White Baboon

Sometimes I wonder how I end up where I do.

This was my thought as I walked atop the shoulders of an icy, starry night on a road between Syria and Lebanon, humming Islands in the Stream (it was playing at the duty free shop) and searching my coat pockets for toilet paper.

Our morning departing Beirut had been a hellish nightmare of false starts, perfume peddlers, taxi scams, bus ticket tricks and below-the-highway bust-ups. We’d finally managed to find a five dollar mini-bus, which along with eight other smoking, shifty-eyed males, took us up over the mountain pass and even stopped for a currency exchange. Six weeks ago, on our way in, we’d exchanged cash in panic through a barbed wire fence at the Lebanese entrance while we prayed that our bus didn’t leave without us. It sucked. But this time, despite the confusing conversion of Lebanese Pounds, Syrian Pounds and American Dollars (which were also used in Beirut) we fared better.

But getting our cash was only the first step. At the Syrian entry point, where not one officer spoke English, we discovered via a kind bilingual bystander that it would take five or six hours to issue a visa since they’d have to contact Damascus and wait for approval.

No problem. We’d been warned and were well-prepared with snacks and our books: Eastward to Tartary and Beirut to Jerusalem. Plus, there was a Dunkin Donuts nearby. Swell. All day long we watched hundreds of border-crossers come and go and the moustachioed pea-green-uniformed officers change shifts. But eight hours later, we were still hugging the radiator in our little bucket seats, going a little stircrazy. That’s when paranoia began to set in. We had no idea what was going on back there. Had our request been sent? Were they checking on it? Were visas issued after business hours? Shit, what had I written in my blog about Asad? Bloggers had been recently arrested in Egypt. What was the problem? Damn it America! Look at those Japanese tourists–in and out in five minutes!

Finally, just before 10:00 they motioned us over.

The visas would be issued.

Whew. But now we had to find a ride to Damascus. It was just a forty minute drive, but dark and cold by now, hitchhiking did not sound good. About that time, we heard American voices. Texas accents.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting comfortably in the front seat of our own knight on a white horse. Except this hero had a 1974, velour interior dirt-dusted Caprice Classic–so big and white it seemed like it would fly. It’s driver, Abu Anas, a friend of the family spoke little English, but lucky for us, Abeer the pharmaceutical rep, Kinan the real estate guru and Zak the attorney spoke good Arabic. Somehow, it was arranged that we would stay with Abu tonight at his home and tomorrow morning he would drive us to Amman, Jordan for a small fee.

So we dropped off the Texans, then headed far out of the center to the cinder block shantytown of his suburban home. It was rockpiles and late-night fruit stands, dark alleys, corrugated tin and cement compounds. But his smile was as wide as the Caprice Classic as he called his wife and told her the good news. Though nearly midnight, he was bringing home guests. American guests. So would she plug in the space heater and put on the tea?

That night we slept in our clothes on a firm bed under three blankets. Harsh security lights courtyard, the outdoor space between the living spaces of his “house”, flooded our room, setting aglow the literally hundreds of garish ceramics displayed in our bedroom, a strange status of wealth in these Syrian communities. The next morning, after a quick teethbrush at the outside faucet, we sat around the kitchen diesel stove while Koran verses san across the television. Did we want tea? Well of course we did. As Abu’s headscarfed wife flowered with facial expressions and three of their nine little boys watched us with delight, we knew we were at a red-level alert for another kidnapping. This would be a close one.

But this time was different. This family was at ease with each other and that made us at ease with them.The energy was buoyant and we relaxed into the comfort of confusion we had come to know so well. I practiced my Arabic numbers. They practiced their English greetings. It was shy smiles and photos all around. Soon, Abu Anas made a move to go and we followed the nonverbals. Onto the white horse we climbed, one leg at a time and he drove us to. . . .not Jordan, but the bus station, where he arranged our seat with a bus-driver buddy of his. A miscommunication. Not too shocking. But it didn’t matter. A free bed, a culture-rich evening and a personal delivery to the bus’ two front positions, the best seats in the house. Abu refused to accept any money.

The Jordanian border, with King Abdullah and Queen Rania smiling at us with delight as if we’d just arrived at their private dinner party, was full of shiny marble, modern mosaics and velvet ropes which swung with order.

Amman here we come.

It was time to go. We spent our last day in Lebanon in typical potential peril as we gathered with thousands of others to commemorate the third anniversary of Prime Minister Hariri’s assasination, which, in 2005, had led to a national uprising and the removal of Syrian troops. We sloshed through puddles, fear, skirmishes and dozens of soldiers to get there, but it was worth it. For the first time in Beirut, we were truly “init”.

