The Dim in Beirut

A Guide to Driving in Lebanon

For any foreigner visiting Lebanon for the first time, the way we drive scares them more than the buildings around the old airport road.

 

The way they see it, our driving is chaotic, dangerous, impolite and death defying.

 

I cant blame them. I mean, for an Englishman, walking across the street of an empty road is a walk on the wide side. I’ve witnessed them with their eyes gaping in Lebanese queues at the airport so it’s only normal they find our driving a bit scary.

 

But let me assure them it’s not. Sure we don’t pay attention to the normal codes of the road, but that’s only because we don’t have to. We have a huge list full of unwritten laws that we all apply and abide to. You don’t need any hours of driving test studies when you instinctively know the following:

 

1)      When you’re at a red light and it turns green, do not do anything. Everyone knows there’s a 5 seconds lag in drivers minds where everything’s fair game. You need to wait those 5 seconds and let a couple of cars pass before you make your move. Concurrently, when you’re at a green light and it turns Red, don’t curse your luck. You have 5 seconds to pass the lights and no car will come the other way.

2)      Red and green lights mean, in the larger scheme of things, very little. Expect to get honked at from behind if you’re at a red light and there’s no cars coming the other way. Don’t be surprised if the car behind you is a police van.

3)      The ultimate authorities at crossings are policemen. If there’s a red light yet the policeman under it is telling you to pass, then you pass. The lights are just there to flush the foreigners out.  

4)      Indicators are useless and unreliable. If someone uses them, you cannot be certain that they’re really using them. As far as we’re concerned, they could be broken. Noone knows for sure. You need to wait to see what the driver in front of you is going to do before you adjust yourself.

5)      However, if the driver puts his hand out of the window that’s the same side of the indicators, then you can be sure he’s going that way. He has no excuses if he changes his mind. Adjust yourself accordingly.

6)      If the driver, however, puts his hand out of the window opposite to the one his indicator is flashing, then you’re fucked. You can have no complaints if a hundred cars behind you start honking while you slow down and contemplate what to do.

7)      If there’s a meter or so gap between the car in front of you and the one in front of it on the other lane, you are well within your right to take that space. This is called, in Lebanese parlance, a “between”. It’s perfect for impressing your friends and for boosting your ego.

8)      Roundabouts are the ultimate Lebanese trench warfare. They’re all about, like American football, gaining yardage. You need to be aggressive yet calm, calculating yet opportunistic. Every little helps. Those extra inches may not seem like much to you, but they could well be the difference between edging in front of the car next to you and boosting your confidence or not and feeling inadequate. Stay alive to any opportunities. Get your nose in front of the other car. Focus.

9)      Services, taxis and buses are the Lebanese equivalent of a hearse. Get behind them at your peril. They are well within their right to stop at any given second. If you bump into them while they stop, it’s your fault. Years of driving here should have taught you not to be behind them.

10)  If a car is coming towards you on the wrong side of a one way lane, there’s a simple diplomatic solution: Look at who’s closer to getting to the end of the street. If you are, then you are well within you right to force him to reverse all the way back. However, if he is, then you need to reverse back. You’re allowed to swear and shake your head, but deep down inside you know he’s got you.

11)  If there’s a fight at a crossroads to get in front and you see an opportunity, put your hand up in apology as you put your foot on the pedal. Bow you head too. Don’t look at the other driver with anything but the corner of your eye. Keep your hand up and your head down until you get passed him, lest you catch his gaze and he takes it as a challenge.

12)  If you see someone flashing his indicator and signalling that he wants to park, calculate the space to his side. If you think your car can get passed before he parks, go for it. The opposite driver knows he’s got no choice but allow you and anyone else through before he reverses.

13)  It is well worth trying to get past in any situation, space or not, if the driver in front of you is a woman, otherwise you could be stranded behind her for decades. I’d suggest taking half the space she wants to park in and honking, bullying her to find another space.

14)  Look left and right every time you get to a street. The fact that it’s one way guarantees you nothing. The fact that’s the street looks deserted means even less. Look left and right. Twice.

