Spiralling Donkeys, Lebanon 09/07/2010
 It was Hiba's birthday last week, so we spent the day celebrating with lunch at her fav. Italian place, stopping for ice-cream on the way to her chalet, eating birthday cake baked by her hubby, and downing her delicious cocktail invention from her UK days, called 'The Pink Slammer', which is a mixture of...oh no I can't say, but I can say you don't need more than two before you slam onto the deck. We chatted and watched 'Withnail and I' with Hibs talking intermittently with friends phoning from abroad. All-in-all a very pleasant day. I enjoy other people's birthdays more than my own. As I was leaving an announcement came on the news that there was going to be a donkey race in a small village at the top of Kersouwane mountain. Pink-slammered up Hiba and Wadih unanimously decided that I had to see this summer village event. So, on Sunday Brighid and I met up with Hibs and Wadih on the Jounieh highway. Wadih drove us up, and up and up the winding road to the small, very quaint Maronite village. We arrived at 3.55pm and the village was like a ghost town, even though on the news it said the event would start at 4pm prompt. We asked a few locals about the race and much to our relief they said it would start soon and that the donkeys were being prepared. The race was to be held in the village square and the local Mayor appeared and requested over the mic that people should remove their parked cars from the area because 'the donkeys will go left and right' (direct translation). After 4 or 5 repeated requests he sarcastically thanked the police for their help with the matter (they were in a local restaurant having a late lunch) and began shouting and hopping up and down on the spot. Eventually the police made an appearance, helped move cars, cordoned off the race area and then headed for a siesta under a tree. By about 5pm the local crowd had gathered and everything was in place. Sort of. There were three rounds of races and then a grand final. The Mayor was wrong about the donkeys going left and right; actually they, in fact, made their way down the race track going around in circles. Each race took quite some time as the jockeys tried in vain to straighten out their donkeys. Much betting had taken place before the race and I wondered if the spiralling was some kind of race-fixing stategy? Another strange thing; there was a former local celebrity pop singer from the 90's, who is now the village madame by all acounts, dancing the Dabkhe with many of the village men while the donkeys 'raced'. Was this another tactic? A 'make the donkey spiral' dance? - a kind of village variation of a rain dance? Also, Wadih had a winning streak by shrewdly backing every winner but denied all knowledge of race-fixing methods whilst slipping the occasional masonic gesture to the so called 'stranger-locals'. Furthermore, after the races, the Mayor awarded the prizes for the winning jockeys of each round, which was either a portable fan or battery operated night-lantern, both made in China, (is it the taking part that counts?) and the jockeys seemed happy enough with this. Why? Because their back pockets were bulging with notes? The winning donkeys 1st, 2nd and 3rd did well out of it though, with a huge sack of hay each, on which someone had written 'Sahtein!' (bon appetite). The Major had to bring the event to an rather abrupt end as it was getting dangerously close to electricty cut-off time and he was worried his microphone would stop working mid-flow. Someone woke up the municipality police who helped Wadih circumnavigate his car around the crowds and a lot of donkey muck and back onto the long and winding road down the mountain. On the way home we stopped off at a bakery on the highway and celebrated his win with some freshly made handbag-bread with a cheese and oregano filling. 2 Comments Full English Breakfast in Beirut 08/17/2010
Lebanon is not England or Cyprus, obviously. As well as the delight of hearing about the rotten weather, surreal experiences of summer fayres and how friendly Northerners are, the best thing about expat friends returning home is the goodies that come back with them. Vicky, just back from an Amsterdam and Clitheroe trip, invited me over for brunch today: a full English breakfast including bacon from Amsterdam (close to England!), baked beans from Clitheroe (no doubt the from the same shop where the Queen gets hers). Four hours eating and hearing all about back-home in a lounge with air-con in an apartment in the middle of a sweltering Beirut is a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Expat-chat once in a while is good for the soul and great for the stomach also. Reading about Lady Hester Stanhope in preparation for a road trip to Sidon this Sunday to visit the ruins of her 'once quite substantial estate'. I'm expecting a few rocks and many weeds. I will see her grave too, once a rather grand tomb which, due to the civil war, is now but a large hole in the ground, but still pleasant enough for a picnic by all accounts. Luckily her remains were transfered to a British cemetry a few years ago, so one can sit right next to the hole if one so wishes. Nothing weird about that. Looking forward to it. Summer Trips 08/16/2010
