Overheard at the beauty-salon: Bonjour Madame, good to see you again! You’re here for… a manicure. Ah, for the Rotary tomorrow? No, no, no, tomorrow I have a hospital visit. Medical check-up for my heart. Rotary is next week! …
It was a rainy night, and we were in the back of a service (shared taxi), chatting with the driver about the progress of the different teams in the Lebanese basketball championship – or rather, we were being updated about their progress, because neither Walid nor I know much about the subject. Before we reached the end of the street, the driver picked up a teenage boy who wanted to go to Qoreitem, a few minutes away. I’ll take you there, said our chauffeur, as the boy slouched down in the front seat, chewing candy, but I have to drop them off at the Corniche first. The boy was not pleased. But I’m in a hurry! We weren’t, so we told the driver it would be ok to drop him off first before continuing to our destination. In return, the boy offered us candy, in that typically uninterested-teenager-way.
So… Qoreitem, ey? The driver said jokingly to the boy. Why, do you have a meeting with Hariri? Pfff… Hariri has a meeting with me! answered the boy, playing with his phone. Hariri has a meeting with him… mumbled the driver, so what’s your name? My name? the boy looked up. Why? Just want to know, what’s your name? Antoun. Why? Why is that my name? Yes, why? Well, said the boy, confused, I guess my parents felt like it. Hahaha! the taxi-driver smiled at us, I ask him his name and then I ask him why! Hahaha!
The boy’s phone rang. No, I’m on my way already; I’m next to Yamaha now, he said in English. I’ll be there soon. He was still slumped in his seat, continuously chewing his sweets. Yamaha, Honda, Nissan, the driver muttered. Like he speaks French or English or Japanese or whatever.
When the taxi-driver wanted to drop him off and take a right turn, the teenager motioned with his hand that he should move forward on the main road. Another 5 meters farther he had arrived at his destination. He looked down at the driver’s packet of cigarettes, decided that they weren’t it, then turned around and asked Walid: Do you have any Marlboro Red? Unsuccessful, he got out of the car and walked off.
Too bad, said the driver, I wish you had let me drop you off first. I wait the whole day for boys like this! These youth nowadays…. I would have taken him all around Beirut, and then some. That’ll teach him! The other day I was hit by a scooter going against traffic, and the boy started yelling at me. Well, I picked him up, stuffed him in my trunk and drove him around for a while. I guess he learned when to apologize!
With that, we arrived at our destination, where the driver refused payment. We had fun! he said. We sure did.
In Paris it’s a miniature Eiffel Tower, in New York City a small version of the Statue of Liberty, and I don’t doubt one can find a tiny Big Ben on a keychain in London, or a little red double-decker bus. After all, it’s nice to bring something home that is ‘typical’ for the location, a little symbol to remind the traveler of the country that s/he just visited. In Lebanon, one can find plenty of Phoenician figurines to take home as a souvenir, or pictures of the Pigeon Rocks and the Temple of Baalbeck. Of course that is how the Ministry of Tourism would like everyone to think of Lebanon, but is that what people will remember most? Most people I know who come to Lebanon are more obsessed or amazed with the chaotic and almost incomprehensible politics than the country’s ancient history, and are far more interested in Hezbollah than in an extinct people who may or may not have invented the alphabet.
Now, a tourist can find paraphernalia of the different political parties by going to the area where most supporters live, and buy a lighter which lights up with the face of Nabih Berri, a sticker of a rosary in the form of Lebanon, a keychain with Hassan Nasrallah or a Holy Card with Geagea on it, just to name a few. Or, one can do the political shopping all at once in the Chinese dollar-store on the Corniche, and get a mug of each one of them:
This guy has everyone! Nabih Berri, Rafiq Hariri, Hassan Nasrallah, Amine Gemayel, Saad Hariri, Walid Jumblatt, Samir Geagea, and Michel Aoun (not in the picture). No mug of the president though...
Wonder what the last time was they had a cuppa together...
So there you have it, souvenirs to remind you of the ‘real’ Lebanon… unless what you remember is slightly more violent, in which case a small souvenir-shop in Jezzine might just have the souvenir you are looking for:
A penholder with a Phoenician ship next to it? A beer bottle opener with the Lebanese flag? Or something slightly bigger? Apparently not every souvenir needs a cedar on it to be a good reminder of Lebanon...
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I always thought Valentine’s Day was the day to send the person you had a crush on an anonymous card, and to receive just such a card without the name of the sender, so you could spend the whole day hoping the card you got was sent by exactly that person you sent one to. Which of course was never the case. Here it seems like Valentine’s Day is all about red candles and pink teddy bears and heart-shaped chocolates, and if you can afford it, a five-course meal in an expensive restaurant. Which kind of defeats the point, because you can’t really go out for dinner anonymously.
Anyway, happy Valentine’s Day, with or without secret love.
(Picture taken in the sea-castle in Saida, South Lebanon, summer 2008)
The sunny days of the past week have reminded me of summer in Lebanon, and got me reminiscing about the many nights we spent in Barometre, a small pub here in Hamra. When the nights are hot and the bar is so full the people spill out onto the terrace all the way to the street, there is always the moment that the dabkeh starts. It’s either a particular song, or someone comes in with a big drum and beats the right rhythm, and then the men get in line and start dancing. It’s one of those things I really like about Lebanese men, that they are not afraid to dance, and that they do so with more grace than a broken robot.
Dabkeh is usually danced at weddings and other (family-)gatherings, not in bars, but in Barometre people insist on doing this traditional dance. Although often a men-only affair, women can and do participate in it as well. Some parts are slow, some parts are faster, and sometimes the jumping and moving of the feet goes so fast I can do nothing but sit and stare in awe. It looks something like this:
(warning: the quality of image and sound is not perfect, but the spirit of dabkeh is captured perfectly [edited to add: the original video was removed from YouTube, so below is a new one!])
Watching this makes me remember the summer-camp we organized at the NGO in South Lebanon where I used to work. On the last day, a contingent of Italian UNIFIL soldiers passed by to see what was going on, just as a group of teenage boys was performing a dance for the other participants. Rather than getting all self-conscious, the boys made it an even bigger show, and even invited the Italians to join. Mediterranean as they are, of course they immediately took the opportunity to dance, dancing along outside on a field in the sun.
How unfortunate, I thought, that Dutch boys don’t know how to dance. That most of them are too shy, or too self-conscious to move to the music together with others. But then I remembered the hype of a little while ago… and it turns out they do dance! And it’s not even that different from the Lebanese dabkeh!
I passed it off as Dutch folklore to my Arabic teachers, and they totally believed me…