15)  Those weird people that walk are idiots. If they’re halfway across the street and you’re coming towards them, you’re completely empowered to make whatever decision you think is best. If you’re in a good mood let them pass, if not don’t’ feel bad for them. They made their beds the minutes they chose to walk.

16)  Honking is completely within your right the minute you feel the traffic has become unbearable. In fact, it’s been scientifically proven that there’s a direct correlation between the speed red turns to green at lights and honking. You need to time it well though. Too early and you could piss people off. Too late and you’re just a sheep. If you time it perfectly you could lead all the other cars around you in a honkathon. It’s very rewarding.

17)  During periods of high traffic in certain areas of Beirut, you can honk political tunes and survey the amount of pro and anti-supporters around you. It’s a good way to kill the boredom.

18)  People on mopeds are the Lebanese equivalent of endangered species. They’re allowed to do whatever they want. No laws apply to them. They can, legally, ram into you and it would be your fault. It’s an actual law. You’re responsible for any crash with a moped. No space in traffic is tight enough for them. There are no one way streets in the moped driver’s lexicon. Be very aware of this.

19)  If you’re in traffic and reach a crossing, always leave a gap for the cars of the opposite street to pass. It’s the least you can do otherwise both lanes will be blocked. If you don’t leave a gap expect to be subjugated to dirty looks, aggressive honking, head shaking and sarcastic clapping. If you do, you’ll be thanked. Only by the first car that gets passed though.

20)  Talking on the mobile while driving and not wearing a seatbelt are against the law, but only for the first month of the minister of interior’s mandate. Get caught during that month and you need to take your punishment like a man, or, more likely, use your wasta. If you get stopped by a cop for this at any other time, you’ll get let off if you plead ignorance.

21) Probably the most important unwritten law: The 20 previous laws mean nothing. Always, like a grand chessmaster, imagine things 2 or 3 steps ahead. You need to have vision and creativity. You cant depend on anyone driving normally. You cant depend on people respecting your hand signals. You need to be able to to improvise, change what you wanted to do on the spot, calculate how far away you are from those stupid walkers, see how many cars are on the other side in case you need to switch, envisage where a space will open up. This may have to be done in a split second. This sounds exhausting but it's second nature when you get used to it.

 

Follow these steps and you should be fine. Of course, like any other code of the road, sometimes accidents happen. Nobody can legislate for that policeman failig his basic duties of stopping one car while allowin another to pass for example. But all in all, it's a safe proof guide. Stay awake, learn these rules and remain vigilent at all times and you should be fine.

The Greatness of the Lebanese

 Us Lebanese have a lot of things to be proud of. But it’s not the likes of Haifa and Nancy that make me love the Lebanese. It’s not even the likes of Carlos Ghosn and Carlos Slim. It’s not the cedars or the hummus, the Lazarus like spirit for rising from the dead or the hilarious language. No, the thing I love about the Lebanese is the fact that every single one of us thinks we’re the kings of the world.

 

Every single one. Every last one of them tries to sell you this bag of goods about themselves so unbelievable it may just be true. Every guy, no matter how ugly will try to make you think he’s got his own private harem back home. Every low income worker will try to make you believe he has millions in a Swiss bank despite the fact that the government no longer provides electricity for his own home as he doesn’t have enough money to pay the bills. And every last janitor (or concierge as they like to say) in the country has a brother in Canada running a huge multi national bank, who sends money back. Why is he a janitor then? Well he owns the building of course…

 

Every last one is successful. Every last one is God’s gift to the planet. Every last one has rewritten the Karma Sutra a dozen times…

 

Take Elie, my hairdresser. Absolute prototype Lebanese, the poster boy for my entire argument. You’ll never in your life visit any hairdresser in any country outside ofLebanonwho will be able to give you so much bullshit in the space of a haircut. It’s done so well, it’s almost artistic.

 

Elie works in Achrafieh, the Christian part ofBeirut. The street he works in is opposite the huge ABC mall which has brought much revenue, but also much traffic to the region.

