Lebanese lantern

Bringing back that loving feeling

2010-12-02T05:56:00.000-08:00

I left love. I said goodbye to that goosebumpy, wide cheesy grin, sparkly eyes love-all-over-my-body feeling. But then, today, it hit me! Right there, while sipping ahwe from an orangy coloured plastic cup with a bus driver named Ara, amid the mountaintop snoubar of Fanar - right there is where love crashed into me.

Listening to Ara recount tales about his trip to Turkey paid for by el colonel, who sent him off with a plastic bag full of cash, and his (far-fetched) story about having been a shoemaker but losing two-million dollars due to Chinese imports making their way to the country, and then insisting that I get married soon because I just must, while giving me a private tour of Fanar on his empty 40-seater bus - right there is where love crept into my heart all over again.

Yes, Ara played a role in my reborn lust for life, but this time it was Lebanon that became the object of my affection. The Lebanon that creates wonderfully friendly, hospitable and generous people such as Ara. Lebanon's magical way of transforming a mundane hop-on-a-number-five-bus-and-see-where-it-takes-me day into the 'on' of what has become my on-off relationship with this country secured the love deal, and I'm besotted yet again.

Beyond Ara's double rosaries dangling from the rearview mirror, a whole new world opened up to me. Besides the smoggy view over Beirut, stone villas of Fanar exposed themselves from behind bright orange and pink bougainvilleas, and new construction projects competed for a better view of the Mediterranean.

The love story continued on the return journey to Sassine. I laughed at a taxi driver jumping out of his car to bliksem another driver who had nearly crashed into him (the bliksemming didn't happen), and waved at two kids dressed up in ghost and crocodile outfits for tomorrow's Barbara. The smell of car-fixing activities competed with the wafts of zaatar manouche aromas while en route through Burj Hammoud, where an old man sat sleeping on his white plastic chair outside his carpet shop.

Although 28 degrees on an autumn day, some women still managed to sweat through the tribulations of high-heeled boots, waving off a mentally handicapped man selling Fares Karam CDs by raising their perfectly plucked eyebrows. In Ara's bus, the Armenian version of 'Downtown' played through the speakers, fading out every time a louder boombox whizzed by. One of these belonged to a Posche Cayenne 4x4 - in gold, to match the gold dripping from the arms and fingers and chest and ears of its female driver, who hooted at the service in front of her, taking his time to find 3 000LL change for his iPod-listening foreign passenger who handed him a pink 5 000LL bill.

Further along the road, I daydreamed about the devastation witnessed in a house whose walls are filled with shell damage. Someone came to the balcony to shake out a double-bed sheet before hanging it on the washing line that hovered over the street. A flock of birds flew across the blue sky above, happy to be rid of the noises of all those wars. It seemed they were not as afraid of all the hooting.

A car next to my window hooted too. I turned to realise that that's exactly what the male driver wanted from me. I smiled. He stared. I turned to look at the old lady dressed in black stepping onto the bus. She was smiling while in mourning. I was smiling while in love.

Behind her was a broasted chicken shop. The chickens danced their over-and-over dance next to the fire, while the green-clad Sukleen man did his own kind of repitition on the pavement.

Further along, a family - mom, dad, child - took a helmetless ride on a scooter, dodging all the cars that were already dodging each other. Every wall-plastered poster they passed belonged to an event held more than 10 months ago. The graffiti artists hadn't covered them yet. Some were hidden by pictures of war heroes, politicians... a missing cat.

A police attempted to direct traffic by spending his hours waving a hand in one direction. It seemed to make him feel important even though no one followed his instructions and his whistle couldn't be heard over the combined sound of construction, hooting and Fares Karam. The ambulance was louder. But the only reaction of surrounding cars was to dodge each other faster. The policeman's hand moved faster; my heart beat faster. Someone was being rushed to hospital; I said a little prayer for them as we passed a shrine surrounded by cheap lights and flaky paint.

Some one was being rushed to hospital and I was lovesick.

Of course Ara wouldn't take money from me - neither for the normal 1 000LL bus trip, nor for the additional private 'tour', nor for the ahwe. It was his way of showing me his beautiful country, he said - just like el colonel had allowed him to see Turkey. I may not have received a plastic bag full of cash, but I think I bagged the best deal of the lot.

Relighting the Lantern

2010-11-14T02:39:00.000-08:00

It's been a while, I know. A month and 10 days to be exact. A lot happens in 40 days that gives one sufficient excuses for not updating a blog. I won't go into the excuses. I'll just skip straight to the highlights.

There was another eat-all-you-can experience at Tawlet - this time with an Armenian chef; two run-ins with outbursts of rain (both times while walking in a skirt and sandals. If you know Beirut's lack of street drainage you'll know this is not ideal!); a visit to Tripoli with Mom and Dad to eat znoud el sit; saying au revoir to Mom and Dad (insert sad face); having three wisdom teeth removed on two different occasions and hibernating with chipmunk syndrome; feeling the beats with juggling cousin at a drumming event at Electro Mechanique; attending the swanky private dinner party for Aishti magazine's (now called A magazine) 50th issue at the newly redone People restaurant; having my hand tattooed in henna by a lovely Bangladeshi woman; resuming a one-day-a-week job at a university, only to be told I'd put on weight after two months of Mom's cooking (luckily I was informed by the same colleague this week that I've lost it again); on that note, enjoying many quick Asian meals at the newly opened Wok Box down the road, and doing a Mexican restaurant review; interviewing comedians, an artist who used his father's ashes in an installation, dancers, an activist working to change the law in Lebanon that doesn't allow women to pass on their Lebanese nationality to their husbands and children, and the president of John Galliano; covering a story on nude art, another on cosmetic surgery, and another on Beirut night life; attending the first birthday of one of my favourite local galleries Qcontemporary, the opening of Kromatik art gallery in Mar MIkhael, and the launch of a friend's debut CD with her band Sandmoon; taking many (many!) services and bostas; drinking lots of water in the still-hot weather; discovering the joys of ashta (the fruit)... and more.

Here are some of the 'mores':

Receiving a massive box of macaroons from Laduree with an invitation to the opening of its Beirut boutique store. Give me the liquorice-flavoured macaroon any day, anytime, anywhere!

Attending the opening of Samia Halaby's Dances in the Canal at Ayyam gallery after having interviewed her.

Visiting the first-century obelisk at Hermel with new friends after spending the previous day picking olives in the village of Kaa and taking them to be pressed into olive oil.

The view from the friend's house where we stayed in Kaa.

Being treated to a breakfast prepared by out-and-about cousin for all his cousins. We missed those of you studying in London, Madrid and Bloemfontein, and those feeding a happy-hands-and-feet baby in Cape Town (and of course the new husband in Paris!).

Sunday walks

2010-10-03T10:03:00.000-07:00

After a big Sunday lunch in the village, it's imperative that you take a long walk to work off the warra hareesh and kibbeh. Besides being a wonderful way to discover Daraoun's little zaroobehs (passageways), it's a good excuse to stop by Le Cremier for an ice cream on the way back. You deserve it after all the exercise!

I'm yet to see one of these rollers actually carrying cables.

Anyone for outdoor confession?

Gathering around a protected skedonk.

This is where all the cables are!

Daraoun's mountainside.

Beirut in the distance.

Sour beauty

2010-10-02T01:18:00.000-07:00

My perception of Lebanese people changes on a daily basis. Living in the big city is what confuses the topic. Down in Beirut, it's very rare for me to come across the kind generosity I've always stereotyped Lebanese people to possess. Years of holidays in the village had me thinking that all Lebanese people were friendly, genuinely caring, interested in the welfare of the other before the self. But my time in Beirut is showing another side to this society. A rougher, more self-obsessed, don't-smile-at-me side to this culture. I'm talking about the women of course - none of these men would turn down a bright happy-day smile!

I was having one of my 'I love Beirut' days on Thursday. Loving the chaos, the hooting, the bad-quality $1 shops, the construction works, smell of manouche, chatty security guards. I walked to my oriental dance class with an extra spring in my step, looking forward to ending off a wonderful day with a bit of a shimmy. And that's where it all went downhill like mascara running off a tearful eye...

'Oh Tracy! Where have you been?' I was asked because I hadn't attended the last two classes. I was about to answer when she turned around and started talking to someone else about her hair while looking at herself in the mirror, batting her eyelids and pouting her lips.

In walked in a lady from our group who I hadn't seen in two months. She walked straight to the beauty-talking girls, who immediately launched a barrage of questions about her red face (she'd just come from a facial peeling session). 'Did she do so-and-so to you?'; 'You should tell her to do so-and-so next time.'; 'Oh, I go for treatments like this every year.'; 'You have to look after your face.'; 'That's why I have such beautiful skin.'

Uh-hum new-old lady... I was looking straight at her, waiting to greet her after two months. She ignored the fact that there was another person standing two metres away from their exclusive beauty group and rather turned the other way to look into the mirror too.

Eventually, she looked up, acknowledged me, and went back to me-talk. After another bit of 'my beauty regime is better than yours' conversation, she said hi and I excitedly (and genuinely) said, 'I haven't seen you in aaaaages! How have you been?'

The reply cut my excitement short and ruined my dancing session: 'Oh, you haven't done your eyebrows yet. I told you how you must do them. Why haven't you done it? You're young still and your face looks like it's drawn down. You need to lift it up. You need to take that hair way. Two thirds before the arch; one third after.'

'Yes,' said the teacher. 'I told her last week she must do something.' They gather to inspect my generous eyebrows and shake their heads in disapproval. 'Why haven't you done it?'

'I'm happy as I am,' comes my 'I want to slap you right now you artificial beauty-obsessed women' response, and I turn around to put on my coin-encrusted hip shawl.

During the class, while trying to perfect a certain turn, another student comments on the teacher's beautiful make-up as she does a professional twirl in front of her to demonstrate. That's when I want to chuck my shawl on the floor with one, loud coin-dropping sound and tell them to catch a grip! 'It's not about makeup and eyebrows and perfect skin!' I wanted to yell. And that's when I realised I may never really fit into being a real Beiruti. I'll rather give that place up to someone more worthy of a perfectly groomed spot on the 'I'm a Beiruti' panel. Someone with two-millimetre thick eyebrows who's plucked them so much she now has to tattoo them in. No, I'm happy as I am.

Which made me start wondering about how Lebanese I actually am? Where do I fit into this crowd? A trip to Batroun answered that question. I fit in with the small-town village people. The people who take a genuine interest in what you're doing and who you are. The people who ask questions and will sit all day listening to your reply. The people who share themselves as much as they share their food.

Thanks to a spontaneous pop-in to Batroun's famous lemonade store Rim Patisserie, my perception of Lebanese people was restored. The owners Elie and Denise Becharra, and their daughter Melissa, made us feel as if we'd gone to visit them in their home. Denise sat down with us while Melissa went around the counter to get us some baklawa to taste, and Elie gave the men some of his homemade ice cream before taking Dad round to the kitchen to proudly show him where he makes the baklawa, ice cream and prize lemonade.

We walked away knowing so much more about each other's families than I have learned about the people I've been dancing with for nearly four months. When they said 'come visit' it was an invitation from the heart, not like the superficial invite from one of my fellow dancers: 'Become my friend on facebook.'

Maybe it's growing up in Bloemfontein that makes me more attached to the plat op die aarde mense, but one thing's for sure, when push comes to shove, I'll always choose lemonade over a mini facial!

Dad backstage with owner Elie Becharra at Batroun's Rim Patisserie.

Dorada Sur Mer

2010-10-02T00:58:00.000-07:00

Dad's cousin's daughter's husband (yip, that's how extended Lebanese families become!) invited us out for dinner last night with some of the rest of that family. What a pleasure to step into a restaurant serving mezza with a seafood twist. Among the hummus and babaganouj, there were plates of fried calamari rings, grilled squid and deeply fried whole fish. Seafood heaven on the balcony of Dorada Sur Mer, an elegant restaurant on the Maameltein coast.

www.doradasurmer.com

We could have sat inside...

...but I'm glad we sat here.

Sultan Ibrahim: deeply fried fish that are eaten with crispy fried bread and tarator (a tahini sauce).

Abou sin, a fish named after its sharp teeth. This massive, baked offering arrived once we'd already filled our tummies with a million other mezza treats. And after this we were still forced (and I use the word purposely, as there's no saying no when invited to dinner and food just arrives in front of you!) to eat cake and fruit and meringues with a chocolate fondue.

Dad's cousin, whose second name is Therese, was surprised with two cakes (sporting fireworks of course!) for her saint's name day.

I have cousins

2010-10-02T00:46:00.000-07:00

Back in South Africa, I have no first cousins. That's one of the reasons that makes my year in Lebanon so special - I have nine of them here (well, I did up until last month when one went to London and another went off to Madrid to pursue their Masters).

This week I invited the ones who didn't have to wake up for school the next day for a homemade pizza evening. I love spending time with people who share the same grandparents. There's something very binding about that. I'm extremely grateful to my parents for making sure we visited Lebanon often as children so that we'd be an active part of this incredible family. My cousins were not strangers when I arrived in April this year; they were friends I had made over the years, playing kooka, rollerskating on Jeddo's staygha, making travel plans taht el mayseh, choosing rings from Mondanite, eating booza out of square cones, swinging on the balencoire while Jeddo lit a cigarette, playing bastra with Ata, competing in ping pong championships, drawing in oudit el jouweh, firing fireworks for Eid el Saide...

