Here and There

Going away often allows us to better perceive the place we’ve just left. Coming to Lebanon made me realize how acutely unaware we are if our good fortune. Most flagrant are the material matters we take for granted. Being at the mercy of electricity cuts, enduring cold showers and having no drinking water available directly from the tap showed me that those seemingly basic needs are not accessible to everyone, and that it is possible to do without them. For instance, rather than having an electrical stove, people opt for a gas one. You avoid elevators when possible out of fear of being stuck in one during a cut. You convince yourself of the many benefits of having a cold shower, including better circulation, healthier hair and skin, faster waking up. As you walk up 4 flights of stairs with a 2 bottles of water of 10 litres, you remind yourself of how many calories you are currently loosing. You go to the university’s library, across town, to check your emails. In fact, you plan your entire day around it. Yet, do not be mislead by this description. As I realized when I move apartment, the situation depicted above is not lived by everyone in Lebanon. It is quite possible to find the same comfort here as we enjoy in the West, albeit at a higher price. Apparently, as long as you can pay, Lebanon can offer you all the services you might desire, from central heating to valet parking at a mid-range restaurant or home delivered dry cleaning. Now that I have moved in such a place, I’m slowly starting to go back to my old ways, not thinking twice about where my water comes from nor dreading the next time I’ll have to shower. I have to keep on reliving my first impressions and experiences in the country to remind myself of the luck I have.

Going away does not simply help you appreciate material matters more; it also increases your understanding of other cultures, as well as your own. When I left for Lebanon, I was expecting to find a drastically different lifestyle than the one I grew up in, even after hearing the tales of others who lived or visited the country. Yet, as soon as I got over the initial hump, I started to notice how alike Beirut was of other capitals of this world. A meal at a restaurant amongst friends or a night at a club is as common as it is in the West. You can watch “the Office”, listen to Feist or go see the latest blockbuster. And then, an event, such as the short yet controversial censure of the movie Persepolis, reminds you of the differences between Lebanon and some of its Western counterparts. Given the criticism the movie makes of the Iranian regime, many believe the call for censure emanated out of Iran and carried through Hezbollah to the government. The international attention this story got helped raise the restriction. Even if the film is being played, its success is jeopardized. Some Lebanese have mentioned that they will forego seeing it at the movies because they fear an attack from the disgruntled group. Yet, it is not the first time such a measure is taken. A few years back, “The DaVinci Code” was banned from the country after the church had put considerable pressure on the government to do so. In day-to-day life, scenes of shows or movies broadcasted on tv are cut and expression such as “oh my god” are bleeped out.

Going away is also quite relative. What is here and there? As I left Canada a month ago, it was rather clear; here was Montreal, there was Lebanon, the Middle East the unknown. After having stayed in Beirut for over a month, the line is getting blurrier. As the days go by, I slowly tamed Beirut as the strange becomes familiar. I was made aware of this last weekend, after my trip to Tripoli. My daytrip there was like a second journey. Once again I was shocked by the density, the chaos, the filthiness, the gloom of the city and the misery its people live in. Once again I was amazed by some of the cultural traits of the town. The most impressive of which was the souks. I had already experienced a souk before in Saida, yet nothing equated that of Tripoli. Its maze-like endless crowded pathways, its mixed smells of food, perfumes and human sweat, its sounds added to my fascination. So did the people I encountered in those alleys. Most women wore the headscarf, some men sported the beard, very few spoke a foreign language. For the first time, I felt like I was in the Middle East, the one I had imagined during the past years. I came back to Beirut exhausted. My senses had been assaulted all day, my head constantly processing new information coming from everywhere. Beirut suddenly felt so familiar when compared to the novelty of Tripoli. Here is Montreal, and Beirut. There is Tripoli, and all those cities where I can only spend a few days, not months.

Easter heat

This Easter, I expected to witness intense Christian fervor and devotion. Instead I found a rather unexpected source of regional tourism.