 

Elie is slim, about five foot seven with black hair and green eyes. His goatee is always perfectly trimmed and his hair lightly gelled. His branded clothes are always very tight and are almost certainly fake, bought off some dodgy vendor in the Armenian quarter.  InLondonorSan Francisco, you’d say he looked metro sexual. InBeirut, where your manhood is often measured by the size of your belly and the length of your beard, he looks like a raving homesexual.

 

The fact that he always speaks in broken French to me doesn’t help his cause. Every single Lebanese out there likes to think he’s tri lingual at the very least, and Elie is no different. He’s been speaking French to me ever since I was a kid and used to struggle with Arabic. Evidently, the fact that I now speak Arabic like a native is lost on him, because whenever I speak in Arabic, he answers in French.

 

As in…

 

“ Kifak Elie habibe, kel chi tamam?”

“ Oui très bien, merci mon ami, toi la santé est bonne?”

 

He does this, one of my mates pointed out; because he wants to show me we’re on the same wavelength. He knows I’ve spent most of my life abroad and by speaking French he thinks he can connect with me and sell this image of himself as a wonderfully multi cultural individual, who could easily run his own saloon in Rome if he wanted to.

 

Maybe because he’s aware of his gayish looks, or because he’s self conscious about his sexuality, Elie never misses a chance to bang on about his sexual escapades with women. For example today, just seconds after I sit down, he asks me whether I’m getting married any time soon. When I reply that I’d rather live with my girlfriend first before making any huge steps, he lets fly.

 

“Wlak bravo Nadim, bravo. You’re exactly right. Concubinage is the only way to go. Did you know that my girlfriend is going to have a baby? Yes anjad! In 3 months, I am going to be a father ana! And we’ve been living together for 10 years, concubinage. My parents mind, but you can’t live our life depending on them can you ya Nadim. My girlfriend doesn’t care see, she’s American, you know what I mean? Had she been Lebanese, wohoo, big problem”

 

This news would be cause for a big three kiss congratulatory salute in normal situations but the problem for Elie here is that he’s been telling me for the last 4 years that his girlfriend is French… However, like many Lebanese, nothing gets in the way of his bullshit, least of all a little thing like the truth.

 

The shop he operates in has been around for so long, it’s almost an institution. Small and dingy, just a couple of minutes away from my house and thus very convenient. My father used to go there, so did some of my older cousins. I’ve been cutting my hair there myself for a decade or so, so have most of my cousins. A point not lost on Elie, as he sits me down.

 

“Inta ya Nadim, you’ve been with me all your life. I’ve been cutting you and Michel’s (my cousin) hair since you were 5. You’re family ya Nadim”

 

It’s a valid point. Well apart from the last bit which is the first affectionate bombardment of the afternoon. But all in all the man is right. I’ve been cutting here for ages. The only reason I bring this conversation up is that Elie never fails to mention this. Every single time I cut my hair I’ve got to go through this routine: we start off with him mentioning how long I’ve been cutting my hair then we move on to how he cuts the entire family’s hair.

 

- Everybody cuts here ya Nadim. You know I cut Michel’s dad’s hair right?

- Aziz?

- Aziz. We’re great friends, I like him a lot. Aziz’s dad as well

- Michel senior

- Ohoooooooooooo. I go to his house. Very nice man, I cut his hair all the time. Everybody ya Nadim. And for so long. You know, I used to put a board for Michel Junior when he was a kid so I could reach his head he was so small (a fact later denied by Michel, who claims he never went there until he was 19. It’s hard to know who to believe considering Michel started going bald when he was 17 and Elie can put serial pathological liars to shame. I’m inclined to side with Miche here, but it’s a tough choice…)

 

It’s a fascinating example of subtle affectionate blackmail: we have history, he’s telling me, and I do with your entire family so don’t think about going to someone else. It’s subtle and brilliant at the same time; because it’s entertaining, if only because Elie becomes a parody of himself at moments like these. Considering it happens every single time I go there, I await it with baited breath, often giving odds out on how long it will take for him to start. Last time, he kicked it all off in the first minute. Today it takes him ages, 4 minutes or so. A long time for Elie.

