Beirut Dairies - 'But You Must Eat'

After Byblos, Michele invited us to her home in Jounieh. Her flat was bustling with people when we arrived. We squeezed through two body-hugging rooms to finally settle in the third.

We met Michele’s immediate and extended family – sisters, cousins, parents, uncles, aunts – the works. This was yet another reminder of life in Pakistan; large well-knit families and people stacked on top of each other. The cohesion was apparent but the people had gathered for no apparent reason.

 

A little while later Michele’s mother walked into our and greeted a random assortment of nationalities – Spaniards, Americans, Pakistanis, Lebanese, Arabs – as though we had been dropping over at her place since we were in our diapers. 

Michele’s mother brought us cake and espresso shots. The shot glasses were resting in holes carved out from a fat plank of solid wood – it was a minimalist utensil, especially designed for shot glasses. I wanted it but didn’t get a chance to ask Michele where to get one from.

Michele’s mother tip-toed over limbs stretched across the room. She carried two trays, one in each hand, and reached me at the end.

I said ‘thanks, I’m really stuffed,’ with one hand on the growing bulge under my chest. 

She said, ‘No, but you must eat,’ and insisted until I helped myself. All this was extraordinarily familiar. 

Just for a glimpse, Aunt Susan embodied Aunty Sukaina, the unspoken Ambassador of shameless obesity who had no qualms feeding grown up adults with her own hands, regardless of the grey hair they had on their head.

The mental detour to Lahore and the sight of Aunty Sukaina brought new folds to my forehead and my eyebrows shriveled. We desperately needed a change of taste.

The shot, unexpected, was incredibly sweet. Although it had far reaching effects, it was utterly concise. I like to think of it as a taste bud thunderbolt that rescued us from the clutches of Aunty Sukaina. Soon enough, Murad and I felt like we were in the heart of Jounieh again.

Once we were all coffee, food and caked up, Michele and her sister sang and played their acoustic guitars until the dark blue sky turned black. In about an hour the sprawling entourage had sung enough and invariably all felt the need for inebriation.

Just like sardines, we shifted from one can to another. We all split into four cars and headed west to a pub called ‘Angry Monkey’ in Gemmayzeh, Beirut.

Murad and I got half an hour to reflect. We realized that the further we went out of Beirut, the warmer the people got and inversely, tourist density dwindled. Jounieh, for instance, was only twenty-one kilometers North East of Beirut but a unique environment in every right.

Beyond the overwhelming warmth of its people, Jounieh was popular for its ‘Super Night Clubs’ – most frequented by the moneyed Arabs (also called Khaleeji) in the South East. Super Night Clubs were different from ordinary Night Clubs. At the former you could pick up girls; pay for sex. 

En route to Beirut, while Murad and I were airborne (after a ridiculously long stop over in Doha) we befriended a middle-aged chap on the flight who had family in Jounieh. He was heading back to be with his wife and kids over the winter break. He told us how the Lebanese expat community was five times the size of Lebanon’s current population. He also mentioned how he only preferred to visit Super Night Clubs in Jounieh.

‘Beirut is for rich people and tourists – Lebanese folk seek entertainment in Jounieh – you guys should come too – great girls, great time.’

A little later in his spiel he went into finer points.

‘Sri Lankans and Ethiopians are cheapest. Russians and East Europeans are most expensive. Ranges from 100 to 1000 US dollars a night.’

He talked about women just like he talked about the furniture he sold to thousands in Qatar. He only worked abroad because Qatar paid better than war ravaged Lebanon.

It was night and we were exhausted. From the oval airplane window it seemed like the landing strip was actually downhill. I thought to myself, what a precarious maneuver amidst life threatening hills. I tried not to show it but I was unnerved. Murad, on the other hand, was busy gathering tips from the furniture manufacturer. He told me I was delusional.

When our plane began to descend, Murad exchanged numbers with the furniture manufacturer. He said he would show us a good time. Somehow, Murad and I never got around to seeing the good time.

Instead, we were happy that Michele adopted us. We towed her line, chucked our own plans aside and shuttled around Lebanon on her agenda. We discovered new people on the fly.

But just as all good things come to an end, our fascination with Michele and the many curls on her head had to end. Michele’s twist of tongue and her melody was enchanting. After a long night of song and dance at Angry Monkey we didn’t see her again. 

Beirut Diaries - Michele

After the Turkish breakfast on the morning after New Year’s Eve, Murad, Nicholas and I headed back to Saifi. We all wanted more breakfast. The cafeteria looked less dirty since the time we left. A cocktail of freshly brewed coffee, cigarette smoke and floor cleaning detergent filled the air. The sun pierced through the gaps in the trees. It poured onto the yellow lime rock and robbed it off its color.

   

The cafeteria was empty but welcoming. Breakfast was ready. We all ordered omelets and found a spot in the sun. Nicholas unfolded a pocket size map of the city and we discussed what to do, where to go, what to eat and so on. The plans came forth and competed like a pack of hounds chasing a racecourse rubber bunny. Nicholas who had been in Beirut for some time felt responsible to weigh in on every decision we took.

We were all fairly loud and in bright night suits. In the middle of escalating deliberation, and at a time when we least expected, a girl walked up and said, ‘I think you guys need help.’

The abrupt intrusion was pleasant: maybe because the girl spoke with a lovely smile or because Murad and I were happy to get our first real taste of undivided female attention or because she was cute or it could be all of these things together.

Anyway, before she walked up and engaged us, Murad and I had never seen so much hair on anybody’s head before. Her curls really did have a life of their own.

‘Yes, we’re quite aimless,’ I dragged back a chair and asked her to join us. The cute girl rushed to her table to fetch her bag. She was brimming with insights and in that moment we were all captives to her esoteric pointers on Beirut.