Riding up the mountainous road that leads to Harissa this past Sunday, I encountered few cars. I anxiously wondered whether I had been misadvised. One of my guides indicated that the small town hosted lively and passionate processions and celebrations during this religious holiday. My worries grew even stronger when I arrived at the church’s entrance. There was no soul in sight. Was I too early or too late? Still I made my way around the church, towards the statue of the Virgin Mary I had caught a glimpse at on the way up. Slowly, I started hearing rumors. People were here, at the feet of what is advertised as the “tallest statue of Mary in the Middle East”. The white effigy stood atop a conic pedestal circled by narrow stairs, crowded with devotes wanted to praise and thank the holy lady. All around, black silhouettes contrasted with the white rock. Everywhere women veiled, dressed in black cloths stood in small groups, children running in their skirts. When they walked, the wind would catch in underneath their garbs, making them resemble black birds. Since you couldn’t see their feet, it truly seemed as if they were flying. This sight was rendered poetic both by its aestheticism and its strangeness. Here I was, standing at the feet of the Virgin, on Easter Sunday, surrounded by what seemed like burqas. Surely, this had to be part of some local religious tradition. Perhaps, when mourning the Christ, some followers hide themselves under black cloths and keep their heads down to pay respect to the mother of the deceased before celebrating its resurrection.

For three hours, I walked amidst them, subtly trying to take their portrait attempting to capture the contrast between them, and other Lebanese women, dressed in festive attires, bare backs, shorts skirts and high heels. Yet, despite the appearance, these women, were not the most devout. They were outdone by tiny women from Sri Lanka, India Philippines, etc. who would walk up the dizzying stairs carrying offerings. Once at the top, many of them would bow their head and let their tears wet the feet of their idol. Rather than being annoyed by my camera, they offered themselves to it, exaggerating their expressions of religious zeal. One came up carrying two white doves to be freed at the top. She saw my camera, smiled. Turned her head to the sky, towards the kind face of Mary, and let each dove go, a tear strolling on her cheek. Once done, she looked once more at me, smiling, making sure I had caught her gesture on film.

Having managed to take a few good photographs and dehydrated by hours of standing in the hot sun, I stopped at a small snack bar right outside the gate. When the owner sat down with me, I seized my chance to ask him about the town and its customs; especially when it came to Easter.

What a fool had I been! Not only did I miss the processions which, anyone would know, happen on Good Friday, but the women covered in black cloths were not here to mourn the Christ. They were not even Christians. The owner of the snack bar pointed to the row of tour buses and laughed as he explained that they were Iranian tourists. They flow in every weekend to see the “tallest statue of the Virgin Mary in the Middle East” and admire the view from the mountain. They then proceed to the Jeita Cavern (after, as I witnessed the same day enjoying a lunch at KFC or Dunkin Donuts) and Bourj Hammoud (where they shop for bargains); before heading back to Iran via Syria. I was so eager to witness Christian zeal that I interpreted everything I saw in that sense... or perhaps it was just the effect of the heat and the sun.

Warning

Accused of all evils – abject poverty, religious fundamentalism, radicalism, terrorism, anti-Semitism – Southern Lebanon should be avoided. The Canadian department of Foreign Affairs advises against “all travel to the south of the Litani River, especially the areas near the border with Israel, and to the city of Sidon (also referred to as Saida) and its surroundings”. Accordingly, when I left for Saida, I expected to find myself in the middle of bearded men land with suspicious stares. I made sure not to go alone, to be accompanied by at least one men and I even put my personal alarm in my pocket. If someone was to come to close, I was ready to trigger it, even if its shrieking sound would render me and those around deaf.

Well, days later, I can still enjoy the peaceful sound of the sea. During my daytrip to Saida I never felt threatened or truly out of place. Of course, I was fascinated by the many portraits of Iman Moghniyé that decorate the highway; one of which bares an odd resemblance to the über-commercialized and symbolic rendering of the Che. And yes, I was taken aback by the few barefoot children persistently begging for money. But most of all, I was charmed by the old Souk; its welcoming and lively atmosphere, its small artisan shops, its labyrinth-like streets, its unsanitary displays of meat; the smiles of the shopkeepers, the smells of falafels and loukoums. Under the arched pathways, barely lit even in the middle of the days, I forgot about the warning and enjoyed myself, straying from the group at times to take a picture and venturing in some hidden corners.