This is what I call family.

With juggling, smiley, out-and-about and bride cousins.

C'est fini

2010-10-02T00:02:00.001-07:00

After more than half of their holiday over, Mom and Dad can finally enjoy their staygha (that's when they're not beaten to lunching on it by the workers now busy on the next house project: the paving). Thanks to Dad's gardening genius, wayward bushes and overgrown plants have been removed to provide us with a magnificent view of the the mountains beyond. It's the most relaxing place in (out of) the house, which is probably the reason why I found Dad sitting there quietly at 5am one morning because he couldn't sleep. We've already had an impromptu 'mabrouk' evening visit on the finished staygha from the neightbours, and Mom hosted the first tea party on it with all her aunties. I see many more breakfasts, lunches and dinners being held here - and a whole lot of garden enjoyment.

Life before the staygha.

Dad and fat neighbour measuring the building area.

Dad waters and sweeps the newly laid concrete.

Plastering the walls while Mom and Dad listen to the tiler's suggestions.

Dad can't wait to use his new staygha. Mom and I find him enjoying a glass of wine on the unfinished patio when we return home one night.

Covered by a roof.

The contentious railings. After many arguments for and against, they are installed. Yalla grandson, these are for you!

Finito!

Stretch over and you can pick a pear from the tree.

Saintly and fat neighbour come to wish Mom, Dad and godfather uncle mabrouk on the dashing staygha.

Just your average Christening

2010-09-27T06:48:00.000-07:00

Yes, I would put on a nice summery dress for a baby's Christening, but I sure as heck wouldn't bring out the big guns with a ball gown like this lady did for the Christening luncheon taking place at the restaurant in Roumiyeh where we had lunch on Sunday. Cerise with a bit of a trail, flashing some big-time bling on the bust. Very a la libanaise, taking dressing up to the max! The lady in purple, with the dress that would lift up with every lift of the newly Christened baby is the mother of the blessed child.

Hamra by night

2010-09-25T05:14:00.001-07:00

Art for a better life

2010-09-25T04:42:00.000-07:00

Luxury and Degradation is the latest collective art exhibition at Kettaneh Kunigk in Hamra. I went to the opening night on Thursday especially to see the work of Takashi Murakami, Jeff Koons and... Frances Goodman (all the way from SA!).

Unfortunately, they all disappointed me in their over simplicity. Even Murakami's soccer ball decorated with his signature smiley flowers did not live up to the excitement I had of seeing his work in Tokyo. There's a big, white, porcelain dog-tuned-vase by Jeff Koons that may have redeemed the lineup had it not been filled with real, colourful roses - fake yellow ones would have been so much more apt.

There was, however, an installation that made me think, and introduced me to a new artist from Switzerland: Frisbees by Urs Luthi (1947-). Red, yellow and green frisbees mounted on the wall all carrying a little sentence geared to make you reassess your usual behavioural patterns. I particularly liked 'Waste your feelings', 'Take a five-minute walk in slow motion', 'Imagine a movie trailer about your own life' and 'Take a walk, notice something and decide how you would describe it', all inscribed with the slogan 'Art for a Better Life'.

I thought of Stotterjie when I read 'Imagine yourself being an actor in a play while doing your daily business.' That cookery show from our kitchen window in Stellenbosch sure would have made Urs Luthi proud!

'Frisbees' by Urs Luthi.

Flower Ball by Takashi Murakami.

Chef of the day

2010-09-22T08:44:00.001-07:00

Although many may think that I came to Lebanon to find a husband (with fat neighbour actually verbalising his wish for me to marry here so that his new best friend, Dad, has a reason to come every year!), I am, in fact, here for a very different reason. Three reasons, to be exact:

1) to better my spoken Lebanese language

2) to learn to belly dance

3) to become a Lebanese cook

I guess you could see the mastering of these three objectives as a good starting point from which to find a Lebanese husband, but let's not dwell on fat neighbour's fantasies...

1) Hum ehkeh ahsan be kteer min wa-it wa-sulit ha Lubnan.

2) Last night I felt that I could belly dance freestyle on my own for the first time without inhibitions.

3) Well, let's just say other people have been feeding me enough for me not to have to make my own Lebanese cuisine.

Something had to be done about task number three. It finally took shape today in the creation of my first Lebanese dish made in Lebanon. Shish barack, my favourite local meal, was the star of my table-top performance, held in the presence of some invited family members (including neat-and-tidy aunt, who hadn't come down to Beirut in five years. Talk about an occasion!).

Thanks to saintly neighbour's recipe, I managed to nail this time-consuming dish, all the while cursing parsley and coriander leaves for not coming ready picked, and realising more and more why ladies head to Spinneys to purchase the sombreros ready-made! If I add up the two hours of prepping last night, and hour of cooking this morning, I realise why they call food-making a labour of love.

But love sure does taste good!

Sombreros in the making.

Here's how it's done. (This makes 40 sombreros, enough to feed eight people.)

Ingredients for dough

2 cups cake flour

1/4 cup oil

1/4 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

water as per judgement

Mix everything together, adding water a little at a time until you have a non-sticky dough consistency (rather too little than too much, as there's no going back!)

Ingredients for meat

400g minced meat

1/2 onion, finely chopped

1/2 cup pine nuts

1/2 cup parsley, finely chopped

salt & pepper to taste

Mix everything together and form little balls, the size of a Pritt cap.

To make the sombreros, roll out the dough and cut out circles the size of the bottom of a 500ml bottle of water. Place the meat balls in the centre and fold in half, pressing together the edges of the dough and joining the two pointy ends at the back to form a complete circle of dough around the meat - just like a Mexican sombrero. Place these on a greased baking tray and bake in an oven at 180' for 10 minutes before turning them around and baking them for another 10 minutes.

Ingredients for laban

2 litres Greek-style yoghurt

1 heaped Tbs cornflour

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 cup coriander, chopped

Fry the garlic and coriander and set aside. Bring the yoghurt and cornflour to the boil. Reduce the heat and add the fried garlic and coriander and baked sombreros and allow to cook together for 15 minutes.

Serve on top of rice. Sahtein!

Cooking tip If you're in the mood to work all night long, make lots more sombreros (as they're the most time-consming part of the recipe) and freeze them so that all you have to do when you want to make the dish again is defrost and bake them before tossing them in the easy-to-make laban mixture. I made and baked my sombreros last night, let them cool down completely, and left them in the fridge overnight so that I only had to make the laban this morning.

Art lives forever

2010-09-22T08:33:00.000-07:00

On Monday night I attended a mini exhibition and talk by Lebanese metal sculptor Boulos Richa at the awesomely intimate RectoVerso art-book space. Yes, his work is quirky and cool, but what impressed me the most is that he's still working - at the age of 82!!! And if I tell you that the man is passionate about what he does, I'm underplaying his zeal. Once called the Picasso of Lebanon, Amo Boulos sure taught me a thing or two about loving what you do, and doing what you love. His career, which started with him making metal window frames and doors, has progressed to such a degree over the years, that he's even exhibiting his metal sculptures (some made with car parts) in Qatar next year. Go Amo!

Boulos Richa tells us about his artistic journey on the sidewalk of RectoVerso in Monot.

One of his creative metal sculptures.

Sunday means...

2010-09-19T06:07:00.001-07:00

...family lunch!!! It's been a while since I've shown off the foods that are keeping me happy (and flourishing), so I thought I'd share a bit of today's Sunday family lunch. This is going to make you hungry, so only scroll down if you've already eaten.

Hriese, a soup mixture of shredded mutton, wheat and spices (mainly cinnamon), sprinkled with cinnamon. Ata made it especially for me because she knows it's one of my favourite local dishes. Guess who has a Tupperware of the leftovers to take down home to Beirut tomorrow...

Fattouche, a Lebanese salad with toasted Lebanese bread. Bride cousin made today's salad, but here's Dad's recipe (his speciality back home):

Ingredients for salad

Lettuce

4 tomatoes

2 cucumbers

2 onions

2 green peppers

1 cup chopped mint

1 cup chopped parsley

4 slices toast (this is the South African version)

Ingredients for dressing

1/2 cup lemon juice

1/2 cup olive oil

4 cloves of garlic, crushed

salt & pepper to taste

Slice and mix all the vegetables together (the mint and parsley are a bit of a schlep because of all the leaf-picking). Fifteen minutes before serving, add the toast and pour over the dressing and mix it all together. Sahtein!

The true Lebanese version includes sumac and purslane (not always the easiest things to find back in South Africa).

Mahshe malfouf: mince and rice wrapped in cabbage leaves. Ata always puts the perfect amount of garlic and lemon juice in her pot, creating a divine taste in these cabbage rolls that are served with laban (Greek-style yoghurt).

It's time for Africa

2010-09-19T05:54:00.000-07:00

I miss Jabu. In fact, I miss hearing the names Ayanda, Mpho, Dineo, Sechaba... I miss the smiling faces of African people. Black skin here is covered by a street-cleaner's green Sukleen overall or housekeeper's aproned, light-blue outfit. It's silly how I feel connected to these people I don't even know just because they've come from the same continent as me; but at the same time I'm so disconnected because they're never out in the places I frequent in Beirut. That's why, when I heard the sounds of the Ethiopian band playing at the opening of the new Gemmayzeh rooftop bar Coop D'Etat, I couldn't stop myself from joining the African ladies showing off their sway on the dancefloor... to reconnect with my continent. What a refreshing night out, seeing fifty-year-olds next to twenty-year-olds - from Lebanese and Ethiopian to Dutch, Danish, American, British, Irish and South African.

Waka waka yeah yeah!

Fashioning my mood

2010-09-17T07:38:00.000-07:00

Lebanon loves hitting me with a surprise when I'm feeling down. She (and I know she's a she because she has just as many ups and down as any girl I know) knows how to give me a lift when I'm sick of public transport, ogling men, rude shop keepers, lousy waiters, loud hooters, queue skippers, old-school thinkers, pay-for beaches and littering taxi keepers.

Take yesterday for example. I was on www.travelstart.co.za checking out prices for a ticket back home - back to Ava, men who don't even know I exist, chatty kafee tannies, Knead's energetic waiters, robots that serve a purpose, diligent queues in Home Affairs, way-out radical ideas, Muizenburg's ever-long beach and dustbins on every street corner.

But then Lebanon threw two incredible things my way. They both happen to be fashion related (and you still think she's not a she?!) and they both rocked my world, clothing me in happiness.

The first came in the form of Botox. The kind Lebanese ladies love injecting into their faces. But yesterday's Botox came in a bag. My interview with Mauro Orietti-Carella, creative director and CEO of Zagliani, an Italian handbag brand established in 1947, had us exchanging 'oh it's so fab' comments about each other's handbags - mine from Tokyo (which he loved because he grew up there, and has also designed a bag in the same shape); his a croc-skin tote bag injected with his signature silicone Botox concoction, in a colour he created to resemble the moon. Soft to the touch, yet durable when you rub them up the wrong way, his python- and crocodile-skin bags (all injected by him and his dad) can be seen strutting down Rodeo Drive, dangling on the arms of J-Lo, Cindy Crawford, Rihanna, Janet Jackson and Kylie. They're up for grabs at Aishti too, making Lebanese women more Botox-obsessed than ever before.

The second fashionable encounter happened by chance. Beirut Souks are having their official opening this week, and I happened to be taking a wander through them after my Botox-bag interview. A huge grandstand was being erected down at the end of one corridor, and the journalist in me just had to investigate. A security guard informed me it was for Elie Saab's fashion show last night (apparently his first show in his home country in 18 years!).

'Ooooh, how exciting!' I squealed. 'Yes, that's him there,' said the security guard, pointing to a black-suited back five metres away from me, happy to have made my day. Of course the camera was swiftly hauled out of the Tokyo bag to take a shot of this international fashion designer's back and shiny grey hair. But the security guard, keen to make my day even better, insisted I go closer and get a photo with Elie (did I mention that I was not loving Lebanese people three hours before this star-struck incident?!). I moved in for the kill but, being the queuing South African that I am, did not have the guts to bring out the Lebanese in me and interrupt his conversation.

I waited patiently (well, as patiently as a person who's about to meet a designer whose dresses always feature on top of her designer list) next to a very handsome, slickly suited man, who, it turned out, was his assistant who travels up and down with him between Paris and Beirut (and everywhere else in between, like, um, Cannes). He called Elie up to us (yes, Elie Saab came up to me!) and took a photo of the two of us. It may not have been the red carpet, and there was no evening gown in sight, but it turns out Elie Saab thinks I'm quite a starlet - I mean, he didn't take his sunglasses off!

I got the purest taste of Elie Saab, the man behind many of Angelina Jolie's gowns. A gentle, welcoming and friendly man, whose hands (the same ones that draw sketches that become creations such as Halle Berry's 2002 Oscar-winning dress) touched mine - twice!

Elie and I. Just your average day in Beirut!

Rachel McAdams at the 2010 Oscars in her uber-feminine, pastel-coloured Elie Saab gown.

Finding peace

2010-09-15T11:10:00.000-07:00

Buzzing generators were the only sound heard in the village streets on Wednesday. Dekens stopped selling 7Up, the ice-cream shop shut its doors, builders downed their tools and even fat neighbour's voice was silenced. The moghtar had died and was being buried.

Kholso zeiteto as they say up here. His oil has burned up.

