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.