Back from the Dead + Beirut
Sorry for the wait to you two or three solid friends out there who obligingly keep up with my blog. The last month (or two?) has been crazy and extremely boring all at the same time over here. Bad teachers, bad weather and just all together bad mojo has come and gone. Sadly my camera remains out of commission, nonetheless there is light at the end of the tunnel. Fuck I only have two months left out here. I feel somewhat guilty for not being sadder about it, but what can you do? I’d seriously contemplate selling my soul for some good qeso, that’s how bad it’s gotten.
I did make three trips to Lebanon since my last post. My first reaction of Beirut was “TREES!” yes there are trees there. Real ones. The ocean was next and then legs, womens legs to be specific. I’ve heard it referred to as the Paris of the Middle East in the past, but it’s become my Vegas. Like a junkie needing a fix I gravitate to it. Greenery, women, booze, LIFE! The order varies but the ingredients don’t. I’ve heard there are many things to do and see in Beirut, but I wouldn’t know. Beirut is the place to do nothing. It is the place to almost be out of the Middle East for a day. To sit on your ass and enjoy good weather and good views.
Out of the many places I’ve stayed in Beirut there are two that will forever be with me. One is Casa d’Orr which is probably the nicest place I’ve stayed in over here. Real beds, suggestively placed mirrors and a wonderful breakfast. Can’t beat it. However the one that will forever be seared into my mind is the glorious Hotel Talal. For a mere $10 US a night you can have your very own undersized twin bed complete with pink princess blankets. There is always a young guy manning the desk, ready to drink tea and talk bullshit whenever it is that you may actually arrive to this gem. A fridge full of beer that’s operated (successfully from what I understand) on the honor system. I love this “Hotel”. Now you may think you detect sarcasm here but it simply doesn’t exist. I adore it in spite of the pink, hell maybe because of the pink blankets. Miss it already, wouldn’t learn a lick of Arabic there, but what a blast.
Aleppo: First Blood
I traveled to Aleppo after my last exam in order to take full advantage of our week off. I was slowly recovering from some sort of death that I wouldn’t be surprised to find was the swine flu. It should be noted that the Swine Flu wields special weight in the Muslim world, further sealing my fate of a year without bacon. Life can be so cruel. At any rate my friends here had postponed our trip in order to give me a chance to recover, a thoroughly kind act. How could I say anything but yes after that? Buck up little cowboy it’s time to go.
We travelled by train which as far as I can tell is most well run thing in the whole country. We left on time, it was clean, hell we even arrived on time. Five hour train trip for four dollars, yes please. We were feeling fancy so we spent the extra dollar to travel first class. I will greatly miss such cheap transport when I leave. We arrived early in the afternoon and made our way to the deluxe Hotel Assia, running us a cool seven dollars a night. Sure we didn’t have heat or hot water or even toilette paper but I always thought such amenities as luxuries of the bourgeoisie.
The first day was nice, just lots of wandering through the sook and getting lost in general. Then we chanced upon Ala Edin, or as he is more commonly known “Rambo of the sook.” While ambling through the crowd we were flagged down by followed by our soon to be friend. While he started talking to Shilpa the rest of us sped up so as to cut our losses. Apparently he knew someone in America! Imagine that! The street hawks will make you crazy in the middle east, so much so that you have to be almost rude sometimes just to get away. As it turns out he knows none other than the Guvenator of the Golden State. He launches into the topic of body building asking us if we have ever tried it, a completely ridiculous question considering my skinny ass was the largest in the group. He then alleges to have won all sorts of different body building titles, including Mr. Mediterranean and Mr. Asia. In spite of internal eye rolling, we found ourselves swayed to have coffee and tea at his shop. There at his jewelry shop, yes Rambo makes jewelry, he showed us picture after picture of him in competitions interspersed with those of his daughter. Every picture was legit and in most he was being presented awards. Holy shit the man was for real! Upon this revelation the entire of mood of the room changed and we asked all sorts of questions concerning his hobby of choice. We learned of his diet of pureed chicken breasts, mmmmmm, and that he was learning Spanish for an upcoming competition in Spain.
Then the topic necessarily turned to his one of a kind jewelry, readily available at the shop directly across from his. Fear not! Rambo knows that there’s one born every minute! We really could have just handed him our wallets in the beginning and saved a lot of time. Nonetheless I felt strangely ok with getting hustled by our new friend. Was he peddling crap? Absolutely. Did we care? Never. We sat and drank coffee while a burly body builder tried on various jewelry to show off his favorite pieces. These pieces were then weighed by a magic scale and multiplied by and ever-changing number to produce a price. Genius I say. The girls never had a chance. It was the most genuine hustle I’ve ever come across, if that makes any sense.