Us with Inma Director Rob and his wife Harriet–thanks for everything.

Boudreaux skiing above the Lebanese clouds. . .

Finally, the apartment I’ve been talking about for weeks. . .

8:00 Consider getting up, but switch positions and ignore the springs digging into my hipbone. Notice wall-heater is still functioning, which means electricity is on. Which means it could very well go off at 9:00. Good thing I juiced the oranges last night.

8:35: Get dressed and try to put water on for tea. Realize the faucet is only a trickle, which means in a bout five minutes, there will be no water at all. Have a tough time lighting the burner, so kitchen smells of sulfur. Use water from the cooler for eggs and tea.

8:40: Hear Michael messing with the toilet, realizing there is no water. He comes into the kitchen with quite a look. I nod in acknowledgment. Last time this happened, the Palestinian plumbing student at Inma center, who had fixed the water twice before, said that he could help us today, but didn’t want to. He wanted to teach us a lesson about wasting water. This was translated to us from Arabic by American volunteers who were rather aghast at his audacity. But despite the fact that we were at that time showering every few days, we didn’t say much. Since he didn’t fix our water, we were instructed to move across the hall. To the apartment three times as big.

So now, we REALLY didn’t want to come to this guy about the water. I decided to think about it later.

8:50: Retrieve Middle East book from living room to see when we can catch a bus to Jordan, our next destination. Michael is heating water to shave. We eat hard boiled eggs with soy and hot sauce and drink fresh orange juice on the terrace. Sometimes we read Economist articles to each other. Not today.

9:25: We say hello to Adel, the mechanic and the Syrian guy, Faisal, who serves coffee in the empty parking lot, then get a service taxi to Bourj el Barajne, the Palestinian Refugee Camp. A service taxi is basically a carpool. Most trips are $1/person. When we tell him our destination from the roadside, he grunts an affirmative and we get in. I think service taxis are the best way to see Beirut.You never know how long the ride could be, which route the driver will take, who might squeeze into the backseat with you. One morning, as I sat alone in the back of an unusually filthy car, my driver stopped, flashed five fingers and big smile my way, then got out and jacked the car up and down multiple times over a twenty-five minute period. During the rest of my ride, the guttural sounds coming from the car were matched only by the driver’s spit-spewing hack. On another day, during a 45-minute ride, the driver and three passengers smoked cigarettes, stopped for coffee-to-go and chatted as if they were all old friends, while I huddled reading in the corner, wondering if I’d accidentally crashed their road trip. But everyone is always nice. Helpful. Friendly. And you never have to worry about the driver taking the long way around. Because you KNOW he’s taking the long way around.

9:45: We see the KFC, our landmark and ask to get out amidst piles of dirt and two by fours, then cross the road, walk through the car wash and up four flights to the Inma Office. Hoda is making sandwiches (pitas rolled up with cheese) in the kitchen. Everyone is huddled in one room, sharing a joke. Apparently, Fadi’s father died last night. Which of course, is not funny at all. But Fadi had been asked to pick up the coffin and he was feeling a bit spooked about the task, which was embarrassing. And somehow, this became hilarious.

10:07: Suher, a Palestinian employee and Jamie, an American employee who came with her church last fall and will stay for a few years while her husband gets his masters at American University of Beirut, are going into the camp to sign up new kids for the pre-school. We tag along. We’ve seen the strange mix of colorful murals, unprotected cables and abandoned plastic dolls of this ghetto before, but our skin still pops as we walk.

I know the way, but we cannot walk too far ahead. Foreigners are not allowed unaccompanied through the camp. We reach the pre-school’s office. Ramadan greeting cards, rose-colored walls, Arabic scripture plaques and silk flowers attempt to decorate the cold, dark and drafty room. We sit in plastic deck chairs—the folding chair of the developing country. High-pitched child screams echo nearby. Jamie and Suher complete child profiles with meek mothers.

Eventually, we take a tour through the pre-school, which is more like a high-ceilinged courtyard with tiny rooms for teaching. We are given sweet steaming tea in brown mugs as we snap pictures of toddlers in blue-checked uniforms upon the blurry mirror of the steel slide.

Primary-colored murals are everywhere. Along the top surface of the wall separating the kitchen from the hallway are ever-shining shards of sharp glass, permanently glued in place. This is to keep away the thieves, since the kitchen has no door.

