Getting lost without political guidance

It’s like Spring cleaning, but in October: on order of the Minister of Interior, no more political posters and banners are allowed in Beirut. No longer the 6 meter high face of the dead politician Hariri watching the sun rise on the Corniche, no longer the little green flags with the red and white Amal sign flying across the street from lamppost to lamppost or the Hollywood rendition of their chief. No more red SSNP graffiti, no more light blue Moustaqbal ribbons either. We can actually see walls and trees and traffic signs, now that the stern and smiling faces of innumerable men, dead and alive, no longer decorate (soil) public space. See the difference?

I’m not really sure if it is done to make space for new posters and pictures in the name of the upcoming election campaigns, or to bring a much needed halt to the visual claiming of urban territories by politicians and supporters alike. However, walking around in my neighborhood is no longer an assault on my senses – aside from the honking and screaming, it is almost calm and relaxing, like watching TV without commercials.

But politics are part and parcel of daily life in Lebanon, so even the simple act of removing political posters and murals has some practical repercussions: A friend who just moved to the neighborhood told everyone who wanted to visit her ‘just keep going straight on that road until you see the wall with the big Haraket Amal sign painted on it, then turn left.’ After the cleaning she promptly got lost herself, not recognizing that bright white wall on the corner of her street…

Laat mij lekker!

Om niet volledig te verpieteren in Beirut, of tenonder te gaan aan alle chaos en lawaai, gaan Walid en ik regelmatig op excursie door het hele land. Libanon is niet groot (oppervlakte: een kwart van Nederland), maar rondrijden is vrij vermoeiend vanwege de slechte wegen, de ‘verkeersregels’ en het verkeer zelf. Om ervoor te zorgen dat niet één van ons volledig uitgeput raakt terwijl de ander vrolijk van het uitzicht geniet, wisselen we het rijden af. Voor Walid was dat, zeker in het begin, vrij eng, want hij was ervan overtuigd dat ik met mijn keurige Nederlandse rij-opleiding absoluut ongeschikt ben om het Libanese verkeer te trotseren. (Niets bleek minder waar – zolang ik maar in gedachten hou dat alle automobilisten hier ‘fietskoerier-gedrag’ vertonen.)

Het grootste problem was mijn gebrek aan toetergebruik. Wachten achter een taxi waar een passagier uitstapt? Toeteren om te laten weten dat ik erlangs wil. Auto in de buurt met de foto van een favoriete politicus? Riedeltje toeteren om te laten weten dat er mede-supporters op de weg zijn. Auto die rechts inhaalt en naar de linkerbaan zwiept? Niet inhouden – toeteren. Ik hield voet bij stuk in mijn opinie dat het land wel met wat minder toeteren afkan, en dat ik niet wil bijdragen aan al dat onnodige lawaai om ons heen. Redelijk als hij is, zag hij daar het nut wel van in, maar hij wilde me toch even meegeven dat het toeteren in Libanon meer is dan alleen waarschuwen voor gevaarlijke situaties: het is een volwaardig communicatie middel.

Blijkt het nog meer te zijn dan dat. Vanmorgen zaten we klem in het verkeer, konden niet links, niet rechts, niet rechtdoor, en de auto achter ons begon te toeteren. Ongeduldige, korte drukken op de claxon. Geagiteerd draaide Walid zijn raam open en riep hem toe: ‘Man! Ik zit klem! Wat wil je dat ik doe, op de volgende auto inrijden?’ Waarop de man uitstapte en terugschreeuwde:

‘Had ik het soms tegen jou?!? Ik was gewoon lekker aan het toeteren!’

Wij konden niet anders dan gierend van het lachen onze weg vervolgen.

Of seatbelts and bumper cars

In a corner of the Corniche, behind a Chinese $1-store and an ice-cream vendor, is an old amusement park. It is a surreal place, especially at night, when lighting is sparse and the number of visitors low. The rides are old and rusty, clearly suffering from the perpetual spray of salty sea-water, some closed down indefinitely, little carts with paint chipping at the edges. The Ferris wheel is still going, even though it is said that one or two of its gondolas have come crushing down over the years – with or without passengers, nobody really knows the story. A little booth in the middle sells tickets – LL 2000 (€1) for a ride.

And then there are the bumper cars. A recent paint-job makes them shiny and attractive, but don’t be fooled: the seats have given up a long time ago, leaving strands of iron wire over a wooden board which will give you bruises with every bump. But despite the name of the attraction, the Lebanese youngsters who jumped on the little cars when they saw us getting in were not in it for the bumping. They drove like they do in regular traffic: speeding up, swerving around, coming close but never actually hitting the other. They didn’t understand my pleasure at racing straight at them, aiming for a head-on collision… I was having fun; they were practicing for the road.

Yesterday was the first day of Ramadan. It was also the first day that police-men were expected to enforce all the traffic rules: no talking on cell-phones while driving, those in the front seat have to wear a seatbelt, no double parking, and definitely no crossing a red light or driving against traffic. We were even warned at a checkpoint, the week before, that ‘from September 1st, we will fine you if we catch you doing one of these things’. People were speculating as to how this would work out. Would it really happen, Lebanese people sticking to the rules? What would the city look like, without the chaos of traffic?

I still recognized Hamra yesterday, with its stinking, honking collection of cars going up the main street. Yet the service-driver did ask me to put the seatbelt, profusely apologizing for the fact that he didn’t see the need but, you know, enforcement of the rules and all. I didn’t mind, although it wasn’t easy to pull down the belt that probably hadn’t been used in 30 years. Baby-steps towards a more organized Lebanon – I’d like to see where this is going.

Polite conversation, translated.

- Morning of good- Morning of light Two mana’ouche zaatar, if you want - On my head Do you want anything in it? - No, I want your health in it - Love of my heart - Just add some olives for the master - Ok Here you go - May your hands be safeguarded - My dear - With safety - God is with you

(in Snack Faysal, Hamra, Beirut; Friday morning 15 August 2008)

Pure logic

Traffic in Lebanon is chaotic, to put it mildly. Major crossroads in Beirut are puzzles of honking cars, inching around each other, blocking everyone's way, trying to get to the other end in complete disregard of all the other traffic. Sometimes, there is a policeman trying to bring some order to the chaos, but more often than not the assigned officer gives up after half an hour of being completely ignored, yelled at and (almost) driven over. I don't blame the poor guys - getting Lebanese people in cars to follow a certain structure, the personal benefit of which is not immediately clear, is an impossible task indeed. But what do I know? Today my service-driver swirved his way around garbage-bins, passed two cars on the right and then threw his steering wheel all the way to the left to switch lanes and get across the intersection. One of the passengers pointed at the policeman who was frantically waving his stick to get people to follow his directions. 'Uh huh,' said the driver, 'if I do what he says, I will never get across!' 'Yeah,' added the other passenger with an accusing nod of the head towards the officer, 'have you noticed? There's always a traffic-jam when there is a policeman trying to arrange traffic!'

I guess it's the Lebanese version of the chicken-and-egg conundrum.