In the evening we had dinner that seemed good enough and then moved on to drinks at the famous Baron Hotel. The Baron Hotel is located in the “red light district” of Aleppo, which is really nothing more than a few movie houses showing soft core porn. I do have fond memories of Cinemax anyways. Sadly, I’m told all the racy advertisements in the area depict the very scenes that have been censored. This evoked decidedly less fond memories of USA’s “Up All Night” program. The Baron Hotel “smelled of english colonialism” as a friend aptly put it. It really felt like nothing had change since T.E. Lawrence was operating from there. The history dork in me enjoyed the ambiance, and the beers, very much.
The second day was far less enjoyable and was punctuated by my running to the bathroom every 30 minutes or so. My dinner was angry and it was time for penance. I did manage to see the castle, or at least walk around its humbling walls. It was most recently rebuilt by the Mamaluks and changed hands numerous times throughout antiquity. It was closing right as we arrived to the gates. This would be my only reason to return to Aleppo. I crashed early the second day and we travelled home the next morning. Aleppo was nice, but I feel decidedly overblown. Once you’ve seen one Arab sook you’ve seen them all. If I had come straight to Aleppo from the west I’m sure it would have been a completely different feel. Felt great to get home. (I hope Holly never sees this)
Ciao Bella
This I write in dedication to Flavia (pronounced FlaaAhviaA) and Eduardo, two Italians near and dear the hearts of our class. These two, of south and north Italy respectively, represented their homeland so well, wonderfully embodying all the good preconceptions we Americans have. Their lighthearted approach to life in Syria quickened all to smile. Anyone who can make you laugh while learning the intricacies of Arabic grammar is someone you should keep around.
To celebrate the culmination of our class we had what proved to be a hell of a party. Ben the Deutschie, now affectionately known as Benjy by myself and anyone else I can convince, hosted this face melting shin dig. The group swelled to 40 or 50 by 11:00 and then partitioned itself into language specific groups only to reunify as one gloriously drunk mass by 1:00. My prayers to stop listening to electronica were answered in the form of some fellow who played guitar and sang quite well. We sang and danced and danced and drank. By 3:00 the Italian contingent, by far the largest, had come to dominate the crowd and sang to our lovely departing Flavia and Eduardo. Fortunately for everyone else the words were easy enough as we all joined in on the refrain. “Ciao Bella. Ciao! Ciao! Ciao!”
Fancy Tea?
Mmmmmmmm. Smoke, sweat and lights, lots of lights. There I was, drink in hand, wondering how the hell I ended up in a club in Syria.
It all started out innocently enough. Our class organized a nice dinner in the Old City just to get out and get to know each other. Dinner came and went. Tea was had, gallons. Then some women organized a mission to find booty shaking. Sadly they got to be the masterminds and navigators of this doomed mission; as we wandered through miles upon miles of alleys. “Hey Ben wasn’t that our third right turn?” Nonetheless I was willing to give it a shot. I must confess the idea of seeing multiple western women in one location was appealing.
The dank subterranean club teemed with extremely drunk westerners and a few Syrian men there to gawk at the aforementioned. The combination of being in Syria and a low average age contributed to prohibition style drinking. The throbbing mass danced and sucked face going as fucking crazy as they well could. Living in Syria will do that to you. I would have been part of the rabble too had beers been less than five dollars.
500 pounds ($10) was the entry fee for your mind-fuck. At least you get two drinks with your ticket right? I had a JW Black or at least that’s what the bottle said. I don’t know what rotgut piss they’d filled it with but it was so horrible it prompted me to get a syrian beer for my next drink. Commence booty shaking.
Casualties
Sandra’s Camera
Eduardo’s Jacket (complete with house keys)
Charles’ self-esteem
As the lights came up I was in flight mode. No longer even resembling buzzed I was ready; but how to get home? Then Sandra, after coming to terms with her camera being stolen, invited some of us back to her place for hookah and arak. Being a decisive man I immediately seized this initiative of stupidity and away we went! We smoked and drank till 5:00 in the morning, which was really 6:00 because time changed. Sandra assured me and another that it was ok to crash at her place, they had two extra beds and her host family was Christian.