12:30: I have been asked by Louise, a British woman living in Beirut and working for Inma, to help out with the adult English class in the Vocational Training Center in the camp. They’re working on informal and formal greetings and their levels vary from beginner to intermediate, but they’re all headscarfed women and all inclined to giggle. They are giddily happy about learning English. This is pretty nice.

When I return to the center, Suzanne tells me Michael went to the Fadi’s father’s funeral.

2:00: I take a service taxi back to the Hamra area, look for the bookstore where I found $8 paperbacks a few weeks ago and then settle in at our restaurant with free internet and delicious tuna wraps. I order by leaning over the balcony from the second floor.

6:30: Michael arrives at the restaurant after a day of mourning.

One of the things we’re accustomed to, in our nomadic life, is the presence of second-world elevators. The kind where you actually watch the rectangle floors go by, like some kind of early 90’s thriller where the journalist resorts to microfiche in the downtown library.

Some elevators are also void of short-term memory. So, for example, if you get in with a fellow stranger and you push Floor 8 and then they push Floor 2, the elevator will go to Floor 8 and then settle into sleep as if it’s job is finished.

We know about the quirks.

A few weeks ago, in the beginning of Beirut, we were in an elevator destined for the fourth floor Inma Center office. As we rode, I thought out loud, (as my inner monologue is so completely worn out from keeping quiet in front of all these strangers!)

“I wonder what happens when the electricity goes off while you’re in the elevator?”

And at that very moment (and I mean that VERY moment) like a good drama student should, the elevator slowly came to a stop between floors.

So we pushed another button. And it began moving (whew), landing between another couple floors (ack). And we did that again. And then we did that again. Ffffuuuuu. . . .and, eyes squeezed shut, we rode to the bottom, where I banged open the door and embraced the stairs.

Michael rode back up. Show off.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile. Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shiite neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assassination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep, we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.

Beirut, upon first glance, is a Disneyland of dreaminess. There’s Chili’s, Hard Rock Cafe Starbucks, Subway, and this bizarre obsession with retro-style American diners, such as the one you see behind my unhappy husband.Because we want it so badly to be true, we are instant victims–convinced of this burger-oasis between the chicken, hummus and fatoush all around it. At first, as soda-pop-jerk-dressed waiters walk the floor, Cadillac headlights glow across our red-leather booth, and we spot bacon-cheeseburgers and coke-floats on the menu, we are forced to close our mouth and dab a napkin at our drool. But it’s only one bite in, and one exchange with the server when we know we’d been duped.There’s something special about American cattle and exaggerated customer service. And it just doesn’t travel very well.

We are now living in Lebanon. I say living because I believe that once you buy Cheerios and eat them with milk and bananas in a ceramic bowl with a real spoon, you can no longer claim to be a tourist.

In the news, I see that Clinton has won N.H. and Nevada, Obama stole the hearts of South Carolina, McCain’s gaining ground, and Kenya is in chaos. I learn that Heath Ledger is dead, China has outlawed plastic bags and that Bush was recently just a couple borders away having coffee with Abdullah.

But here’s what’s freaking me out. Through the same source, a day after the fact, I discover that while I was complaining about no hot water the night before, an American-vehicle targeted roadside bomb killed four Lebanese in “war-torn” Beirut.But wait. I’m LIVING in Beirut. And if I wasn’t online, I’d never know.

Yes, this is bizarre. Just as bizarre as getting a text message from our NGO director on January 21st that said: “Due to the situation in Gaza, we will not be having activities in the camp.” Just as bizarre as being advised to go home on January 25th because an undercover agent had been assassinated, and the tire-burning had begun.

Today, we met with the NGO director and were briefed on the situation. Road-blocks and protester-police clashes around the camp means we should stay in our area, a ten minute taxi ride away. You see, the Shiites are pissed about the electricity rationing. . .there’s some aftermath from the assassination. . .but we know this is also a way for the “opposition” to try and weaken the government. Over coffee, the three of us discussed what’s happened since we arrived and who might be responsible. I have to admit, being here is a rush.Between the bombs, the traffic, the strikes, the sectarian squabbles and the electricity outages, we are living in the news. Yes, Beirut is where Drama has purchased a permanent pad for herself and put down some roots. You know, joining the gym, picking out paint swatches, finding her favorite Whole Foods location. And the Beiruti’s, even the expats, have really taken to her. I’m starting to believe they might even feed off her. If we’re not careful, so will we.

