I am an adventurous eater and I love meat. Typically, subsiding on local cuisine is a highlight of my international travel. When it comes to food, I will unapologetically use the overused cliché, “I’ll try anything once.” After one day in Nigeria, however, I’m wondering if I should cross meat off the list for the rest of my stay.
LUNCH: I dined at the small restaurant that sits on the same property as the NGO I am working with. I had a delicious pile of rice colored yellow with what I imagine was broth and spices. Atop the pile were a few cubes of beef also nicely flavored, but terribly tough. I did my best to cut off small pieces with the dull butter knives offered at the table. Even the small bites squeaked and bounced my molars apart as downward pressure was released. I chalked it up to being a small informal lunch spot with little competition in the area.
DINNER: “Maybe I’ll have chicken,” I thought. After a brief description of the menu items I was not familiar with, I settled on somovita, a polenta-like maize dish, with vegetable soup and my meat of choice: chicken. It sounded delicious. And it was…mostly. The vegetable soup was spicy. Generous amounts of hot pepper made the predominantly spinach “soup” (it was more like a thin stew) exciting. Mmmmm. Fish bones found in the soup led me to believe that it was not just vegetables, but this was fine by my non-vegetarian standards. I appreciated the complexity of flavors. What I didn’t appreciate was small bulbous pieces of what I can only assume was cartilage. Maybe chicken kneecaps? Slices of beef hooves, perhaps? Whatever it was it looked like small mushrooms, but was definitively an animal product. I avoided them and headed for the large piece of meat that sat covered in the green goodness that dominated the bowl. At first I thought maybe they didn’t hear me say chicken. This beef was even tougher than the beef I had had at lunch. I could hardly separate it from the bone and it had a large outer layer of stiff gelatinous fat. This couldn’t be chicken…oh, but it was. Upon further investigative surgery it became apparent that the meat underneath was chicken – the texture and color was a dead giveaway. I couldn’t quite tell which part of the chicken sat on my plate, but I think a piece I had assumed was the bone of the beef when I was operating under the mix-up theory was the neck. I feverously sawed at the unrecognizable piece of poultry. The knife was not up to the task and I carefully tried to pull pieces of the chicken off with my bare hands (the somovita was meant to be eaten with ones fingers so I was well within social bounds). With a tag-team effort by the knife and fingers, I was successful at getting nibbles of chicken off the bone, but it was tedious. Too tedious, really, to make the less than mediocre morsels worth the work. I focused on the vegetable soup and avoiding the cartilage.
The lesson I seem to be learning here is that caging animals and force-feeding them corn to fatten them up and keep them tender is cruel, but is a drastic improvement over eating lean free-range animals in West Africa. I’ll give Nigerian meat a few more shots, but I may just have to become the first vegetarian to be motivated by the lack of animal cruelty.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Heather
There have been a lot of goodbyes on my trip. Some have been easy, some have been difficult. Today I said goodbye to Heather, but strangely after 2 ½ months of travel together, it didn’t seem like a real goodbye as we embraced on the side of the road in Jerusalem. It seemed more like a divergence of paths that would most certainly meet again.
We met in Egypt at Abu Simbal. Heather had just crossed from Sudan and I was on a hunt for other travelers to fill a felucca to head up the Nile. Three days floating and I thought she was alright – a hot & cold 31-year old Canadian engineer who had embarked on the same kind of journey as I had, one of adventure and self-discovery.
The more time we spent together, the more I liked her and the more the similarities between us became evident – to the point of being eerie at times. We solved problems the same way, had the same laissez-faire attitude towards banking, enjoyed the same type of travel experience (prioritizing people over sights and splurging on spas now and again), both peed with the bathroom door open, fairly consistently were drawn to the same souvenirs, obsessed over little things deconstructing emails and events of great and little significance and most importantly enjoyed one another’s company. Of course there were differences that often overshadowed our similarities to people who met us, but our combined personalities made ideal travel partners often playing good cop/bad cop and navigating our way as women through Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and Israel.
I now sit here on the bus heading to Amman where I will fly home in a few day, county the many blessings that have come my way in the Middle East. Heather, despite our little stresses, is one of the greatest. It is a special person you can meet one day and spend the next 75 days and nights with. Thank you, Heather. ‘Til next time, dear friend.
We met in Egypt at Abu Simbal. Heather had just crossed from Sudan and I was on a hunt for other travelers to fill a felucca to head up the Nile. Three days floating and I thought she was alright – a hot & cold 31-year old Canadian engineer who had embarked on the same kind of journey as I had, one of adventure and self-discovery.
