there. Adrian left us at the start line, and made it in only 58 minutes.

Adrian, Hana and Cousin O

And I think we actually did 13 kilometers, because to even get to the start line, we had to hike through the entire city. I live right in the middle of the marathon circuit, and so there’s no going in or out of the neighborhood with the car from 6 A.M. onwards. I had the bright idea that we’d pick up a cab somewhere along the road.

Well, I didn’t see one stinking cab on the road, all the way from my house to the start line, which is some 3 kilometers away.

And then when you get to the start line, there’s another half hour of shuffling before you even make it past the line, due to the massive turn-out.

Good turn-out

But the weather and the mood were good.

We took cousin O and at the last minute, Hana decided her dog Spike would have to come along too. We had an extra bib, from someone who had to forego the race, and so Spike walked with a number as well. If I would have gotten a thousand pounds from every person who wanted to take a picture of that dog, I’d have been a rich woman now. I wonder what all these people will do with a picture of my daughter’s dog on their cell phone.

Spike

The dog right now is in virtual coma, whereas my daughter and cousin O decided to go on a picnic, and – barely home - off they went again. Boundless energy. I, on the other hand, think I will take a nap or so.

Spike, Cousin O and Hana

The 9th Marathon

2011-11-26T15:40:00.000+01:00

I signed up for the Beirut Marathon. I won’t be doing the 42 kilometer; I am going for the 10K Fun Run. And I won’t be exactly running that one either. There is a very good reason why all marathon runners have an AA cup size, and I don’t fit that category.

This will be the first year my daughter will actually walk with me. She’s done the 10K before, the very first time when she was some 10 months old, but I was the one doing the walking; she just hung in the back. This year will be the first time she’s actually walking it on her own all the way. It ‘ll be her 9^th marathon. So everyone, come out and cheer for us!

P.S. The picture is yesterday's sunset at Tabarja (On the Austostrade, coming from Jounieh going to Byblos, near the casino).

On Rainy Days

2011-11-19T19:57:00.001+01:00

Looking north-northeast on the Corniche

I think we are in Day # 5 of continuous rain. Or is it Day # 6? I sort of lost count. An official of CAD (Civil Aviation Department) said that Lebanon’s rainfall had already exceeded the 112 millimeter 30-year average for the rain season. “So far there has been 145 millimeters of rainfall, more than double the average of last year.” (source)

Pricipitation Averages in Lebanon (source)

I am not quite sure how to read this. According to weatherbase.com, we should have received about 860 millimeter by the end of this year. Does he mean over the whole year? Or the month of November? Or the rainy season? What is our rainy season?

The Corniche this afternoon, in between rain showers and thunder

But it is wet. I had my roof fixed for the first time in 17 years. I had never ever done anything about the roof, and although it wasn’t leaking, I thought that this winter I’d rather be safe than sorry. Well, you know what they say, ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. Sure enough, my roof started leaking. That was Day # 4 into the rain.

A water spout developing

Sucking up water

It looked really happy though

Enough to give you a depression. But I bet nobody is as a depressed as our Eastern neighbor. Sleepless nights he must have. I bet he’s popping Lexapro by the dozen.

In a matter of 8 years he’s seen one acquaintance after another other go down; and by down, I mean ‘down’.

Saddam Hussein got pulled out of a hole like a rat, had his picture taken like a homeless bum in his underwear, and eventually was hung in a rather odd place surrounded by a jeering crowd. His sons were already dead by then, his family scattered.

Khadaffi got pulled out of a sewer pipe, was sodomized and lynched, and then put on public display for a number of days in a cooler. His family suffered the same fate as that of Saddam.

Mubarak is in jail, billions forever out of his reach, but he’s the lucky one; at least he didn’t get sodomized or hung. Or both.

That Tunisian guy is on the run like a dog, stuck in Saudi Arabia (now that’s a punishment too), his name of the Interpol list.

Still fishing; no matter that they might get 'zapped' into the next dimension

All this should be more than enough to give the Syrian president more than just sleepless nights. How does he think his days are going to end? Will he suffer the same fate? Hung from a lamp post in the streets of Damascus? Lynched like a dog somewhere in the desert while on the run to Iran?

And all I have to complain about is the rain. My future is infinitely and exponentially brighter than any Middle Eastern ruler right now.

Granted, I don’t have the cash that comes with that job, but all the money they accumulated for a rainy day; what good did it do them on when it started to rain?

What Are the Odds?

2011-11-13T19:08:00.001+01:00

A Dutch Dominated Hike

A Dutch friend of mine here in Beirut mails me last night, asking if I am up to something this Sunday. Well, I thought about hiking in the hills above Beirut. Actually, the hills above Beirut didn’t appeal to me, I had signed up for something more spectacular; a hike way up north, in Dinnyeh, but that one got cancelled due to excessive fog way up north, and a hike through the hills above Beirut was offered instead.

The mountains & forest between Beit Meri & Broumana

A hike with friends is always fun, be it up north or near Beirut, and so we make some calls and get some more Dutch together to join the hike. This organization we hike with is a Lebanese outfit that organizes outdoor trips all over the country.

On my way up, just below Broumana, I pick up another Dutch friend, and while driving, we both see a lady standing by the road who looks strikingly Dutch. “I could swear that was Merijn,” I tell my friend.

Merijn, as you probably do not remember, is a Dutch culinary journalist, who is in Beirut now and then to work on culinary projects, and through whom I miraculously met the daughter of my cousin, right here in the heart of Beirut. But how could that be? Merijn is in Holland. We drop the topic and continue our way.

Then, while we park our car to hook up with the rest of the hikers, the organizer shows up with – in his car – yep, you guessed it; Merijn and Maaike! Now what are the odds? Of all the people in this country who go hiking with this particular group this exact Sunday in these mountains; it happens to be these two Dutch, who are in town for only a week, and whom one is related to me! Go figure!!

I tell you, you have a better chance winning the lottery than to run into a relative in the mountains above Beirut some 8,000 kilometers from home. That I ran into her once, by chance, is bizarre enough. That it happened a second time, that’s just so weird. Needless to say, I am buying a lottery ticket tomorrow.

Erica erigena

The hike was a lovely one, from Broumana to Beit Meri, trough the pine forest on the Deir el Qalaa side. Unfortunately we didn’t see much of the scenery as all we did was talk. I will have to publicly apologize to the Lebanese who were also hiking with us. One man did remark that we seem to be talking faster than we walked. That’s true; the only muscles that ache right now are the muscles of my jowls. It was just so odd, to go hiking and for some reason, to end up – impromptu - with the large group of Dutch women. Serge, the organizer, did mention that there was only one group of people that was noisier than us; and that’s when he hikes with school children.

Dutch women all over the place. The poor guide, he signed up for 2, he ended up with 6!

Sorry Serge, I promise you, next time we will talk less and hike more.

Looking for a Saint in Beirut

2011-11-11T19:28:00.002+01:00

A blogger wrote the other day that the Lebanese seem to adapt just about anything that comes from outside. He wrote ‘Call me old-fashioned, but if there’s something I would like to keep “Lebanese,” it’s the day where we wear masks just for the fun of it. There’s no reason for us to copy other people’s holidays just because it has been shoved down our throats in movies, series, pop culture… to the point where it has officially been deemed cool by the masses.’

Another Lebanese blogger got his ass chewed when he suggested going to a Halloween celebration in Sweden, and was told that ‘ this is not a Swedish tradition, and that no Swedes celebrate it, that it's just an effect of American culture,’ which made him wonder about identity.

Well Lebanese of all walks of life, brace yourself, because the Dutch are about to infuse you with yet another non-Lebanese feast, and it involves a saint.

There aren’t that many Dutch in Lebanon, but of the Dutch that are in Lebanon, the majority seems to fit the following profile; they are women, and they have children. And for some reason or another, we (I fit the profile) try to pass our cultural traditions on to our children.

Now the Dutch do not have a whole lot of traditions that are obvious. We do have some (according to my hubbie an immense amount of) quirky habits, but I wouldn’t really fit them under the chapter of traditions.

But one tradition that we do have is the celebration of Saint Nicolas, or Sinterklaas, as we call him in Dutch. Sinterklaas is the man on which the Americans based their Santa Claus, although I am not sure how come that guy moved from the 5th of December to the 25th.