 

‘I heard you guys talk about Achrafieh – you must go see Rue Monot – it’s a street. During the civil war it had two sides. Bars served alcohol on one. The other practiced prohibition. The sides were divided by a string of shrubs. 

...even after the war, when the plants were uprooted, the division lived in the minds of people. For some, it still does.’

‘You’re so much better than lonely planet,’ I said.

Although I could let her talk about Beirut for hours in that moment I felt the need to provoke her; interrupt the spell she began to cast on us with her words.

‘There are places I would never go to…’ unaffected by the prod, she continued on her own tangent and spoke about how seventeen distinct ethnicities divided Beirut into a number of mini-states.

 

A discussion on alcohol Murad could listen to. The moment she switched to socio-political issues, Murad felt like his precious vacation bubble was going to pop.

 

Murad had to hijack the conversation, 

‘Excuse my ignorance, but are you a guardian angel of some sort?’

She laughed, stuck her hand out and said, ‘Michele’.

‘I live in Jounieh, but I come from a small town two hours south of here’.

Murad and I found Michele refreshing and forthcoming. In our puny world, especially in Pakistan, girls like to play hide and seek, dodge overtures and sustain interest through elusive behavior. They like to share everything in bits; prolong the chase; just like a test player paces himself for a long innings.

Maybe we take more time to thaw as a people; maybe most of us are unsure of who we really are and don’t want to expose ourselves. Whatever the case, it’s always fun to meet people who dare to live beyond barriers of propriety and unnecessary reserve.

Awe struck with Michele’s positive disposition, we could not foresee the impending disappointment ahead of us.

After Michele’s introduction, the gents at the table followed suit. 

‘Murad, from Pakistan, first time in Beirut’  

‘Nicholas. I’ve been here two months. I’m English. And I do know some things about Beirut’.

‘I’m Khizr’

‘What?’ Michele squinted.

‘Khizr’

‘Hisser?’

‘No, Khizr’

‘Hizzher?’

‘Khi-zer, K, H, I, Z, R, Khey-Zar,’ I enunciated, slowly, and separately, each letter, with syllable stress, 

like a foreign language teacher. 

‘Khaaa, khaaa’

‘Sounds like phlegm. I think I’m going to choke on your name,’ Michele made her opening joke and cracked herself up.

‘That’s the idea! You should have been dead by now!’ was my opening rebut and the banter continued for a while.

Michele finally stuck her tongue out and squinted.

‘But if you choose to live, you can call me just K, OK?

‘OK…K, OK!’ Michele and I laughed. Murad and Nicholas didn’t.

‘I have some friends visiting from Spain. We’re going to Byblos, the oldest inhabited city of the world – one of three actually – you should come,’ Michele twirled her hair and added new curls to the infinite perms already buoyant on her head like a frenzy.

‘I’m going to Tripoli today,’ Nicholas sounded hasty.

‘I hate Tripoli. You can’t even drink there. Those people are different,’ said Michele.

‘That’s why I carry my own booze,’ Nicholas retorted in his thick British accent. 

‘So K, OK, do you have a local number?’ Michele turned to me and disengaged Nicholas.

‘No. But you can reach me on 00923344416660. Pakistan. Works.’

‘Are you sure?’ Michele punched the numbers in her phone as I reiterated slowly. She put my name down as ‘kokkkk’.

‘Yes. Call me. I’m going to shower. See you soon.’

‘Can I get your number?’ Nicholas spoke cautiously with his phone in his hand.

‘You want my number? What are you implying Nicholas? Acting all fast with me huh?’ Michele laughed.

Nicholas turned red in the face and changed the subject.

After I showered and returned to the cafeteria, I found Michele with her Spanish friends and Nicholas was nowhere in sight.

Much to our collective disdain, Michele’s friends – Sergio and Manuela – were two bright chaps from Madrid – not the beautiful women Murad and I had envisioned. On our way to Byblos, Murad wore his dark glasses and observed Lebanese life from the bus window. I sold the Northern Areas of Pakistan to the Spaniards.

Michele had met Manuela in Madrid on a vacation and that’s where they hooked up. Sergio was the hanger that accompanied Manuela and avidly followed him as he cultivated his love interest. Murad and I were just odd Pakistanis – a race our new friends knew nothing about.

As we approached Byblos, a steady down pour began. It was a blessed spanner of sorts. Had we continued on public transport we would have been drenched by the time we reached Byblos. So Michele called her friend Lilian who lived in Byblos and asked her to collect us from a major shopping mall right off the main highway.

Lilian parked her mini Pajero and took her mini self out of it. Her light brown hair was rolled up and stitched with pins at the back of her head. Tweed jacket on jeans. Her skin was like golden brown olive oil. She had a delicate frame, soft features, everything quite slender and two incredible eyes with tones of both green and grey.

In short, Lillian was a woman of remarkable looks but unremarkable remarks. While we waited for her at the shopping mall, we shared foul language in Spanish, Arabic and Urdu. It was a tri-national ‘circle of trust’. In Spanish, Bosta meant a pile of rotten shit with flies hovering over it. Bhen-chod meant sister fucker in Urdu. Michele taught us an abuse in Arabic but we were advised against using it in our little tri-national togetherness anthem and the word soon evaporated.

When Lilian arrived, we fetched snacks and umbrellas from the shopping mall and left for Byblos. We all sang the absurd tri-national togetherness anthem without Lilian who didn’t utter much beyond politenesses every now and then. At one point when the singing got loud and obnoxious, she managed a strained smile. She looked into the rearview mirror from time to time, but every time it was just a glimpse and it was impossible to catch her eye.

En route to Byblos we were stuck in traffic on a down slope at one point. Behind us, at close distance was a massive snow clad peak and ahead of us, again at close distance, was light blue water, palm trees and mustard sand. To have such diverse vistas at opposite ends of the same peninsula felt surreal. Later in the trip I read on the Beirut Timeout Website, ‘5 reasons to go to Beirut’.