I never found the South the Canadian embassy and its homologues warn against. Of course, I only stayed in the more tourist-oriented part of the city. But I’ve learned that the warnings should always be taken with a grain of salt. They should not determine your decision to explore or not an area. Had I listened to them, not only would I have not gone to Saida, but I also would not have embarked on a 2 month stay in the country. They should not be entirely disregarded, since they can prepare you to expect the worst and push you to take a few precautionary measures. And they should be amended: they don’t even warn you about the number one danger in the country: cars.

Bulldozer en toute impunite.

Pour ceux d'entre vous qui comprennent le français, un article de l'Orient le Jour fait état de la destruction continue du patrimoine architectural de Beyrouth. J'ai eu la chance, il a une semaine de pénétrer sur le terrain de la Synagogue auquel l'article fait allusion et d'y prendre plusieurs photos. Je ne pensais pas qu'elles seraient d'actualité. Je compte retourner dans le secteur aujourd'hui pour voir ce qu'il en est. L'article n'est pas tres clair: la synagogue a-t-elle ete détruite ou s'élève-t-elle toujours, témoin d'un passé plus tolérant des diverses confessions et de la haine qui s'est par la suite dechaînée?

http://www.lorient-lejour.com.lb/page.aspx?page=article&id=367525

One day, three anecdotes.

One day, three encounters.
The first, a family of Syrian peasants growing tomatoes and lettuce in primitive warehouses along the coast.
The second, a middle-aged restaurant owner leisurely jogging on the seafront.
The third, an elderly taxi driver precautiously making his way through traffic.

One day, three invitations.
The first, to share tea with father, wife and sons in their rudimentary home, sitting in the only chair they own.
The second, to have a shot of vodka, or rum, or anything I desire.
The third, to be taken home safely.

One day, three offers.
The first, a big bag of tomatoes.
The second, a wedding proposal.
The third, a free ride.

One day, three experiences,
The first, humbling.
The second, awkward and annoying
The third, a relief

One day, three men
The first, welcoming and amusing
The second, ugly and sleazy
The third, charming and pleasant

Two out of three, ain't bad.

Lebanese quirks that make me smile

1. An ad campaign for a flat screen tv where the product is displayed next to a girl with a small chest and with the slogan: "Flat and Proud"
2. The attempts to hide tanks behind camouflage in the middle of the city. Especially when those tanks never change their location. I've been told it might actually be in order to conceal themselves from planes.
3. A mosque covered with Christmas lights.
4. A women reading while driving through Beyrouth's hellish traffic
5. Always being dressed like you're about to go out, even when going skiing
6. AUB students, strolling on the Corniche early morning in their PJs.
7. Cars with melting snowmen on their rooftops in Beirut
8. Highway exits: it's not a ramp, it's a sudden turn. In Safra, it feels like a rollercoaster, your stomach literally jumps.
9. Cats at AUB trying to steal your lunch.
10. An old lady with 2 teeth left, trying to eat a bar of chocolate.

To be continued

Moonlight

(In progress - the poetry of the moment shared here is difficult to reproduce)

A Thousand and One Nights must be the most well-known Oriental story in the West. It forged a myth around the Orient, its black hair and wide-eyed beauties; its colourful, sequined and golden treaded garments; its landscapes of desert and oasis, of mosques and crescent moons.

Last night, my twenty-fifth in Beirut, I found myself in the middle of that myth, unexpectedly or perhaps, I had sought it out, subconsciously. After listening to an Egyptian storyteller, a young women with dark curly hair, dressed in black sequins, her eyes glistening with sparkles declaim a tale set in ancient Baghdad but with a lesson for today (Do not speak of something that does not concern you, you may hear something you do not want to), I stepped out into the street to find a perfect crescent moon shining above the Al-Amine mosque. I had always been a little perturbed by the mosque built by Hariri. Although majestic with its blue dome, its four minarets, its sand-coloured stones and its ancient architecture, it stood in the middle of Beirut deceitful. A modern creation, based on storybooks illustrations; neither the restoration of a previous mosque, nor erected where a mosque had formerly stood. Inauthentic, I never truly stopped to contemplate it and only used it has a marker in the city. But last night, under the moonlight I was spellbound. I made abstraction of the cars passing by, of the cranes nearby, of the city lights and transported myself to the heart of the myth of the Orient. It was postcard perfect.