Every year, there’s quite some planning involved in organizing this feast. This year, the ladies of the St. Nicolas Feast Committee had some difficulties getting all the required candy (pepernoten, chocolate letters and strooigoed) into Beirut. Who was traveling from Holland to Beirut, and had enough space in their luggage to slug some 25 kilos of candy along?

Well, that problem was tackled today.

But now is the next hurdle; Who will be our Saint Nicolas? We used to have a wonderful man, a cleric, who was quite a natural in the bishopric uniform that Saint Nicolas is known to wear. Unfortunately, he retired quite some years ago, and since then the position of Saint Nicolas has been filled by a number of Dutch men, some better than others.

Saint Nicolas needs to be an older gentleman, dignified, preferably with some facial hair, but I remember one year we had a guy in his thirties. My son found Sinterklaas rather ‘odd' that year.

We’ve had a Saint that looked strangely similar to someone’s father (now why would that be?)

Some Saints are just not as composed and dignified as others. Saint Nicolas is known for his love for children, and bachelors just don’t do that well with fiercely crying babies on their lap.

And so the dilemma is the following; Who will be our Saint Nicolas this year? Who will come and visit all the Dutch children in Lebanon and give them their presents?
It needs to be a gentleman of an advanced age, preferably with facial hair, who can handle children, and who speaks Dutch.

So, is there anyone out there in Beirut who fits that description and is up for the job? Then please mail me. Before December the 5th please.

Sailorettes

2011-11-08T20:18:00.001+01:00

Marijke on the boat

And we’ve got ourselves some sailors!! Yes, today we finally made it to our second sailing lesson. Between our busy work schedule, the instructor’s sinuses and an uncooperative wind, it took some coordination, but today was deemed ‘sailable.’ Of course, when we got there, there wasn’t enough wind, so the guy made us ‘undo’ and ‘redo’ the entire boat. Between bowman knots, eight knots, crochet knots and pully-thing-knots, that kept us busy a good hour. I hope that when I get my own boat, it comes with a manual as to where to place what rope and with what knot.

By then the wind had picked up.

“Oh, it’s getting windy,” we remarked chirpy.

“No, it’s gusty,” dreadlocks replied.

“Ah. Yes, of course. Gusty.”

And on the water it was. But by the time it was Marijke’s turn (the other Dutch sailorette), the wind had gotten really ‘gusty’. And then it wasn’t sailable anymore. Gusty, it seems, is not good. As a result, I got to sail onto the Mediterranean, and she didn’t make it out of the port. Or bay, I think it is, there is no real port. We’re going to try again tomorrow.

The way this is going, we might be real sailors by March. Maybe. We’re not giving up though, we can be pretty persistent.

Sietske on the boat

The boat (we un-rigged and and then rigged again)

Professional Sailorettes

But I have to say, the weather was absolutely gorgeous. It is halfway November, there is snow up in the mountains, and we’re hanging out on the beach, looking glamorous & professional in our wet suits. Too bad there was nobody to watch us!

Dreadlocks, our instructor

On a side note; weren’t we supposed to get faster Internet? I have never had such slow Internet service these past four days. I think someone is turning the dial the wrong way.

Something Funny the Other Day

2011-11-08T08:25:00.000+01:00

I am standing with a friend in an elevator in a department store somewhere in the mountains above Rabieh. With us is another lady. At the next floor, a rather heavy-set family - mother, daughter and husband - gets in with the housekeeper. The guy alone must have weighed about 150 kilos. We all get squashed against the wall. I tell me friend in Dutch that I don’t think this elevator is going to move anymore.

And indeed, a red button flashes. Overload.

“Yuuh?! Overload?” states the man, as the doors open again.

“You go out,” as he motions his daughter and housekeeper out of the elevator, and the doors close again.

But the elevator doesn’t move. Still overload.

He looks around the elevator, but it is clear that none of us is going to get out of this elevator as we came in first, and he cannot ask his wife since she is pushing the shopping cart.

“Taib. I go out,” he says.

And the elevator finally descends, with four laughing women (including his wife).

“Yuuh, he asks the Pilipino to get out! The poor girl only weighs 2 kilos,” she says.

He must have heard us laughing.

And the weather is (again) fantastic. I am going sailing today. I don’t care if there is wind today or not. I don’t care if dreadlocks will have to blow in the sails to create wind, but I am sailing. And so I leave you with pictures of the Eid crowd on the Corniche yesterday evening. The blog is slowly turning into a photo blog, it seems.

Jisr el-Qadi

2011-11-07T16:46:00.002+01:00

The pine forest above Jisr el-Qadi

I was going canyoning, but apparently it rained a lot these last few days and so the river was too high, and it got cancelled. I had sort of hoped for a high river and some danger, but what can I say; contrary to what you read in the papers, this is not a place where people like to live dangerously.
Then I called my sail instructor, and he said there wasn’t enough wind, so that plan got shelved as well. It’s been my luck lately; all ready to go and nowhere to go to. And since the Adha crowd is in town, you need to avoid all public places if you do not wish to get trampled, so where to go?

It’s easier working with younger kids, they still don’t mind posing for the photo

Luckily there’s always the mountains and the valleys, and so we collected a couple of kids and ended up in a pine forest somewhere near Jisr el-Qadi (The judge’s bridge, if I translate that correctly). Somewhere at the bottom of the valley runs the Damour-Safa River. The bridge takes its name from the man who ordered the bridge to be build, under Mamluk rule (1282-1516), Emir Zayn ad-Dine at-Tannoukhi, who happened to be a judge as well. We didn’t make it to the bridge though; we ended up in the pine forests that cover the hills (source).

I did have to redo this one about 6 times though, on account of the ‘weird’ faces they pulled on purpose.

Apparently there is some effort underway to make this place a natural reserve. ‘The Druze in Lebanon ( . . .) pledged to dedicate the ecologically fragile Jisr-El-Qadi region in their ancient Chouf valley as a Sacred Gift to the Earth. (. . . ) According to General Director of the Druze Religious Council, Marzen Fayad, It is a place of medicinal plants, of wild thyme for mouthwash, of wild roses for drinks, of rarer flora, and of migrant and local birds. “We are hoping too for a decree on hunting: people often just shoot these birds, whether or not they are rare. This is a place that we want to conserve – and it is important for everyone to collaborate in order to achieve this…. We need tools and training, we need to guard against forest fires and we need guidance and infrastructure for eco-tourism, or perhaps eco-religious tourism,” he said. (Source)

Mudpie making

However, there is always a quite distinct discrepancy in Lebanon between what is said they want to do, and what is actually done. The way we got into the forest is by a newly constructed path which was obviously wide enough for construction trucks. Several wide paths were dug right through the forest, and my guess is, you’ll be able to buy a nice villa here in a couple of years. Forget eco-tourism when you can make real money.

I think this village might be called Ain Trez (but I am not sure)

While we were in the forest however, it was nice and quiet. Except for our kids. Whatever birds were left in that forest, migrated instantly. We collected pine cones and acorns for the Christmas decoration (yes, we’re a little early). The weather was soft. Maybe tomorrow there will be wind. Sigh. What can I say? Life is sometimes soooo slow.

Back to Beirut

Blogging

2011-11-01T19:02:00.002+01:00

A man selling cooked corn on the street. Two ladies are buying, while another lady, just exiting the make-up/perfume store, is looking.

I love living in Beirut, but you know the saying; ‘the grass is always greener on the other side.’ I wouldn’t mind living in Paris for a couple of years. Or Australia. Or the south of France. I wouldn’t mind trying some time eeking out a living in the tundra up in Alaska. I’d like to do the Iditarod one time. New Zealand has my interest too.

But as it is, my job & family dictate that I live here, in Beirut.

And although Beirut is mighty fascinating, there’s the regret of all these places I will never live in, all these things I will never experience. I can go there on holidays, but holiday is not the same as living.

A wooden fence usually indicates a new building will go up/is going up (in Hamra Street). They soon get plastered with posters of events and movies. My daughter is holding a pair of knitting needles we just bought; she wants to learn how to knit.

Blogging, however, has opened up these places. I can now read other people’s experiences that live there. And when these bloggers post pictures of their daily routines (be it of snow shoveling the drive way in upper state New York, picking berries on the Yukon River, getting rid of hairy huntsman in Adelaide, Australia or the morning after the earthquake in Christchurch New Zealand), it is almost as if I am there myself. It satisfies – up to a certain point – the longing of being there myself.

And so I follow quite a few bloggers, most of them Dutch, who have left Holland and are living in places that I’d like to live sometime. Some of them are expats, but the most interesting ones are the migrants; those that have chosen to stay permanently in their adopted homeland.