It said, ‘one of two cities in the world where you can swim and ski the same day’ and it added that March was the best time of the year to do this.

When we drove into the oldest inhabited city of the world it really was the stuff of dreams. The lime rock lighthouse, the vast open wooden bay, the erosive powers of nature on display, cutting through rock and wood alike, building character through snail pace time. Everything was just so damn charming; it was impossible not to fall in love with the place and its overwhelming antique emotion. 

The beach invited us to talk and walk through history. We saw a two thousand year old restaurant called Pepe Abid. Many modern day celebrities occupied wall space inside the restaurant. Pepe Abid served only fish – the best you can find in Lebanon. We didn’t get a chance to eat there; we only nibbled on Michele’s stories of the restaurant and our real appetite was abandoned because the entourage was not hungry yet.   

By the time we finished our walk on the beach, Lilian had shared her entire professional and personal life story with me. She had experience in designing and advertising and was practicing freelance. She knew about Sammy Moujaes. I told her I could help her reach him and she acquiesced to the idea but didn’t look keen. Then she explained how she finds working for brands restrictive because of all the guidelines, rules, standardized communications and so on.

While we walked out of Byblos towards a modern town of Lebanon in search of a good restaurant, Murad perpetually smiled at me. I felt like I stood under a bright yellow spot light. Murad thought Lillian and I were falling in love. We walked side by side for the longest time, just like a pair of domesticated pigeons. But unremarkable remarks hardly ever do anything to anyone and Lilian to me was just as lifeless as a cardboard mannequin.

I felt like my stomach – empty. But Murad didn’t see that.

Our group equation was a mix of lone and not so lone pigeons. Manuela walked with Michele. Sergio had his camera. And Murad carried in his head a cloud of wishful optimism until Mariella, the half Arab, half Lebanese bombshell walked into the scene and destroyed Murad’s ability to walk in a straight line.

Mariella was another friend of Michele’s who joined us for lunch. Mariella ordered a salad, especially designed for picture perfect Lebanese ladies.

Mariella too had remarkable looks – high cheek bones, tall, shiny thick black locks, pouty lips, a perfectly symmetrical nose, single tone skin, a mole strategically placed at the tip of her left cheek, designer goods head to tow, lip gloss, mascara, perfectly manicured nails, glistening teeth, an hour glass figure accentuated through clothes, strategically draped over her curves and a static smile that guarded changing emotion.

The first thing Murad half thought, half muttered when he saw her was, ‘she’s not real’. And then he touched his own face to see if he was numb or stuck in an ephemeral dream.

Mariella moved with effortless grace, wove her words in a web of conventional truths and generalizations and enjoyed the company of equally good-looking people. Since we were short, chubby, and unfashionable and we made little effort to enhance our aesthetic appeal, we enjoyed Mariella’s stunning looks from a ‘safe’ distance. The tribulations associated with natural selection and evolution had never been so evident on the trip thus far. 

Sadly, Michele turned out to be an anomaly. Until we met others, to us Michele was the definition of a Lebanese woman. And even though people were generally friendly, nobody else was half as forthcoming. Another generalization went out of the window.

And worse, Murad’s dreams to see Lilian’s babies with me shattered when Lilian’s husband, David, appeared out of nowhere to join us for lunch. David talked about his boring job as a banker and told us he wants to move with his wife to Canada because the quality of life in Beirut was not good and things were far too unpredictable. I could hear another fantasy bubble going ‘pop’ in Murad’s head.

By the end of their meal, Lilian and David were having a strained conversation about the right time to move to Canada and the difference of opinion made their faces look longer.

This was yet another opportunity for me to sell the magic of the northern areas of Pakistan and I did exactly that! 

‘The second highest plateau in the world – Deosai – happens to be in the northern areas of Pakistan! The word Deosai means ‘landing zone of the giants’ – that’s because flat land at 14,000 feet is no good to anybody else. At the end of June, the entire plane is awash with multicolored flowers. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. You guys have to come’.

‘…Sure, David and I will make a plan and visit you sometime next year and then we can all go to the Northern Areas’.

Lilian and David looked at each other. Lilian didn’t mean a word of what she said.  

Beirut Diaries - Swindle Me Not

‘44000 for four,’ the hot dog vendor said with a straight face. 

‘One hot dog, 5500. Four hotdog, 22000!’ Murad corrected the vendor.

In case I haven’t already mentioned this, Murad has Chinioti blood. Chinoti’s are Pakistan’s very own brand of Jews. Excuse the stereotype and figure the rest.

The hotdog vendor muttered something in Arabic and said, ‘OK, 22000’.

In Murad’s world, it was OK for a hot girl to get away with a measly Malaysian man, but it wasn’t OK for a hot dog vendor to get away with 22000 Livres.

We paid, ate and headed back to the hostel. Finally, when I slid into bed, I was my happiest that night. I felt like I hadn’t slept in years.

The next day, morning arrived sooner than expected. The excitement of waking up in Beirut nudged me out of bed. It was only half past eight. I didn’t know what to do so I woke Murad up. Murad moaned and woke Nicholas up. Now we were three people who didn't know what to do. 

We went down an unending set of stairs to the cafeteria for the complimentary breakfast.

The cafeteria was empty. A black man swept the floor.

He took his eyes off the floor, looked up and said, ‘come later’.

We were ravenous. We stepped out of the hostel and onto the dead empty Gourard Street.

Not a bird or squirrel or dog or man or car in sight. It seemed like all life had either paused or ceased to exist. The silence; the stillness of the leaves; the air free of combustion; the audible footsteps – all felt kind of surreal since our last visit to Gourard, which was jam packed only a few hours ago. 