But this sight was not what almost brought tears to my eyes. Lit by the crescent moon, the carcass of the Intercontinental touched me with its silent symbolism and its screaming reminder of the horrors of war. The giant hole on its side, the crescent moon above the city: the scars of Beirut.

Vancouver - Montreal - Beirut

Granville in Vancouver,St-Laurent in Montreal, Gouraud in Beirut: different cities, same culture of fun. Along the strip, stylized bars each attempting to confer upon themselves a specific personality through carefully selected décor, music and lighting that corresponds to the taste of the type of clientele they seek to attract. There's Torino, a bar so small that with ten people in it, it feels crowded. Set in what must have been a single-car garage, or a house lobby, it can barely hold the people that come to enjoy its snug, informal atmosphere. There's Kayan, which uses barrels for tables, serves vinaigrette-dipped salted carrots and nachos with the best salsa I've tasted and where, in the same night you can enjoy the top 40, Leonard Cohen (a favorite here), a little electronic music and soulful jazz. There's Cloud Nine, which although pleasant remains conservative, predictable. There's the Melting Pot, which just opened, and athough it offers the rare opportunity to sit on a terrasse, is still devoid of character. And then there's the many other bars, which I haven't explored yet. Many look more upscale and pricier. Strolling the strip, stylish individuals each wanting to unwind, and enjoy themselves. There's adolescents playing dress-up, looking twice their age until they flash you a smile, revealing their braces. There's the "sophisticated" girls, in the latest fashions, their recently redone noses covered with a white band-aid, wearing heels that demand respects. There's their suitors, in polo or dress shirts, their hair slicked back sitting with their cellphone, cigarette pack, palm pilot laid out on the table in front of them. There's the trendy artists and intellectual pretending their outfit was just a stroke of luck. There's the young executives, celebrating their latest success or the group of friends celebrating a birthday, both crowds willing to spend loads, ordering four bottles of fine champagne on top of cocktails and shots.

This could be anywhere. Only the hot weather, the language spoken around me and the sight of policemen with their big guns well on display reminded me that I was partying in Beirut, not Vancouver, nor Montreal.

Colour Wars

Francoise has always liked bold colours whether it be on walls, on paintings or on herself. Wherever she goes, she enjoys surprising, standing out, and making people look twice. In a city of grey, of cement, of somberness and of dust, she feels she has a duty to enliven it with a spark of colour. One of her favorite, perhaps due to its unconventionality is orange; bright, cheerful, vivacious orange. A few weeks ago, she found a head-to-toe orange outfit, one that would definitely brighten her grim surroundings and make those she encounter smile. As she walked to the bank, dressed in her sparkling new clothes she received a response she did not expect. Cars honked, people swore, she was being insulted. A few minutes later, after leaving the bank and crossing to another part of the city, she was greeted differently. Cars still honked, people shouted, but this time she was being applauded. Francoise has never left Lebanon, has always dressed boldly. She was well-aware of the political connotation of her preferred colour, but never thought it would brand her as it did a few weeks ago.

As you walk around Beirut, strolling across several neighborhoods, you are assailed by faded flags of all colours, stained murals and torn posters of political personalities each of them a display of allegiance. In some areas a shade dominates, in others they cohabit. In a country, where only a few years ago, the wrong identity could get you killed, the earnestness of Lebanese to display their affiliation is startling. Disturbing too are those homes I've seen with a white cross painted on their doors which offered a disquieting resemblance to the swastikas Nazis used to brand the homes of their victims; except this time, it was the owners of those houses who drew the distinctive Christian sign on their gates.

In Canada, a show of political colours would seem appropriate during an election year. Afterall, for that occasion each streetlight is adorned by a campaign poster of one or the other candidate. In Lebanon, I feel it is provocative, a reckless show of force transforming anyone deliberately holding a flag or inopportunely dressed in a certain colour into an easy target if the situation was to deteriorate.

