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.