Buckle Up, You're In For A Ride

How can I come to Lebanon and not blog about the traffic? It's the Achilles in every driver's heel!

There are two types of traffic conditions in Lebanon, the first being "gridlock". If you are in a car during rush hour in Beirut, you can sympathise with those Lebanese who say in despair that the country is going nowhere. The other is "kamikaze". Lebanon has it's own traffic rules and people's desperate means  to get from A to B is not for the fainthearted.

To be fair on Mikey, he is an excellent driver and I don't have a problem getting in the car with him. But for long distances, I'm a nervous passenger and he usually gives me a pep talk to help calm my nerves before driving off "Just remember to breathe okay, breathe in-out-in-out. Relaaaax just go with the flow...that's why I don't use the mirrors I'm only concerned about what's in front of me."

"yea, on-coming traffic HELLO!" I heckle back like a proper backseat driver.

Breathe in-out-in-out. 

To create a calm, yet joyful atmosphere in the car Mikey usually pops on a nursery-rhyme CD "for Mateo" he says.  Heading down the highway, Mateo is safely strapped in his restraint in the backseat, blissfully clapping along to the music while I'm in the front seat intermitting between singing and screaming "if you're happy and you know it COVER YOUR EYES." 

It's true, being the driver is better than being the unfortunate passenger who has to sit quiet and take in the 'scenery'. And from my observations of Mikey's new driving habits, and the habits of those sharing the road, it made me consider the 10 worst. Any of these sound familiar? 

1. Overtaking in to on-coming traffic around a bend: Oh C'mon, everyone has 20/20 vision, besides, there's enough room for everyone! 

2. Speeding: It's hard to keep up with the Porsche, Lamborghinis or Ferraris, that's behind you beeping it's horn and flashing it lights to move you along. 

3. Tailgating: If flashing the lights and beeping the horn just isn't enough, try dodging between cars - relax I promise to miss you by a millimetre. 

4. Not indicating: I'm sorry, what's indicating? if I just swerve towards people they'll move out of the way. 

5. Crossing solid white lines: What are these lines of which you speak? Maybe they're underneath the rubble. 

6. Not knowing which lane you should be in: Oh that's easy, the fastest one. 

7. Roundabouts: Make sure you never, ever give way. Sticking your arm out of the window to direct traffic is the best way to cut across as you're about to miss your exit. 

8. Queue jumping: Who said desert safari is only for the desert? Why have a 4 wheel drive if you can't mount the curb and push that little Asian car out of the way? 

9. Not wearing a seatbelt: But kids love the seatbelt to swing from like Tarzan, and jumping on mum's lap is so much fun while protruding their little heads out of the window. 

10. Driving on the phone: How else am I meant to have a conversation with the lady in the car next to me, check my facebook AND tweet my road-rage: #traffic #SUX :( 

So, have I missed any driving habits you'd like to share? Feel free to add to the comments box 

Remember to turn 'This Switch' Off!

As a newcomer to Beirut everything is still a novelty: daily 3-hour electricity cuts, the sound of diesel generators kicking in, buying gallons of drinking water worried if I have to haul it up 8 flights of stairs if the elevator is out of order.  

I’m getting used to constantly asking someone where something is, or how it works, and relying on them to point me in the right direction. At least I can feel rest assured in the wee small things like flushing a toilet with a simple press of a button and hot water 24/7 – or so we thought.

About a week after moving into our apartment, home-life starts to take on a new rhythm, a new normality. Mikey is the first to wake, has playful wrestle with Mateo, shaves and showers, bids us farewell, and off to work he goes. All normal. One morning Mateo and I go to shower and out of the blue there’s no hot water. NOT normal.

Lifting a shivering Mateo out of the tub, I’m searching for a logical explanation, debating whether Mikey just took the mickey for not stating the bleeding obvious before leaving the house - plausible - or if he really has superhuman cold-water resistant qualities…hmmm. 