Is there government power, or does the light indicate that they’re on generator? I never know the difference. Everyone’s power breaker is right in the open, wires go in all directions. Political posters, and a death announcement (left side) are stuck on the wall.

I find it odd that it is specifically the pictures of simple things that interest me most. Landscapes are always good ones, but the BBQ’s with family in the garden, the standing in line at the A & P and the decorated Christmas tree in the living room somehow display a much more ‘real’ version of life abroad.

You are basically looking into someone else’s living room. I don’t think it has anything to do with voyeurism, although there is a term for people that read other people’s blogs but ever leave comments, and it has a rather negative connotation; ‘lurkers.’ I am in good company; it seems that 99% of the people that visit other sites are lurkers. You do read some very personal things now and then. I have been through two online divorces, and two deaths from cancer.
I am lucky to live in a day and age where blogging is a common thing. It seems that some 20 years ago, in 1999, there were only 23 web logs.

Somebody was moving house in the mountains over the weekend.
Why call in themoving van if you have a tow truck of your own?

So what is my point? Since I enjoy seeing pictures of the simple, day-to-day things in other places, I thought I’d leave you today with some of those pictures, for those who who’d like a glimpse of the ‘normal’ Beirut, because they used to live here once, and are melancholic, or would like to live her one day. Who knows?

Hamra is all hip these days. When I just moved into Hamra, some 20 years ago, the place was a dump.
This could be Paris, no?

Lovely Fall Day

2011-10-30T19:42:00.004+01:00

Sun rays over Beirut (in the background). The village in the front is Halat (I think).

So I was going to sail today.

Then hubbie commented last night, while it was raining a bit, that “it is very odd it is raining because it is a northern wind.” Don’t ask me how he knows this. I’m living with a weatherman, he can predict the weather up to 3 days ahead, without checking the forecast; he’s his own forecaster, but that may be because he works at/with the sea, and so the weather is of vital importance to him. “I don’t think you’re going sailing tomorrow.”

Fall colors (and so are the next 2)

And then this morning the sailing instructor calls, with the message that “It didn’t say it was going to rain on wind guru, but there is a very heavy thunder storm here right now.” Not great conditions for two amateur sailors.

And so there we were, all packed up and ready to go, but nowhere to go to. So we ended up somewhere else. It was a lovely fall day with lovely fall weather; crispy and wet. Good way to move into November.

I leave with just some pictures.

On Pirates & Global Nomads in Beirut

2011-10-29T14:13:00.000+01:00

Even though it’s not a Dutch tradition (we dress up for 'carnaval' in February), and neither is it her father’s (some Lebanese disguise themselves for St. Barbara), but my daughter has adopted Halloween with a vengeance.

Lebanese Pirate

My daughter is what in anthropological circles is known as a Third Culture Kid (TCK). These are children that are from one culture, or more, if they’re a product from a ‘mixed-marriage’, and grow up in another culture. As a result, they form their own culture, which is the ‘third culture’, hence the name Third Culture Kids (TCK). Beirut is teeming with these global nomads. According to sociologist Ruth Hill Useem, who coined the term TCK in the sixties, TCKs have more in common with each other, regardless of nationality, than they do with non-TCK' friends. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Halloween, which is a 3rd culture item in our household, was introduced by her school.

But there’s also the added influence of a French SIL (who introduced the annual Easter Egg Hunt and keeps the Epiphany Pie alive), and some Pilipino habits (from the housekeeper), which led to my daughter’s insatiable appetite for rice, who prefers to eat it while squatting). And I might add to this all that when my mom worked in London as a nurse, way back in the fifties, she picked up drinking tea with milk. A habit, I must admit, I have passed on to my son. I wonder what traditions my children will pass on to their children.

I know multi-culturalism is supposed to be enriching, but I think this must be pretty confusing too. The lack of an own cultural identify may lead to religious fundamentalism, I read somewhere. Hmmm. Did Osama celebrate Halloween too?

But I digress. My global nomad starts plotting somewhere in January what to wear for Halloween in October. And these plans get finalized around September. And then suddenly, halfway through October, she changes her mind, and leaves her mom in a bind, ‘cause who’s organizing that costume? She was to be a ‘pirate girl’ this year! Jac(queline) Sparrow!

Halloween masks. Most of them are of Lebanese politicians. But Obama, Osama and Khadaffi (3rd from the right) are in there too .

But I managed (admitted, I cheated, her grandmother’s atelier did the job for me), and we’ve got ourselves a pirate girl, just in time for Monday. Today she went to a Halloween party at another TCK 's house.

PS: Kheireddine, you had the UNWRA depot right, and Sadat Street almost. It was a side street of Sadat though. The house in the background is indeed on Sadat. Let's see if you figure out this one. PepsiCanPat is pretty good at this too. Are you fishing tomorrow? I'm sailing. Drop by and say hi if you see me (struggling).

Sailing Lessons

2011-10-23T17:36:00.000+01:00

The Sailing Club ( at a yet undisclosed location)

It’s not that I am dying, but I thought it was about time to start working on my bucket list. Life’s too short, and you never know when you’re going to go, and wouldn’t it be a pity that you didn’t do all the things you would like have liked to do before your time was up?

I have always wanted to sail around the Mediterranean. One prerequisite is – besides owning a sail boat – that you should know how to sail. Now I come from a country where everybody and their grandmothers know how to sail. I am not quite sure how this all happened, but I somehow skipped that phase. I cannot sail. Even my son knows how to sail. But not his mom. I live about a block away from the sea. I have access to a sail boat. There’s always wind in Lebanon. I could practically go sailing 300 days a year! Yet I do not know how to sail.

The instructor & Marijke

Now this didn’t bother me, but the item – ‘Sail around the Mediterranean’ – remained on my bucket list. Until this summer, when I went sailing (for a mere 2 hours, I might add) with my brother off the coast of Narbonne, in France. I thought the experience was so fantastic that I decided then and there that upon my return to Lebanon, I’d take up sailing.

I am taking this very seriousLY (See Hadile, I know!)

I took me a while to find a sailing school though. Readers in Lebanon are probably all going to say now “Oh, but I know a good sailing school!” Well, I looked around, asked around and surfed the web, but couldn’t find anything that instilled much enthusiasm nor trust. Web sites that didn’t work, phone numbers that weren’t answered, people that had moved; it did not predict much professionalism. Lebanon is not much of a sailing nation anyway; people prefer the motor boat; it requires less effort.

But finally I ran into the web site with phone numbers that were functioning, prices posted, all transparent and simple, and I called for a sailing course. No problem. Start on Saturday. Now I could share with you the place & name, but I won’t, until after I know how to sail. I’d like to keep these people and place for myself for the moment.

Bow knots, eight knots and crochet hooks

And so this Saturday I went with a Dutch friend of mine - who by chance is the other Dutch person in the world who doesn’t know how to sail (no matter that her brother even owns a sail boat rental company) - to this lovely place on the beach to get our first lesson in sailing.

Now picture this. We’re not exactly 21 years old. We’ve got children that are taller than we are. We are working women. The last time we sat around a campfire on the beach with a guitar and a bottle of red wine (or more) was probably in the eighties if I remember correctly. Yes, even the ‘remembering part’ is getting a little shoddy, so you get the picture.

Bumming around on the beach

And on the beach we encounter our instructor. A boy of maybe 21 years old, who has lived on the beach for probably half of his life or more, and who probably doesn’t own a shirt, because who needs one? Dread locks, tan, six-pack (okay, I may be exaggerating a bit here) bare feet; your perfect beach bum.

And this guy, looking forward to teach two Dutch girls the finer aspect of sailing – because that’s what I think I said on the phone, that we were from Holland – sees these 2 unglamerous housewives coming down the stairs with a bunch of kids in tow.

Our study notes

He was a wonderfully good sport about it! Without skipping a beat, he went right to work. He taught us all about the wind, the directions, the terminology needed for the moment, jibing, tacking, dead-run, broad reach, up and downwind, center board and what not all. Dutifully we sat down and like good students, made our notes.

Afterwards he made us ‘untackle’ (I am afraid I was slightly distracted here by his chest so missed the exact terminology) the boat, i.e. taking off all the ropes (is that what you call it in a sail boat?), the center board, rudder, sail, mast and boom (I think it is called a boom), and then made use re-assemble the boat again. He taught us bow knots and eight knots, and we taught him the crochet knot, and we had great fun. I think in the end it quite amused him to teach sailing to ladies that could be his mother.