That, I understood. The message about his death, however, was less comprehensive.

Tuesday morning, 7am, same wake up call as always in our village warsheh. Construction works at their peak. It's tiling time, and it seems the best time of day to razorblade through these tiles is early in the morning. Must be something about the way the sun reflects from the angle grinder... Either way, it's a resounding noise that takes us right up to lunchtime. Except that Tuesday was different. By 10am the noise had vanished. I thought nothing of it - must have been ahwe time - and silently stepped outside to reset the Internet box on the roof (the joys of Lebanon's slow connections), only to be accosted by the only worker left on our property.

'Did you hear what happened?' he asked solemnly. No, I hadn't. What had happened?

'Blah, blah, blah twafa...' Which I understood as 'blah, blah, blah taffa'.

twafa = he passed away

taffa = it went out (as in electricity or a candle)

'No, no, there is electricity,' I say, smiling widely and nodding my head. 'The fan's still on.'

'La ya hammeh, twafa!'

'No, don't worry, it's just the Internet that's not working.'

'La ya hammeh!!! Met el moghtar!' (The moghtar died!)

Women and men left the cool comfort of their stayghas on Wednesday afternoon to bid farewell to the 51-year-old man who died in his bed after watering his garden two houses up from us on Tuesday morning. Villagers dressed in black congregated in the village sala to pay their respects to the moghtar's family.

The church bells rang solemnly that afternoon, just as they'd rung on Tuesday morning to announce the death of a villager. Ahwe was poured for all those visiting the moghtar's family in the sala where they sit to receive condolences. Some people stay all day - for three days - drinking ahwe with long, sad faces.

The dead leader of the village now has posters of his face tacked onto every tree. Villagers who were not home to hear the bells ring and listen to the public-speaker announcement of his death, or those who didn't receive an SMS of the news, will know that he is no longer their leader by the picture of the mustachioed man haunting every street.

The moghtar's brother was busy tiling our staygha when he received Tuesday's news. He dropped everything and ran to the home where his mother had discovered the lifeless body of his eldest brother. Our staygha will always remind him of the day he lost his brother. The day his brother, our moghtar, found his peace.

Glossary

deken = convenience store

moghtar = elected village elder

warsheh = building site

staygha = patio

sala = hall

ahwe = Turkish coffee

Eids and fires

2010-09-15T06:39:00.000-07:00

Two things the Lebanese cannot do without: eids (feasts) and fire or fireworks. There's always some kind of eid going on somewhere in the country - be it a religious celebration, someone's birthday, pre-marriage festivity or celebration of a child's first tooth. No occasion goes by without having the word eid preceding it. And nothing, as in nothing (not even a tray of shooters) goes by without some form of firework attached to it. Fireworks for weddings, candles for shrines and fires for religious days such as yesterday's Eid el Saleeb (Feast of the Cross).

Fat neighbour came up with the clever idea that, seeing as yesterday was Eid el Saleeb, we might as well make use of the massive pile of dead leaves and pruned branches that were collecting in our back garden (thanks to Dad's big, ongoing garden clean-up project) and cast them into flames in celebration of the eid.

And so the aboulleh was ignited, reminding me of the Eid el Saideh celebrations celebrated in Lebanon during our childhood, where we'd go to Jeddo's brother so catch the spectacular aboulleh show before heading back to Jeddo's staygha for the magical fireworks' performance.

The interesting thing about this eid, is that the 12 days leading from Eid el Saleeb will supposedly indicate what kind of weather we can expect for the upcoming 12 months of the year. Yesterday was very cloudy and it rained in some parts of Lebanon (so September will be that way - which i don't understand if the rest of the month is going to be an indicator...) and today is sunny with a bit of cloud (so October will still offer us some sun).

Tomorrow will tell what kind of November we can expect. Whatever the weather, we can definitely be sure the month will be accompanied by hundreds of fireworks and many eids.

Beit essentials

2010-09-13T06:46:00.000-07:00

A Lebanese beit (home) requires a few essentials. I will highlight three of these. Please feel free to add what you think makes a home a beit.

The arguileh. Best enjoyed on the patio or balcony. Hence the construction of the new staygha in our village home. I mean, we need a visible spot to be seen looking relaxed with a pipe dangling from our mouths when guests arrive or villagers drive by. Cough cough.

The brie. A glass water jug found in every kitchen. It allows residents and guests to drink from the same vessel without allowing it to touch their mouths. Lift it by its handle and tip it above your reclined head to let a stream of water enter your ridiculous-looking open mouth from the nozzle. The water streams down nonstop for as long as you can glug. People here have become so accustomed to the brie that they even drink like this from their plastic water bottles - even when no one else is sharing the 500ml bottle!

The Almaza. Lebanese Pilsner beer since 1933. Nuf said.

Yesteryear's Hamra

2010-09-13T06:24:00.000-07:00

I spent a morning with the folks in Beirut's Hamra Street, passing by some old joints they remember. Well, places Mom remembers at least. Dad couldn't seem to locate the pubs and clubs he used to frequent ;) I love seeing things through their eyes, and noting how Beirut has changed since the war.

The Saroulla Center that Mom remembers was a much larger space where her aunt Pruni had a burger joint called Saddle Sore - the first American diner of its kind in the city. The lemon meringue was baked in her home and was a hit in Beirut.

During the year in which Mom and Dad were corresponding by mail (they met while Dad was on holiday in Lebanon and wrote letters to each other for a year before he returned to propose and fly her off to the wider streets of South Africa), Dad's cousin took Mom to the Piccadilly Theatre to see Fairouz live. Mom remembers being rather embarrassed by her escort singing along to every tune by Lebanon's most famous singer.

Way In is where Mom used to purchase all her books for varsity when studying at BUC (Beirut University College), now LAU (Lebanese American University. With LAU on one side and AUB on the other, this is a Hamra institution that will never close down.

Eid Mubarak

2010-09-10T23:45:00.000-07:00

Eid Mubarak to all the Muslims out there!

I'm proud to say that Greek sista and I finally made it into the big, blue-domed mosque in Downtown after two previous failed attempts. One involved us being chased away before setting foot on the first outdoor step leading up to the mosque, with hand gestures indicating that our clothing was too revealing and that we should come back the following day. Because I'd entered the mosque before (where I was provided with an abaya to cover up), I'd assumed we'd follow the same protocol this time, and figured our chase-off was due to it being a Friday during Ramadan.

So we returned the next day; me in a skirt covering the knees, Greek sista wrapped in a sarong to hide her short shorts, and we made it to the top of the staircase and right up to the entrance. There we were greeted by a different man to the previous day's hand gestures, who was just about to explain something to us when the previous day's man arrived.

'Were you two not here yesterday?' he asked indignantly. Yes. 'And did I not tell you to come back last night?' No, he'd indicated for us to come back the following day. 'No, my hand gesture was showing that you should return in the evening after prayers.' Oops. Round two failed.

Our third attempt involved a little more clever, pre-emptive thinking. We forgot about the heat and squeezed into jeans, covered up with long-sleeve jerseys and tops and wrapped our heads in scarves. We were mosque-ready and marched up the steps with the greatest we're-so-Muslim confidence.

Even that fashion statement didn't gain us entry through the front door! Seems the women's entrance is through the back. Much less fancy but far more welcoming. The ladies welcomed us with great smiles and open arms - arms outstretched to offer us black abayas (the white ones are for those coming to pray). Covered up and barefoot, we made our way up the lift to the ladies' section of the mosque - where children play while their mothers pray - and caught the last of the evening prayers, following the women's movements as they stood and kneeled and bowed on the beautifully carpeted floor overlooking the men doing the same below, under elaborately sparkling chandeliers.

Greek sista and I walked out with an incredible feeling of peace and unity. Eid definitely is mubarak.

After the failure of round one, Greek sista performed a quick sarong transformation to cover up.

While trying to figure out how best to cover up for round three, Greek sista tried the total cover-up, but then she passed out from lack of oxygen and we went back to the drawing board.

The final product. Round three saw us completely transformed into mosque-ready women, complete with long-sleeved jerseys and jeans underneath our abayas.

The moral of this story is that you have to sweat in the clothes of someone else if you really wish to know how they find their peace.

Pepe and his ladies

2010-09-10T22:31:00.000-07:00

Pepe Abed, a man who even has a port-side street named after him, was quite the ladies' man - and he has the pictures to prove it! They're all lining the walls of his outdoor restaurant in Jbeil, overlooking the ancient Phoenician water entrance to the city. Like my grandmother's family, he and his close ones found themselves in Mexico after the First World War, where he spent 20 years before returning to Lebanon in 1948. The ladies must have been running to welcome him back, as he appears to have been quite the casanova. Which girl wouldn't fall in love with a jeweller/ restauranteur/ decorator/ nightclub owner/ diver/ archeology-lover/ beach resort and hotel owner and actor?!

Pepe's Fishing Club restaurant, started in 1962, is the only survivor of his dynasty that included six touristic establishments in his heyday. Pepe has now passed away, and his son Roger has taken over the famous restaurant. When Mom told him that she was her Mexican-born uncles' niece, Roger's face lit up, recalling the times his father used to welcome the uncles to the restaurant, happy to have Spanish-speaking friends eat with him.

After having our fill of deep-fried fish (with skin and head still on) with fried bread and tahini on the colourful balcony overlooking old fishing and tourist boats, I'm not sure whether the uncles used to come to converse with Pepe in their home language or to indulge in the fresh fish. Oh, I know - they probably came for the ladies!

A wall dedicated solely to much-loved Pepe Abed.

One of the many walls dedicated to Pepe and the celebrities who have visited his restaurant.

View from our table onto the ancient Phoenician harbour.

With Pepe Adeb's son Roger.

Ruining the ruins

2010-09-10T21:28:00.000-07:00

In the words of Greek sista: 'We have ruined the ruins!'

Walking - nay, performing - through the ruins of Byblos this week (said to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, with proof of life dating back to 5 000BC!), we managed to entertain ourselves so much that the other tourists must have thought we were paid performers, re-enacting scenes from days long past, and that it was part of the Byblos experience they had paid for. Next time we'll leave a hat on the ground for tips.

Greek sista 'carries' a sarcophagus of one of the Phoenician city's important dead men. (Note that our performances did not come with any historical information. Maybe that's why the tourists returned to their guide.)

Showing a modern-day Lebanese woman's collagen lips while the olden-day Lebanese woman's 12th-century Crusader castle demonstrates how au naturel is much longer-lasting.

Romeo and Juliet fall in love once again in the Roman amphitheatre. This time they'll kill themselves by drowning in the Mediterranean. Tragedy with a splash!

Unfortunately our onlookers (which actually only turned out to be one young chap from Osaka, Japan) were not giving us a standing ovation, so Greek sista quickly assumed the role of rooting audience.

Trying to imagine what the pillar standing on this post could have looked like in who knows when... The old house in the background is apparently a World Heritage Site, but more than that we do not know - except that it has a great view of the Edde Sands beach resort from its top step.

From Neolithic cavemen to the first city of the Phoenicians and then home to the Crusaders, Byblos (which used to be known for its papyrus trade that resulted in the Bible being named after the city, and also as the birthplace of the first alphabetic phonetic script), is a good place to find an excellent rock to perch on and shim el hawa.

Village show

2010-09-09T10:56:00.001-07:00

Sunday was the first time I've taken a friend to the village. And boy did the village put on a sterling performance. It was on a high, ready to welcome Greek sista with the most spectacular, clear view all the way to Beirut (a rare afternoon sight - a scene it usually only acts out first thing in the morning before a haze of mist and pollution covers it up). It went on to end the day with a sunset finale worthy of a standing ovation, before the lights came on and everyone went home with smiley, happy hearts.

Photos courtesy of Greek sista. Shukran!

How not to make friends

2010-09-08T05:43:00.000-07:00

I ask a 30-something guy waiting for the same bus as me about a certain location in Beirut today. Big mistake.

Him: What do you want to do there?

Me: Just go there.

Him: Where are you from?

Me: South Africa.

Him: South Africa, as in the country?

Me: Yes.

Him: The place where they had the World Cup?

Me: Yes.

Him: What are you doing here?

Me: Hum shim el hawa (thanks for that, Greek sista!).

Him: How long are you staying?

Me: A month.

Him: When did you arrive?

Me: Last month.

Him: So you're here for the summer?

Me: Yes.

Him: You've been going to the beach?

Me: Yes.

Him: Are you here alone?

Me: No.

Him: So you're here with family?

Me: Yes.

Him: With your children?

Me: No (I hide my empty wedding-ring finger).

Him: Where are you staying?

Me: Beirut.

Him: Do you have Lebanese origins?

Me: No.

Him: So who's Lebanese in your family?

Me: My aunt.

Him: What's your name?

Me: Alice.

Him: I'm Hisham. Tsharafna (he extends his hand to shake mine). Alice, do you have a contact number.

Me: Yes, but I don't give it out.

Him: Oh, okay. So are you on Facebook?

Me: Yes, but I don't give it out.

Him: That doesn't matter. I'll just look up Alice.

The bus finally arrives and there's no avoiding sitting next to him, thanks to the strategic empty seats. He hands me his business card and I jump off at the next stop. I'd rather walk in the midday heat than make this new friend.

