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.