Life is a beach

The weather was gorgeous and the mood was relaxed. They had placed a couch on the beach, and from the look of it, all the guys hanging around the sailing club, probably lived on & around this couch for most of the year. What these guys do in winter, you wonder? My guess is they get their snowboard out of some closet, dust it off, and bum around the slopes of Faraya until it’s time to go back to the beach again. I tell you, if I were young again, that’s what I would do too. What a life!

Oh, did I mention our sailing instructor?

Next week our second sailing lesson, so stayed tune, because he took one long look at us, and his boat, and he said “I wonder if you can handle this boat. You know, it capsizes really easily, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to get the sail out of the water.” Well, watch us buster! We’re all working out this week.

Another One Bites the Dust

2011-10-21T16:01:00.009+01:00

Another One Bites the Dust

As I walked home from work, I noticed that yet another one of the old Beirut buildings is being demolished. I cannot show you what ‘old’ looks like, since I don’t have a picture of it on file, but many of the older buildings in the Hamra area are the residential types of three floors and apartments on both sides of the central staircase.
With ground prices still going up, 6 families (often on old rent contracts) per plot of land obviously do not rake in the same benefits as 12 families, which is what I assume will come in its place; a 12 (or more, depending on the size of the lot) stories super-deluxe apartment building.
Super deluxe here means with a room for the maid, 2 to 3 parking spaces per floor, a driver’s quarter, two living-rooms (what on earth would you need two living rooms for?) and a full bathroom per bedroom.
To imagine that I grew up in a household with 6 to one-and-a-half bathroom; we had line-ups in the morning before the shower. It teaches you patience and organizational skills, two things that are vital out in the real world.

The Rebar Recovery Boys in the front
(they use the gas bottles to cut up the steel rods in more managable pieces)

When we bought our apartment some 9 years ago, prices hovered around the $1,000 per square meter here in Hamra. These days, these same places go for $2,000 to $4,000, depending on the age of the building. A view will add to the price, seaside location will probably be double that. My house has tripled in value in less than ten years. And with global warming, I might even become seaside!

It’s sad though, since most of the new apartment buildings do not even seem filled up. The 16 story building that was constructed some 6 years ago opposite my house has only 4 apartments lit at any given time. The rest is sold (to whom?), but un-occupied.

Work by Hand (almost)

The demolishing process is quite interesting to watch. One operates the machine, two guys get the rebar (steel rods) out of the rubble, which will be sold to the scrap metal dealer, and the rest supervises while drinking tea and smoking nargileh (water pipe). Sometimes you even see them do this by hand, with these huge sledge hammers. This work – by the way – is not done by Lebanese, but mainly by Syrians. I do not quite get this. The youth unemployment rate among, especially the poor, is quite rampant here, and I assume that you do not need a whole lot of skills to demolish a building. So how come they cannot find Lebanese to do the job?

This was once somebody's family home

But I digress. This afternoon I witnessed how yet another one of Beirut’s – maybe not so historical but still adding to the local flavor of the town – buildings bit the dust.

Last Beach Day?

2011-10-20T14:52:00.004+01:00

Bay of Jounieh

I went to the beach last Saturday. It may be one of the last times we can go to the beach. As far as the foreigners is concerned, that is. The Lebanese stopped going way back in September, they like to stick to the seasons. You go to the beach in summer. Summer has ended. And so you do not go to the beach anymore.

Typical Teenager Stuff

But the sun-starved Dutch would - weather permitting - still go in December. However, the rains have come in, and although it doesn’t really rain, there is a drop in temperature. Most beaches have closed their doors as well, so it becomes quite difficult to find an open spot. The whole ‘beach’ thing needs an explanation, I fear. In Holland, a beach is a sandy shore. A beach in Lebanon is ‘a spot on the sea shore’. That doesn’t mean the place has sand. It might just be a concrete slab with a pool with lounge chairs around it.

The 'beach' with some Dutchies

Last Saturday, we tried a new beach, because our ‘regular spots’ were either too far, or already boarded up for the season. We ended up on this ‘beach’ in Jounieh, one I had never tried before (yes, in my 20-something years in Lebanon, it is still possible). It has a tremendous view over the Bay of Jounieh, a bay, - I am told – which had few urban structures prior to 1982. 1982 is, of course, a pretty significant year in Lebanese history. It was the year the Israelis invaded, which ‘intensified’ - if I may use that word - the already fraught & fragile relations between the muslims and the christians. This resulted in a sudden exodus (how appropriate, given the circumstances) of christians from other parts of Lebanon into this area. Hence the high-rise. It’s a pity, because the bay is beautiful. It has a Monaco-like feel to it.

You see those 'threathening' clouds over the mountains? That's where they stayed the entire day.

And the beach was very pleasant. There weren’t many of us. A few Dutch, someone I suspect of being French or Swiss, and two Britons. Or maybe Russians. Whatever, two very white people. But no Lebanese.

It’s not certain there will be many more Saturdays we can spend at the beach, and so each Saturday could be my last Saturday of the summer. They sometimes say you should live each day as if it were your last. I think that may be a little on the intense side. But if I kept it just for Saturdays, that will work.

This one fits in the category 'what teenagers brothers subject their baby sisters to'.

Cricket in Verdun

2011-10-17T16:26:00.002+01:00

A cricket match in Verdun, Beirut

Talking about migrant workers; last Saturday I had to escort the teenager in my house to a shoe store in Verdun. Nothing bores me more than buying shoes with a boy.

Now I could send him off with a pack of dollars and hope for the best, but I am stingy and would like to have some hand in the financial choices he makes related to his shoes.

I no longer question the size and taste (you see, I have evolved), but would still like to influence the price he pays. Or actually, the price I pay, since he’s not making his own money (and may not make his own for many years to come. Sigh).

And so while he was out shopping, I hung around and enjoyed a match of cricket! Cricket? Yes, cricket. The Lebanese are a soccer minded nation. There’s some basketball in there too, but that’s it.

Yet the migrant community comes from a part of the world strongly influenced by the British, and so the Pakistanis, the Indians, the Sri Lankees and the Bangladesdeshis (I think the spelling may be wrong here) prefer cricket over soccer.

And right in the middle of Verdun, on this large empty lot, two games were going on. Soccer on the left, with a group of Lebanese, and cricket on the right, with the male migrant population. It was quite enjoyable to watch.

Celebrating Father Vlugt

2011-10-16T18:30:00.001+01:00

St. Joseph church in Tabaris, Ashrafiyeh

I’m not much of a religious person. You’ll find me in church for weddings and funerals, and that’s about it. Maybe a Midnight Mass on Christmas. But today it was on occasion for a celebration in church. Mind you, I first showed up at the wrong church, because how many St. Joseph churches can you have in Ashrafiya? Well, quite a few, it seems. But being Dutch, you show up on time, and so my mishap wasn’t noticed.

Father Vlugt in between his congregation

The celebration was for a Dutch Jesuit priest, Theo Vlugt, who has been in Lebanon for some 60 years now, of which 50 as a Jesuit priest. In the Dutch community he is primarily known as the gentleman who played ‘St. Nicolas’ on December the 5th for years and years. A number of generations of Dutch children growing up in Lebanon know him as ‘Sinterklaas’.

The Missionaries of Charity; the nuns of Mother Theresa

But for many years, Father Theo Vlugt real job was working in education with the poor in Lebanon. However, when he noticed that his brothers and sisters had all become grandparents, he decided it was time to get out. The last decades he has been helping the migrant worker community as the head of the Afro-Asian Migrant Center in Lebanon.

The child of a mixed union (Fillipino mother, Lebanse father). Athough you see it more and more, these children face incredible discrimination, as their mothers are considered 'of lesser value' than their Lebanese counterparts.

Migrant workers, better known to you as the Pilipino and Ethiopian housekeepers, aren’t dealt a fair pack of cards by Lebanese law. Discrimination is rampant in this society, and they can – at times - be treated quite awfully. Employers can literally get away with murder. He’s been on the forefront for many years now to help these women and men and alleviate some of their problems.

Migrant children play the angels

The man, although 82 years old, still serves a community of some 200,000 migrant workers. And so the migrant community came out in force – at the Saint Joseph Church in Beirut – to celebrate this priest. I tell you, these ladies (they are mainly ladies) know how to sing and smile. The African ladies came with fantastic head dresses, the nuns of Mother Theresa were there and the Filipinos (those that are allowed out of the house on Sunday) all came in white. What a lovely sight, quite a difference from the austere masses I am familiar with. And so, I spent (part of) this Sunday in church to celebrate this remarkable man.