The more time we spent together, the more I liked her and the more the similarities between us became evident – to the point of being eerie at times. We solved problems the same way, had the same laissez-faire attitude towards banking, enjoyed the same type of travel experience (prioritizing people over sights and splurging on spas now and again), both peed with the bathroom door open, fairly consistently were drawn to the same souvenirs, obsessed over little things deconstructing emails and events of great and little significance and most importantly enjoyed one another’s company. Of course there were differences that often overshadowed our similarities to people who met us, but our combined personalities made ideal travel partners often playing good cop/bad cop and navigating our way as women through Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and Israel.
I now sit here on the bus heading to Amman where I will fly home in a few day, county the many blessings that have come my way in the Middle East. Heather, despite our little stresses, is one of the greatest. It is a special person you can meet one day and spend the next 75 days and nights with. Thank you, Heather. ‘Til next time, dear friend.
Kosher McDonalds
Tonight Heather and I took a stroll through Jerusalem people watching and putzing. We stumbled across McDonalds. Some of the Israeli franchises look just like home. Others display signs in blue and white rather than the classic red and yellow. The difference: Kosher McDonalds. Other than the color scheme we wondered what was different. We approached the golden arches and walked inside and stood in front of the menu boards.
“I don’t see a cheeseburger, do you? Meat and dairy is a kosher no-no.”
“No, wait. Is that cheese on the #4?”
“No, I think that is thousand island dressing. Maybe with non-dairy dressing.”
“Is mayonnaise dairy?”
“Sometimes. Maybe here it is just transfats. What about the #4? Hey, look, there is ice cream. Dairy!”
With high-level philosophical conversations such as these around every corner, I wondered how we would ever return to regular life. Traveling offers non-stop entertainment or at least the opportunity for it – the investigation of what differentiates kosher McDonalds from regular McDonalds, just one example.
So, for the answer: #4 was a cheeseburger and we were in a regular McDonalds. Kosher McDonalds does not serve cheese, is closed on the Sabbath and offers ice cream, but in a section completely separated from the rest of the eating establishment.
“I don’t see a cheeseburger, do you? Meat and dairy is a kosher no-no.”
“No, wait. Is that cheese on the #4?”
“No, I think that is thousand island dressing. Maybe with non-dairy dressing.”
“Is mayonnaise dairy?”
“Sometimes. Maybe here it is just transfats. What about the #4? Hey, look, there is ice cream. Dairy!”
With high-level philosophical conversations such as these around every corner, I wondered how we would ever return to regular life. Traveling offers non-stop entertainment or at least the opportunity for it – the investigation of what differentiates kosher McDonalds from regular McDonalds, just one example.
So, for the answer: #4 was a cheeseburger and we were in a regular McDonalds. Kosher McDonalds does not serve cheese, is closed on the Sabbath and offers ice cream, but in a section completely separated from the rest of the eating establishment.
1984 in 2008
At the end of the long fenced-in walkway was a small kiosk and revolving entryway that could be locked with the push of a button. We had to show our passports to a young Israeli soldier behind bulletproof glass and proceeded across an empty parking lot. We passed a large poster covering a piece of the wall from top to bottom. “Peace Be With You,” it wished us in English, Arabic and Hebrew. “Peace Be With You,” from Israel’s Ministry of Tourism. Other than this colorful sign everything was grey, blocky and bulletproof.
We proceeded into another covered walkway and descended into a cold and sterile building where we cued up for our departure out of the West Bank. Metal bars wound around the floor keeping us all in line while another remotely controlled vertical turnstile regulated the flow of people entering the next room. We waited, hearing voices being projected over a loudspeaker in the next room where a large x-ray was barely visible around the corner. We waited, as two by two the line grew shorter.
The x-ray machine was sandwiched between two large bulletproof window. A tall man about twenty stood behind one with a large semi-automatic riffle. The other room was vacant. Cameras were pointed at us from every angle. A woman’s voice shouted directives at us, “Show me your passport!” and “Keep moving.” We waved our passports around in the air in front of the cameras. We spoke into the air saying that we were still waiting for our bags to come through the x-ray. The conveyor belt started moving again. “Keep moving,” she repeated still out of sight somewhat reminiscent of the Great Oz – confused, angry and invisible.
Our bags came through and we grabbed them and proceeded to stand in front of one of four doors. The door’s sign read “Wait for Green Light.” We waited. The green light lit up and we shuffled into the next small room where another empty bulletproof window sat and another door stood closed and imposing. Cameras and speakers placed to allow for the soldiers to conduct invasive strip searches without placing themselves in harms way. Luckily our U.S. and Canadian passports gave us a pass on such antics. We waited in front of the next door for its light to turn green.
The door opened onto a larger room where we joined another line. We waited to show our passports and Israeli visas to a young pierced female soldier. Most of those in line were tourists or foreign aid workers, but some were Palestinian. We watched one of every few get turned back, all Palestinians. Those who were approved based on the permissions they presented were also subject to a fingerprint scan before passing through the final turnstile. We were approved and walked out of the blocky maze-like structure, nodding goodbye to another heavily armed soldier lingering behind the final bulletproof kiosk. The next time we passed through, the dehumanizing mechanical nature of the experience stayed the same, but the route changed. Different doors led to different rooms. Changing the path would prove to be challenging for those hoping to plan and execute an attack. Keep them guessing, keep them in.