Searching for the cause to no avail, I probe Mikey “How was your shower this morning dear?” From the long pause at the end of the line I can tell he’s wondering if it’s a trick question, a trap! Then he comes clean “Oh yeahh, there was no hot water. I forgot to tell you...sorrry’. 

 
But no matter, I also dropped the white elephant in the “too hard” basket suspecting that this little inconvenience is going to take some energy to work out. Perhaps if I take no notice it just might miraculously come good by end of the day fingers crossed. 

So instead I turn my attention to a far more pressing “meltdown” unfolding outside our apartment window: a major protest at the state-run Electricite du Liban. Workers have hijacked the company’s headquarter setting tires alight and reportedly threatened to set the building ablaze if their employment demands aren’t met (they don’t do things by half measure here).

Thankfully the building is still intact but the national electricity isn’t. The Daily Star reports electricity supply has been deteriorating across the country due to maintenance works at major power plants, suspension of power imports from Egypt and Syria, ongoing strikes, and of course the real reason behind it all is political power play. 

The protests may be drastic but electricity, diesel, food and water are high priced commodities and a constant source of antagonism - as I’m just about to learn for myself.

As my afternoon presses on hope for hot water has well and truly dried up. It’s time to knock on my neighbour’s door (again). Our good Samaritan starts fishing around the apartment in search of our boiler, and to no surprise, he reports it’s stone cold. We then proceed to the kitchen and inspect the electricity unit above our fridge.

  

My good neighbour enquires ‘How long has ‘zis switch been on?’ Like a little kid who is about to get in trouble but doesn’t know the reason, I reply hesitantly “Since we moved in of course." Shaking his head frowning, "Zis is your diezel generator switch, you’re supposed to turn it on ONCE a day for 20 minutes to heat your water, THEN YOU TURN IT OFF!’ 

Yep, there's not a drop left in the diesel tank. Zero, Zilch. We’ve gone through enough diesel to last the WHOLE summer!! Four months worth fizzled up in 10 days. OUCH. My neighbour makes light of the situation “Never mind, it is a mizz-understanding, you’re not used to our way, yani ‘zis is Lebanon” he sighs apologetically.

Maybe when our landlady gave us a rundown of all the switches to the apartment (both inside and out) between our broken Arabic, French and English that vital piece of information got lost in translation. Malesh.

That evening Mikey and I cool off our $400 refueling woes over a beer looking out across buildings entangled in an incredible amount of switches, cables, and dishes strangling building facades, weaving down walls and interconnecting rooftops like jungle weed.

I turn to Mikey paranoid in mid thought “Have you turned the the switch off?”

Taking Our First Steps

"The best way to see colourful Beirut is on foot" I repeatedly read in travel blogs. What no one tells you is "...if you use a kiddy stroller you may as well have one foot in the grave."

On our first walking expedition, we get off on the wrong foot. At 10am it’s already a scorcher outside, Mateo is having his morning sleep in the stroller while Mikey and I struggle to dodge potholes and fleeting cars. Ploughing through jagged pathways and absent mined pedestrians, we’re working up a sweat just trying to refrain Mateo from catapulting across the pavement. We make our first 50 metres in 50 minutes. Lovely. Both in a stitch, wet from head to toe, we’re ready to call it a day. Bystanders gawking at us say nothing but their faces said it all: “Ha! a stroller in Beirut?!?! Goodluck!”

Our map is useless because street names don’t correlate to street signs (a mind boggling topic for another post) so we vaguely make our own way to The Corniche. The waterfront esplanade is a popular destination where people stroll, strut their stuff, and socialize. We see ageing, overweight men jog and stop for cigarette breaks; teenage boys throwing fishing lines into the rocky waters below; young men smoking nargileh on their car hoods, combing their hair to catch the attention of speed-walking women wearing Ray-Bans and visors. 

 I soon realise The Corniche is the only pram-friendly pathway in Beirut but as our week rolls on the more stroller-savvy we become. 