Teleporting

2010-09-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

Sunday equals family day up in the village. A mountain-top village that I had forgotten was connected to the coast by a cable car. Greek sista and I had become so accustomed to our fun bus rides that we weren't too sure about taking the teleferique up to Harissa to meet the fandam. Would it provide sufficient entertainment? There'd be no old men playing with her hair from the seat behind; no greasy La Pebras hairdos offering us Pepsi; no drivers in shirts that match their seat covers; no music that could be turned up...

But step into the teleferique in Jounieh (for only 5 500LL one way) and the need for entertainment slowly disappears as you are transported uphill, via a series of mountainside cables, over magnificent pine trees, looking over a spectacular Mediterranean scene. And then, upon arrival, you're greeted by Mother Mary stretching her arms out to welcome you.

Ahla wa sahla!

Behind the Green Door

2010-09-07T10:56:00.001-07:00

There's a place in Mar Mikhael where I love to dance. It's got a green door. Behind this green door are some fun, fun people, friendly barmen, a pole, and a lot and lot of carpeting. But more than that I cannot tell you... You'll have to knock and go Behind the Green Door to see it for yourself. Pity Greek sista won't be there to welcome you with her signature move.

Greece has talent

2010-09-07T10:46:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought that Greek sista could no longer surprise me (she'd already latched onto an entire vocabulary of Lebanese words - enough to string together a sentence!), she whips out her most seductive tool yet: the no-hands arguile.

An expert at making Lebanese men fall in love with her by simply walking past them with her gorgeous green eyes, she has now added extra artillery to her ammunition. After paying attention to a fellow restaurant patron smoking opposite her, Greek sista elegantly placed the pipe of our mint and lemon arguile in her mouth, positioned it with great precision towards the side of her face, inhaled and puffed a cloud of sophisticated-looking smoke - while using both hands to handle the menu.

There's not much more to teach her. The girl's got talent!

Jelly belly

2010-09-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

Upon entering my belly dancing class just now, I heard the following words: 'Ooh, you've also put on weight.' Nice. I'll admit, I did feel rather sluggish on the 15-minute walk down to class; my thighs were wobbling more than usual while the belly bounced along. But I thought I'd covered up the flab rather well - squeezed it into tight leggings that should have held in the wobble, and covered up with a long-length T so that the bum jump wasn't as visible. Trust the belly dancing teacher - the one who was encouraging us last week to rather have a belly than not have one when performing oriental dance moves - to be the one to point out that the tummy has expanded, poking it where it spurts most.

It was the first time dancing with my new foulard, and the weight definitely made the golden beads shake! I thank you Lebanon for filling me to the brim - and beyond!

Shimmy shimmy shake!

One million dollars...

2010-09-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

Remember the little dude in Austin Powers who puts his little finger to his mouth and says, 'one miiiiillion dollars...'? Well imagine if he'd had a finger nail such as this one. It would have made the million dollars seem that much more of a big number, non?

This long-nail-on-pinky-finger thing is very popular among older men in Lebanon. I always thought it was for opening raw almonds but I was informed this weekend, after yet another close (gross) encounter, that it's actually an ear-cleaning device.

Greek sista managed to capture this shot on the bus after I made a big deal about how nice this guy's ring was so that he'd show it to my friend. 'Oh, yes!' she exclaimed, stifling a giggle at the third stalagmite fingernail she'd seen since landing, 'I have to get a photo of your beautiful ring.'

He jumped off the bus proud of his sterling accessory, wiggling his finger in his ear in excitement.

Sales in Saida

2010-09-07T02:37:00.001-07:00

No, Greek sista was not selling herself in Saida (as some of the very covered women must have thought as they stared at her trotting past in her short shorts!), but rather she and I were visiting the ancient town (Sidon in English) to see what its people have to sell in their streets. It seems they have a lot of food to offer. Which got us in a bit of a fix. You see, it's Ramadan. The time when Muslims fast during the day. But we're not Muslim. And everything looked so good. We just had to try. Yummy pastries made especially for this season in the Muslim calendar - all filled with deliciously decadent ashta. We ate and ate. Until we were told that it's not the done thing to eat in the streets during Ramadan. Then we were thirsty. Muslims fast from drinking water too. So we hid ourselves behind a corner and drank off the sugar sweetness. Then a street vendor offered us to try his sweets. We obliged him after he showed us how he was eating in the middle of the sidewalk too. But then again, he is the same guy who seemed to follow us all the way to our bus - so maybe he doesn't follow any rules!

Grape leaves for cooking one of Lebanon's specialities: wara hareesh - grape leaves rolled around a mince meat and rice mixture.

Chocolates sold in the heat of the day are cooled by a whirring fan and soothed by the sounds of Arabic music.

Lebanese nougat in every form - some topped with pistachio nuts, others enclosed in dried peach.

While the CD-selling boy stares at me, everyone else checks out Greek sista.

Ramadan treats filled with ashta.

Another ashta delicacy that's sold in pieces cut from this big, round pan.

Pyjamas and slippers sold from an enterprising bonnet.

The younger generation were much more at ease with Greek sista's revealing getup. Maybe because she was wearing their favourite colour!

Alors on danse

2010-09-05T23:31:00.001-07:00

When partying up a Friday night at SkyBar (see my previous SkyBar entry here: High in the sky), there's only one thing that could complete a perfect night of dancing under the stars and brilliantly bright quarter moon: hearing your favourite song. And boy, was our jol made complete!

Lebanese Lantern: I wanna fly, flyyyyyyy with you baby...

Greek sista: Alors on danse...

Sahabte: Pa pa Americano...

Bride cousin: Fly like I do it like I fly like I do it like I fly like I do it like a woman...

And then to top it all off, Greek sista caught the eye of one long-haired barman, scoring us free shooters and a cocktail that happened not to be included on the bill he presented us with.

For a group of four girls, we did well to secure ourselves two seats at the sought-after bar without a booking. And to actually getting in - thanks to tossing in the DJs name and the name of the radio station where DJette works when approaching the bouncer. (It should be added that we made sure to arrive at 9pm, when the party only kicks off at midnight!). The girls at the entrance lobby didn't even glance our way as we passed them and their portable, high-tech electronic-booking systems. While others were being chased away downstairs (I mean, who even tries to get into SkyBar post midnight without a booking - really?!?!), we danced our high-heeled feet off under fire-lit beams and sparkler-filled shooters. And, in true SkyBar fashionista style, Greek sista got her first glimpse of a Louboutin-wearing dolly.

SkyBar barmen greet us upon arrival, seeing as we were of the first people to arrive! Note that there are no women working behind the bar.

Bride cousin called it: the long-haired barman was in love with Greek sista, and admitted to us that he gave us free booze because of her. Thanks sexy Greek!

Lebanese Lantern, Greek sista, Sahabte, Bride cousin.

Dominating the rooftop dancefloor.

And the fire lights come on - and go off... all in time with the moment the beat pops!

Greek sista gets chatted up with the lights of Lebanon flickering behind her and the gorgeous moon peeking over the distant mountain.

That rooftop hawa was really good to shim! www.sky-bar.com

Beirut through new eyes

2010-09-03T23:40:00.000-07:00

I love having Greek sista visiting. I see things in a completely different light. Suddenly the buses are fun places to be, not the mode of transport I was threatening to boycott four days ago; Land Rovers are now worth staring at for the hot guys behind the wheel; food looks less 'everyday' and more 'exotic'.

Having visited Lebanon since a little girl, I've grown accustomed to things that people visiting for the first time think are bizarre or totally hysterical. Thanks to Greek sista, I've laughed at some of the most mundane Lebanese occurrences (such as a bus driver using a plastic bottle cap as his gear lever) and stared up in re-ignited awe at buildings I walk past constantly. Here are some of the people and places we came across on our wanderings through the city of Beirut yesterday...

Talk about a job with opportunity to climb the ladder!

Skateboarders at Martyrs' Square in Downtown.

A domestic worker stands on the balcony of one of Gemmayzeh's beautiful old buildings.

Free chocolates from Lebanon's famous chocolatier Patchi.

Working on his phone from his outdoor/ indoor office.

Charbel, the owner of Le Chef where we had a delicious Lebanese cooked lunch, stands in front of the postcards he's received from previous restaurant patrons. 'I place top priority on Irish foreigners - they're the best,' he says, showing off the postcards that come from that country.

Greek sista ordered an Amethyste Sunset Punch with vanilla-infused ice cubes at Amethyste pool lounge at the Phoenicia Hotel. I had an Amethyste Margarita: gold tequila spiked with runny honey, shaken with freshly pressed pineapple and lime juice with a hint of freshly ground black pepper. Saha!

I surprised Greek sista with a visit to Father Elephant after she fell in love with Baby Elephant at Le Gray the night before. These bead-encrusted ellies are the work of Mom's famous artist/ architect cousin Nadim Karam. This one stands in the luxury apartment block opposite Ayyam Gallery where Nadim exhibits.

Caught in the act of shimming el hawa. These guys are enjoying the waters of the glass-cased pool at Le Gray on a gorgeous day in Lebanon with views open to the mountainside.

Introducing Greek sista to Christian Louboutin, we spotted his South African version of these red-soled shoes. I think there are prettier things I could spend with $1 700!

Becoming Pierre's friend

2010-09-03T23:18:00.001-07:00

Two things that don't seem natural to me: pebble beaches and paying to gain entrance to the beach. I was blessed with having Muizenberg's loooong sandy beach as my garden for two years, so you can understand my confusion when entering a beach resort sporting a 20-metre-long beach in Lebanon and being expected to pay $20 to cram onto it.

So, in the spirit of adventure (and being money-wise) I took Geek sista to a free-entry pebble beach on Thursday and suffered the bum-in-the-air, feet-flying-overhead, slippery-feet-on-algae-stones consequences.

Our day at Pierre & Friends near Batroun (about an hour's bus trip from Beirut) was well spent laughing at each other's antics in attempting to walk over pebbles and entering strong-current waters where waves kept knocking us down. The rest of the time was spent laughing at all the other people doing the same - which becomes really funny when buff-looking 20-year-olds take a dunk and come up looking like nothing happened - pecks out, abs in!

We celebrated the fact that we came out of the experience alive by having lunch on the deck overlooking said deadly pebbles while listening to the rustic resort's Bob Marley tunes.

Now that's shimming the hawa!

24 hours in Lebanon

2010-09-02T23:24:00.001-07:00

Lebanon is so not the country one would only pop into for 24 hours, but if you only had a day, you'd get quite a good idea of the country if you followed our itinerary on Greek sista's first day of visiting me.

After a whirlwind two months of quitting her job back home in Cape Town, doing a Greek language course in Greece, touring parts of Italy, Albania, Egypt and Cyprus, she took a 25-minute flight from Cyprus (barely having time to buckle up) and landed in Lebanon before 7am on Wednesday morning, shouting the only Lebanese word she knows: yalla, yalla, let's see Lebanon! 'You didn't tell me that even the guys who work at the airport are hot!' I think my hands are going to be full for the next week (wink wink)!

8am: Grab three mne'eesh at a corner saj. Greek sista decided the zaatar (thyme, sumac and sesame seed mixture) 'sandwich' is the best.

9am: Jump on a bus to Hamra and grab an ahwe at Laziz, which is an eatery that brands itself as 100% Lebanese. While sitting there we have an old lady trying to sell us Chicklets (chewing gum), a boy begging us for money and a 50-something man randomly welcoming us to Lebanon as he walks by.

10:30am: Wander through the nearly cobbled streets of Hamra, once the most popular hangout area in Beirut before the war, and now a bustling cosmopolitan hotspot filled with Christians, Muslims, tourists and beggars. Here, we buy pomegranate juice from a man squeezing them fresh on the street, we check out men having their shoes polished while standing on the sidewalk, Greek sista stares admirably at the fashionable headscarves covering Muslim ladies' heads and we pop into H&M for a clothing wander.

11:30am: Enter the gates of AUB (American University of Beirut) and gawk at the sea view from the sports field. We have a picture taken with the army official at the gate (very rarely allowed in Lebanon) and visit the university's museum, filled with fascinating pottery made by ancient civilizations we didn't have the lus to read about. We did, however, have all the time in the world to gawk at the excavated jewellery. Girls will be girls!

12:30pm: Back on the bus to Sassine Square near home. This is where Greek sista, who's been awake since 2am in Cyprus (she had to catch a bus to Larnaca from Limassol), falls asleep, but is suddenly awake, shouting yalla yalla when she hears the bus music mentioning the word. She causes a stir in the bus and goes back to sleep. We head for Malak al Taouk, the popular chicken takeaway, and dig into a taouk made up of thin Lebanese bread spread with garlic dip, french fries, cabbage, tomato and chicken pieces. Yum. Perfect to fill us up for an afternoon siesta.