We proceeded into another covered walkway and descended into a cold and sterile building where we cued up for our departure out of the West Bank. Metal bars wound around the floor keeping us all in line while another remotely controlled vertical turnstile regulated the flow of people entering the next room. We waited, hearing voices being projected over a loudspeaker in the next room where a large x-ray was barely visible around the corner. We waited, as two by two the line grew shorter.The x-ray machine was sandwiched between two large bulletproof window. A tall man about twenty stood behind one with a large semi-automatic riffle. The other room was vacant. Cameras were pointed at us from every angle. A woman’s voice shouted directives at us, “Show me your passport!” and “Keep moving.” We waved our passports around in the air in front of the cameras. We spoke into the air saying that we were still waiting for our bags to come through the x-ray. The conveyor belt started moving again. “Keep moving,” she repeated still out of sight somewhat reminiscent of the Great Oz – confused, angry and invisible.
Our bags came through and we grabbed them and proceeded to stand in front of one of four doors. The door’s sign read “Wait for Green Light.” We waited. The green light lit up and we shuffled into the next small room where another empty bulletproof window sat and another door stood closed and imposing. Cameras and speakers placed to allow for the soldiers to conduct invasive strip searches without placing themselves in harms way. Luckily our U.S. and Canadian passports gave us a pass on such antics. We waited in front of the next door for its light to turn green.
The door opened onto a larger room where we joined another line. We waited to show our passports and Israeli visas to a young pierced female soldier. Most of those in line were tourists or foreign aid workers, but some were Palestinian. We watched one of every few get turned back, all Palestinians. Those who were approved based on the permissions they presented were also subject to a fingerprint scan before passing through the final turnstile. We were approved and walked out of the blocky maze-like structure, nodding goodbye to another heavily armed soldier lingering behind the final bulletproof kiosk. The next time we passed through, the dehumanizing mechanical nature of the experience stayed the same, but the route changed. Different doors led to different rooms. Changing the path would prove to be challenging for those hoping to plan and execute an attack. Keep them guessing, keep them in.
The Wall
There are two walkways next to one another divided by grey bars, one buffered by a 30' wall separating Israel from Palestine. There are two signs – Exit & Entrance. I looked to Heather as we approached. Were we exiting Palestine or entering Israel? This was only the beginning of the confusion. A woman repeating “Inshallah,” or “God willing” passed under the entrance sign. We followed, but took our time slowly proceeding down the “entrance” path while looking at the graffiti that covered the wall – “Down with the wall,” “Free Palestine,” “Only God can Judge.” I stopped. One particular image caught my eye. A woman in a headscarf was sprayed on the cold gray wall. The text below read “I am not a terrorist.” I unzipped my backpack and reached from my camera to capture and image that was just about to take on a stronger meaning for Heather and me. As I framed the shot, a woman approached on the other side of the bars heading back into Palestine. She stopped.The pride she had put into her outfit was apparent. She wore a pressed white blazer and matching hat. She clenched her purse in her right hand. Her hair had been styled for her visit to Jerusalem – only 15 minutes by bus, this was a big trip. But she was walking the wrong way. On the other side of the bars, she was walking back to Bethlehem, agitated. She stopped and spoke to us.
“They said they would help me. They said if I went back to get my papers that they would help me through. When I came back, they laughed at me. They laughed at me.” Her emotions were erupting as she spoke. She had been strong and had held it together, but with kind ears listening the building frustration, shame and anger melted into tears. Her words were jumbled and confused by despair. Her pain was chillingly clear and her story echoed by the graffiti behind her.
“I was born in Jerusalem. This is my home. Jerusalem is my home. They said they would help, but instead they laughed. I am a human. I did as they asked. I took a taxi back home to get my papers. I took a taxi. I had it. I had it. I am not a football. I am a human. I did as they said.” She was crumbling before me. Heather and I both reached through the bars and grabbed her hand as tears streamed down our faces as she continued, “They wouldn’t treat their sisters like this. All they did was laugh…They said they would help, but they laughed at me. They treat me like I’m not human. They played with me. They wouldn’t do this to their sister…”
The woman who had led us under the entrance sign appeared again, now on the other side of the bars still repeating “Inshallah” as she walked, head down, back into Bethlehem. She stopped where we stood with the woman in white, grabbed her hand and led her back as well. Heather and I stood still for a moment. Wiped our tears and in a haze began our own journey through the dehumanizing border crossing from the West Bank back into Israel.