 At long last, University has closed for August and I can get on the road and see a bit of Lebanon. So far I've managed some day trips by bus to a few old favourites: Jounieh, Byblos, Faraya and The Chouf, as well as hopping on and off at various points along the highway to do some domestic chores like buying a washing machine, a mattress and a few household bibs and bobs. It still amazes and pleases me that one can travel almost the full length of this country for a little more than $2. The buses are basic and some are barely roadworthy, but they are a great way to travel and one or two have air-con! I took a night-time magic mystery tour with 30 strangers, on a barely roadworthy bus, along the winding road in the Chouf valley, through many small, traditional villages. We stopped off at a sculpture garden run by three self-taught sculptor brothers, and ending up at a treehouse, where we was treated to a midnight Mezze feast with homemade Arak.  Pink closure notice on pub door in Gemmayze Phew! All OK now. Or is it? 14 pubs were closed down along Gemmayze main road last week, but they have all reopened now. The owners went to the Ministry of Trade and Tourism and begged, bribed and used their vitamin 'W'(Wasta) to reverse the decision. This is all part of the ongoing battle between the local residents of Gemmayze and the pub/club/restaurant owners who regularly flout the already lax laws about noise pollution and closing times. I live above a pub called Pablos, which shall be refered to hereafter as Pleblos or merely Plebs. Pleblos has installed the mandatory soundproofing, so it says; it also abides by its music curfew - 12 midnight Sun-Thurs and 1am Fri and Sat - so it says. I beg to differ, living above it and whose bedroom is situated over the dance floor. Plebs, incidently, plays the most god-awful music this side of the Gemmayze strip. Lionel Richie...Wham!...UB40..Level 42...Dire Straits...(anything buy UB40 please!). Mostly I wear earplugs, well, every night. Hence the move to a quieter part of Gemmayze at the end of the month. Pleblos does not, in fact turn off the music until 2am Fri and Sat and 1am throughout the rest of the week. Like the rest of Gemmayze inhabitants in their respective quarters, residents in the building have complained, Landlords have complained, the police have been called, but we are left only to conclude the owner of Plebs must be very well connected because sod all is done about it. Someone who lives in the building said they recently saw gov't-plated cars parked outside Plebs 3am in the morning, but I don't believe it... Maggots, Ants and Gregor Samsa 04/07/2010
 Murphy Hunting Ants It has been an Easter of many feasts, chocs 'n' beer. As a result, I vow to lead a healthier life for the next month - the decision was made last night as I struggled to bend to untie my shoe laces. I've made a plan and everything. I am going vegan for a month. A bit extreme maybe, but I traded my meat intake largely to allow for alcohol intake. Day one; morning: OK. Everything vegan and fat-free. You can't go wrong with OJ and fruit. Lunchtime: I decided to make spicy lentil soup. I had everything on the list except celery. BUT, as it happened, last night on my way to get some bottled water, I noticed the local over-priced fruit and manky veg shop had huge bunches of the stuff. It took an hour to make the soup(waited until the celery was soft enough to digest). But as I was ladeling it into a bowl, I noticed lots of white flecks floating on the top. Upon further inspection, I noticed the white flecks were maggots or weevils; well, summat small and white and plump, which was once alive and living on celery. I backed out the kitchenette in disgust, whereupon I tripped over the cat in the living room who was chasing and tossing an ant in the air, like how the Great White tossses seals in the waves. I continued backing out, heading towards the front door - incidently, here they call the main seating area a 'salon', but as I haven't yet bought any gilded chairs or oriental rugs I still call it the LR. Maggots in the kitchen, ants in the LR, not to mention Gregor Samsa in the study,on the bookshelf. It was all too much. Gemmayze, where I live, used to be a village. In recent years, pubs have moved in and now sit side-by-side, both sides of the road, for the whole length of the main street, much to the chagrin of the native Gemms. Most of the local shops had to move to the parallel street. These are local shops for local people. Mostly the shop owners speak Levantine Arabic, a smattering of French, and a few unconnectable words of English. Trying to stick to my vegan regime, I went to a local cafe and ordered a seasonal salad with freshly squeezed lemon juice for dressing. Ten minutes later I was given a tawouk (grilled chicken) with coleslaw, gerkins and french fries all wrapped together in lebanese flat bread, which is what I usually order when I go there. It came with a totally vegan salad garnish though. Sometimes, one has to admit defeat. It was the best vegan diet meal I've ever had. Day one: take two tomorrow.  