3:30pm Jump into a taxi that takes us onto the autostrade and into the green mountains of Jeita to see the Jeita Grottos (or Jedi, as Greek sista called them). These stalactite and stalagmite caves are on the voting list for the New 7 Wonders of Nature competition, and contain the most incredible natural history, including the world's longest stalagtite (seven metres). We are allowed access to about 700m and there are apparently another 1 700m inaccessible to the public! No photos are allowed, and there are young guys stationed everywhere who make sure this policy is adhered to. These guys get so bored that they start seeing things in the stalagmite formations. We saw Father Christmas, Bob Marley ('Or it could be Jesus,' one said), two babies, jelly fish, two old men and Nemo. After the top caves, we took a little ferry ride through the magical lower caves, and even filled up a bottle with the cave's refreshingly clear drinking water. (PS. Table Mountain is also one of the New 7 Wonders competition finalists, so get voting for both!) www.new7wonders.com

6:30pm Ask the taxi to drop us in Dora and catch the number 15 'create your own party' bus to the Corniche. Greek sista and I loved the music being played in the bus, and the driver loved that we were loving it. So, because we were the only two passengers, he cranked up the volume big time and we drove through the city with the madman driver nearly throwing us out the door with his sudden stops and starts, clicking fingers and attempting to sing along (or just shouting yalla yalla, in Greek sista's case). There was another excited man who jumped on, and we think that the pic he took with Greek sista is probably up as his profile pic on Facebook right now. We liked his enthusiasm on our party bus... until he threw his Pepsi can out the window.

7pm: Walk along the Corniche. We smiled at men just chilling against the railing (or shimming el hawa - Greek sista quickly added more words to her Lebanese vocab*), the ahwe seller with an American Lebanese accent who showed us the Twin Towers burining on a $20 note, two random men asking to have their photos taken with us, jolly sunset joggers, the traditionally clad villager selling figs out of his boot, the unfriendly mielie seller, guys smoking arguile under the palm trees, ladies sitting on the mosaic benches watching their kids cycle, runners competing in a race, and tourists checking out the biggest Lebanese melting pot of people of every race, belief and political affiliation.

7:30pm: Wave down a service (not that difficult when they're hooting for you to jump in from 200m away!) and catch a 2 000LL lift to Raouche (Pigeon Rock), which we witnessed in the dusky shades of the day, as airplanes flew overhead to the nearby airport and men dined on the pavement.

8pm: Back home for a shower and change before heading out to dinner at Falamanki at around 9:30pm. We sat there till midnight, smoking a cherry-tobacco arguile, drinking local Ksara wine, eating tabbouleh, hummus, labneh, babaghanouj and halloumi with preserved figs, laughing about the day and impressed with everything we managed to pack into less that 24 hours.

I went to bed with my ears ringing to the sound of Greek sista's yalla yalla!

* Shim al hawa literally means 'smell the wind' and is used in a chill-out, enjoying yourself context. Like in 'we're going to chill out at the beach' - we're going to the beach to shim el hawa.

Richard Scott comes to Lebanon!

2010-08-31T05:35:00.000-07:00

My favourite South African artist is in one of my favourite Lebanese art galleries. Well, not Richard Scott himself - but one of his colorful works of art. Right here in Beirut.

You can imagine my excitement when I walked into Q Contemporary last week and was greeted by this painting that perfectly suits the gallery's striking green wall next to the entrance. It made me a super happy chappy. I was just not so happy with the plaque that read he's from England. Yes, he was born there, but he's known as a South African artist. I'll have to go back soon to make sure the lady I spoke to at the gallery (who agrees with me) did something about it. I mean, it's not everyday that a South African artist finds himself in Lebanon.

Maybe one day Richard Scott will make it into my home too!

www.richardscott.com

On shelf

2010-08-29T04:45:00.000-07:00

Aisthi’s August/ September issue is out, and it seems I’ve been ‘promoted’ to contributing editor without even knowing. In this issue I have two of the stories I mentioned in previous blogs: the South African interior designer Inge Moore, principal at HBA London, who came to create the new look of the Phoenicia Hotel’s Amethyste pool lounge; and the five restaurants I ‘was forced’ to dine at for a feature on outdoor summer dining in Lebanon. Then, seeing as this issue of the mag has a Latin American theme, there’s also a feature of mine on South Border Gallery in Gemmayzeh, which specializes in art from South America.

To read my feature on Inge Moore, visit http://www.aishti.com/#aishti_magazine and go down to the DESIGN block; the outdoor-dining feature is in the LIFESTYLES section.

Converted to try

2010-08-29T04:32:00.000-07:00

In my profile, I describe myself as someone whose blood is Lebanese. I’d like to retract that statement. For someone who hasn’t been interested in rugby since my varsity days when it was still within reach to date one of those strong, fit boys (back in the day when they had better hairdos – jammer Jannie!), I sure showed some South African blood yesterday.

After spending two years competing with rugby for ex man’s attention every Friday evening and Saturday afternoon, I developed a dislike for the game – although maybe this has more to do with preferring a walk on the beach over a dark, rowdy pub. But, sitting here in the peaceful, smoke-free village home, I found myself ditching my computer and joining Dad in front of the TV to cheer for the Bokke as they went on to beat the Wallabies in an epic 44-31 game that had Dad shouting at the screen, causing fat neighbour to pretend to check up on the garden.

Come to think of it, fat neighbour’s body shape isn’t very different from the likes of Guthro Steenkamp. We may just have a found a rugby player in the making. With his penchant for sitting on a seat, he’d make a great reserve.

Drunken meat

2010-08-29T04:27:00.000-07:00

Lunch yesterday included mkanak, a pork meat that Mom remembers vividly from her childhood. Jeddo used to pour alcoholic spirits over the raw sausages, light them up right there on the table, and voila – braaied boerewors with a difference! Mom wasn’t as showy, and cooked them discreetly in a pan.

Today Ata told me that Jeddo learned this from her father, who used to take raw mkanak with him on hunting trips in Mexico and cook them in this easy way when alcohol was the easiest agent. Men! Any excuse to make food boozy!

Ruining beauty

2010-08-29T04:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, Lebanon is beautiful. It’s a mountainous country known for its gorgeous greenery. But sometimes other disastrous realities need to be faced, as I was reminded yesterday on my walk through the village.

Many natural surrounds have been reduced to garbage dumping grounds, and unfortunately it’s not rare to see people throwing papers, tins and bottles out of their cars. Just this week in Beirut, I came across a meticulously groomed Lebanese lady about my age, stepping out of her uber-expensive car, tossing a tissue purposefully onto the pavement. Incredulous and highly upset, I sarcastically asked her, ‘Mafi zbeleh?’ (Isn’t there a dustbin?). ‘Eh, fi,’ (Yes, there is) she said in an even more sarcastic response. And that’s the mentality of educated people.

Old, traditional stone houses are being destroyed, leaving very few original structures to tell the Lebanese tale of old. In the village this is not as evident as in Beirut, where old buldings are being torn down to make way for ridiculous highrises that leave no room for the mystical imagination of once admired Arab, Ottoman and French architecture. Other buildings, such as this one, are just being allowed to decompose into a mass of forgotten rocks.

Due to the increased traffic on Lebanon’s roads, a lot of shortcuts are being built through the mountains to reduce traffic flow on the bigger highways. This means a lot of trees are being chopped down to make way for these double lanes, leaving a streak of ugly, fallen sand underneath. I asked about this and apparently it would be too costly to construct walls to hold the falling sand before constructing the roads, and so this is never done here, as the cost of these roads is already not fully paid for by the government and so other funds often need to be raised from international donors and local municipalities.

Happy Anniversary

2010-08-29T04:08:00.000-07:00

I forgot my parents' wedding anniversary on Thursday! Imagine forgetting such a special day, especially when you're going up to join them for the weekend in the mountains. So, to make up for my thoughtless blunder, I took them out for dinner to a new restaurant in Kaslik called Areej because I happened to interview the owner earlier that day, and he had created quite a foodie impression.

The menu lived up to expectations, and Dad loved his kafta be karaz (kafta in cherry sauce) - a Syrian speciality; and I was very impressed with the Armenian manti - tiny kafta dumplings in herbed yoghurt. We paired this with the first local white wine we've enjoyed here - Ksara Blanc de Blanc 2009 - and polished off the bottle in celebration of 32 years of marriage. (Bhebkon kteer kteer and beaucoup beaucoup... richer and richer!)

Soubhieh

2010-08-29T04:05:00.000-07:00

Saintly neighbour came over yesterday for a soubhieh – the Lebanese ritual of morning ahwe (usually enjoyed outdoors) – with a plate of her signature aniseed kaak in hand. What a way to break in a new day on the nearly finished staygha. She was very impressed with Mom’s new earless cups (the traditional way to drink ahwe from a shaffeh), and we sipped from them while taking down some of saintly neighbour’s special recipes.

Cafe Blanc

2010-08-26T09:58:00.001-07:00

Last year I was introduced to the concept of cafe blanc when I refused a late-night cup of coffee due to the caffeine content. The cafe blanc (directly translated as 'white coffee') is the Lebanese alternative to decaf Nescafe. This see-through, orange-blossom tea is on offer at its namesake Cafe Blanc, a modern restaurant serving gorgeously presented Lebanese cuisine. This week I tried the cafe blanc surprise which includes a dash of rose water and lemon peel. Super soothing and incredibly appealing to look at. Pity it's all over so soon.

The warsheh wake up

2010-08-23T06:42:00.000-07:00

7am Sunday morning: doef, doef doef. I turn over in my bed, hoping it's a dream that will disappear with a change of position: doef, doef, doef. No, it's something familiar; something I heard last Sunday at about the same time. And the Sunday before that. It's the sound of the warsheh. The bloody warsheh - the building site on our 'villa' property. The beginnings of Dad's dream staygah. Our dream staygah. But at this stage, it's easier to blame the noise on someone else. But actually, it's not Dad's at the moment, as it's the foreman who has taken control - of the project, of the decision-making (even though Dad's a civil engineer, it seems the foreman wants to be the man in the know) and, now on top of that, he's named himself the man in charge of the bloody working hours. 7am Sunday morning!

'You can't do this!' Mom was upset for maybe the third time I've seen her like this in my life. 'You can't come and start hammering stones and making a noise at seven on a Sunday morning ya hammeh! It's not fair,' she complained to the foreman, who happens to also take the role of fat neighbour. 'Oh don't worry,' he says. 'It's not a problem,' he responds to Mom's statement that the good doctor upstairs works hard in Beirut every day of the week and comes up to the mountain for one day where he can relax and sleep in. Doef, doef, doef.

And then, once the doef, doef, doef disappears and the cementing begins, Mom finds it incredible that these men - two workers and fat neighbour the foreman - find something to talk about all day, so that there's not one minute of silence outside our front door. I wish I could go back to sleep, but it's no use - fat neighbour will be calling out to Dad in intervals of five minutes (even calling Dad out of the shower), sometimes sticking his hand through an open window to hand him a sample or get a tool. Dad's name has become the singsong of the warsheh. That and 'layk' or 'laykeh', the word fat neighbour loves to start his sentences with to get your attention.

He stands up long enough to get what he needs from Dad and then it's back to his position as foreman of the project, supervising from his relaxing vantage point on a plastic chair, being offered ahwe and 7Up and biscuits by Mom throughout the day. In fact, he changed from foreman to fat neighbour the other day and paid a social visit to Dad, still enjoying the comfort of the plastic chair on the newly cemented outdoor patio floor. So Mom brought out the bzooret (nuts) and offered the obligatory raspberry juice. Then fat neighbour's cousin walked past, so he waved him in to our property to join the conversation. When it turned to topics and people of whom Dad knows nothing of, and rugby on TV became a good excuse to make a duck, Dad returned indoors, leaving the two cousins to chat alone outside our front door. Then two became three and another of fat neighbour's connections joined (fat neighbour happens to know the entire village by name!). While Dad's voice grew louder while cheering for the Springboks, the three men's conversation got softer as they moved away from the staygah - only to position themselves further down our walkway, in front and inside of our gate!

Talk about a forward foreman!

The warsheh on Sunday morning.

Introducing the team

Fat neighbour aka the foreman.

Skills: supervising, delegating, and not listening to Dad's expert suggestions.

Shageeleh number one.

Skills: cementing and taking orders from the foreman.

Shageeleh number two.

Skills: carrying heavy things and taking orders from the foreman.

The balateeh (tiler).

Skills: demonstrating the water resistance of tiles according to the foreman's instructions.

The translator aka Mom.

Skills: stepping in for Dad when he's about to lose it, and making things better understood between Dad and the foreman.

The supposed head of the project aka Dad.

Skills: civil engineer by trade and education - man without a say, who's paid and in desperation.

Rabbit Island

2010-08-23T05:38:00.000-07:00

After a month without beach, my Muizenberg-accustomed body was aching for sea water to touch its feet. That's why Sahabte's invite got me packing my beach bag as fast as you can say 'wave'.

'Would u care to go to the palm island in z north?' read the SMS. Here I sat scratching my head, thinking that Sahabte was loosing her marbles by inviting me to a party in Ibiza for the weekend. Little did I know that the north of Lebanon, just off the coast of Tripoli, is home to some super-tiny, and one not-so-tiny islands. Jazeeret al Araneb (rabbit island), as it is better known, is about 11km and a half-hour ferry ride from the coast. It's a tiny, sandy island that can be walked around slowly in 10 minutes, as it's only 560m x 460m.

Sahabte and I joined some of her colleagues and their family and friends, making up a group of about 20 to hit the quiet island. We sheltered our goods under the shade of the primitive straw umbrellas built on the shore, and dived straight into the rather warm yet refreshing water. It was incredible to swim in such clean water in this country where sewage is usually yours and Nemo's neighbour along the coastal-town beaches. But being so far away from the mainland means that the water is clear and the beach is rather tidy (I won't go into the little episode of the stranger throwing his beer can into the water!).

There's nothing on this island besides a broken windmill, a wooden cabin that was probably once used as a lookout point, and some foundations from the Crusader period that were uncovered in the 70s. Apparently this island was also used by the Palestinians who fled from Palestine - as a stopover point and hideout en route to Lebanon.