Onward Christian Tourists
Israel is crawling with tour buses filled with religious “pilgrims.” They wear nametags, feast on buffet dinners and hold prayer sessions at all of the major sites – where Jesus was born, where Jesus died, where Gabrielle told the shepards of Christ’s birth, where Jesus turned water into wine, where Jesus attended synagogue, where Jesus started preaching, Joseph’s carpentry shop, where Mary was told she was to bear the son of God, where Mary dripped breast milk on a rock…you get the picture.
One would think that these would be places of great piousness, places where groups from Sri Lanka to Spain would gather in harmony to celebrate the teachings of Our Lord, Jesus and all that he stood for…one would think these would be places of love and generosity. In reality, however, Christian values give way to fervor. Guides elbow those who aren’t paying members of their group. Priests bark orders at antsy pilgrims trying to get a glimpse before their turn. It’s a rat race in which the idol symbols of Christianity create a momentary fanaticism and in which the cornerstones of Christianity are lost. Granted, the Ten Commandments didn’t specifically include “Thou shalt not yell at your neighbor for waling into your photo,” but the general principles should lead one to this conclusion. It is sad to see the good of Christianity crumble in the very places is should be the strongest. The tour buses can take these people to places where Jesus walked, but apparently can’t make them walk like Jesus.
One would think that these would be places of great piousness, places where groups from Sri Lanka to Spain would gather in harmony to celebrate the teachings of Our Lord, Jesus and all that he stood for…one would think these would be places of love and generosity. In reality, however, Christian values give way to fervor. Guides elbow those who aren’t paying members of their group. Priests bark orders at antsy pilgrims trying to get a glimpse before their turn. It’s a rat race in which the idol symbols of Christianity create a momentary fanaticism and in which the cornerstones of Christianity are lost. Granted, the Ten Commandments didn’t specifically include “Thou shalt not yell at your neighbor for waling into your photo,” but the general principles should lead one to this conclusion. It is sad to see the good of Christianity crumble in the very places is should be the strongest. The tour buses can take these people to places where Jesus walked, but apparently can’t make them walk like Jesus.
The Great Escape from Lebanon
It was Wednesday, May 7th late in the afternoon and our final day of a 3-day rental car. We had driven around the small, but stunning Lebanese countryside. As we neared Beirut we looked at the clock and lamented the fact that our return would be perfectly in sync with rush hour traffic jams (the Lebanese have little respect for lanes and are notoriously aggressive drivers). We had been on this stretch of highway north of Beirut plenty of times before, but on mini buses and in taxis rather than in our own vehicle. We knew what to expect. Or so we thought.
Elissa, my favorite Lebanese pop star was in the CD player. We sung along smiling, turning it down as we came to a checkpoint. Strange, we thought, we had gone through many checkpoints on our 3-day journey, but never one in the middle of a freeway. Most were on rural roads entering and exiting small towns. Additionally, before this one none had checked our passports or inquired about our destination. Usually we just got waived through, two white girls in a Toyota Yaris with a huge “Budget” sticker in the back windshield. Sign #1.
We continued with Elissa towards Beirut remarking that the traffic was unusually light. It wasn’t Friday (the holy day for Muslims). It wasn’t Sunday (the holy day for Christians). It wasn’t a government holiday as far as we knew. I also hadn’t seen many minibuses – only private cars zipping between lanes racing to their destinations. Sign #2.
We discussed. If something were wrong in Beirut the soldiers at the checkpoint would have told us, no? Should we stop and check the Internet? Would the Canadian Embassy on the outskirts of town be open? Our instincts were kicking in. Something was going on.
As we drove farther we counted the tanks. There were more than before…markedly more. Maybe 9 times as many with guns pointed direct at oncoming traffic. Soldiers loitered looking official in what turned out to be the quiet before the storm. We detoured to find Internet, but our brief search was futile. With other cars still heading towards the city center we decided to stop wasting time and get back to our hotel where we could collect more information. If something was wrong, time was of the essence.
As we turned off the freeway towards our hotel, we saw a massive military mobilization. The nearby overpass had been blocked above and below and tires lay strewn across the road (these would later be burned in protest). Three large trucks were parked carrying upwards of 90 soldiers in brown fatigues only two blocks from our hotel. We parked.
Our hotel was an inviting place. The doors were always open welcoming guests into a small lobby where people gathered to share tales of the day and get advice from the friendly family that ran the place. As we ascended the stairs reality struck. The door was closed. This was serious. When we pushed the door open some turned to see who we were. Others remained glued to the television awaiting news from outside. I knew the answer before I asked. “What is going on?”