Easter at GOU It is hard to find a decent cup of tea, as we know it, in Beirut. Coffee: sure - Beirutis have been finely tuning their coffee making techniques since the coffee craze began in 1526. Coffee is good here. Not so Tea. Until, that is, GOU made an appearance. When my Amercian friend, Mary Anne, told me she had spotted a new Restaurant/Patisserie/Salon de Thé just a hop and a skip from me, I hopped and skipped over almost immediately, though somewhat skeptically (skeptically = hopping and skipping accompanied and muttering 'tsk!, I bet it is going to be rubbish....it will be just like the other places: empty promises, promises'). I sat in the sun on the terrace at GOU the first time. The waiter presented me with two menus: a food menu and a drink menu and a completely separate tea menu! Fantastic! Therein contained a large Russian selection (Troika, Anastasia, St. Petersburg...) a humungus Chinese selection (Geisha, Mao, Cherry blossom...) a modest but sufficient herbal hippy selection (Sweet Lover, Lentil-lickers Delight, Yogurt Weavers Wonder etc...) and many, many more pages of teas to choose from. All tea came listed with ingredients and a bit of background info. about its origins. I once saw and interesting variation of this kind of tea info. in a grotty back street cafe in Tripoli, North Lebanon. The tea list stated its origins and health properties, such as: Liptons from China:good for reducing farting, Liptons from Russia: excellent for getting rid of rotten breath and perfect for gout sufferers etc... My first order at GOU was the thé du Hammam (from the orient, various spices etc...). The waiter reappeared a few mins later with a silver tray carrying a large bone china teapot, a bowl of leaf-shaped sugar cubes, a bowl of tea leaves, a selection of petit fours, and instructions to let the tea brew for 3-4 minutes. I did. It was good. The pot held three good cups of tea and I spent about an hour and a half basking in the med. sun, sipping to my heart's content. So, for a while now I have been visitng this very special Salon de Thé called GOU, which is situated in Achrafieh, Beirut. A place where you can get decent cuppa, or, if you'd prefer, a rather scrumptious Afternoon Tea with savouries and sweets and scones, or you can go for the High Tea with champagne... http://www.gouworld.com Flat-hunting in Beirut, Lebanese style. 04/02/2010
 Right building, second floor It has been a week of walking in the area looking for a new flat, Glocking and indulging in GOU. Not a bad week at all. Landlords in Lebanon don't advertise themselves or their properties. Well, not the landlords with affordable rent. If you want to pay idiot foreigner prices, go to the few ads in the English newspaper, The Daily Star (not to be confused with the Star at home - this one has less pictures). Most landlords, it seems, prefer you to find their properties and then to find them. To succeed in finding a vacant property you must trapse 'n' trespass, pounce, and know your school-book geography. I have been 'looking' for a new flat for over two months now. That is, I have waited for a suitable abode to drop into my lap (no, not literally, Tom). Friends (Lebanese) and students (Lebanese) have been telling me I must go trapsing around on foot, find a building, explore it, find the owner and invite myself in, or find the consierge and ask if there are any available places. Oh! and give he consierge $50 if he turns up trumps. If there isn't a consierge, the advice is to knock on an apartment door and ask the inhabitants inside if a) they know of a place, or b) if they would consider moving out of theirs. Alternatively, I should sit on the entrance steps and wait patiently for someone to leave the safety of their home and then pounce on them exit the building (or conversely, as they enter). And if all else fails, I must rely on seredipity. This is how it is done in Lebanon, so they have been telling me. I started in reverse order first and adopted the serendipty tactic. Then I realised I only had one month before my present contract here is up, nd I was still without a fair prospect. It was time for drastic measures indeed. So, on the way back from my usual Sunday trip to Aoun, the local, very orange coloured supermarket, I stopped at a tradtional Lebanese house I have been admiring for some time now. The door was open, and as it was usually closed, I felt lucky. I stepped