Although I didn't see any form of life besides us humans, I read that this network of islands welcomes many migratory birds, seven species of which are nearing extinction. I can see why they'd go there instead of Ibiza - there's nothing but nature; no restaurant, no toilets, no guy selling lollies to make you jolly. Only two guys hiring chairs and tables on which you can enjoy the goodies you carry with you across the Med.

Now let's hope no wise guy decides to open a cocktail bar...

Leaving the mainland.

Island style, here we come!

Gorgeous, sandy beach and a dream-blue sea.

A sign of life once lived here. Now no camping is allowed, so ferries shuttle day visitors back and forth from Tripoli.

A ferry like ours passing one of the other (rockier and tinier) islands. Note the Lebanese flag waving from the roof. Ever the patriots.

Yariba yariba

2010-08-22T05:10:00.000-07:00

'Do you have any plans for tonight,' asked groovy aunt when she rang me up on Friday afternoon to see whether I was in the village. 'Nope,' I replied, secretly wishing that she was about to ask me exactly what she ended up asking: 'So do you want to come over for a margarita evening then?'

No need to tell you what my answer was. We were greeted by actor cousin's sombrero and poncho display, followed by an evening of homemade margaritas (and we're not talking the pizza variety here!) and a colourful table of Mexican food.

The Mexican blood in the family arose in full swing, and my Mexican-born Ata gave it all a big thumbs up. The family's Mexican heritage will be shared in a future blog, so until then, keep sipping...

Neighbourly labour

2010-08-22T04:56:00.000-07:00

While saintly neighbour sat sipping ahwe with Mom and I in the kitchen on Friday afternoon, her husband, fat neighbour, knocked on the door to get a piece of newspaper from me to protect his hands while he peeled our prickly pear for us. Yip, you read right - he wanted to peel our garden's prickly pears for us, all out of the goodness of his great, big Lebanese heart.

'But we have prickly pears,' said Mom. 'Where? Show me,' said fat neighbour. 'Here, in the fridge,' said Mom, opening the big fridge door to show fat neighbour the produce Dad had picked the day before (not nearly as skillful as fat neighbour, therefore requiring the use of Mom's tweezers afterwards!). 'No, that will not do, walaw,' said fat neighbour. 'You cannot put them in the fridge unpeeled. Plus those are too ripe now. You need fresh, new ones. I will peel these for you.'

And he sits down outside our kitchen, newspaper in one hand, knife in the other, and proceeds to expertly cut off each edge of the fruit, slice a slit in the peel from top to bottom, and open up the skin to the right and left, removing the pitted, yellow flesh from the middle. All in the blink of an eye.

That's how neighbours operate here. And he didn't even take some of the stash home to feast on the fruits of his own labour. Who knows how he became fat?

Late-night snack

2010-08-22T04:35:00.000-07:00

After Thursday's outing to the Lebanese Film Festival, I decided to walk home. It's an uphill, 15-minute walk, but so worth it in the end when I realised that at the top of the hill, on Sassine Square, the saj fires were burning and mne'eesh were being made. I finally got the chance to taste a delicious (yip, I may have found the best saj in town!) manouche made in my area. Generous dollops of perfectly blended zaatar on super-tasty dough! Pity the ladies making them are from the village of Aley and only come to the square three nights a week... I'll be back!

Feasting on films

2010-08-22T02:09:00.000-07:00

The ninth Lebanese Film Festival is in full swing atEmpire Sofil in Achrafieh, and I was there for opening night on Thursday. The theatre was so full that they opened the adjoining one too to allow the throngs of people to view the two short films and two fiction films on offer that evening.

I met Vatche Boulghourjian, director of Hinkerort Zorasune (The Fifth Column), a 29-minute, 35mm film about an Armenian boy living in Lebanon's Bourj Hammoud (an area in Beirut known for its Armenian community) who runs away from home with his father's gun, and the search that ensues. It's about loss, and the feeling of being lost, the way I saw it. What was cool about viewing it in Beirut, is that the actors were there with us in the movie house, including the main actor boy who happens to be Vatche's nephew, and some other Armenian heavy-weight actors. Vatche pulled this film off by only having one other person on his production team, so it was quite a feat of a flick. At Cannes, it took third prize in the Cinefoundation Awards. He told me that he recently showed the film in Armenia and the audience there hardly understood the Armenian language spoken by the Lebanese Armenians in the film, as the dialect has been so adapted by the diaspora here.

Also on the reel on Thursday, was another 29-minute fiction film by Herve Jakubowicz (French/ Lebanese) called Le Temps de la Balle. I missed the whole meaning of the film because I was so into one of the hot actors, Marc Robert (and now I can't even find a pic of him on Google!). Hiam Abbass, an Arab/ Israeli actress who featured in Paradise Now (2005), also stars in the film.

Ghassan Halwani's six-minute animation clip for 'Takhabot' was superbly complemented by the emotional musical sounds of Tamer Abu Ghazaleh, a Palestinian alternative musician who uses the mystical sounds of the oud (a pear-shaped guitar) and buzuq (a long necked guitar). (I think I'll be chastised to calling them 'guitars'!)

I wish my mother had seen Tarek Chemaly's Masmou7 Lasek al E3lanat because, while showing images of old Beirut, he presented a monologue through the use of old advertising jingles. Even Dad remembers a jingle that I heard in the seven-minute experimental clip, '... biera laziza'.

And that was just one of the five nights of the Lebanese Film Festival. Tonight the folks are joining me to witness Lebanese film talent at its best. The Lebanese Film Festival is only open to entries from directors from Lebanon, or those of Lebanese descent living abroad.

Hot water

2010-08-19T07:38:00.000-07:00

It's hot. Like hot hot. Like 41-degrees hot! Ice cream turns to milkshake, room-temperature water tastes like it's ready to dip a tea bag into, sunblock drips off the face as soon as you step outside, and the only good a fan does is make a noise loud enough to drain out the sounds of nearby construction works.

Spare a thought for those fasting during Ramadan, not allowing a drop of water to pass their lips during these pavement-steaming days, while I cannot survive without my five-litre gallon; those ladies wrapped up from head to toe, while I sweat through my tank top and consider hiking up my knee-length skirt a little higher.

Spare an even more gasping thought for those people in the building down the road from me who ran out of water yesterday. No ice-cold showers to wash away the day's stickiness. Gosh, I just had a vision of a Muslim living in that building. Now that's a sacrifice! But it's Achrafieh - still a predominantly Christian area of Beirut - so let's hope that vision isn't a reality. Haram!

The reason I know about this out-of-water fiasco is because I just passed the water truck pumping up water to the building's rooftop reservoir. The driver was very proud to show off his colourful truck. I wouldn't mind being a trucker if it meant driving such a groovy vehicle. I love all the colours, and especially the cedar tree, Lebanon's national symbol. Above and below it reads Allah yahmeekeh, which means 'may God protect you' i.e. may God protect Lebanon. This water (which is only for washing) costs $10 per 1 000 litres.

Allah yahmeenah in this heat!

The vertical pipe is the one leading from the truck to the reservoir on top of the building. The horizontal/ diagonal line is just another one of Lebanon's million hazardous electrical wires.

Late-night Lebanese loser

2010-08-18T12:28:00.000-07:00

It's 10:30pm and I've just returned home from post-work drinks with new friends and juggling cousin (who now lives and works very close to me since returning from his life in Germany). Walking home, I came across very dressed up women on their way out. You see, in Lebanese terms, coming home on a week night at 10:30pm is rather shameful. Here, that's the time people start thinking of heading out. By the time they shower, do their make-up and strap on their 10-inch gladiator heels, it could be past 11pm!

The bar we were at only had one table of punters besides ours, and only when we left did another group arrive. The DJ only started spinning his tracks at 10pm. The waiter sat at the bar yawning. Wait an hour and the scene will be very different. But unfortunately I'm still working on a South African clock, where I can't have dinner after 8pm, and struggle with work the next day if I don't shut my eyes at 11pm.

Or maybe I'm just a late-night Lebanese loser.

A typical visit

2010-08-16T11:00:00.001-07:00

Mom and I have just returned from a pop-in visit to Dad's talkative cousin. Her name is due to the fact that we didn't have to say much during our 20 minutes in her store, where she sells anything from nail brushes and plastic earrings to tablecloths and pyjamas - and then there are bras hanging from their straps on a coat stand above her head, next to an image of Mar (Saint) Charbel. She's great and I love visiting her and listening to her akhbar.

Some snippets of conversation:

'One of my husband's friends wants me to sell his toys from my shop.' (And I'm thinking where the heck are you going to put them? You already had to move clothes and other for-sale items off the couch so that I could sit in this three-by-three-metre space.)

'My daughter wants to study graphic design or advertising. I suggested law, and I also like the idea of public administration.' (Very different. Are you both on the same

page?)

'I've made my daughter work at a new hotel that's opening. She doesn't like it. She says the one room has a Jacuzzi right next to the bed and it's terrible. I told her that's how sophisticated people live.' (This one sounds better in Lebanese, but it's cute nonetheless.)

Rings the bell that rings upstairs in her home and waits 20 seconds before her daughter calls down from the balcony: 'Maaaaaa!' Goes outside to the street and shouts up to her daughter to come down. 'Wake up! Put something on! Come say hi to Clarice and Tracy!' (Yay. Now the entire village knows we're here. We might never get away!)

Eid el Saide

2010-08-16T10:45:00.000-07:00

Picture an old mountain village at 2:30am. Usually this image would be dead-quiet streets, dark homes and sleeping old people. But on Saturday night, on our way back from the Big Fat Lebanese Wedding, the scene was quite different.

Thousands of candles were lighting up our village of Daraoun, the village adjacent to Harissa where the church of the Virgin Mary stands, overlooking (some say protecting) Lebanon. The candles, placed in white paper bags and standing on the balconies, flat roofs and walls of the village homes, were in honour of Eid el Saide (the assumption of Mary).

At the village gathering place, about a hundred people were still congregated from the evening's communal dinner, and the vibe still looked like it was cooking. If it hadn't been for the post-wedding feet, we might have joined and I could have gotten some better pics. (We heard from Dad's talkative cousin today that they only left at 4am!)

Village ladies came by the day before to sell candles, and fat neighbour did us the favour of placing them in the white bags filled with sand he'd collected while we were at the wedding. Unfortunately most of ours were burned out by the time we arrived home, but the drive through the village had me smiling in small-town wonder at all the candles still burning around town. And we're not talking one or two candles on each balcony - I'm talking of balconies with about ten candles lining each one's perimeter, and roofs with even more glowing light.

That's one way to solve Lebanon's electricity problem.

The Big Fat Lebanese Wedding

2010-08-16T05:17:00.000-07:00

The wedding of a lifetime hit our family this weekend, and the occasion I've been looking forward to ever since knowing I was moving to Lebanon has come and gone in the blink of ten-million fireworks.

Bride-to-be cousin has become bride and we have another handsome man in the family. The story of a big wedding such as this deserves to be told through photos. The fairytale picture story follows.

When we arrived at the bride's house before the church ceremony (as is customary at Lebanese weddings), she and her family were having their photos taken. This is how it's done: each family who arrives at the house, goes straight into the formal lounge of the house, where they're greeted by the bride and are made to stand around her for a photo together. This formal lounge will always be filled with massive flower arrangements sent by close family members like aunts and uncles, and there will always be an arrangement with red flowers from the groom (it's peeking out on the left). Bride cousin's sister (left) was her bridesmaid (shbeeneh).

This is the same lounge in which my mother did the same photo-taking thing, as it's the house in which she grew up

. However, it looked a little different then, as it's just undergone a refurbishment in time for this big wedding.

I just had to include this pic to show the back of mother-of-the-bride's gorgeous dress. This was a Champagne-popping moment for the immediate family.

Then we had our family photo taken with bride cousin (pity we were missing a few South African dwellers).

In between all the photo taking, bride sat down to rest her high-heeled feet. The arrangement from the groom is the red one on her right. While we kept her company, the rest of the family who had come to wish her well sat outside, being served Champagne and orange juice by two waiters circling the balcony.

Those with a sweet tooth could help themselves to sweets, biscuits and chocolates made especially for such weddings.

The chocolates with the white wrapping on the left were decorated with a golden flower that can be worn as a necklace pendant. The brown chocolates with tiny golden hearts on them were filled with cheesecake.

Ten of the 12 cousins. We missed you Sista Sista and Roeks!

While having our cousin pics taken, we heard the sound of a lot of hooting - the sign that the in-law family was on its way. The mother-in-law, sister-in-law and aunt arrived in the rented white Jags, while the rest of the groom's family (about 30 of them) drove up behind them.

The in-law family all entered the gates of the home, welcomed by bride cousin's immediate family. As they reached the steps of the balcony, they were greeted by the rest of our family and offered Champagne and orange juice before making a line to greet bride cousin and have their photo taken with her.

As is tradition, the mother of the groom bought the bride a necklace for her wedding day. She presented it to her and put it around her neck while everyone watched the 'show'.

Then the Arabic music was turned up and bride exited the lounge to come join the dancing taking place on the balcony with both families. This, it turned out, was the only time we heard any potential belly-dancing music, but I didn't yet have enough courage to show off my newly learned moves!