It was 6:00pm. We needed a plan. Take the rental back (not to the airport as it was on lock down, no one could enter) and leave immediately OR wait until morning to head for the Syrian border. We consulted with the other tourists that had been around all day. One had just arrived and was sticking around in hopes that people would still be going salsa dancing. Others seemed lost, glued to the Internet or hiding out in their rooms watching BBC World or CNN International. We only had one more planned day in Beirut. It was supposed to be a relaxed day on the Mediterranean beachside. Tempting, but self-preservation won out. I called my mother. “We’re okay. We’re leaving. I’ll call you from Damascus tomorrow. This call is expensive.”
The North Beirut Budget rental office was supposed to be closed but due to the forced closure of the airport location, it had remained open a little later than usual. 7:00pm – the man was sliding the chain link gate closed as we pulled up. He slid it open again and checked our car in. We said we were heading for Syria. He called a cab - $100 to the border, what??? No. We could do better with a share taxi. The man at Budget kindly offered to drive us to the bus station where we’d hopefully find others heading the same way. We threw our bags in the back of the Budget vehicle and kindly declined stopping for a beer in route. At the station we found a share taxi for $15 each. We just had to wait for the car to fill up – three more people. We moved our bags into the trunk of our escape vehicle – a ghetto-licious white Cadillac with maroon velvet seats.
Soon a Syrian family arrived and joined the car. We packed the three of them plus baby in the back and Heather and I sat front and center with the driver. Goodbye Beirut. I thought about Rein, the yoga instructor, Yosef, the law professor, Ahmed, our VIP sugardaddy, Mohamad and Bassem, who had taken us to the south, the brothers who ran our hotlel. Heather and I could grab our backpacks, hop in a white Caddy and pull a family Von Trapp (leave), but what could they do? My heart sank for these people who had touched my life and a country on the possible brink of another long and painful civil war. I felt as though I was abandoning them – using my privilege, my birthright. But there was noting I could do. My sympathy was not going to stop bullets, bombs and burning tires. I had to go.
The dark roads to the border were still relatively quiet. Families were inside awaiting news on the next development. Checkpoints waved us through. We arrived at the border around 10:15pm and stamped out of Lebanon with a new challenge: getting back into Syria.
The border guard said that with my American passport I’d have to wait 3 hours for approval from Damascus. Just like before, this was expected, but with an ETA of 3:00am in Damascus, the annoyance factor was escalated. He said that maybe it would be shorter, but our Cadillac and family could not wait. The guard assured us that another taxi would be available to take us. Worse case scenario, we figured, we could sleep on the cold barren floor of the 24-hour border facility.
It’s unclear if the God’s were smiling on us or if suspicious forces were at play, but my visa got processing in record time: 1 hour and 30 minutes. No taxis were outside, but the guards found us a ride with an Armenian Syrian who seemed friendly enough. With few options and the border guards with all of our information as well as his, we accepted.
We drove to the first customs checkpoint. Passport photos matched the passengers. “Who’s bags are those?”
“The American’s,” our driver replied.
“Go.”
We pulled up to the next stop where they checked our car registration. The soldiers pointed at me.
“American,” it was clarified by our driver. I wondered why he wasn’t saying anything about the Canadian in the back seat. We were waved on.
On the road to Damascus, we had successfully left Lebanon. I very selfishly hoped that if war was inevitable that fighting would break sooner rather than later making our epic tale of flight that much more dramatic and confirming our good decision-making rather than proving us to have overreacted. I felt a little guilty for this, but hey, if it was going to happen anyway…
As my moral fabric was stretched by my conflicting feelings and thoughts, I was soon distracted by a wee detour. We pulled up next to a small shack-like house on the side of the road. Pictures of Hezbollah leaders were displayed prominently in the front windows. Our ride got out and walked inside. It is unclear what transpired in the house, but it sent my mind racing. Could this all be an elaborate setup and Heather and I were soon to be en route to a Hezbollah safe house in Syria where we would be used as trivial pawns in the politics of a pending war that’s implications went far beyond Lebanon’s borders? My fears were not quelled when a man accompanied our driver back out to the car and words containing “American” were exchanged.
I grew tenser and tenser as early morning calls and texts (maybe 1am at this point) kept coming in on the phone. Coded conversations activated my survival instincts and I began looking for a way to secure my safety.
“Are you Christian?” I asked pointing to the picture of Jesus Christ saved as the wallpaper on his phone. I got a puzzled look. He didn’t understand. “Christian?” I crossed myself as I had seen on my few experiences at mass or watching mobster flicks. “Enta (You)?”
“Aywa, yes, yes.”
“Me too! Me too!” I said hoping to invoke some sort of guilt and or sympathy that might prevent my “captor” from delivering me into the hands of Hezbollah.