Here’s a nice interview with him in Dutch

The ladies of the incense

Not Much . . .

2011-10-12T19:16:00.000+01:00

to say . . but it was so beautiful, that I want to show you. I took these photos yesterday evening while I was in Deir el-Qammar (up in the mountains) for work. The sun set was soft and quiet and simple and slow and amazing. A friend set up a telescope so we could watch the moon.

The pace in Beirut is fast and furious. But life should be like this every day; Simple and slow, like it is in the mountains.

Gosh, how contemplative. And no, I have not been drinking. :)

I See I See What You Don’t See

2011-10-08T11:17:00.002+01:00

I had to take care of some paperwork on Saturday at the Amn el-Aam, the Office of Internal Security.

They have done some re-organization, and these days it works like a long assembly-line. You go in and a man writes you a paper on what business you are allowed to enter the building. You drop this paper off at another desk, who keeps track of who comes in, and he will call out your name when it is your turn to go to man #3, who will fill in the paperwork, and who directs you to man #4, who writes you a receipt for paperwork done, which needs to be signed by man #5, and then you go on to man #6, who takes your paperwork and out the door you are. Takes about 30 minutes, which is not half bad.

These pictures were not recently taken, but have appeared on my blog before. This is my mom's bodyguard squad (mom on right)

Now during the week, all these men wear uniforms. Most of them are in full-fledges camouflage battle fatigues, ready for Desert Storm or the likes. No matter that this ‘Chairborne’ Army will most likely never engage in any combat other than dealing with irate civilians such as me.

And there is something about men in uniform. No matter how unlikely the appeal of a man may be, any man; stick him in a uniform, and he looks handsome.

A journalist friend of mine, a man, once remarked on this habit of mine of ogling soldiers in public. “You (I think he meant it as in ‘all foreign women’, or at least I hope so) are just so shallow. Stick a guy in a uniform and you’re gone.”

These pictures were not recently taken, but have appeared on my blog before. Soldiers near Nahr el-Bared

But I grew up in a country where you hardly ever see a soldier in public. The only men in uniform are what you see on the big screen, where they invariable play the handsome hero. And so for me, ‘uniform’ equals ‘handsome hero’. Stick a Lebanese head above it, with slick hair, dark eyes, long lashes, a lovely smile and olive colored skin, and voila, the package is complete.

A Dutch friend of mine here, also a man, but on ‘my’ side of the game, loved ogling soldiers with me. We’d be driving the car and suddenly it would be “Oh my, did you see that one! Wow, that was a good one!”

My Lebanese friends laugh over this issue. So used to uniforms, they can see right through the long lashes.

My inability to distinguish between a high-ranking officer and a regular grunt never seizes to amaze them. “Why did you talk to that dumb soldier for,” they’ll ask me, “Go talk to the colonel standing next to him.” Colonel? What colonel?

They can pick out background, financial status, level of education and religion in a matter of seconds; all the soldier needs to do is open his mouth. “Oh god no, this guy’s from the sticks, how can you even consider him handsome, he’s a peasant,” my friend will tell me as I pass by a check point and remark what a particularly handsome soldier was standing guard.

I don’t see what they see, and they clearly do not see what I see.

These pictures were not recently taken, but have appeared on my blog before. More Nahr el-Bared (sorry, there just wasn't much else to photgraph)

Except on Saturday at the Amn el-Aam.

On Saturday, it apparently is ‘Come Casual’ Day for the employees at the Amn el-Aam. And all this military personal can come ‘as they are’. And boy, I’ve never seen so many oddly-dressed Lebanese men together in one place. It’s Fashion Alert all over the place. Bizarre silk pants, oddly colored shirts in a tissue that looks plastic, strange cuts, crumpled and ill-fitting suits, jackets with strass stone spiders stitched on the back, belts with studs, pink T-shirts 3 sizes too tight, sweaters obviously geared for women (?), it’s a strange lot.

Men in Lebanon in general dress well. Whether it’s business attire or casual, they do a heck of a better job than Dutch men (in general). Given that they do not have access to the same funds, that’s pretty awesome. I’d say they look good.

These pictures were not recently taken, but have appeared on my blog before. Some sodiers at the Beirut Marathon

But the ones at the Amn el-Aam, well, that’s a sight to see. There must be a reason why they decided to sign up for the job, and I’d say the main reason is their lack of . . . , I’m not quite sure what lack it is. And suddenly I see what my friends see; a man out of his uniform.

So for any foreigner who has difficulty looking through the uniform, go to the Amn el-Aam on a Saturday. That should cure it.

Rafting on the Nahr el-Assi

2011-10-01T19:30:00.002+01:00

Rafting Hooligans

I had promised my daughter and cousin O that we’d go rafting this Saturday. They talked about it the entire week. She even brought in a friend. And then, on Friday night at 10 PM, just as I had managed to get them in bed, the rafting guy calls. “It’s going to rain tomorrow so we’re going to cancel.”

Labweh, in the middle of the semi-arid plain, the source of the Assi River

Do you have kids? Then you can imagine the scenario that was going to play in my house. There is no way on Earth we’re going to cancel this event, I told the man. I don’t care if we have to raft in a storm; wet we’re going to get anyway.

Another party of rafters passing by

Okay, he said. And so we went to the Orontes River, (Nahr el-Assi in Arabic, and I don’t know anyone who ever used the English name), way up North in a very far corner of the Bekaa Valley, some 10 minutes from the Syrian border (for a change). The Nahr el–Assi is the only river in Lebanon – I know from my son’s Arabic history lesson – that runs in northern direction. Hence the name, ‘Assi’ (rebel). It goes all the way through Syria and ends somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea in Turkey.

There’s quite a number of rafting companies on the river, because it’s the only one that has some rapids, and flows all year long. It’s not Grand Canyon stuff, but still fun.

The river is not known for its great beauty, unless you like desert landscapes. The entire upper part of the Bekaa Valley is basically desert-like, with little agriculture going on that part of the plain. People live off a small trout industry, but there’s a lot of poverty. The river runs through a very an arrow valley, and beyond that valley it is just rocky and dry. The river is apparently also seen as the main method of getting your garbage out of your house; it’s quite littered with all kinds of junk.

The one and only challenging waterfall. I guess it’s about 6 meters high.

The Assi starts in Labweh, some 60 kilometers north of Baalbeck, and the water comes flowing straight from under the sedimentary rock. It gets its water from the rain that falls in the Northern Bekaa Valley and the western slopes of Mount Lebanon. It’s funny how all this water runs underground, right through the dry landscape, and at one point just comes pumping out of the ground. There’s evidence of Neolithic settlements at the source, and I can see why they settled her, because the source looks a little bit like an oasis to me.

Some pictures were like this . . .

..... but most were like this. One drop of water on the lens and they're perpetually out of focus

The climate is totally different here from Beirut and the coastal climate. Beirut has a sea climate; here it is a continental climate with much less rain, hotter summers and colder winters. This part of the Bekaa Valley is impressive because it is vast, empty and barren. There are no trees, very few houses or villages, the Assi that snakes through in a narrow valley, and an occasional archeological object.

The building is made of local sandstone, built upon a base of basalt, so this region has known volcanic activity as well. The building dates from 200 BC, the graffiti from 2,000 AC

There’s an odd looking monument – a sandstone block with a pyramid on top - not far from the river; it is called the Pyramid of El and its origins are not quite clear. It was built by a people who did not use writing, some 200 years BC, but the exact purpose is not known. Visitors have made a concerted effort to bring the monument into the 21st century by spraying it profusely with graffiti.

Chilling on the Assi River

Another old construction that ran parallel to the main road for a while is the (I found this out when I got home though, so I didn’t’ know what I was looking at at the time, otherwise I would have made pictures) is the Canalization of Queen Zenobia. Zenobia was queen of Palmyra, and had a canal built in 200 BC, to get water from the Assi to her oasis in the Syrian desert some 180 kilometers away in a straight line. I do not know whether the water ever made it to Palmyra, but after 2,200 years there’s still a lot of the construction left.

This area was – some 2,000 years ago – obviously more important that it is today. The Egyptians fought a battle here, the Assyrians went to war, the Arabs and the Byzantine Empire came head to head and of course the Crusaders hung around here as well.

