At the end of the line

One of the things I have wanted to do since I got to Lebanon is to ride every line of the public bus-system from beginning to end. Many Lebanese people try to tell me there is no public transport in Lebanon, but I regularly take the bus, so I know this to be incorrect. However, I didn’t manage to convince anyone of the contrary until I got hold of this map:

Yes, that is a route map for almost all lines operating in Beirut. Now since this is Lebanon, of course it is not as straightforward as this piece of paper would have you believe (there are competitors in beige-colored busses who go the same routes but take shortcuts if they think they can make more money that way, for example; and there are times when the bus driver has a bad day and refuses to go the last few kilometers if he only has one or two passengers), but in general the system works quite well: you pay 1000 liras (€0.50) when you get on, and you can stay on the bus until he turns around to go back.

It’s usually fun to be on the bus. It goes slow, so you see a lot along the way (and by slow, I mean really, really slow), and you often meet people. Since it is such a cheap way of transportation, a large part of the passengers are foreign workers (Sri Lankans, Ethiopians, Syrians) going to town on their day off, which makes for many smiles and a festive atmosphere. There’s never a dull moment: I’ve had a bus driver offering everybody a coffee his local roadside coffee-stand, a bus driver who sang hymns with his passengers, a bus driver who made an extra stop to get his green beans for dinner, and a bus driver who passed by home to pick up his kid (asking one of the passengers to go to the 3rd floor to tell them to hurry up). Unfortunately, I’ve also had a bus driver drinking beer, a bus driver who blocked another one’s way, jumped out of the bus and beat him up, and a bus driver who threatened to slap a Sri Lankan woman because she refused to give her seat to a Lebanese passenger (I still regret not speaking up then).

In general, however, I like to ride the bus, in all its dirtiness, dustiness and brokenness. And at the end of the line, there’s always a surprise. Here’s what I found in Bhalnes:

Half a bus! Doesn’t that make you want to get on the road with the glorious L.C.C., the Lebanese Commuting Company? (Not to be confused with the L.T.C., which is, as I understood, the only true public transportation – the L.C.C. is a privatized copy installed by Hariri.)

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...

Land van Babel

Ik had een afspraak op een school in een dorpje ten Noorden van Beiroet, in de bergen. Zoals gebruikelijk was ik ruim op tijd vertrokken omdat ik niet precies wist waar de school was, en ik zo rustig de weg zou kunnen vragen – een slimmere strategie dan te proberen je locatie op de kaart te vinden of vantevoren een routebeschrijving te vragen, want dan raak je sowieso de weg kwijt. Ik ben eraan gewend, de weg vragen. Meestal probeer ik het eerst in het Arabisch, en als dat geen resultaat oplevert ga ik over op Frans (in de overwegend Christelijke gebieden) of Engels (in de overwegend Moslim-gebieden). Mijn avonturen vonden dit keer plaats rond Bikfaya, ook bekend als het Christelijk hart-land, dus het zou wel Frans worden.

De eerste wegwijzer was een vrouw op leeftijd die langs de kant van de weg wandelde met een boodschappentas. Ze zag mij al van verre aankomen en glimlachte vriendelijk toen ik stopte en het raampje open draaide. Haar gezicht betrok toen ik in het Arabisch vroeg of ze wist waar die-en-die school was. ‘Geen idee,’ zei ze in het Frans, ‘ik ben hier ook pas net aangekomen.’ Met vinnige passen liep ze door.

Een eindje verderop vond ik een benzine-station. Ik tankte, en besloot meteen maar in het Frans te beginnen met mijn vraag over de juiste afslag. De medewerker van het pompstation keek me verschrikt aan, stamelde ‘ik spreek geen Engels!’ en rende weg om zijn baas te halen. Die wist me in een mix van Frans, Engels en Duits een eind in de goede richting te helpen.

Tot de laatste splitsing in de weg – moest ik links of rechts? Ik wilde niet het risico lopen weer verkeerd te rijden, dus ik parkeerde de auto en ging een stomerij binnen voor advies. ‘Spreekt U Arabisch of Frans?’ vroeg ik, voordat ik uberhaupt over de weg zou beginnen. ‘Engels, graag’ zei de man met een vriendelijke glimlach.

Het zal je niet verbazen dat de school drietalig bleek te zijn.