Speaking as a tourist

I naively thought that with my dark thick hair, my big features, and understated attire, I would be able to go by rather unnoticed in Lebanon, as long as I did not attempt to speak. That was without taking into account that people here are very watchful and attentive. The subtlest detail sells me out. Whether it be my distinctive traveler attire: loose, ample pants; ill-fitting, amorphous shirts; a worn-out scarf fashionably tied around the neck; and an enormous backpack that has been compared to a parachute that never, ever leaves me. If, on top of that, I’m carrying one or both of my cameras by my side, there’s no fooling anyone: I’m a tourist. Nor should I try to pretend otherwise. Embracing it is the promise of a much better stay and the guarantee of a more holistic knowledge of the country. And so, this weekend, I indulged in all things touristy: a visit to Jbeil; a day of skiing at the biggest resort in the country, Faraya; and a tour of the American University of Beirut’s Archeology Museum. I was in turn mesmerized, humbled, amused, astonished, and humbled, again. My perception of the country was once again shaken, redefined, refined.

In fact, I came to appreciate the tourism potential of the country. Jbeil, only a few miles away from Beirut is host to 8,000 years of history having been inhabited by populations from many major civilizations: Neolithic, Phoenician, Roman, Ottoman, Byzantine, Mamluk, French. Within six hectares, you find ruins attributed to each period cited above. Including fortification walls standing side by side, only a few feet apart from each of them; temples of worship dedicated to different gods, revealing rituals, customs of all epochs; Habitations ranging from two feet tall walls to an impenetrable fortress or a early-century European home. Artifacts from this site and others across the region can be found at the AUB museum, which was rethought, renovated, modernized and re-opened in June 2006. Both sites, and the history they unearth, have nothing to envy to some of the most popular tourist attractions of Europe. Nor does it have only ruins to offer. The country is blessed with a setting of teal waves and snow-capped mountains both of which offer different avenues for outdoor activities, with a delicious culinary tradition that we enjoy even abroad; with diverse cultures and customs that beg to be discovered and which artists constantly try to reinvent, remodel.

It took me awhile to recognize this aspect of Lebanon, partly because of a personal bias (see previous post), but also partly due to the lack of mise en valeur of the country’s heritage and riches. When I stepped in the tourist information office, hoping to be greeted by an enthusiastic staff eager to exhibit the wonders his country as to offer to a keen tourist, I met with two middle-aged women sitting leisurely on a leather couch, discussing the latest gossips in Arabic and only rarely addressing themselves to me and doing so only to point to one more standardized pamphlet describing in length the remains, or the lavish homes of local personalities. Outdoor activities facilities are few and far between, with most opportunities remaining undeveloped. For instance, when asked about the possibilities to go sea-kayaking, a friend involved in outdoor sports, retorted that I would have to buy my own kayak in order to do so. Faraya, the “most extensive and modern ski resort in Lebanon”, appears to be trapped in the early seventies with only two wooden and rustic snack shacks and its skiers dressed in colorful one piece suits. Historical sites are equally as unexploited. Next to the highway to Tripoli, on top of a rock stands a narrow fortress, which although easily accessible was only recently awarded a guardian to prevent further degradation.

I am not advocating that Faraya be transformed into a mid-east Whistler with 5-stars ottoman inspired hotels and overpriced burgers or that sites such as Byblos which now charge only a dollar per entry be turned into a tourist trap surrounded by tacky souvenir shops. In fact, I enjoyed both visits for their eccentricity. In Faraya, most people can be found in jeans, polo shirts, plaid scarf, city shoes, going up the chairlift to take a few pictures of themselves at the top before going back down in the same fashion as they came up. Those who pushed the experience as far as attempting to ski did so absolutely unprepared, ill-equipped. Where else would you find a young girl learning how to snow-plough in a skirt? In Jbeil, I met with Yazid, a joyous, knowledgeable and likable guide whose family used to own a home where the excavation where started. What is needed is a more concerted effort of promoting tourism in the country both for foreigners and residents. The AUB stands as an example, it highlights without being too exuberant the history of the region. Yet, few know about the museum and its dedicated employees. The problem is mainly with promotion, hype.

Re-staffing the tourist information center would be a good start; then why not explore eco-tourism options...