Without walking much we found a Turkish joint. It was open. A rotund, happy lady invited us in. No other restaurant offered breakfast at the time. The lady beamed with confidence.

After an OK breakfast, Murad’s math went blunt; maybe because the bill was in Arabic. 

We were swindled. Murad’s Chinioti nose for crime failed us. Each of us became a few thousand Livres poorer.

 

As the trip trotted along, inebriation reached new heights. Murad and I became progressively dull and we must have made several more natives happy at our expense. 

We were swindled a second time, which was the last time, if memory serves well. It all began, yet again, with a restaurant. It was called ‘Kebab since 1961’ even though it had been inaugurated just a few weeks ago. A dubious beginning - indeed!  

We asked the owner, ‘why 1961’ and he shared a long story which is not worth another mention.

The restaurant shared a wall with a popular nightclub, Al Mandaloun, but wasn’t buzzing on a Friday night. Besides the minor swindling that was going to follow, the food was exquisite. And more than the food, the service was abnormally good. We were pampered like newborns: advised on almost every bite; how best to mix the platter; and showered with a series of complimentary delights – drinks, sidelines, desserts, shots!

   

Our newfound ‘friend’, the owner of the restaurant, had a long chat with us about the eatery trade after we finished our meal. He ordered a cab for us that took 20000 Livres for the ride back to Saifi (our hostel) although it should not have cost more than 8000 Livres.

The driver’s name was Sam. He drove a Mercedes from the 80s. Sam was in jeans, a leather jacket and lots of gel. He had the John Travolta ‘Grease’ look.

When we asked him if he could take us to a cave called Jeita Grotto in the morning he said, ‘nights only.’

Sam reciprocated with his own questions and went into his ‘tourists-from-a-desperate-prohibitive-state’ mode.

‘You want one woman, two woman, three woman, four – you tell me – I bring you any amount from different country!’

‘No English,’ I said.

‘Urdu. Pakistan only.’

After a brief silence, Sam broke into what seemed like a funny dance of pelvic thrusts. He moved back and forth in his seat as though riding a horse. From time to time he 'bitch slapped' the steering wheel.

We played dumb and that made him more intense. We didn't know how to make him stop. 

Towards the end of the ride Sam continued, ‘give me missed call – I bring you girl.’

In minutes, we reached Saifi but the journey felt like an eternity. As we got out of the cab, I said, ‘no man should ever need to pay for his birth right.’

Sam looked nonplussed. 

He never called us. 

This was the last time Murad and I were swindled. 

Beirut Diaries - Pakistani Legs on Lebanese Soil

In Beirut, Murad and I thought it best to invite interesting characters to Lahore.

Our first will be an unkempt, overgrown, German, Robert Becht. Robert is an adventure junkie who wants to trek to the base camp of K-2 because we told him it would change his life. Neither Murad nor I have ever been to the base camp but that’s beside the point.

Robert connected with us, and more importantly, believed us. We called him our ‘brother from another mother’. We gave him unsolicited advice. We told him how to approach girls. We annihilated his dressing sense, bought him new clothes and gave him a haircut. In short, we soon turned Robert into someone else; someone we wanted him to be.

Two measly days in Beirut were enough for Murad and I to throw our weight around as the self-proclaimed fashion police. Poor Robert was the only one who bore the brunt of unhindered criticisms though. We shared a dorm with Robert so he seldom managed to escape us.

The first time we met Robert, he had a funny looking hat on. It made him look like goofy – the cartoon. It was three in the morning. Robert had just flown in from Germany. Robert didn’t care to ask about the geezer. He jumped into a cold shower and within minutes he was on Gourard Street, hopping pubs.

Robert had the madness. He had the cheerful disposition. He had the energy. He had the European accent, the blonde hair and the good height. The laws of attraction were on his side. But his eyes were sad and dark like a black hole. We probed him within the narrow bounds of decency, but he wouldn’t budge; he didn’t say a word about what bothered him.

Murad and I wondered if he too was in Beirut to forget someone, or something. For various reasons then, Murad and I thought it necessary to enlist Robert onto the vacation bandwagon, and he gladly followed us to most places until he made new friends he could ski with – and do only that – without exposing any cerebral space.

     

Some other people we met were not invited to Lahore. On our very first night, when we got in at 9pm, it was New Year’s Eve. The dorm was empty apart from one scrawny chap from England named Nicholas who was ensconced in bed. A Grisham novel covered his face. I thought he was sick.

Past the cab driver and the hostel management, Nicholas was the first person we interacted with. We had to make conversation.

After a few minutes of animated small talk, Murad and I finally asked him how he was going to spend New Year’s Eve.

He said, ‘Beirut is up every night. Tonight is like any other. And I’ve been here two months.’

Murad and I were repulsed by the British Buzz Kill.

Nicholas looked excited though. His words betrayed obvious emotion, smeared all over his face. It almost seemed like he had been waiting for us his entire life.

Within seconds of subliminal abuse, scrawny Nicholas was out of bed and in a pair of joggers and a red sports jacket. Murad and I were not surprised.

Since Nicholas looked like Forest Gump on a marathon stretch, we cancelled the black tie I-Bar reservation and instead did the ‘pub-crawl’ in bright Gemayzeh, which was less than a minute from our hostel. Gemayzeh was where at the break of dawn people oozed out on all fours from the many bars and clubs. Some waited in long cues of large cars. Others gathered around shawarma and hot dog stands – munching, singing, laughing – living life.

In Gemmayzeh, rule of thumb is that legs are faster than wheels, most of the time, especially at night. Pakistani legs are an exception though. We’re not built for long walks! Murad and I realized that soon enough. Within a few days though we conquered our aches with PAINGAY and by the time the trip ended, our legs were bragging about their newfound confidence.

      

Coming back to News Year’s Eve, Murad and I had been in transit for more than 24 hours when we hit Gourard for the pub-crawl with Nicholas.