At the source of the Assi River. It may be hard to see but the water comes here - literally -pushing out from under the rock on the right.

Today it is considered a bit of a backwater, and one of the most deprived regions in the country, and I wouldn’t have gone there if it weren’t for the rafting. Which is a pity, because it’s a beautiful region.

Enough Northern Bekaa promotion, I’m going to bed. This rafting is exhausting.

Don't you wish you could squeeze your way through a fence like this again, instead of walking around it?

Swimming in the Nahr Ibrahim

2011-09-26T15:40:00.002+01:00

A well-kept secret (for me, at least). The color is almost fake, but in the deep part, this is the actual color.

Fall is in the air. This place has four very distinct seasons, and fall has started right on time; the rains have come, and the temperature (in the mountains at least) has dropped a good 6 degrees overnight. It is one of the best times to go out into the country (well, spring’s pretty good too). And it surprises me that – after so many years in this country – there are still places that manage to surprise me. But somehow there are still areas that do just that. This Sunday I went to such a place, quite by accident.

Swimming in the misty Nahr Ibrahim

I had wanted to take my BIL, SIL and kids for a picnic to a little waterfall I had visited last spring. Of course with my GPS, you never ever find anything back, except your way home, and so we got lost. And while we were driving along the Ibrahim River, about to go through a little tunnel, the road was suddenly blocked off by this gate.

The gate that blocks the road

It’s quite odd; there is nowhere an indication that this is a dead-end road, and the road actually continues, you can see it. But there’s this iron gate, right in the tunnel, with a padlock, and that’s the end of the public road. Apparently the electricity company uses this part of the river to generate electricity, and it’s not open to the public. It’s a puny little power plant, and I cannot find anywhere how much electricity they generate.

Plenty of long and dark tunnels to hike through

But with a little ingenuity you can walk around the tunnel. So we left the car behind, and climbed past the tunnel, back onto the main road on the other side of the grill. And then there’s . . . another tunnel. This one is pitch dark, and quite long, and then when you walk through it, there’s . . . another even longer and darker tunnel. Once you get through that one, you arrive to a place in the river that has been dammed off and is a little lake. This part of the river runs through a narrow gorge, and there’s high mountains all around you.

Olympic diver ?

The color of the water was so fantastically turquoise that it almost looked fake. The place was totally deserted safe for one lone fisherman. We sat down for a picnic, and when it started to rain, the trees overhead kept the rain away. We swam in the mist. The water was nice and crystal clear, and fall leaves were floating on the surface. What a surreal and beautiful place, just forty kilometers away from Beirut.

Muddy kids

Later on two hikers came crashing down the mountain, swam across the river and moved on.

I assume the electricity company opens the gates a little wider every now and then, and although we were not swimming right near the dam, I guess an extra power surge would have sucked our entire family into the turbines, or whatever you call that pipe in the dam through which the water runs. But if you don’t risk anything, you do not experience anything either.

Nahr Ibrahim

Now I had actually seen pictures of this particular place, but never knew where it was and how to get there, and sort of figured it was something that had existed during the war, or before the war, but was no longer there. And now we sort of stumbled upon it.
The road continues after the lake, but apparently it’s closed off from the other side as well, according to the fishermen. So here’s a stretch of previously public road, along one of the most beautiful swimming spots ever, and it’s blocked off.

But it is probably the only reason why it is still – relatively – clean. Obviously we were not the first people to picnic here, but from the look of some of the trash, we may have well been the first one to haul are own garbage back home again. I don’t get that; going to a place that you obviously choose for its beauty, and when you leave, you have no qualms whatsoever about leaving all your trash behind. I say; ‘keep that gate in place’.

Little frog on a rock. It’s hard to see, but his little hands and feet are almost transparent.

And I’m not going to tell you where it is either.

The First Rain

2011-09-24T07:41:00.001+01:00

I know this is a bit of a non-event for most people, especially those living in Northern Europe, but the first rains came yesterday.

It basically doesn’t rain here between April and October, that’s some 7 months a year. Now that is not to say I haven’t seen rain these past 7 months; I spent the summer in Europe, one of the wettest summers on record. 'July was the main culprit, bringing an amount of precipitation rivaled only by July 1966.'

But rain in Beirut is different. The first rains are violent, causing major traffic jams and floods, and nobody is prepared for them, including me. As such, all the cushions and pillows and foam seating of the outdoor furniture are now soaking wet, I lost half of the laundry on my laundry line - since the rain comes with quite a few wind gusts –and our two canaries sit there in their cages, looking slightly disheveled, and will probably die of pneumonia.

But the temperature has dropped a few degrees, the air has cleared up, I can see the mountains again at dusk, and the horizon is now a clear sharp blue line. And we’ve got beautiful cloudy skies.

And so here's a picture of Beirut after the first rain.

'Strangeness’

2011-09-21T15:07:00.000+01:00

Having lived in Beirut for such a long time, the place loses some of its ‘strangeness’. That’s a pity, because it’s the ‘strangeness’ of things that gives you this holiday feeling. And I am not talking about lounging away on the beach; you can do that in Holland too (provided the weather & traffic cooperates). It’s the odd things, the non-Dutch, and usually very small things.

Once the routine of daily life sets in, you slowly loose that feeling. But every now and then, it suddenly pops up. It is unpredictable – a bit like a Proustian memory – but the sudden holiday rush is quite pleasant.

It could be the shade of the iron wrought balconies on a yellow wall in the sunlight of the afternoon while you sit in traffic, (No iron-wrought balustrades in Holland), or the cricket on my balcony; anything that breaks the routine and is unusual to me in Beirut, or Lebanon.

Today, while picking up my daughter from school, some men were trimming the palm trees by the side of the road. The ground was covered with palm branches and dates.

In Holland, you only buy dates with Christmas, and they’re always dried; you cannot buy the fresh version. Heck, I never even knew what kind of trees dates grew on before I came to Lebanon. Now I know there’s ‘balach’ , the fruit that grows on the date trees, and ‘tamar’ which is the dried dark version.

My daughter dragged a branch with ‘balach’ with her, sweeping everyone off the pavement as she made her way home.

My daughter noticed that if you keep the branch against your ear as you walk, it sounds just like when heavy rain falls on a tin roof. (you gotta try this, I tried it and she’s totally right!)

And suddenly this holiday feeling popped up. So unreal! So un-Dutch, a little school girl walking through town with a palm tree branch with fresh dates on it. It was good.

First Tears of the Year

2011-09-20T18:32:00.000+01:00

School has been in progress for 2 weeks now, and the first Arabic homework has come home. The result: total meltdown in our household. A girl in tears over her inability to decipher 12 lines of probably the most boring dialogue ever between Jad and Dounia.

What is it with the classical Arabic program in this country that makes it so difficult and unappealing to learn? Her Arabic teachers say she needs a tutor, since her parents won’t help her with her Arabic homework. I’ll be darned if I get a tutor for an 8-year old. I though the teaching of Arabic was the teacher’s job. It seems it is taken for granted that at home the parents teach as well. And if they do not, then the child is shipped off into the ‘Arabic for foreigners’ program, a road my 17 year old has gone, but which prohibits him to become a lawyer, an officer or take up any government position. Well, nothing lost there, you may think, but taken that the job of ‘President of Lebanon‘ is also out of his reach because he’s got the wrong religion, we’re developing here something akin to a caste system. Only if you have the right religion and only if your parents taught you Arabic at home.

Hmmmm, me thinks I should go out in the country this weekend, for a more positively inspired post. My hike to Jebel el-Sheikh was canceled because someone got blown up by a landmine there. Not fatally, but you know, if you go for a nature hike, you want the landscape to blow your mind, not the mines.

Anyone any ideas?

On Bears and Beirut Electricity

2011-09-19T16:15:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine moved to Canada last week.

She’d had it – among other things – with the instability and constant threat of violence. She’s lived through 15 years of civil war, several Israeli invasions, and numerous bombardments, uncountable hostilities between factions for one reason or another. She needed civilization.

On her very first week in Canada, a bear wanders into her back yard. A real bear! She had just brought in her dogs, and there she sees – in her backyard – a bear!

I was going to make all these snide remarks (I think I still may) of how her escape to ‘civilization’ will force her to - finally - buy a shotgun for her safety, her very first a shotgun ever.

And that, after surviving Beirut for so many years, you end up getting mangled by a bear, the irony of it all.