Venturing further afield we cross the Green Line that divided the city between Christian East and Muslim West during the civil war. We weave and wind our way from Ras Beirut past St Georges Yacht Club to the flashy new Beirut Souk (mall) in Downtown. We take a pit stop at Place de l’Etoile and refuel on sickly-sweet lemonade. We leg it across Place des Martyrs and lunch in Gemmayzeh Street at Le Chef (no-frills kitchen serving the best Molokhia in town). In the blazing afternoon sun, we drag our feet to the air conditioned ABC (mall) in Achrafiyeh...ahhh.

To the untrained eye, one half of the city is rubble the other half is a mall. On closer observation you can pick up on the distinct architectural renderings of the urbanscape. Between the dilapidated buildings peppered with bullet holes you will discover the remains of Roman temples; marvel at centuries-old Mosques & Churches standing side-by-side; admire refurbished French-style mansions, and gaze up at multi-story apartments towering above. 

It’s a city under continual re-construction and I can't help but admire the Lebanese people not only for what they’ve been through but what they always seem to do after a crisis: they dig themselves out, dust themselves off, and start building once again. 

At the end of each field-trip we'd return to our apartment tired but feeling enriched from our expedition. The three of us would huddle around the bidet to wash  our tired, blistered feet (previous post explains the bidet story). Watching the sunset from our balcony, the sky paints a pretty picture with hues of pink and orange. The call to prayer from the mosque drifts through the air. The muezzin sounds melodically peaceful, offering time to reflect.

Getting around Beirut is definitely no walk in the park but well worth the experience. Together with discovering new sights, sounds and smells of the city we learnt about Lebanese hospitality which transcends age, class and religion. Pedestrians and shopkeepers alike would stop us on our tracks to wish Mateo the warmest of welcomes. Accompanying  handshakes, high-fives and pinched cheeks people would shout “MARHABA!” “KAFAK!” “AHLAN YA HABIBI!” It’s a wonderful Middle Eastern gesture that universally means ‘hello fellow friend!’ 

Being on the receiving end of so much kindness Mateo never failed to warmly respond. Although he is yet to speak a coherent word of any language he is still able to return the greeting with great joy: a big grin from ear-to-ear, uttering ‘eh! eh!’ eh!’ and a tentative twist of his little wrist. A gesture that would make anyone fall head over heels.

Finding Our Feet

Everyone is welcome in the Western neighbourhood of Hamra, it’s well known as Lebanon’s secular haven, playing host to people from all walks of life. It’s a central hub for students & expats, Christian & Muslims alike to mingle at sidewalk cafes, posh hotels, restaurants, bars and bookstores.

We spend our first weeks in Hamra, but to clarify, we’re not living a diplomat’s lifestyle, no 5-star hotels and no silver service, just good old fashioned DIY expat living.

Before landing in Beirut, in trepidation I booked our 3-Star accommodation online, which had no reviews so we were either in for a shocker or a winner. It’s neither. Our modest one-bedroom self-serviced apartment off Rue Hamra is basic but clean. Everything is at our doorstep - including traffic. Even though we’re a block back from the main thoroughfare, the traffic noise from the 2nd floor is so intense we may as well be lounging in our pyjamas in the middle of the road.

Sleep? What sleep! Never mind the clamor outside, we requested a cot for Mateo but the rickety old thing couldn’t hold itself together let alone my son, so the three of us piled into the small double bed. Mateo was the only one waking up fresh as a daisy. Mikey & I ached all over convinced our son was a ninja in his past life. His erratic/impulsive sidekick to the ribs and karate chop to the face are LETHAL.

Thankfully, we were kindly given an upgrade to a two-bedroom apartment on the 10th floor. What a difference 8 floors make! The lounge is spacious, kitchenette is well equipped & the master bedroom has a queen size bed. I’m in Heaven. Our little ninja moved into his very own headquarters converting his bedroom into a giant crib by jumbling together our suitcases, pieces of bedroom furniture and dining room chairs.