inside and 'Coo-eed' until someone appeared. The Lebanese really are truly hospitable, and, within seconds I was seated at a with a perfect host, around a table replete with fresh Lebanese coffee and an array of pasteries (I must do this more often, I remember thinking). However, this tactic met with limited success, as the woman who invited me only spoke Arabic, and, after eating all the pasteries and speaking all the pleasantries I have learned in Arabic, the conversation dried up. I do, of course, have more words in my repertoire, but I learned them from driving about with Hiba in the early days, and they are not really pleasantries. These special locally-flavoured words use to flow, usually accompanied by a furious honking of car horns and a certain type of gesticulation towards other drivers. Considering this, I didn't think I could use them with a stranger whose home I had walked into (see pic of Hibs below - as if butter wouldn't melt....).Anyway, I continued using the occasional Arabic word (Bayt = house) and a lot of air-drawing (a building, a sofa, a fridge etc... = furnished flat) and pointing to myself...Oh and I nodded alot, but I don't know why I did that.. Eventually my own translation of the conversation with my unsuspecting host led me to believe the place next door were full of young Italians, and there are often well-maintained flats for rent at very reasonable prices. This turned out to be wishful thinking on my behalf; I must have started day-dreaming in my pastry-reverie, because when I went next door an elderly gentleman told me, in French, that all the flats were occupied by older, long-term tennants like himself, but he would take my number if I wanted. Not to be detered, I went into another building and tried the 'pouncing' technique, which, maybe if I had followed through, might have come up with a good result. I jumped out from a stairwell alcove and asked a woman if she knew of any flats going. Once she had regained her composure, she told me there were many empty apartments in the building. Why? Because a lot of people had died recently. The season for it, she said. I didn't ask. I asked if she paid rent or owned the property - you can be this forthright in Leb, though it has taken me over two years to try it out. The woman replied 'old rent' (meaning peanuts...or pumpkin seeds in Leb's case), implying I would be charged foreigner rent if I was successful in getting a dead-person's apartment. Thinking, 'I'm exhausted now by my fruitless search' reminded me I was in the right area for a local fruit stall a friend had told me about which sold great fruit at fair prices. It was closed. So I went to my local bad fruit at pricey-prices shop as normal, and that is where I met Mohamed. Mohamed is a friend of the shopkeeper. Obviously bored (yawning, swatting flies, that sort of thing), he started idle chit-chat with me while his friend piled rotten, over-priced fruit into my bag. He asked me where I was from; I asked him where he was from. He told me he is originally from South Leb, near the border to Palestine. He asked me if I'd heard of Palestine. I said I knew where Palestine was. He didn't believe me. I air-drew a map of the region, highlighting Palestine. He was impressed. In return I asked him if he knew where an empty apartment was. He said he knew. Instead of air-mapping the directions, he took me to another shop around the corner. A phone call was made. I called a friend, who joined me fifteen minutes later, and shortly afterwards I met the landlord, viewed the flat and secured the deal. I move in next month. The flat is the third floor of the terracota coloured building on the right (above pic). It has two bedrooms and, more importantly, three small balconies to sit on at various times in the day: a breakfast balcony, an afternoon balcony, and a always-in-the-shade balcony. Oh! and it overlooks a roof-top populated by nuns! Who could ask for more? It isn't salubrious by UK standards, but good enough for me, and certainly good enough for my friends. So, come and visit! Glocking: Did you all enjoy Glocking yesterday ? (Thursday) Brit. Friends, Vicky, Freddy and Brighid, and American friends Thomas and Rachel, glocked til we dropped; until we were three sheeps to the wind, you could say. Check out Vicky's link, for those of you who can remember your former Glocking days but have forgotten the significance of this important Celtic festival. www.hewdge.com Gou: I think Gou needs a longer mention than I'm capable of giving it just now. I'll save it for another day. Suffice to say, Gou is great! I wallow in Gou everyday and think everyone else should to. To be contin-gou-ed... Post-Wedding Ceremony Hysterics 01/31/2010
   This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar. | AuthorLiving Beirut, working in Kaslik, but trying to achieve maximum Almaza days in Lebanon. ArchivesSeptember 2010 CategoriesAll |
RSS Feed