But I know Drama. All too well. She’s super clingy. Like Friday morning, around 5:30, as thought-rattling thunder rolled through the sky and the naked women on our wall lit up like Moulin Rouge and the Call to Prayer began and I thought about the cold, long, dark hallway to the bathroom? Yeah. She wouldn’t let go of my hand.And last week, when I locked the door to take a shower and the water strangely stopped working just as I was finishing and then I swore I heard the front door shut, but then Michael didn’t answer when I called and so I brushed my teeth and lotioned my legs and by then he totally should have been home but he totally wasn’t and I had to dry my hair, but I was afraid to get, you know lost in the zone of the hair-dryer sound when clearly, the guys I saw earlier on a nearby roof were members of Al Qaeda and they were now in the house waiting to break down the bathroom door. Yeah, Drama was in on that one, too.As much as I get a rush from our stories of time spent in a city whose very name evokes visions of hostages, terrorists and masked militants. . .as much as I love the fantasy of starring in my own humanitarian action flick. . .and as much as I understand the excitement of leaving the house and never knowing WHAT the day might bring, the big D is not good for my well-being.So the idea of residing long-term in a city who seems to thrive on her very presence. . .well. . .no. Thanks, but no thanks.But I will leave here with a different view of the world and of my government. I am realizing that where your loyalties fall has less to do with open-mindedness or how broad your horizon is, and more to do with who you are deep, deep within. What comes out when your faced with conflicting opinions. The instinctive stuff that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of your genes. A place you don’t typically visit every day.

Michael took this stellar photo of a bullet-holed, disco-no-longer in Hamra, Beirut.

We were rolling on a smooth highway. Mercedes’—some asphalt scraping and others probably purchased outright—wove past. Rob, the Dutch director of Inma Foundation, a group which helps disadvantaged communities of Lebanon, including Palestinian refugees, was at the wheel of this Land Rover, positive energy sprouting from his expression. Eagles sang We Are the Sultans. . .The Monday before, we’d had dinner with Suzanne, a friend of my friend Kelly Korak, a talented graphic designer in Denver. Suzanne volunteers for Inma. In a whirlwind discovery of matched skills and needs, cooperation naturally came about. In exchange for a free flat, a loaned laptop and a small stipend, Michael would design a website and create mini documentaries on their projects. I would organize and compose their content and stories.

Today, we were on the way home from South Lebanon, where Michael had filmed and photographed Inma’s renovation project of a village impacted by the Lebanon-Israel Summer War of 06.

Now, from the west, cypress, stone and sea glared at me, powerful with sunshine. You see, it all screamed, you’ll never figure out this country. Not even if you stayed a lifetime.

Seasonal canvas signs reached out from the medians. First a row of red McDonald’s ads in Arabic. Then a soft beige variety, announcing the Shiite Muslim holiday of Ashouraa, a ten-day period of memorial and prayer for Hussein, grandson of Mohammed, a martyr slain by the Sunni Muslim sect aver 1400 years ago.

As we entered greater Beirut, the cars slowed, forced to make their own decisions (which included parking and ramming) at four-way intersections void of stoplights or traffic cops. Meanwhile, tanks guarded embassy walls. Trendy, black-and-white, Von Dutch fatigue’d troops, youthful and shouldering assault rifles, patrolled the empty, sepia-toned house of parliament, where elections had been delayed for the 12th time since November. The government was choosing their battles. Literally. And when they couldn’t elect a president, vehicular misdemeanors hadn’t even made the spreadsheet. Of course, neither had electricity–outages were daily, frequent and for hours at a time. Mass transit was non-existent. Saltwater ran from our tap. DSL was a joke. While yellow cranes and bulldozers swung to life by 7 AM, clicking together a lego-land of investment from Lebanese who’d fled abroad in the last quarter century, state-owned skyscrapers stared out to sea with dark empty sockets, skeletons with no closet.

In Hamra, Lebanon could be described as chaos driving a Lexus, confusion carrying a Prada pocketbook, conflict ordering a grand latte. It was the inverse paradigm of the traditional developing country. Rather than shirt-off-their-back hospitality wrapped in a corrugated-tin-topped shack, we found this neighborhood in shades and shopping at Mango, attempting to hide the heartache of war, ignore the instability and ride the melo-dramatic rollercoaster of a power struggle which goes up and down and around again.

In our middle class Muslim neighborhood, coiffed men sold magazines, pasta, shampoo and tahini from tidy grocery stores on narrow streets lined with barricades, each striped in red and stenciled with a green tree, the Lebanese flag. Nearby, lavish home interior boutiques sold velour throw pillows and hallmark cards. Sweet shops boasted 47 different kinds of nuts. Riots about bread prices recently occurred–so we heard. If you wanted food fast, Pizza Hut delivered.