Legs heavy. Eyes red. The sound of music was beginning to dim. We didn’t think we would last till dawn.

Even though we met some interesting people at a few pubs, it just wasn’t stimulating enough, not enough to fight the fatigue. So we decided to return to Saifi – our hostel. It was around half past two in the morning.

On our way back, Murad insisted to prolong the night so we went to a bar called coup d’état, which was conveniently located at the hostel rooftop. We hung around like sore thumbs at ‘coup’ until a rowdy bunch invited us to a table at the corner of the pub. Before we finished our first drink, the pub was on its feet. The rooftop was jammed. The only permissible movement was to play popcorn – which meant jumping up and landing back on the same spot.

So Murad and I jumped for a while until Murad decided he had the hots for one of three European girls at the table. Soon after, I observed Murad as he squeezed through the crowd towards that girl.

Murad held the girls arm, brought her over to me and said, ‘meet my friend from Pakistan’. I uttered an inaudible ‘hello’. She uttered an inaudible ‘hi’ and raised the hand Murad spared. That was all the attention the girl and I were willing to part with. 

When the European girl moved away from us she started chatting to another man. Murad saw her and elbowed me. Then he pointed at the man and looked unhappy. Murad said a lot of things that drowned out in the backdrop of the music that night. The one thing that clearly reached me was, ‘kill him.’

Murad also uttered the girl’s name and expressed his desire to show her ‘everything’. The girl had a strange name, but again, not strange enough to remember. I wasn’t interested in talking – to anyone. I didn’t want to jump like popcorn anymore. But before I could disappoint Murad with poor wingman-ship, the pretty girl walked away with a malnourished Malaysian man. The two said goodbye and left for another party.

Murad ordered another round of Lebanese Al Maza beer and we were back on Gourard. Unlike our last quest, which was after interesting people and good conversation, this time we focused just on food.  

Beirut Diaries - The Red Tape Between Us

Planning a trip to Lebanon on a Pakistani passport? Pause. Think about what you’re about to get into. Barring money, time and good company – which is the easy part – the visa application process can seriously stall you, even throw you off course.

Just so that more of us can enjoy Beirut, I’ll share the bare, monotonous basics of getting there. Once you’ve worked your way around the unavoidable ‘red tape’, this diary will attempt to offer more laughs than lessons.

  

Some essentials you must know straight out: tourists from Pakistan are not entertained; the Embassy will only issue business visas and most travel agents are oblivious to the business visa application process.

Our experience was riddled with obstacles. When Murad and I applied in December 2011, the Lebanese Embassy website fluctuated between sickness and health like a bad tube light. Sometimes on. Sometimes off. Sometimes inaccurate, showcasing a fashion exhibition!

When the website finally appeared, there was no online application and nobody answered the phone. Murad and I drove to the Embassy in Islamabad. A vacuous security guard greeted us. He left his post unmanned and returned with a middle-aged man. It was clear neither of the two had seen visitors before.

The middle-aged man did not invite us in. He gave us vague processing information and demanded documents we had never heard of. After a series of incoherent instructions, he shared his cell number and said, ‘call anytime’. Every time we called though, it seemed like he had trouble parting with words, like he had suddenly lost the strength to make conversation. For some days we played ‘cat and mouse’ or ‘phone tennis’ as some in our line of work say. In the end, the visa officer came through.

With the Embassy security guard and the middle-aged accommodating but not so accommodating visa officer, we had two nincompoops to deal with and they stood between Pakistan and Lebanon like heaps and heaps of undesirable, unkind, unending, red tape. 

Apart from chasing goofs, the business visa entails the following:

·      Start with a letter that states your intent to do business in Lebanon.

·      Seek an invitation from your official counterpart.

·      Submit registration documents of the counterpart. 

·      Book a hotel. Fax booking directly to the Embassy.

·      Request the Chamber of Commerce (in your own country) to guarantee your ticket back to Pakistan in case you get bankrupt! (If your business is not registered with the Chamber, ask the most prominent association within your industry to do this)

Submit your application through American Express (Gerry’s and FedEx do not facilitate applications for Lebanese visas).

There. Quite simple in neat bullet points. But it’s tedious when you get to it. Just be sure to harass all possible pre-requisites out of the visa officer to avoid surprises.

A message for the faint-hearted: every nerve you break getting to Beirut will come alive when you set foot on Lebanese soil. I will say no more.

A forewarning: the visa is like a postal stamp – do not be disappointed when you’re awarded one. Somehow, when a long struggle ends with at least something pretty to look at, the pain is less painful. This experience will offer no such relief.

Before Murad and I got the ugly ink stamps on our passports the Consul General lodged a battery of questions. Murad posed as a Publicis employee – which he wasn’t – so he remained quiet at first. After a few minutes of conversation, the Consul General raised his hand and obstructed my words with the power of his fat palm. 

He pointed at Murad and said, ‘I want to hear from him.’

The Consul General asked another question.

Murad gathered his thoughts and weaved an intricate web of unending lies – I was truly baffled. His lies were so complex it was impossible to follow what he said. Murad sounded smart and the Consul General was stumped out of his wits.

When Murad paused for a moment to breathe, the Consul General made a swift interjection, ‘we hardly issue any visas, but you seem like good persons…’

‘…these will be the first visas we issue in two years.’

Murad and I tried not to expose any teeth and conjured up a restrained smile. The Consul General instructed his mindless minion to process our visas and then he stared at something outside the window.

Murad and I got up, thanked him and shook his hands. The Consul General reminisced about Beirut and said that it was a lovely place and then he said goodbye. His eyes followed us out of the room. I could feel his gaze fixed at the back of my head. Before I closed the door behind myself I turned around and made eye contact one last time – I had to. 

The Consul General said, ‘please do call once you’re back’.

