It’s always 300 meters away

A Dutch friend of mine is doing research here in Beirut about the events of May 2008, and is trying to get an idea of how many fighters were out on the streets in Ras Beirut. She has interviewed quite a few journalists, academics and politicians, and from their words she has concluded that there must have been anywhere between 1 and 1000 armed men on the streets. Anywhere between 1 and 1000. A useful estimate, no?

Not very useful indeed. It’s the one generalization I do not hesitate to make about the Lebanese I know (and, by extension, the Lebanese I don’t know): they have no estimating-skills whatsoever. I understand quite well the desperation of my friend’s mother, director at a secondary school in Beirut, who wanted to hire a teacher just to teach her students how to estimate. ‘Numbers, time, distance, amounts – they have no clue! They think it will take them 10 minutes to drive 40 kilometers; they will tell you it’s only a 5 minute walk from here to Hamra even though it’s 2 kilometers away, and if any political party tells them that they gathered 1.5 million supporters in a certain square or tent, they will only criticize the number because they don’t like the party, not based on the logic that 1.5 million people could never fit in that tent or on that square!'

I have, by now, stopped asking my Lebanese friends what they think something will cost. Fixing a tire? One will say 20 dollars, one will say 50.000 lira, when in reality it once costs between 5.000 and 10.000 LL. How long does it take to get from Hamra to Jal el Dib? The standard answer is 10 minutes… it usually takes me 40 to 45 minutes. I worked all the way in Tyre, South Lebanon, and I can’t recount the number of times I’ve had to refute the idea that it would take me at least 2.5 hours to get there – and another 2.5 to get back (it’s about 80kms).

It becomes especially funny if, when asking for directions, there are no restaurants or gas stations to mark the point after which to go left or right. The person telling you where to turn will try to be helpful and will give you an indication of how long it will take you to get there. And it doesn’t matter how close or far it is, the estimate is inevitably inaccurate, sometimes laughably so. As another Dutch friend living here says: ‘It doesn’t matter whether you have to turn left after 100 meters or 2 kilometers – they will always say it’s 300 meters.’

It's a Classic!

Did I get it right? Did I manage to get every single myth and stereotype of Beirut into one picture? I would almost think so:

- A church AND a mosque in one shot? Check - An ugly, modern high-rise juxtaposed with an old crappy building? Check - Some reconstruction going on? Check - A bit of nature and (almost) sunset to add a romantic atmosphere? Check

Seems like I’ve got a classic on my hands here.

And for some more ‘we all know what Beirut is like’, head over to this blog: Jad Aoun is handing out ‘Looks Like Beirut Awards'. Brilliant.

Identity-crisis, live at ABC

It’s not easy for kids in Lebanon these days – so many languages, so many nationalities per person! Yesterday morning, as we were having a late breakfast in ABC-mall in Ashrafiyeh, we were joined at the big table by a family of four; mother, father and two sons of around 4 years old. They seemed to be Lebanese, mostly speaking French, while the mother tried a sentence or two in Arabic with the kids. One of the boys kept staring at me until he decided he needed some answers and turned to his parents.

‘Mom, dad, which country are we from?’ ‘We live in France, and we are from Lebanon.’ ‘Oh.’ He turned back to me. ‘And you, where are you from?’ ‘I am from The Netherlands,’ I answered. ‘To the North of France,’ clarified his dad.

The boy, still wondering about the complexities of different countries of origin and nationalities, brought the discussion on their side of the table to their friend Gael, whose mother was said to be French. She also, it was mentioned, has blue eyes, and eventually one of the sons asked:

‘So when we go back to France, will we have blue eyes as well?’ As if the whole confusion of correlation between language, residence and descent wasn’t enough yet...

Libanopoly, or: be your own Saniora

A while ago on a sunny evening-walk, we passed an old, crowded toy store. As we’d been trying to find affordable board games, we hopped in. The owner of the store told us he had been a shopkeeper in Ras Beirut since 1983 – and he had the photos to prove it.

He also had a very large selection of toys and games, ranging from fake barbies to small tanks made from shiny bullets glued into shape. He also had the Lebanese version of Monopoly: Libanopoly. Only 13500 liras (about $9), for the deluxe edition! That game was coming home with us.

Unfortunately ‘deluxe’ turned out to be a euphemism, seeing that the game had a grand total of 4 plastic thingies to represent the players, a collection of melted plastic squares representing the Beirut housing market and a total absence of 50-lira bills, but that’s like living here in real life: adapt, find a solution and play (live) on!

The best part, of course, are the inevitable jokes: can I run up a debt of 40 billion dollars? If another player threatens my position, can I blow up his token? I can probably build more than the maximum allowed number of houses on this street, right? That, and the fact that Hamra Street is the most expensive street on the board. I’ve always known I live in a classy neighborhood…

Still Human, Still Here

Photographic essay on the BBC website. Abbie Trayler-Smith has photographed men and women who have fled torture and persecution in troubled states including the Democratic Republic of Congo, Iran, Iraq, Somalia and Zimbabwe. They had hoped to find sanctuary in the UK but instead are enduring a new kind of torment - destitution. Original here.