Not far away, ten-year olds used plywood for guns as they played in a field of trash. Unscrubbed potatoes rolled around a corner wagon. Under Saeb Salem Boulevardskirted women sold spinach. Out near the airport, what started as a Palestinian Refugee Camp in 1947 had become more like a Palestinian Quarter of poverty.And a few miles from there was Spinneys, an extra-strength shopping plaza full of high-priced, imported cottage cheese, Campbells Tomato Soup, and all that crap you buy at Target, too. Attached was a McDonalds, a Starbucks and a Claires in case you needed some cubic zirconia with your Coke.

But our flat, where we eat, sleep and watch Carnivale, (because, you know, we need something dark and brooding in our life) , is the biggest oxymoron of them all. Here, the drapes are more like DRRRRAPES, ideal for a drawing room in Versailles, or maybe playclothes if, say, I happened to be a governess for English-speaking children in 1940’s Austria. Our bed is so big that if Michael farts, I can lie on the opposite side, unaffected. Nearby is a love seat–obviously the one Kate Winslet posed upon before the ship went down. Chandeliers with cherubs–some winged, some wincing–bounce from the ceiling of all seven areas. Around every corner are white-washed women in stone, each trying out for the part of the “bare-breasted nymph #2″. There are four televisions, multiple luxury appliances, two stereo systems, one piano, three scary giraffe CD holders, around twenty-five lamps and a lot of shit that has been marinated in liquid gold.Yet the walls sprout far too few outlets to support such extravagance. We found just a handful of lightbulbs in the entire place. The televisions display four fuzzy channels. Our stainless steel oven simply doesn’t function. The microwave sprouts sparks. The water cooler leaks. There is no shower curtain. The heat is confined to areas that have a door.I am certainly not complaining. But this was, this is, Beirut–schizophrenic and sure of themselves all in the same Altoid-flavored breath.

On our second day in Beirut, a bright Sunday morning, long before we knew how long we’d stay, Michael and I wandered on foot into the downtown area. After twenty minutes, we’d been stopped three times by security officers–told to stop taking pictures and asked about where we were headed. All of this happened along landscaped medians, yellow-lined roads, glass-walled banks and track-suited joggers. As Michael had remarked, apart from the tanks, it looked a lot like San Diego.

Taking an unintentional detour past block after block of gnarled barbed wire and barricades, we slowly realized that this must be Hezbollah.

Aha! The occupied warzone amidst a cosmopolitan city that all those travelers had been talking about. Soldiers were everywhere. Below we spied a tiny tent city, but left our cameras safely inside our bags. Cars zoomed by, picking up speed toward a kind of highway. But the sidewalk remained. So carefully, cautiously, we pressed on. Clearly, we were on the fringe of what made Lebanon such a clusterfuck of politics, pride and prejudice.

Finally, as we veered slightly left, a black beret stopped us. We told him we were heading for downtown. After a brief conversation with his officer and a lively discussion with us about Hollywood and George Michael, he sent us directly through what appeared to be an army camp of plywood planks, construction, armed militia and tents. So surreal, it looked a little like a movie set. Condoleeza Rice smiled down from a poster. Officers barely glanced at us. At a final checkpoint, our bags were skim-searched and abruptly, we entered a promenade of dusty shop windows and naked mannequins, boutiques which, since the Summer War of ‘06 no longer attracted enough customers to survive.

Soon a plaza of chrome and wicker chairs emerged. Hagen Daaz smiled with creamy scoops and I could see Virgin Records across a star-shaped burst of urban renewal. But several storefronts were merely glossy ghosts. Only a few strollers and toddlers wobbled across the cobblestone-ringed center while Sri Lankan nannies followed.

A lone roller-blader criss-crossed the clock-tower-centerpiece. But like a Rolex sold on a corner in Soho, the face was a fake facade, the inside dead with dysfunction. Mimicking Beirut, its hands refused to work together. Four coffee drinkers whispered. Armed soldiers—I saw four from where I then stood– paced within their spaces.We realize now that what we crossed through the remains of the opposition’s sit-in. Tents from last spring. Still there.

That’s why the camp had looked abandoned. It was. The guards, with the American Secretary of State watching over, worked for the Lebanese government and were in protection mode. But who did they think would attack? Syria? America? Hezbollah? Al Qaeda? Israel? We learned that depends on who you talk to.It was the strangest Sunday morning we’d had in a long time.We’re now struggling to collect just a coin-purse full of unbiased facts. To figure what the hell is going on, what side we’re supposed to be on and how we should feel as Americans.

Stay tuned.