I was roused, head still floating in a cloud of smoke, at 9:30 by Sandra. “The family has invited you to have tea with them, you should come downstairs.” To refuse tea here is essentially the same as telling someone to go fuck their mother. So I, a clearly drunk westerner who slept in the same room as the girl under their supervision, stumbled to the table. There’s nothing quite as charming as talking politics with an Arab family at their table whilst intoxicated. I escaped an hour of interrogation later. I managed to win over the old man in the end and was invited back. Hopefully I’ll never have to take him up on that offer.
Photo with 1 note
“What paper do you work for?”
“…um… the Washington Post?”
“Great! Get a picture of us with our bus!”
Wedding Iraqi Styles
Wedding number two in Syria. This one Iraqi. I returned to the scene of the crime in Zebidaany to find… more sheeps’ brain! I must be the luckiest cracker in Syria! There we were, myself, a couple Syrians and 40 to 50 Iraqi refugees. One could naturally see how this might be touch awkward for an American, but it wasn’t. In all honesty I’ve scarce met a family as wonderful and warm as Siraj’s. We talked, and ate… and ate and ate and danced. I met a man who I’m quite sure was a body double for Saddam back in the day; smiling amicably, cigarette dancing under a walrus’ mustache. Christ what a moustachio he had! Uncle Saddam did some dancing later that evening, even I couldn’t dodge that bullet. The circle was formed and away we went!
Step, step, step, kick. Counterclockwise. Always this direction.
The beauty of dancing like this is that it’s designed for people like me…. people who have no rhythm that is. Sure you can add variations and the good dancers shine, but it’s inclusive so even me and the Stache could get down. On and on and on it went. Then evil happened. Siraj and his sister Hajyr decided to dedicate a few “American” songs to me. Never mind that one of these songs was in spanish, another was by Shakira, not to be confused with the one in spanish, and the third was some rap song I wasn’t familiar with. Then I was informed to “dance like and American” whatever the hell that means. So, I made an ass out of myself. I don’t suppose differs from normal days by that much. After my second wedding, I’m ready for a break. Ten hours of partying with an hour commute on either end is enough for me. Probably for the best that alcohol wasn’t involved. Back to school!
Buying spices is especially difficult when I don’t even know what they’re called in English. Old City Souk
Sheep Brain Death Ride
I have now been on my first out of town excursion in a mini bus, or death wagon. These lovely contraptions sport 12 seatbelts and transport anywhere from 15 to 50 passengers. Away we go to Zebadaany! Up up up the mountain. Lawnmower engine humming loudly above tradtional Arabic song. This one, Youssef informs me, is about a working man confessing his forbidden love to the woman he serves. 40, 50, now 60 kilometers per hour!
Zebadaany is a beautiful village nestled comfortably against the mountains bordering Lebanon. I was in town to attend a dinner with Siraj and his family and what a dinner it was. The meal was apparently the prototypical Iraqi meal. Sheep, chicken, rice, the table was so full that one literally could not put their glass down. Dish after dish. At the center, a sheep’s head offering such delights as tongue and brain. Both sport a somewhat strange consistency but nonetheless taste quite good. I guess I’m well on my way to eating rocky mountain oysters at this rate, but when in rome…
After dinner we had a decidedly Arabic evening which consisted of tea, tea and more tea. We sat around the table in the garden for an eternity, but never was it boring. Just talking, eating fruit and drinking tea. Eventually we graduated to sweets and coffee. If you’ve had Turkish coffee you know just how wonderfully thick and delicious it is. Siraj and his family were so warm and inviting. His mother had such wit about her, cracking jokes on everyone at the table. The father sitting, smoking, talking politics while his sister was occupied teaching me grammar. The evening was everything you could want from a lazy dinner.
The ride home was a white knuckled ride of doom. I’ve been in enough mini buses now to know that they all drive like made men. They make taxi drivers look like dandies. This man was surely at the pinnacle of his game. While he couldn’t conduct simple math, as evident by our 20 minute delay whilst arguing with a rider over change, he could drive like a demon. We came hurtling out of the mountains like a meteorite of flesh and metal. 120, 130, 140 kilometers per hour! The van shaking so violently I felt we must be challenging land speed records. You know it’s a little dicey when even the locals sitting around you are gawking wide eyed from the window to the driver and back again. The trip home took less than half the time as the one up the mountain. I guess I got money’s worth.
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