 

It’s tough to say what happens next as Elie sometimes veers off course. But whatever exact conversation takes place it usually involves a combination of the following: he’s working too hard (i.e. making a lot of money), he’s sleeping too late (i.e. fucking too much), he’s travelling a lot (i.e. he’s multi cultural) and he always knows before the next bomb explodes (i.e. he has friends and family in the intelligence apparatus in Lebanon and is himself part of, or personally cuts the hair of the head of ,the CIA).

 

It’s fascinating stuff really, if only because it makes you feel better about yourself. I mean, if hairdressers who are paid 5$ a haircut can make themselves sound like a cross between Gordan Gecko, Alain Delon and Henry Kissinger, is it really a big deal when you bullshit people into playing the stock market? I mean it must be in your blood surely, no? In your DNA…

 

You see, for me. the Lebanese have grasped the most important fact out there. That life is about perception. If people perceive you to be successful and rich, they’ll treat you in a way that rich people are treated. If a girl perceives you to be great in bed, then there is a great chance she may try for herself. If people perceive you to know your business inside out, they’ll come to you for advice. It’s so hard to know the truth so we stick to our preconceived ideas, based mostly on what you’ve heard. So perception thus becomes reality and perception rules the world. It’s a fact of life.

 

Thus the bullshit starts. The manipulating and the gesturing, the ostentatious lifestyles and the show off walk. All to make you buy into the idea that the whole world revolves around them. That you’re lucky to be associated to them and that they are incapable of failure. Come bask in the wealth, in their greatness, in their lives.

 

How else can you explain this bullshit Elie comes up with? After a brief lull where I’m thinking deeply about the socio political disaster in Mumbai (ahem...), he’s off and running again.

 

- I don’t need a visa for anywhere in the world me Nadim habibe

- Really? You have a foreign passport?

- No, I don’t need one. They offered me one but I didn’t want it. A German one. Lah chouh ya Nadim, like I say I don’t need one. All the ambassadors yeah? They cut their hair here

“Ufff. Really?” I mutter as I glance at the mirror, with reflects the tiny shop Elie operates in. It’s hard to see too many foreign dignitaries stopping their cocktail parties at the beach to  come out to Sassine to cut their hair in a tiny place, full of year old magazines and dodgy Arabic pop music, which looks like it’s relic to the Ottoman empire. But I go along with it, if only to let him complete his fantasy.

 

“Like who Elie”

 

He stops cutting my hair and looks at me in the mirror. Then he turns sideways so he can look straight in my face.

 

“All of them ya Nadim, all of them ya habibe. American (he slashes his scissors forward as he says American), French, Danish, Dutch….Eh, all of them, all of them Nadim”

 

I raise my eyebrows.

 

“The American one comes here?” I ask, incredulous. Surely he can’t pull off American, I mean not only must they have their haridressers imported in fromRodeo Drive, but the latest Yank ambassador is a woman. And Elie doesn’t cut women hair, In fact in 14 years at his place; I’ve never ever seen a woman. Not even the mother of one of the kids. It’s an Iranian Mullah’s oasis, Elie’s place. No sin in sight.

 

“Comes here? Comes here? Of course not ya Nadim! He closes my street when he comes!! Five, six cars outside my shop, bodyguards everywhere…Crazy. Bad for business. No, no, I go to his place. Last time, he asked me, Ya Elie have you ever been toAmerica? I told him no. Aha, he said. If you ever want to go, you tell me. You see Nadim, I don’t need no passport. I can go everywhere”

 

“ Wala. Amazing”

 

So, you see, in this land of 4 million people, where the lowest of the low is a millionaire , has the love of a supermodel or the ear of the most powerful foreigner in the country,(or all three if you’re Elie of course) it’s impossible to know what’s waiting for you at any corner. And it’s thus hard not to love the people, who, no matter how rotten their lives are always willing to convince you that the only thing that tires them is their greatness. Once you realise and accept this fact about Lebanese, you’ll stop getting angry at them so much, and start appreciating their little funny sideshow appearances in you life. And then comedy awaits at any moment.

 

Even at the cheapest hairdresser in town.