But then, while scrolling down the free section of the ITunes App store, I stumble upon this app: ‘Beirut Electricity’. Tired of forgetting electricity cutting hours in Beirut, Lebanon?’ . . . Only those living in Beirut will appreciate ‘Beirut Electricity’ because they daily suffer forgetting when the electricity is off.
Sigh. He’s right (the guy that constructed this app). Here we are, some 20 years AFTER the civil war, some 7 years AFTER our last major bombardment, some 3 years AFTER the latest grand scale street fighting, and we still do not have 24/7 electricity.

Maybe I should opt for a bear in the yard. It’s worth the trade-off.

BTW H, I want a picture of that bear!

Lack of Respect

2011-09-17T12:04:00.000+01:00

I’m driving in the evening in Sour (Tyre) with a friend, and we end up somewhere in the old port. The streets are quite narrow, there’s no government electricity so I have to drive without street light, and on top of that, there’s some serious construction work going on in the port. There’s heavy machinery, big blocks of concrete everywhere, and no discernable road to speak of.

So here I drive, and there’s this car behind me.

‘Beep beep’, it goes. I cannot go any faster because I do not know the road and cannot see it either.

‘Beep beep,’ it goes again. Really, there’s no space anywhere to let him pass either.

‘Beep beep beep,’ I hear now. I am getting annoyed. Where does he think I should be going? I cannot go aside, I cannot go faster.

‘Beep beep beep,’ it continues. WTF!? I am very annoyed now. This guy is going to get shot. The beeping continues.

Some pictures of houses that have nothing to do with this post. This one is somewhere in the upper Basta area, somewhere on the Independence Avenue

I get to a fork in the road. To the right is with traffic, to the left is against. I decided to go to the left, in order to let this @#$*&%$ take the right side and pass me, since he is obviously in such an incredible hurry.

But he follows me, and now the beeping is more urgent. He's obviously trying to tell me that I am on the wrong road. Well, yes, I know that, but that's because he's on my tail all the time; I wouldn't be on this road if it weren't for his incessant beeping and honking!
That’s it! I stop my car, roll up my sleeves (figuratively speaking), get out of the car and smack my door really hard. What infinite idiot is honking all the time?

The infinite idiot turns out to be a . . . Lebanese patrol car, with 2 policemen inside.

Now I know what his issue is going to be; He’s going to tell me I am driving against traffic.

‘Ya madam, hon akse-ser’ (Lady, you’re driving against the traffic)

But my issue is; what was all this stupid honking about before, while I was driving in the correct lane? This annoying ‘beep beep, beep beep’?

And with my hands on my hip, I walk to the window of the by-rider, and say: “Shoe ya’ani? Shoe fie? Maoule? Koul al watt btamel ‘beep beep, beep beep’! Mishmaoul!!!!!”

(What do you want? What is this? Are you serious? The whole time this honking, beep beep, beep beep? You are incredible!)

Some pictures of houses that have nothing to do with this post. This one is near the Hard Rock cahe in Ain em-Mreisseh.

They look at me in surprise. Then the by-rider says: “Ya ma twekhezne, madam” (I am sorry, Miss), and I stomp back to my car.

Hahahaha. In Holland, they’d be escorting me to the station, and they’d present me with a big fat fine for insulting the law.

I love the Lebanese police! I show total lack of respect, and they apologize!! I never did find out why they were beeping so annoyingly though. I did drive on the right road (at the beginning).

I have another good police story like this one – with a slightly less intimidated police man - but that’s for another day. Maybe tomorrow.

Some pictures of houses that have nothing to do with this post. This one is on the Sodeco crossing

The Plumber

2011-09-12T14:46:00.001+01:00

Now that we’re talking design flaws anyway (the 100,000 bank note), here’s another issue I have. It’s with the plumbers in town.

When I just moved here, it happened quite frequently that the sink would get clogged (Well, it still does). You fix that problem with a plunger for a while, you unscrew and clean that silver colored swan-neck thing under the sink a couple of times, then you resort to harsher measure by buying some really vicious liquid from the supermarket that will bite its way through any obstacle (including your pipes, of course), and finally you call in the plumber.

Just some pictures I took over the weekend (and not related to this post): A bride in a convertible, somewhere in the mountains near Saida (Sidon)

Plumber comes in and looks at it. “No problem,” he says, and he leaves again, because he needs to get the material to fix the problem. If you’re lucky, he comes back the same day.

And then, invariable, they replace this smooth metal swan-neck with a flimsy plastic harmonica-like contraption. The first time I saw it, I thought it quite odd. If there’s anything that will help clog your drain any faster, it’s a plastic, bendable, harmonica tube; there’s innumerable little barriers behind with dirt and grease can stick. But hey, he’s the plumber, and I’m the housewife here.

I did question the design, but the answer was, “they do not make those metal swan-necks anymore.” I thought that quite odd. Why would they trade a perfectly workable design for something inferior? All I could think of was that maybe it was a cost issue. Plastic is cheaper than metal.

Just some pictures I took over the weekend (and not related to this post): Some road my GPS suggested I should take near Saida (Sidon)

But then when I’d go to Holland, I’d see this shiny metal swan-neck under everyone’s sink, not the flimsy plastic harmonica hose. And Dutch are cheap. If they can get something cheaper for the same purpose, they will.

Now I have l become wiser since. They DO sell the real deal in Lebanon. But the plumber would need to measure, and saw, and it takes a lot more work because here they do not work with standard measurements, and in every house the sink is at a different height and distance from the drain pipe. Thus, it takes some puzzling and thinking. That is obviously something that is not required of plumbers.

And since the plumber is not going to explain this to me, a “they do not make those anymore” would be an answer that apparently many people accept.

Now this morning, I called in the plumber because I want an extra water tab on my balcony. This would require from the plumber that he somehow gets that water from the main line, and directs that to this particular balcony. “No problem, sidna, I’ll do this and this and this,” and he waves a little with his hands.

Just some pictures I took over the weekend (and not related to this post): The old Port in Sour.

But I have become wiser, so, no, please explain ‘this’ and ‘this’ and ‘this’.

How on earth do you get it from there to here? I ask, as I point at the main line.

“With a pipe.”

“What kind of a pipe?”

“A white pipe.”

“White?”

“Yes.”

“Never heard of white metal.”

“No, it’s plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Yes, everyone uses it these days. They don’t make the metal pipes anymore.”

“No, no plastic.”

“But it has metal inside it!”

“Is it bendable?”

“Yes!”

“You’re trying to use a plastic hose?”

“Yes. No. Uh, everyone uses it.”

Hahaha, sorry dude, but ehhh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t care what everyone uses, I want a decent looking pipe on this balcony, not some bendable shit that is constructed in this Arabacho style.

Just some pictures I took over the weekend (and not related to this post): A bunch of water pipes waiting for customers in the Saida Mall in (Yes, you guessed that right) Saida.

I want metal, I want it straight. I want it done properly. You can install that plastic plumbing stuff in your own house. Not in mine.

Boy, did his face drop! He thought he was going to get rid of me with some plastic hose contraption, and the woman wants a serious metal pipe! That involves a good full day of work, with welding (which he may not know) and measuring, and sawing. You should see his face!!! Priceless.

But in the end I got what I wanted. A straight, metal pipe.

Just some pictures I took over the weekend (and not related to this post): A girl with an attitude on the streets of Beirut. (H, she just cut her hair!!!! )

A Weekend at the Orange House

2011-09-05T15:43:00.071+01:00

I spent a wonderful weekend way down south, under Sour (Tyre), some 15 kilometers from the Israeli border, in the company of a lovely lady, Mona Khalil, who dedicates her life to the preservation of sea turtles.

After the cliff there’s Naqoura, a small village, and then there’s the border fence with Israel.

The place – The Orange House – is a Bed & Breakfast situated among date palms and banana plantations, on one of the nicest beaches in Lebanon. It is nice, because it is pristine and deserted. We were pretty much the only people on a 2 kilometer stretch of beautiful beach.

Mona leading the kids, at 6 in the morning, checking on the turtles.

These beaches are not as busy as the ones in Beirut because for one thing, the ladies in the south just cover up more, and you don’t see as many women on the beach. And there are just not that many people down south anyway, since the Israelis have made living down there quite difficult at times (although some people will argue that Hezbollah add to the hardship factor. Finding a bottle of wine turned out to be quite an expedition. Spinneys sells alcohol, but in a little room on the side).

She educates children before adults.