After a few more photos with some late comers, bride and father-of-the-bride exited the home's floral-decorated doors together and departed from the balcony, followed by the mother, sister and aunt of the groom (as if they had come to fetch her with their entourage and were now taking her to her future husband)...

...and followed by the rest of the entourage, from both families, who all got into their cars and followed the bridal car hooting their way to the church. (This is why, whenever you hear a lot of continuous hooting in Lebanon, you can be sure there's a wedding nearby.)

Driving out of the village (they married in another area of Lebanon), we passed many villagers standing on the sidewalk, throwing rice at the passing cars - a symbol of good luck for weddings (traditionally, this is the confetti used but it's rather a sore alternative to rose petals (ask Sista Sista and Decalicious!). This lady happens to be Dad's cousin, whose grocery store is behind her on the village corner.

The groom (right) and his brother (the best man) were waiting outside the church for the bride. The father-of-the-bride does not walk his daughter into the church. That's why, I guess, they make such a big thing of the walk out of the home. Once we were all seated, the wedding march started and the father-of-the-bride and the mother-of-the-groom walked in together, followed by the mother-of-the-bride and the father-of-the-groom and then the bridesmaid and best man. The bride and groom followed them, not far behind.

Mar Charbel, Adonis, the church in which they were married. I didn't understand a word of the service and now finally know what Dad always speaks about when he says he doesn't really know whether he's married because he never understood a word of his own marriage ceremony! Oh, and there's no such thing as 'you may now kiss the bride', so we had to wait for the first dance to see that ooh-la-la moment.

The flowers by Nado were put up right before the service, as there was the usual weekly church service right before the wedding. When the 8pm wedding service ended at 9pm, the arrangements were quickly whisked away to the hotel where the reception was to take place.

At the five-star Le Royal Hotel in Dbayeh, we were entertained to a Spanish zaffe before the bridal couple entered the poolside venue. The zaffe is a modern wedding Lebanese tradition, where a troupe of dancers performs in anticipation of the couple's entry and assists them in making their entrance over-the-top. This can either be a traditional Lebanese zaffe of dabke or belly-dancing, or it can be something with a twist, such as this Spanish one that bride cousin selected to suit her Spanish-inspired dress (and the team she supported in the recent World Cup!).

The Spanish troupe took bride and groom winding through the tables so that everyone could wish them a rowdy ole!

The magic of having an outdoor venue is that Lebanon's view is always spectacular.

Although we had all already danced with the Spanish troupe, and the dancefloor was well-opened (!), bride and groom officially opened the dancefloor to 'I can't help falling in love with you' in between part three and four of the five-course meal. It was a scene straight out of a fairytale movie, with stage smoke spilling over onto the swimming pool and fireworks lighting up the romantic moment.

For the foodies out there, there was mezza on the table (breadrolls, raw veg, dip and nuts), then came the smoked salmon, prawns and a fish with stuffing; pesto gnocchi with chicken; beef fillet with veggies and mashed potatoes; chocolate mousse with vanilla ice cream and a chocolate cup; little petit-fours with wedding cake.

The poolside dancefloor wasn't empty for a moment, and bride and groom were the biggest party animals of the night. There were moments of Champagne-downing from the bottle, locomotion chains of dancers weaving through the tables, the garter-catcher placing the garter on the leg of the bouquet-catcher with his mouth, and a lot of carrying of the bride and groom on men's shoulders. But, funny enough, no one dared jump into the mosaic-tiled pool - not even the groom's cousin who had a bottle of bubbly poured all over her in a moment of untamed celebration on the dancefloor!

The cutting of the cake was a spectacle in itself, with the five-tiered gateau being cut by a sword while waiters circled the couple with individual cakes for each table, topped with mini fireworks. You can only see the colour of the cake in the next pic. It's green! So not the colour bride cousin ordered. I was with her when she chose it, so I'm a witness! After the waiters dropped off the cakes on the tables, they performed the same show with bottles of Champagne...

...and we all toasted together to a life lived together happily ever after.

PS. The Lebanese love their fireworks!

Designer kindness

2010-08-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

So tomorrow is the day we've all been waiting for: bride-to-be cousin's big walk down the aisle. I woke up from my afternoon siesta with a pit in my stomach - I hadn't thought of getting a shawl to cover my semi-revealing dress during the church ceremony. When I asked Ata gran if she had something I could use, she took me up to her room, opened the drawer that spitted out shawls of every colour, and then took out a Christian Dior package. My heart skipped a beat, but alas, it was empty.

But we found the perfect scarf - silk in a light beige colour that will match the bottom part of my long dress. I love the feeling of silk running between my fingers and have never before worn anything made of this pure material. I jokingly said to Ata gran, 'Maybe this is the Christian Dior scarf.' She searched for a tag and there it was: 'Christian Dior' printed onto the fabric. It was a gift given to Ata gran by my deceased Jeddo granddad, and she says she never wore it.

Now it's a gift given to Lebanese Lantern by Ata gran, and I cannot wait to wear it tomorrow, taking a piece of Jeddo granddad's kindness along with me as I walk down the aisle in designer vintage.

New ride

2010-08-13T10:47:00.001-07:00

Not lus for the sticky sweat of a bus ride to get from Beirut to the mountains today, I was thrilled to find myself on one of three new buses gracing Beirut's roads. Gone are any plastic-covered or spring-revealing seats and tacky curtains. Today I enjoyed extra leg room while my bag could stay near me without being stuck up front with the driver. Only problem is that this bus seems a little wider than its predecessors and we had a bit of a struggle in one of the narrow streets of Mar Mikhael. Oh, and what you can't see in the pics is the fresh air of the blissful air conditioner.

Le Chef

2010-08-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

Finding myself around the corner from Gemmayzeh around lunch time, I decided to treat myself to another home-cooked Lebanese meal. This time Le Chef was my destination, a tiny joint in Gouraud Street that could be overlooked by those silly enough to turn their readjusted noses up at seeing the ancient chairs, plastic tablecloths and very un-modern painted walls. Those not happy to share a table with strangers or look right into a restaurant's kitchen would get up and leave, while women who prefer not to share a toilet (which happens to lead off from the visible kitchen) with men wouldn't set foot in there.

I, on the other hand, am in love with the place. It was my second visit, and I still got the 'welcome' call from Charbel, the owner (son of the original owner - this place has been around for years and is one of Gemmayzeh's original hangouts). I realised today that this 'welcome', said in a very thick Lebanese accent, is repeated a little more often to those who look foreign - the British couple who walked in were 'welcomed' upon entering, upon sitting down, and upon being presented with the menu.

Although I was itching to have the mloukhiye, I'd tried it last time, so it was time to be daring and go with something I'd never tasted before: kibbeh arnabieh, baked kibbeh balls cooked in a tahini and a tangy, orange-like fruit juice (the one in Dad's garden that's usually only used for marmalade). It's an intense flavour, which I wouldn't have been able to enjoy as much without the refreshing, vinegary taste of the fattouche in between, but I'm glad I tried it. Now I know I prefer kibbeh with laban.

In this age-old eating establishment, which looks like it's kinda stuck in the 70s, there are posters advertising trance parties, hip-hop gigs and theatre auditions.

Kibbeh arnabieh, fattouche and fresh mint lemonade.

Charbel himself takes his guests' orders and shouts them off to the kitchen as you mention each item. He writes out the invoice by hand and tells you the amount as he hands it to you.

Beirut pic of the day

2010-08-12T11:12:00.001-07:00

This shot captures the essence of the way-out contrast of Beirut city. On the streets there are the motorbikers, truckers, taxis and SUVs, driving past the Ramadan moon decor on Martyrs' Square and under the super-modern Restaurant in the Sky dining concept suspended by a crane. On the left, above the Virgin Megastore, are other cranes, building the city to new heights, while on the left of the truck is the white tent in which lies the body of assassinated former Prime Minister Rafic Hariri. And in the distance is the inviting Mediterranean Sea. What you cannot see is the heat of the day...

Ramadan Kareem

2010-08-12T06:58:00.000-07:00

Downtown was deserted last night. At 8pm, the streets were empty, there was no hooting, and there was absolutely no one shopping in the Beirut Souks. All the usual choc-a-bloc places were humming with the sound of the now-audible air conditioners. Crossing a street in two seconds - one that usually takes a couple of minutes before there's a bumper-to-bonnet gap - I turned to Dad, worried: 'Did something happen today that we don't know about?', my mind on the southern border.

A bored-out-of-her-mind shop assistant made sense of the silence: 'It's Ramadan.' People were feasting at home after their first day of fasting, and would only hit the shops after their post-sunset meal. Hence the stores opening till 12am during the Ramadan period (as opposed to the usual 10pm shutdown).

Back out in the streets, the mosques were dripping with fairy lights, the lampposts were donning additional decorative glimmer, and even the big clock in Place d'Etoile was shining brightly for this special period in the Muslim calendar.

To mark my presence in the Arab region during this time, I paid my first visit to the enormous Mohammad Al-Amin mosque in Downtown today. In fact, it was my first-ever visit to any mosque. Of course, my short, chiffon dress was a little too flimsy for this place of worship, so I was given an abaya that covered my entire body and made me sweat profusely (even in the air-conditioned mosque). I really admire Muslim women who pull that off on a daily basis.

The mosque is absolutely gorgeous on the inside. Filled with extravagant chandeliers and exquisite Arabic calligraphy and golden motifs, it makes sense that this blue-domed masterpiece took five years to build (it was completed in 2007).

What I found most fascinating was that some men use it as a meeting place to gather with friends - there was a group of four sitting on the ground having a normal conversation while others prayed around them. There were also a few men catching a nap on the decorated carpet; a few were reading - maybe it was the Qur'an (but I seem to think that's a big book, and what they were reading was rather thin) - while two answered their phones and had full-on conversations.

However, amid the few distractions, it really is a great place for meditation. The incredibly high ceiling and gigantic space allows you to have a section of mosque all to yourself to just sit and pray or think or simply escape the busy world outside. I'm surprised by how much I was surprised by the way in which I felt very welcome inside. Once again, I as reminded of the presence of the same God which we call by different names.

Ramadan Mubarak.

For those who don't know what Ramadan is all about (like me up until three years ago when I became friends with two Muslim colleagues and had to be subjected to their fasting ordeal. Remember Nuri and Wardah always asking us what we were eating when they knew it would only drive them further into hunger, or the way they couldn't wait to get their period in order to return to the smokers' corner?), here's a little Wiki help:

During this month of fasting, Muslims are not meant to eat, drink or have sex from dawn until sunset. It is a month in which they are supposed to focus on patience, humility and spirituality, while praying more than usual. During this time, they also ask forgiveness from past sins, pray for guidance in refraining from everyday evils and try to purify themselves through self-restraint and good deeds. Ramadan is believed to be the month in which the first verses of the Qur'an were revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, and the period starts with the arrival of the new moon.

The blue-domed Mohammad Al-Amin mosque in Downtown Beirut.

The Ramadanian me inside the mosque. (Even if I say so myself, I think I make quite a hot Ramadanian!)

One of the gigantic chandeliers.

The pre party

2010-08-11T05:45:00.001-07:00

I woke up at midday today, and it wasn't because I'm on holiday (well, being a freelancer, I guess I could just say I took the morning 'off'). Getting to bed at 3:30 at the age of 30 ain't the same as it used to be at age 21 when I'd be able to wake up for an 8am class. Oh, but wait, I used to skip those classes too and go right back to bed!

Bride-to-be cousin's bachelorette party had us dancing on the rooftop of a bar in Jbeil like true purple-clad party gals. What started off with a fun night at her parents' home, with a Q&A session with her on-screen fiance, a game of 'guess who the g-string is from' and some sipping on a cocktail with her name in it, became a night of husband-to-be's shirt being unbuttoned and blown-up condoms flying through the air...

In between, bride-to-be cousin was whisked of to the Roadster diner to show off her skills at cleaning (shame, the poor thing is not the world's most domesticated, and the Q&A session revealed that she doesn't think she's expected to cook any meals, while future husband seems to be expecting her to don the apron and stick something in the oven four times a week!).

At Jbeil's Laho, bride-to-be cousin fitted in perfectly with her white dress and flower-topped veil. The place is very swanky - white leather couches and funky white walls, tinged in purple, touching the dark-black sky. I loved the fact that, while listening to a band called Green Pepper (with a very groovy chick on guitar and vocals) covering songs by U2 and the like, we had a majestic view over one of the world's great ancient ruins at Byblos.

After midnight, as is custom at Lebanese bachelor parties, the groom-to-be and his men arrived to join the party and cut a cake. Oh, and did I mention that - although the events were all a surprise - the actual date of the bachelor and bachelorette parties are announced to the couple in advance so that they can prepare. Bride-to-be cousin had both her hair and make-up done yesterday afternoon in preparation, and was told what colour to wear...

Although a little calmer than bachelorette parties back home (I don't know how people stay that sober after so many drinks and shots!), this was one super-cool night of fun to wish bride-to-be a brilliant life of being bride.

Back to the table

2010-08-11T04:38:00.001-07:00

Remember about a month ago I visited Tawlet for lunch with tall uncle and juggling cousin?Well I just had to take Mom and Dad there to taste the divinity of those home-cooked Lebanese dishes. Dad insisted we go all out and stampede the buffet made by Maria Doueihi from Zgharta (who wants me to marry her South African-loving nephew).