The calls kept coming in and as we neared Damascus he began slowing down as we passed cars stopped on the side of the freeway. He looked inside trying to see if it was whomever he had been conversing with over the cellular network. My hands were shaking as he began to ruffle through some things and grabbed a Red Label box from the back as he drove. Heather seemed calm in the back listening to her iPod. She remained so as we pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop behind a car with a man leaning against the driver side door. Our driver was fiddling with the box which based on the way he was handling it, did not contain whiskey as the outside would suggest. I offered to hold it for him in an attempt to provide helpful and see if it was a gun that he would use to escort us into the hands of Hezbollah. He, of course, didn’t want to hand it over and soon opened his door and exited.
Our lights still on shown on the two men like spotlights along the surprisingly busy highway. Our driver handed over the Red Label box. The other man, slightly portly and in his late 30’s, reached into the pockets of his khaki pants and pulled out a wad of Syrian currency. He counted off more bills than I could keep track of and handed it to our driver. The deal was done, and we were not part of it.
Our driver came back and let us know that “his friend” was going all the way towards our hotel if we wanted a ride. I was still shaking and we declined and requested he take us to the turnoff where we could get a cab. He agreed and we drove a few more miles to a turnoff where he flagged us a cab, negotiated us a good rate and sent us on our way.
Turned out that we had been accessories to help smooth the journey for this well-meaning smuggler. It was a win/win of sorts. Relieved and exhausted by the day, we checked into our hotel and awoke the next morning to news of bombs and bullets in Beirut. God had given me the adventure I was after…and then some.
Elissa, my favorite Lebanese pop star was in the CD player. We sung along smiling, turning it down as we came to a checkpoint. Strange, we thought, we had gone through many checkpoints on our 3-day journey, but never one in the middle of a freeway. Most were on rural roads entering and exiting small towns. Additionally, before this one none had checked our passports or inquired about our destination. Usually we just got waived through, two white girls in a Toyota Yaris with a huge “Budget” sticker in the back windshield. Sign #1.
We continued with Elissa towards Beirut remarking that the traffic was unusually light. It wasn’t Friday (the holy day for Muslims). It wasn’t Sunday (the holy day for Christians). It wasn’t a government holiday as far as we knew. I also hadn’t seen many minibuses – only private cars zipping between lanes racing to their destinations. Sign #2.
We discussed. If something were wrong in Beirut the soldiers at the checkpoint would have told us, no? Should we stop and check the Internet? Would the Canadian Embassy on the outskirts of town be open? Our instincts were kicking in. Something was going on.
As we drove farther we counted the tanks. There were more than before…markedly more. Maybe 9 times as many with guns pointed direct at oncoming traffic. Soldiers loitered looking official in what turned out to be the quiet before the storm. We detoured to find Internet, but our brief search was futile. With other cars still heading towards the city center we decided to stop wasting time and get back to our hotel where we could collect more information. If something was wrong, time was of the essence.As we turned off the freeway towards our hotel, we saw a massive military mobilization. The nearby overpass had been blocked above and below and tires lay strewn across the road (these would later be burned in protest). Three large trucks were parked carrying upwards of 90 soldiers in brown fatigues only two blocks from our hotel. We parked.
Our hotel was an inviting place. The doors were always open welcoming guests into a small lobby where people gathered to share tales of the day and get advice from the friendly family that ran the place. As we ascended the stairs reality struck. The door was closed. This was serious. When we pushed the door open some turned to see who we were. Others remained glued to the television awaiting news from outside. I knew the answer before I asked. “What is going on?”
It was 6:00pm. We needed a plan. Take the rental back (not to the airport as it was on lock down, no one could enter) and leave immediately OR wait until morning to head for the Syrian border. We consulted with the other tourists that had been around all day. One had just arrived and was sticking around in hopes that people would still be going salsa dancing. Others seemed lost, glued to the Internet or hiding out in their rooms watching BBC World or CNN International. We only had one more planned day in Beirut. It was supposed to be a relaxed day on the Mediterranean beachside. Tempting, but self-preservation won out. I called my mother. “We’re okay. We’re leaving. I’ll call you from Damascus tomorrow. This call is expensive.”
The North Beirut Budget rental office was supposed to be closed but due to the forced closure of the airport location, it had remained open a little later than usual. 7:00pm – the man was sliding the chain link gate closed as we pulled up. He slid it open again and checked our car in. We said we were heading for Syria. He called a cab - $100 to the border, what??? No. We could do better with a share taxi. The man at Budget kindly offered to drive us to the bus station where we’d hopefully find others heading the same way. We threw our bags in the back of the Budget vehicle and kindly declined stopping for a beer in route. At the station we found a share taxi for $15 each. We just had to wait for the car to fill up – three more people. We moved our bags into the trunk of our escape vehicle – a ghetto-licious white Cadillac with maroon velvet seats.