I said ‘sure’ and closed the door.

Not very long before Murad and I decided to go to Lebanon, we were at his place continuing our life long discussion on befitting vacation destinations. The Far East Island Hopping Holiday lost to other ideas. Some time later we were afloat an off-white cloud at the opposite end of the world in South America.

When we did the math for reenacting the motorcycle diaries, budget constraints nibbled away on the many miles between Pakistan and Brazil. Two whimsical imaginations were bullied into a corner, something akin to naked aboriginal warriors slowly descending onto somnolent prey. That meant South America was out and we were left with options closer to home. Finally, we settled for Turkey and Lebanon; it was ideal; pockets and traveling costs mutually agreed and just like that the trip was on.  

As far as vacations go, Turkey is still an oft desired and discussed escape amongst itching, exploratory natives. Beirut, on the other hand, was as random as random gets – we were going because it was the first country we spotted on the map in the Middle East.

Murad and I didn’t bother researching Lebanon. Our planning started and ended with a hostel booking and how we were going to spend our vacation was not the least bit clear to us.

The only thing evident sentiment was our conviction to the idea of a break. I thought a ‘change of scene’ would help dilute the many thorny memories of an impossible, forbidden love. Murad’s parents and siblings thought they should push him out of his hole; out of the drudgery of the daily grind and Murad couldn’t complain as long as someone wrote the visa application for him.  

We found a Publicis office in Beirut to act as our business counterpart. Sammy Moujaes was the Managing Director. We looked him up and wrote to him.

Dear Mr. Moujaes: 

Allow me to introduce myself. I am the General Manager at Publicis Pakistan. I have been with the group since February 2008. 

My friend and I want to visit Beirut for the New Year celebration but the Lebanese Embassy in Islamabad will not let us do so as tourists. Only businessmen are entertained. This has apparently been the case for countless years.   

I was wondering if you could invite us to Beirut on the pretext of discussing 'offshore business' and perhaps we could actually have a formal discussion on the subject!

Please be assured that this is a genuine concern – not a scam! And please do suggest if you can help. 

Many thanks. 

Khizr

Sammy responded within a few minutes. He invited us to discuss ‘offshore business opportunities’ and took care of all the paperwork.

Since the Turkish visa didn’t happen, not even after we got back from Beirut, four days in Beirut became nine. At the outset we thought maybe nine days would be too many. One week into our trip we were discussing ways to permanently settle in Lebanon and I think through the course of this diary you’ll understand why.

Considering the infinite tribulations of the visa process (which were just as frustrating for Sammy as for us) we felt indebted to him and decided to pay him a visit.  This happened well into the trip. By then we had gathered enough praise for Beirut and ofcourse the gifts we had brought along from Pakistan. We bought Sammy and his secretary ajkan bed linen sets which was Murad’s brilliant idea.    

We met Sammy at his office around 3pm on a weekday. We were happy to see him in pajamas and a pair of sneakers. I thought ‘comfort over convention’ but didn’t say.

Sammy’s demeanor was like his clothes – comfortable. He listened to our anecdotes with an unchanging smile. We talked about everything under the sun but offshore business! For a moment, Murad and I felt like we were back in Lahore. 

Murad and I liked Sammy. He offered us Lebanese chocolate and green tea. We didn’t feel like he was much older or an advertising baron – he talked without professional barriers. In fact, he was extremely down to earth and genial. At one point in the conversation Murad interjected Sammy to say, ‘we are second to none in hospitality’ and then he invited him to Lahore.

Later, when our many stories about Beirut ended, Sammy took us around the office and introduced us to his entire team. I had to draw comparisons between Beirut and Lahore. Some things were uncannily similar. Others were not.

Graphic Designers were glued to their PCs. Client Services and Public Relations officers had nightlife dibs on their fingertips.

In differences, the ladies in Beirut were all immaculately dressed. Obesity was a subject left for History books to elaborate on. The Beirut office had two peons for twenty executives. Their CEO was bald. Almost everybody spoke four languages and almost everybody had formally studied either media or advertising or graphic designing. There were no ceiling fans or power outages or generators. The best part: everything was dust free and squeaky clean.

In Lahore, the security guard alone weighs half a ton and there are plenty of ‘thunder thighs’ at the office to complement him. We have two peons to each executive. Our CEO has grey curls; and a unique sense of humor.

After our little round around the office, I asked myself if I would swap Beirut for Lahore. The question must have fallen into a dark bottomless hole because I didn’t get an answer. 

Creativity and Arabic, together – couldn’t wrap my head around that. Seemed like an impossible marriage; or at least an improbable one. I hope you’ll forgive me for my bias but it’s just that every time I hear too many words in Arabic my mind drifts out into a big, blue sea; the feeling you feel when you look at a blank canvas.

Beyond temporary dementia, one thing that made my day was when some people at the office gathered around us for gup shup and the Creative Director asked, ‘so what clients do you look after?’

And before I could respond, Sammy said, ‘he manages the office.’

After a few ‘Ohs’ and ‘Ahs’ we went on to discuss other things while I basked in the afterglow of unspoken but widely understood praise.   

Beirut Diaries - Preamble

I was in Beirut to witness the dying seconds of two thousand and eleven. Beirut could not have been more alive that night. The irony of celebrating an end, so palpable in retrospect, yet on New Year’s Eve we focused on new beginnings instead.

Beirut bustled. It swelled up across tiny rooftops and narrow streets. The people were ecstatic, eager to kiss another year goodbye, eager to start a fresh, eager to party. 

My friend and I tried to assimilate the song and dance and drinks and fireworks, but struggled. We had not slept in two days.

Al-Maza Beer, an abundance of gorgeous people, and the Mediterranean Sea breeze set the mood apart from what usually goes on in Lahore. We were quick to embrace the ‘disconnect’ from Pakistan and the thought of home evoked only a pale memory.