Mona Khalil, the owner of the Orange House, has turned her house into a very pleasant Bed & Breakfast, and invites her guests to actually observe sea turtles hatch (“but I can’t promise anything, you never know when they will hatch,” she says).

Mona uncovering the nest that has been hatching.

She happened to inherit a house on a beach that – she found out some 10 years ago – was the traditional nesting grounds for loggerhead turtles. And since then, she has been going to the beach every single morning, very early, to clear the garbage, because sea turtles love jellyfish, and plastic bags, and other garbage, are often mistaken for jellyfish. In addition to that – 6 months a year – she keeps track of the nests and the hatchlings. She marks where turtles have made nests, relocates them when they’re too close to the shoreline, covers them with wire mesh so that foxes and local dogs don’t dig up the eggs and eat them, and tracks when a nest needs to hatch. Once hatching, she tries her best to make as many turtles reach the water.

She doesn’t get paid for this, she isn’t supported by an organization, and she finances it all herself. And she does it with great passion.

The metal grid protects the turtle eggs from predators such as dogs and foxes.

Loggerhead turtles are the main turtles that come, and they make their nests on the beach where – it is said – they were once born themselves, but this year she saw some green turtles nesting as well.

Here goes number #1

‘Sea turtles take 20-30 years to mature and may live up to a 100 years. Tagging programs show that female turtles return to the same beach to nest. The mother turtle nests at night, up to 4 times a season, every 2 to 3 years. The 40 cm deep nest contains 100 soft-shelled eggs, like ping pong balls. Two months later (between 45 to 60 days) the hatchlings emerge at night.’ (Orange House Website)

The kids were eager to pick up the turtles and put them into the water.

“No, they need to do it on their own,” said Mona “They need this time to orientate themselves, so that in 20 years time, they can find their way back to this same spot.”

And so, at 6 in the morning, we went, with 4 kids in tow, to search the beach for signs of nest makings and hatching. "I can’t promise anything,” Mona had said, but at the end of the beach the traces of little creatures waddling into the surf caught her eye. A nest that had been hatching before, and was now releasing it’s very last baby sea turtles. She helped them out of the nest, as they were the last ones, and covered by many layers of sand, which makes them often the weakest ones.

Totally fascinated.

And so we saw 6 little loggerhead turtles crawl their way over the sand into the sea, and off they were. If they are female (gender is determined by the temperature during incubation), in some 20 to 30 years – and if they make it, since they have many predators, men being the most important one – they will return to this very beach and lay their eggs in return.

Almost there. This was the nest of a young female, who do not lay as many eggs as the older ones.

It’s the kind of stuff you see on Discovery Channel, and to actually see it for yourself, in Lebanon, is quite an amazing experience. The children were initiated into the Turtle Club, and have promised that from now on they will do everything they can to preserve turtles. I am waiting for a Minister of Environment who has the balls to outlaw plastic bags at the supermarket.

Watching them go off.

And that, was my amazing weekend at the Orange House. It’s quite humbling to see how one person can make such a difference.

If you’d like to contact Mona, you can mail her. Orange House has a Facebook page as well as a web site. It is in the former Security Zone, and if you are not Lebanese, you’d need to ask permission from the Lebanese Army. Organize a stay at her place well in advance; it's often fully-booked.

End of Summer

2011-09-02T16:40:00.003+01:00

The summer is running to its end. People are coming back from their travels or coming down from the mountains, and stores are stocking up on ‘back to school’ supplies. My daughter goes back to school this Monday, one of the first in the country, but by the end of September everyone will be back in school or university.

The beaches are slowly emptying. The season wasn’t that busy anyways, now that Ramadan falls smack in the middle of the summer season. But this ‘late summer’ is one of the nicest times to go to the beach. It’s relatively empty and not so hot, and the children catch up with the friends they haven’t seen the entire summer holiday.

A group of mixed Dutch/Lebanese children, with some Lebanese/Tunesian mixed in as well.

I went to one of the older beaches in Beirut, Sporting Club. It’s probably one of the few beaches with a down-to-earth-atmosphere. Not everyone is a size 6, and not everyone’s cup size is an upsized double D. It’s filled with normal Beirutis.
It’s one of the very few that remain intact from the 60’s; all others have been upgraded to white plastic lounge platforms with loud music and complicated cocktails.

This website calls it ‘A Seaside Getaway to Lebanon's Beacon of Faded Glamour’ and I agree. (Check out the slide show of photographer Rasha Kahil on that link. It's quite nice.)

I like faded glamour. That’s what the end of summer is all about; faded glamour.

In Which I tip $66.66

2011-09-01T16:05:00.000+01:00

Here in Lebanon I dole out 1,000 banknotes on a daily - and some days on an hourly – basis.

2,000 LBP for the parking, 5,000 LBP for the valet parking, 1,000 LBP for the boy that packs your groceries, 3,000 LBP for the man that brings a gas tank to your house, 2,000 LBP for the Burger King delivery boy (yes, you can have Burger King delivered to your house here), and on and on you go.

It’s the economy of the thousands. A thousand, for the non-locals amongst you – equals 66 US cents, or €0.47. A 1,000 pound banknote is small, a bit like Monopoly money, and green. And I got my wallet full of them.

Now yesterday I noticed, while organizing my wallet, that one of the green bills was slightly larger. Just a tad bit. And a bit darker green. Just a tad bit. I’m thinking, ‘Wow, I’ve got a misprint.’ And misprints are worth money.

Upon further inspection however, I noticed that it had a whole lot more zeroes too! It turns out it is our new bank note of 100,000 Lebanese pounds.

I think you know where this is going, right? Need I explain much more?

Yesterday I handed out a 1,000 to the supermarket boy, who packs my groceries, 2,000 to the parking attendant at the Alfa company, 3,000 to a donation box for orphans at the crossing from downtown into Hamra (they caught me at the traffic lights) and 3,000 tip for a dinner outside.

This morning, I am going through my wallet. I cannot find the 100,000 bill anymore, and I am absolutely certain that I did not pay with a 100,000 note yesterday.

Which makes me come to the conclusion that one of the 1,000 pound (or 66 cents) bills I handed out, was actually a 100,000 ($66.66).

Now which infinite idiot designed that new 100,000 Lebanese pound bank note? Which ape, which notorious imbecile? How on earth could he (has to be a man, women would have figured out this dilemma) make it identical to the 1,000 pound note, both in color and size?

Choose another color, will ya!

This picture is not related to this post. It is a picture my dad took in Beirut somewhere in the fifties. Who knew that his daughter, who wasn’t even born yet, would eventually end up living here? Does anyone have any idea where this is?

Broken Arabic

2011-08-29T11:15:00.004+01:00

This post is about nothing. I’m just trying out my new camera (dropped the other one in a river), a lovely toy.

My daughter, although born & raised in Lebanon, and the proud owner of a Lebanese passport, speaks only English. Her Arabic is limited, to say the least. She has a decent command of the classical Arabic, thanks to her teachers at school, but her spoken Arabic, or Lebanese, is poor, because she isn’t exposed to it very much. I admit, her parents are entirely at fault here, but we figure she’ll learn it eventually.

Her cousin, although born and raised in Lebanon, and the proud owner of a Lebanese passport as well, speaks only French. His Arabic is limited as well as his home environment is mainly French.

My daughter won’t learn French until next year; her cousin has to wait another 4 years before he will be taught English in school. Yet these two love to play with one another, and language is very clearly not a barrier. They comprehend one another very well, and they do this with the limited Arabic that they do know.

It’s quite amusing to hear the two talk to one another, with their ‘Arabeh mkassar’, broken Arabic.

Silent Sundays

2011-08-28T08:03:00.011+01:00

Sietske is on holidays, and leaves you with red doors on Sundays, and green doors on Wednesdays. She’ll be back in September.

Back in Beirut & Business

2011-08-27T14:33:00.001+01:00

This one is for the category of WTF. Taken on the Corniche.

Dear Arabic boy (23),

Uhhhhhh, no. I don’t think so. Although I am ‘foreign people’ I don’t think I will call you. A picture might have helped your case.

I’m back in Beirut, and back in business, and busier than ever. It's good to be back. I do apologize for my rather ‘vague’ definition of green and red. Will not happen again, but I had to keep you busy while I was unwinding in serene surroundings.

2011-07-17T07:42:00.005+01:00

Sietske is on holidays, and leaves you with red doors on Sundays, and green doors on Wednesdays.