Soon a Syrian family arrived and joined the car. We packed the three of them plus baby in the back and Heather and I sat front and center with the driver. Goodbye Beirut. I thought about Rein, the yoga instructor, Yosef, the law professor, Ahmed, our VIP sugardaddy, Mohamad and Bassem, who had taken us to the south, the brothers who ran our hotlel. Heather and I could grab our backpacks, hop in a white Caddy and pull a family Von Trapp (leave), but what could they do? My heart sank for these people who had touched my life and a country on the possible brink of another long and painful civil war. I felt as though I was abandoning them – using my privilege, my birthright. But there was noting I could do. My sympathy was not going to stop bullets, bombs and burning tires. I had to go.
The dark roads to the border were still relatively quiet. Families were inside awaiting news on the next development. Checkpoints waved us through. We arrived at the border around 10:15pm and stamped out of Lebanon with a new challenge: getting back into Syria.
The border guard said that with my American passport I’d have to wait 3 hours for approval from Damascus. Just like before, this was expected, but with an ETA of 3:00am in Damascus, the annoyance factor was escalated. He said that maybe it would be shorter, but our Cadillac and family could not wait. The guard assured us that another taxi would be available to take us. Worse case scenario, we figured, we could sleep on the cold barren floor of the 24-hour border facility.
It’s unclear if the God’s were smiling on us or if suspicious forces were at play, but my visa got processing in record time: 1 hour and 30 minutes. No taxis were outside, but the guards found us a ride with an Armenian Syrian who seemed friendly enough. With few options and the border guards with all of our information as well as his, we accepted.
We drove to the first customs checkpoint. Passport photos matched the passengers. “Who’s bags are those?”
“The American’s,” our driver replied.
“Go.”
We pulled up to the next stop where they checked our car registration. The soldiers pointed at me.
“American,” it was clarified by our driver. I wondered why he wasn’t saying anything about the Canadian in the back seat. We were waved on.
On the road to Damascus, we had successfully left Lebanon. I very selfishly hoped that if war was inevitable that fighting would break sooner rather than later making our epic tale of flight that much more dramatic and confirming our good decision-making rather than proving us to have overreacted. I felt a little guilty for this, but hey, if it was going to happen anyway…
As my moral fabric was stretched by my conflicting feelings and thoughts, I was soon distracted by a wee detour. We pulled up next to a small shack-like house on the side of the road. Pictures of Hezbollah leaders were displayed prominently in the front windows. Our ride got out and walked inside. It is unclear what transpired in the house, but it sent my mind racing. Could this all be an elaborate setup and Heather and I were soon to be en route to a Hezbollah safe house in Syria where we would be used as trivial pawns in the politics of a pending war that’s implications went far beyond Lebanon’s borders? My fears were not quelled when a man accompanied our driver back out to the car and words containing “American” were exchanged.
I grew tenser and tenser as early morning calls and texts (maybe 1am at this point) kept coming in on the phone. Coded conversations activated my survival instincts and I began looking for a way to secure my safety.
“Are you Christian?” I asked pointing to the picture of Jesus Christ saved as the wallpaper on his phone. I got a puzzled look. He didn’t understand. “Christian?” I crossed myself as I had seen on my few experiences at mass or watching mobster flicks. “Enta (You)?”
“Aywa, yes, yes.”
“Me too! Me too!” I said hoping to invoke some sort of guilt and or sympathy that might prevent my “captor” from delivering me into the hands of Hezbollah.
The calls kept coming in and as we neared Damascus he began slowing down as we passed cars stopped on the side of the freeway. He looked inside trying to see if it was whomever he had been conversing with over the cellular network. My hands were shaking as he began to ruffle through some things and grabbed a Red Label box from the back as he drove. Heather seemed calm in the back listening to her iPod. She remained so as we pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop behind a car with a man leaning against the driver side door. Our driver was fiddling with the box which based on the way he was handling it, did not contain whiskey as the outside would suggest. I offered to hold it for him in an attempt to provide helpful and see if it was a gun that he would use to escort us into the hands of Hezbollah. He, of course, didn’t want to hand it over and soon opened his door and exited.
Our lights still on shown on the two men like spotlights along the surprisingly busy highway. Our driver handed over the Red Label box. The other man, slightly portly and in his late 30’s, reached into the pockets of his khaki pants and pulled out a wad of Syrian currency. He counted off more bills than I could keep track of and handed it to our driver. The deal was done, and we were not part of it.
Our driver came back and let us know that “his friend” was going all the way towards our hotel if we wanted a ride. I was still shaking and we declined and requested he take us to the turnoff where we could get a cab. He agreed and we drove a few more miles to a turnoff where he flagged us a cab, negotiated us a good rate and sent us on our way.
Turned out that we had been accessories to help smooth the journey for this well-meaning smuggler. It was a win/win of sorts. Relieved and exhausted by the day, we checked into our hotel and awoke the next morning to news of bombs and bullets in Beirut. God had given me the adventure I was after…and then some.