From our large balcony we had panoramic views across Ras Beirut, the Mediterranean Sea and Lebanon Hills. Elevated so high up felt like we were on top of the world. Truth be told, I nearly gagged from vertigo every time I looked down, nonetheless, relieved to have more breathing space from chaos down below. 

Reminiscent of the ocean views back in OZ it felt comforting to look out to The Med and recognise our small but significant achievement in finding a suitable temporary home. “We have found our feet in Beirut” I acknowledge to myself.

I was about to put mine up on the sofa when I heard a hullabaloo in the toilet - sounded more like spurting water followed by squeals of laughter - so I went to inspect. And there I caught Mateo’s head deep in the bidet bowl fascinated by his dad’s demonstration of the porcelain throne. I cry out “Mikey, why have you got your FOOT in the butt washer?” His response was priceless “It’s for washing your feet…no?” he innocently replies.

I wonder what other innovative uses the bidet can offer? I’m sure my fellow travel buddies have some ideas, I’d love to know.

Through the eyes of a child

Welcome to Lebanon! We are finally here in Beirut. Knowing very little about the country before leaving Australia, except its delicious food and it’s not so tasteful history, it still feels really exciting to be somewhere unfamiliar, giving us a fresh perspective on life. In fact, literally and metaphorically, we will be experiencing Beirut through the eyes of a child as the three of us learn a new way of life as an expat family.

Our flight into Beirut went without a hitch. As we began descending my nine-month old Mateo was sprawled out fast asleep on my lap while Michael and I observed from our tiny airplane window the lay of the land for the very first time. Bordered on one side by the Mediterranean, and on the other mountain ranges, Beirut seems a city suspended between the sky and the sea. From arid hills to lush forests, fertile plains to sprawling city it truly is a land of contrast, who knows what to expect down below.

 

Michael and I stared wide eyed at each other with the same nervous expression - this is it, we are actually going to live HERE!

As soon as we touched down at Beirut airport, the young customs lady took a real liking to Mateo, already he is learning to flirt with the ladies (oldies included) and all thanks to him our exit was swift. He even received kisses on the cheek on the way out! Who said travelling with a nine-month old to the Middle East was a bad idea? Lebanese people LOVE kids and I have a feeling Mateo is going to be our winning ticket in this country.

Along with our four oversized suitcases, a stroller and baby seat, we squished into a classic black Mercades taxi. The driver was dismissive as he watched Michael fix the baby seat to the backseat of his cab “Yoou’re wasting yoour time, no one uzez zem ‘ere” he smirks. The way he was driving - a “maniac” is an understatement - I was slightly relieved Mateo was strapped in.

It was literally a white-knuckle ride. While the driver had one eye on the road, the other on us, one hand on the horn, the other gripping a mobile phone, full pedal to the metal I braced myself for what felt like our one and only ride in Beirut.

As a distraction, not that the driver needed it, we made small talk to kill time (pun intended). With our mix of English, French and Arabic we interconnected words to make conversation. Looking at Mateo in the rear-view mirror the driver shouts in his thick accent, reiterating with hand gestures “Wherre are yoou from? Yoour sun looks like won of us, yani, loook at his fase, his skin and his eyez!”

When I explained that we’re a multinational family a mix of Australian, Swiss and Egyptian he was so chuffed because he lived several years in Switzerland, has cousins living in Sydney, and Lebanese people especially like their Egyptian neighbours, so we’re definitely in the good books. “Yoou w’ll have no broblem ‘ere we like Ejypshians, they’re veery friendly! You are veery wellcom ‘ere” he warmly replies.

Thankfully we arrived at the serviced apartment in Hamra with shot nerves but in one piece. Feeling too tired to go out for dinner we ordered our first home delivery, a mixed grilled platter for two that could feed the Lebanese Army. Watching Arabic pop videos on cable TV stuffing ourselves with our oversizes feast of meat, dips, pickles, salad & Lebanese bread I looked across at Michael who’s reflecting the same smirk on his face - this is it we ARE actually living here! Its early days I know but I feel that we are going to be very happy in Beirut, I'll keep you posted.