Beside me in the madness should have been a Lebanese blonde of trim body and exceptional features. But we seldom get what we want; life generally meanders ahead as we pursue to appease our dissatisfied selves. So dissatisfied me had Murad – a hairy young man of same age; same education; same country; similar acumen; and similar predispositions.

Murad and I can also occupy the ‘same space’ and not talk for hours. Conversely, we can utter unending gibberish. Happens when you’ve know someone for over a decade and are far too familiar to find even a hint of new in the relationship to create excitement, especially when you’re not constantly reinventing yourself. It’s a strange kind of symbiosis, ours. One you’re likely to understand best if you ever witness it.

On the trip, Murad reminded me of how I’ll have to return to Lahore someday so I kept my back to him and he did the same. This rule did not apply during unforeseeable disasters, like the time we missed our flight to Beirut and were stranded at the Doha airport.

Murad and I joined heads on a handful of rules and followed none apart from a no camera policy. We also joined heads on where to stay, what to eat, where to party and what to see. Other than that we were like two parallel lines on a blank page – cognizant of each another, maintaining equal distance and converging only on the idea of running side-by-side.

As much as I would hate to flatter Murad, I will admit to one thing – I could not have wished for a better travel companion. Murad can exercise immense patience, until he’s dragged to explore a cave. In Beirut, after a great deal of persuasion, Murad agreed to explore a cave with me called Jeita Grotto. Murad faked physical trauma and fatigue but ultimately accompanied me with a frown. That was the only time I felt like he was going to strangle me with his bare hands. Otherwise, Murad was pleasant – up for anything, anytime, anywhere.

When we returned from Beirut we were bombarded with the, ‘how was it, tell me all’ sentiment. While Murad continues to torture his friends with anti-climatic incidents, half-baked stories and incomplete anecdotes, I thought I should share some relief with a word or two about our time in Beirut.  

Unfortunately, you’ll never know the complete picture because Murad remains mute about his many mentionable and some unmentionable endeavors. But the spiciest of slices often leave an indelible imprint, which I will elaborate on in these diaries.

Before you begin though, a few disclaimers. I hope these will protect me as I manage bloated expectation on the quality and content of this diary.

I’ll explain.

These notes have been in the making for several months and some people suffer from the illusion that they are, or at least should be, exceptionally well-written. That, however, is not the case – far from it. 

Other disclaimers: Beirut was not a life changing experience; Murad and I did not fall in love; there were no accidents; not a trace of the civil war; no heroics; no natural disasters; no crime; no miracles; no fist fights; no injuries; no hot pursuits; no adventure sport; no deaths; no births; nothing outlandish in any sense of the word.

So if you’re searching for sensation or suspense, this may not be the best story. In fact, it’s not a story to begin with; more like sketches of an experience; word pictures of a city steeped in an eclectic mix of antiquated and sometimes diametrically opposing cultures. I’m referring to seventeen distinct religions, in pockets, divided across a tiny patch of land hardly six kilometers in width and a tad bit longer in length.

For a country so tiny, Lebanon has seen more than its share of bloodshed and war. Lebanon has suffered fifteen long years of death, destruction and socio-political unrest. When I talked to a few people about it, I soon realized how a cursory glance at their past or a chapter in Lonely Planet was not enough to understand the dynamics of Lebanese politics or the manner in which the Lebanese people conduct themselves internally, amidst diverse ethnicities, or externally with its surreptitious neighbors – each wielding a certain power on the tiny state for its own vested interest.

Some things are best understood in quiet retrospection. Lebanese politics is one such thing and by ‘quiet’ I am referring to long flights, morning commode time, long walks with your dog and so on.

Anyway, after some solitary thought I realized how Beirut really was the ‘Middle’ in the Middle East. On the world map, tiny Lebanon is surrounded by Israel, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Turkey, Jordan and the Mediterranean; that means there’s enormous potential for foreign influence. Within the country itself, since tourism has picked up again, we interacted with almost every imaginable nationality. The day twenty American undergraduates joined us at the hostel, Beirut began to feel like a huge melting pot of varying colors, languages and cultures.

We were at the center of all mankind – the point that gave birth to man before similar looking and like minded people formed nationalities and poured out of an ancient well and sprawled in unequal measure across vast stretches of barren, untouched, pristine terrain.

Only to further substantiate my uneducated claim, some of the oldest inhabited cities of the world are in this region – Jerusalem, Damascus, Byblos and Aleppo – all in very close proximity. I had the privilege of seeing one; plenty more about that later.

Anyway, contrary to what I said earlier, in this very short span of time, Murad has revised his stance on storytelling. He says he’s found the memory he had allegedly lost so his voice will surface in this narrative and hopefully propose an essential counter narrative to my limited understanding on what really happened in Beirut.

I must forewarn you though: Murad is a master tantalizer; a virtuoso in the art of the ‘titillating tease’. He will whet your appetite, lure you into wanting more, and bring you to the edge of your seat. But he will not finish the deal. Murad will most likely share the arms and legs of his story and not reveal the full body of his emotion through his words. For that you will have to broker a monetary deal with him. Perhaps a cent for every word spoken and cent back for every word unspoken. Between my verbosity and Murad’s stinginess though, I hope we’re able to craft an accurate reflection of what our trip was like.

Also, if or rather when you wish to visit Beirut, I hope your trip is better, in every possible respect, compared to mine.   

Blasted, again

27 May 2009. 10:30a.m.

Just when a semblance of normalcy seeped back into our lives, another bomb blast shook Lahore down to its roots. We heard about it on the phone. We saw it on television. We received messages of ‘be safe’ and ‘hope you are fine’. Accounts of shattered glass, dust clouds and earthquake like tremors are still pouring out from the proximity of the blast. The terrorists have struck again. Now it’s our turn to react and count lives lost.