Yes, it Snows in the Middle East
Many people have asked me, "Isn't it hot in the Middle East?"Yes and no. Hot enough to wear sandles all the time (well at least since returning from Egypt), but my toes got chilly as we passed through a newly opened mountain pass in Lebanon and got stuck in the ICE! An old woman had to help us get our guttless Yaris back on track.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
The Real Thing
Documentaries, Associated Press photographs, breaking news…they all aim to give one a sense of being there, of understanding. But nothing comes close to the real thing.
The Palestinian Refugee Camp: I drove by it, nothing more. The walls were high and lined with spirals of barbed wire. A small orchard of citrus trees buffered the wall on the inside. The entrance was blockaded with sand bags and soldiers. Inside acres of homes – permanent homes reminded me that thee were much more than camps, but after decades of use had morphed into neighborhoods. My mind raced with excitement and curiosity. My imagination saw children kicking balls in the street, mothers washing clothes and laboring over the stove. It saw fanatic congregation around a dining room table. I “saw” Iranian money and Western fear. I saw 18 years of Israeli occupation and the children going inside. I saw a world I could never completely imagine or comprehend. Then we were past – on to new neighborhoods in the relaxed beach town of Saida. Ones that didn’t have the history, the tensions and the propaganda to fuel my spinning stories or created the knotted feeling in my gut out of brick, mortar and orange trees.
The Beeka Valley: Where Hezbollah is the people’s party in the Beeka Valley, grown out of social services and good works. In the West we tend to think of it only as an extremist group of terrorists and fanatical Muslims. In America, they are labeled terrorists. In Lebanon they are, to some, heroes – the teachers, the food banks, the advocates for the needs of the common man (yes, man, Hezbollah isn’t quite ready for “person” yet). The truth is somewhere in between. I knew this as we drove out of Beirut towards the ruins of Balbeck, but wasn’t prepared for the emotions and spinning thoughts that joined me on the road. Every 25 meters of road a light pole rose from the center divide for 4km down a main of road. Two banners hang on each – one yellow, one green, both bearing Hezbollah’s iconic symbol. Below hung banners of different political martyrs or leaders. Seemingly calling for unity of this selfless front. I all of a sudden became very self conscious driving my little blue rental car into the belly of a political movement that hates everything that has shaped me as a person…okay, not everything, but as I looked into the faces of the selfless men who died for the cause on the passing banners, I felt small contemplating the passion behind this foreign and fanatical belief system.
The feelings I had driving around Lebanon may not have been fact checked, they may have been driven by emotion and influenced by Western propaganda and/or “framing,” but it was more intense and interesting than hitting play on a DVD or picking up the morning paper over coffee.
The Palestinian Refugee Camp: I drove by it, nothing more. The walls were high and lined with spirals of barbed wire. A small orchard of citrus trees buffered the wall on the inside. The entrance was blockaded with sand bags and soldiers. Inside acres of homes – permanent homes reminded me that thee were much more than camps, but after decades of use had morphed into neighborhoods. My mind raced with excitement and curiosity. My imagination saw children kicking balls in the street, mothers washing clothes and laboring over the stove. It saw fanatic congregation around a dining room table. I “saw” Iranian money and Western fear. I saw 18 years of Israeli occupation and the children going inside. I saw a world I could never completely imagine or comprehend. Then we were past – on to new neighborhoods in the relaxed beach town of Saida. Ones that didn’t have the history, the tensions and the propaganda to fuel my spinning stories or created the knotted feeling in my gut out of brick, mortar and orange trees.
The Beeka Valley: Where Hezbollah is the people’s party in the Beeka Valley, grown out of social services and good works. In the West we tend to think of it only as an extremist group of terrorists and fanatical Muslims. In America, they are labeled terrorists. In Lebanon they are, to some, heroes – the teachers, the food banks, the advocates for the needs of the common man (yes, man, Hezbollah isn’t quite ready for “person” yet). The truth is somewhere in between. I knew this as we drove out of Beirut towards the ruins of Balbeck, but wasn’t prepared for the emotions and spinning thoughts that joined me on the road. Every 25 meters of road a light pole rose from the center divide for 4km down a main of road. Two banners hang on each – one yellow, one green, both bearing Hezbollah’s iconic symbol. Below hung banners of different political martyrs or leaders. Seemingly calling for unity of this selfless front. I all of a sudden became very self conscious driving my little blue rental car into the belly of a political movement that hates everything that has shaped me as a person…okay, not everything, but as I looked into the faces of the selfless men who died for the cause on the passing banners, I felt small contemplating the passion behind this foreign and fanatical belief system.
The feelings I had driving around Lebanon may not have been fact checked, they may have been driven by emotion and influenced by Western propaganda and/or “framing,” but it was more intense and interesting than hitting play on a DVD or picking up the morning paper over coffee.
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