We cannot mitigate the affects of these disasters. Each blast compounds on the memory of its predecessor and reminds us that we carry a host of similar memories within us. The city will succumb to a downward spiral of mourning again. Placards will be raised against the atrocity. A fresh pool of graves will be prepared for martyrs of chance – caught at the wrong spot and at the wrong time. All this sounds far too trite to stir emotion, but it still does, because blood spilt each time is innocent and belongs to an entirely new set of people.

The strategy of ‘the terrorists’ has been uncannily consistent for Lahore at least. They strike first thing in the morning, capture a great portion of our minds and paralyze us for the rest of the day. In a blink we are seen as pathetic, worrying vegetables as packets of anxiety huddle over our brows and fight for every inch of its space.

In its wake, the blasts leave us with a plethora of unhappy options. Some ponder over immigration laws in safer countries like Canada. Some wish to enroll with armed forces or better yet fight terrorists with their bare fists. Some sulk, tone down routine lives into abeyance, and abandon the need to laugh. And some write, to paint the ugly picture, so that the anguish within is purged and let out.

Is progress pointless? I’m afraid I don’t know.

Blasted, again

27 May 2009. 10:30a.m.

Just when a semblance of normalcy seeped back into our lives, another bomb blast shook Lahore down to its roots. We heard about it on the phone. We saw it on television. We received messages of ‘be safe’ and ‘hope you are fine’. Accounts of shattered glass, dust clouds and earthquake like tremors are still pouring out from the proximity of the blast. The terrorists have struck again. Now it’s our turn to react and count lives lost.

We cannot mitigate the affects of these disasters. Each blast compounds on the memory of its predecessor and reminds us that we carry a host of similar memories within us. The city will succumb to a downward spiral of mourning again. Placards will be raised against the atrocity. A fresh pool of graves will be prepared for martyrs of chance – caught at the wrong spot and at the wrong time. All this sounds far too trite to stir emotion, but it still does, because blood spilt each time is innocent and belongs to an entirely new set of people.

The strategy of ‘the terrorists’ has been uncannily consistent for Lahore at least. They strike first thing in the morning, capture a great portion of our minds and paralyze us for the rest of the day. In a blink we are seen as pathetic, worrying vegetables as packets of anxiety huddle over our brows and fight for every inch of its space.

In its wake, the blasts leave us with a plethora of unhappy options. Some ponder over immigration laws in safer countries like Canada. Some wish to enroll with armed forces or better yet fight terrorists with their bare fists. Some sulk, tone down routine lives into abeyance, and abandon the need to laugh. And some write, to paint the ugly picture, so that the anguish within is purged and let out.

Is progress pointless? I’m afraid I don’t know.

Letters to BBC - 2

I think it is important for people abroad to learn about Pakistan through personal accounts. People are the same everywhere and can empathize with each other, beyond national borders. Emotions, fears, dogmas - these are altered with changing landscapes, but far less than what we tend to assume.

There are many misconceptions about Pakistan, courtesy terrorism and a chain of ineffective dynastic leaderships. The lawyers movement, for example, was popularly seen by the rest of the world as a democratic win; a step towards independent judiciary. People on ground, however, are skeptical and think otherwise.

In a country as poor as ours, someone rich enough can buy support at a pittance and entirely tailor a cause to his/her own needs. The sad truth about Pakistan is that while some discerning citizens understand this and are out on the streets, protesting about glaring atrocities, there are still many who will not give-up on the comfort of their cocooned lives.

Nobody can work in fear. And so, many who are without strength to face their fears, will resort to an ascetic lifestyle, shut out death and depravation for even a semblance of normalcy. Apathy is the new pandemic in Pakistan. Among other things, this is an adverse affect of the ‘war on terror’ and it must be addressed.

Letters to BBC

BBC: Are you worried about the future of Pakistan? Are your friends? Does it impact on your everyday life?

The future of Pakistan is bleak at best and we certainly are worried about it. Apart from terrorism, the crisis is further compounded with widespread social injustice in obscure corners of the country, where tribal elders mete out verdicts on conflicts – big or small – and most often without regard to actual Islamic Law.

The case of the 17 year old girl, flogged in Swat for having escorted her father-in-law to a market place is a prime example of this. The girl was alleged to have violated some mutated interpretation of the Sharia law and was publicly punished with, I think, thirty seven lashes on her back.

I believe that such incidents have been happening in Pakistan for long. Only difference is, these stories have found their way to mass mediums and can be shared with the populace at large now. It's just like the Napoleon-Hitler analogy. Napoleon and his armies invaded, killed, raped and looted - up to a scale, close in comparison with the devastation wreaked on Europe by Hitler and his men. However, in history, Hitler seems to have greater nuisance value because there were so many more avenues of communication in his time – it was like learning about the atrocities first hand.

Similarly, in Pakistan, with the advent of new media and deregulation, we have seen an exponential growth in news channels. As a result of this, what was concealed before and known only to a few, is now exposed and known to all. In the race to cover stories that haven’t been told yet, news channels are dumping information on us, at a pace, we are not used to. While transparency has its benefits, it can also spark mass unrest that may grind the establishment down to a halt or conversely, provide impetus for revolt.

While bombs blow up and claim lives almost everyday, drawing room discussions in Pakistan are vulnerable to hopeless surmise. The possibility of US invasion and Indian Intelligence exploiting unchecked media in Pakistan are ideas that continue to haunt us, among a plethora of other conspiracy theories.

But everybody is not haunted. Some of us deliberately avoid discussions on Pakistan so that we can carry on with our lives, uninterrupted by fear. Fear is a huge sap on our energy and it’s gnawing away at the social fabric of our society.

We are all scared about what awaits us. Some of us still talk about it, some of us don’t care anymore.