Zgharta is in the north of Lebanon and is known for its kibbeh - both cooked and raw - and Maria showed us why. The kibbeh nayeh was absoluetely smooth, with just the right amount of burghul, and it was nice to taste it with fresh zaatar and spring onions, making a change from the mint and onions we usually garnish it with (but this was our own combination, just taking the zaatar and spring onions that were there as a separate salad dish). There was no sight of olive oil to pour over the kibbeh, and I didn't even miss it, the raw meat was that good on its own. The cooked version is usually baked or deep fried, but Maria grilled her kibbeh. Although it was a little harder than what I'm used to, it still made an impressive addition to the plate - this big hollow ball of meat (I don't know how she's perfected that skill) mixed with bulghar wheat and then broken and dipped into laban. Another speciality from her region were the hamayda pies. It was the first time I'd tasted hamayda, a green herb with a soury taste - I like! What Maria also did, which I liked (surprisingly, as she was playing with fire by adapting one of my favourite Lebanese dishes), was substituting the meat in the shish barak 'sombreros' with pine nuts. This was super tasty, and something I will definitely try to make one day (once I actually first attempt to make the original version!).

As for the dessert, well I was proud to be able to recognise the nammoura - an eggless semolina cake topped with rose-water syrup and almonds. There was also smidiyeh, something Maria says is typically from Zgharta (also made with a milky semolina - which could be called Lebanon's melktert), and then a deliciously light cake made from arishe, a milk whey. There was also a separate dish of arishe to be eaten with honey drizzled over it - totally indulgent I tell you.

Oh, and I had a momentary Top Billing flashback when we arrived and a Wimpie-kinda guy was panning shots of the fabulous spread for a Lebanese TV channel. It was great to know that I was not working for a change...

www.tawlet.com

Mains

Dessert

Hamayda pie and kibbeh nayeh.

Laban and grilled kibbeh, with stuffed grape leaves (also eaten with yoghurt) and hijjeh, an omelette made with onion, parsley and mint.

Inside the grilled kibbeh ball.

There was even arak on offer, but we managed to resist...

The dessert table (yum!). From left: smidiyeh, arishe cake decorated with nectarines, nammoura, arishe and honey, fruit, kaak.

Holiday vibe

2010-08-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

Every year that I've been here on holiday and commented on how wonderful Lebanon is, people living here have always said to me, 'Yes, it's wonderful because you're here on holiday. Come live here and then you'll see what it's really like.' Well, tomorrow marks my four-month anniversary of living here, and so far it's still wonderful.

But there's one problem...

I miss that holiday vibe. Now, when I go down to Jounieh and pass the Bel Azur hotel where I stayed last year and in 2005, and catch a glimpse of people swimming in the pool beyond the reception area, I think of the nights my friends and I sat around there smoking the arguile, or the days godfather uncle and I took a dip to relieve ourselves from the blistering sun. Today, when I bumped into someone from Joburg at the Bel Azur who was part of our tour group five years ago, and he told me of the rest of the group going off to Baalbeck while he and his wife ditch the bus for a day of shopping, I felt a pang of jealousy.

Yes, I too was shopping in the streets of Jounieh today. But mine was not a shopping spree filled with the carefree feeling of being on holiday, being fascinated by the 70-percent sales and taking pics of old buildings along the street. Even the croissant and manouche guy that godfather uncle and I were obsessed with last year seemed like an everyday sidewalk business to me today. I was the insider viewing those ordering a cheese manoushe in a British accent as outsiders, imagining their holiday weekend of partying with locals, their fascination with raw kibbe, their sruggle with the hard 'g' of the Arabic language - the way everything is looked at with fresh eyes.

I didn't like that feeling today. I was on a mission to buy a top for bride-to-be cousin's bachelorette party while others were idling about swapping stories about their latest Lebanese experience. I wanted to be on holiday too.

And so I did what I do whenever I'm on holiday. I ate an ice cream. A Lebanese ice cream at that. One of those in the square cone, filled with a myriad of flavours in a rainbow of colours. And I sat on a sidewalk chair and soaked in the feeling. For five minutes, I was on holiday in Jounieh.

Walking past ancestors

2010-08-09T00:02:00.000-07:00

If you're still wondering why I prefer the village to the crazy city of Beirut, here's one of the many reasons. Taking a walk around the block from our home, we passed by the house in which Dad's grandfather used to live, overlooking the opposite mountainside. I don't have the same kind of age-old history in the big city...

(Sadly, although the house is still owned by family members, it is not being looked after and now houses Syrian workers who have nowhere else to stay. After great grandfather died - he was kicked to death by a donkey while in South Africa - the house was left to his sons, but they had moved to South Africa, and never returned to live in it.)

Friends of Sourat

2010-08-08T22:24:00.000-07:00

Up in the mountains above Batroun is the sleepy village of Sourat. Well, that’s what they say, but yesterday it proved anything but dreary. The village of Sourat opened its streets up for 1 000 visitors to experience its awesome views, centuries-old churches, traditional Lebanese fare and small-town hospitality.

Once a year Les Amis de Sourat organize an evening of music and food for people from across the country to enjoy. They close off the village street (so that those wanting to visit the next village have to take the incredibly long detour to get there) and set up tables across and around it, surrounded by a buffet of all the best of Lebanese cuisine. But I’m getting ahead of myself – always wanting to talk about the food!

As the guests of tall uncle, yoga aunt and juggling cousin (who has moved back to Lebanon from Hamburg), Mom, Dad and I wound our way up the mountains to what we thought was going to be a visit to a church before heading down to Batroun for a concert. It was only when we parked the car in Sourat that we realized all events were to take place in this tiny little village.

A bus transported us up to an old Pagan-turned-Christian church built into a rock, dating back to 1 000 BC! It seems it was built for a hermit, as it’s full to capacity when four people occupy the cave-like space filled with later-century frescoes (including one of Mary in a red robe, which indicates the Byzantine period in Lebanon).

On this mountain top, we were also invited to visit the home of a Brazilian Lebanese man who has converted an old stone house into his modern holiday residence without sacrificing the traditional architecture. Even the ‘basins’ that the cows used to drink out of can be seen in his downstairs hallway.

Back in the village, we enjoyed the area’s popular lemonade (fresh lemon juice made with sugar), ahwe and a sweet treat Mom hasn’t seen since her school days. It was cute to see the older generation going mad (and going for seconds!) over the nahoume –roasted chickpeas ground and mixed with sugar and served in a paper cone, just like they used to eat it at school.

We then gathered around a makeshift stage in the village square, with some people seated on the steps of the main village church, others under the hundred-year-old oak trees, others further down simply enjoying the atmosphere from their own balconies. The entertainment came in the form of wonderful classical music (including Haendel, Mendelssohn and Tchaikovsky) performed by the Lundi Bleu orchestra from the Netherlands, under the direction of Claude Chalhoub, who conducted one of his own compositions under the brilliantly starlit sky. There was even an opera performance and then Lebanese songs sung by a dude who could really have made it a little more exciting. Hence Dad's excitement when tall uncle whisked him away to drink a kes (alcoholic beverage).

Okay, now for the food. After the concert, we were invited to help ourselves from the buffet tables (there were about eight 15-metre tables filled with a colourful display of Lebanese food). There was everything, from hummus and babaghanouj to wara hareesh (stuffed grape leaves) and koussa (stuffed baby marrows). Fattouche, tabbouleh, ftayer (spinach pies), kibbe, hindbe (kind of like spinach leaves topped with fried onion), shawarma and the speciality soup which is my favourite favourite, which not all Lebanese know of (depending on which region they come from), called hriese, a mix of mutton, wheat and spices, mainly cinnamon. To make this even more Lebanese, we could help ourselves to the local Sourat arak (a very strong alcoholic drink made with grapes and aniseed that is the colour of water until mixed with ice or water, when it becomes whitish).

Of course that's not the end of the dining experience. No Lebanese meal is complete without fruit (including the figs for which the village is known) - and baklawa, and raha (similar to Turkish Delight, eaten with Marie biscuits), and mogle (a dessert traditionally served when a baby is born), and mhalabieh (a milky pudding).

Okay, now we were really full. Luckily there was a live band playing throughout all this eating, so we all joined the dance floor, which happened to be right on the closed-off village street (or just anywhere between the tables) and danced under those century-old oaks with all the other happy visitors, making a long winding worm of people dancing together in a chain through the town square...

When both Mom and Dad dance, you know we've had the best time possible. Merci Sourat.

The village of Sourat in the distance.

One of Sourat's gorgeous homes.

One of the 12th-century frescoes painted in the 1 000BC church.

Mixing the hriese.

Mom relives childhood memories of nahoume.

One of the eight buffet tables.

Part of the dessert table.

Dancing in the village street.

Feu de camp

2010-08-08T08:03:00.000-07:00

Every year, I hear stories about my cousins' feu de camp (campfire), an annual event held at the end of their week-long scout or girl guide camp to which family is invited. This year I got to witness it first hand thanks to actor cousin.

Because of the fact that Lebanese schools do not have after-school sports, most children join scout or girl guide groups for extra-curricular activity. It's usually a group of kids from different schools, so it's a great way for them to meet children from other schools. So the words feu de camp are very well recognised here and everyone usually knows what you're talking about when you say you went to one. Now I know what it's about too.

We sat under the pine trees of the village of Chouit (pronounced shweet!) and enjoyed a picnic before celebrating Mass in this open-air space. The night ended with the ceremonial lighting of a big bonfire, sketches performed by the boys and songs sung by all.

The Ruptured Sessions

2010-08-08T07:41:00.000-07:00

Winding his hands around like an entrancing magician, Tarek Atoui turns sound waves into fantastically bewitching electric noises as the metal plates and electric wires covering his table form a mixed-up cauldron of experimental sounds. Add to that the super-energised, no-holding-back drumming of Uriel Barthelemi and you have one of the two sets of emotion-driven music witnessed on Thursday night at Beirut Art Center. It was the launch of Ziad Nawfal's The Ruptured Sessions Volume Two - live recordings of experimental music in the studios of Radio Lebanon and I became a fascinated fan.

Stolen snaps

2010-08-04T08:13:00.001-07:00

Closing time

2010-08-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

Grrr. As if my heat frustration were not enough, the summer closing hours have me boiling up in desperation! Yesterday I was emailed to collect a cheque from one of the universities I work for. There's no such thing as direct deposits or Internet transactions here, so it's all about the cheque.

(Let me add that this cheque took a month to be processed from the day that I signed the invoice. Not only did I sign it and personally have to hand it in with a 100LL stamp pasted onto it - a denomination no longer worth anything - but I had to go all the way to the university to hand it in because there's no such thing as receiving emailed copies of invoices. And, the reader should note that this was already three weeks after my stories were published.)

So I arrived at the university cashier's office at 2:30pm yesterday, only to be informed that it's summer ('It's summer, walaw.'), as if that's the most natural explanation for an administrative office closing at 1:30pm. So today I made sure to arrive before closing time, and then went for lunch before heading to the bank at 2:30pm to cash in the bucks (which will need another five days to clear). Walking up the stairs to the bank, I passed a cafe on the mezzanine. The owner stopped me from continuing up to the next floor. 'It's summer, walaw. They close at 2pm.'

Bridging the hunger divide

2010-08-04T07:54:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I'm in the mood for something exotically Mediterranean - like couscous mixed with almonds, thyme and Lebanese white cheese (the kind my Lebanese ouma used to make).

Other times it's just comforting to have something really Western, like Irish flatmate's delicious home-baked apple crumble.

And then there are days like today, when all you want is a taste of home. Ah, Nando's chicken wrap (hot - like the weather!). To all those who still insist that it's a brand from the UK, sorry for you! Nando's was started in Jozi in 1987 and has spread to 34 countries on five continents. It's chicken - of course it comes from South Africa!

Nothing to lose

2010-08-03T22:58:00.000-07:00

The singing wedding planner has spoken. It's time for the South African Blog Awards 2010:

http://website.sablogawards.com/2010/

The Lebanese Lantern would appreciate a vote in the Best Overseas South African Blog category.

Changed tune

2010-08-03T07:29:00.000-07:00

I've come from a magazine where you were skeefed out if you left the office when working hours ended at 5:30pm, so you can imagine my eyebrows raising in surprise when I opened my Time Out email just now and received the following mail from the publisher addressed to all the staff:

Let's work until 03:30pm this week and next week. Until the heat-wave is over.

Conflict zone

2010-08-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

Jumping onto the bus in Hamra, heading home after an artist interview, I received the news. Israel and Lebanon clashed on the border today. This is how one finds out about such things...

Fellow lady passenger: Dahlak Mhalem ('By the way, Sir' - addressed to the bus driver), what happened with Israel now?

Driver: I don't know. They hit Lebanon.

Lady: Yes, but what happened?

Driver: Who knows.

Me: What happened?

Lady: Israel...

Me: In the south?

Lady: Yes. Well, let no one say that this was our fault. They must know that Israel started it this time.

And we drove home in silence, passing arguile-smoking men, Muslim calls to prayer, hot-pants-wearing women, ice-cream-eating kids and one man sleeping in his shop window.

Too cool for school

2010-08-03T01:03:00.000-07:00

Actually, I was too hot for school. Too hot to work, too hot to eat (well, I'm never too hot to eat, but let's just imagine), too hot to sleep, too hot to even bum in front of the TV when I was too hot to work!

Hearing all the moaning coming from my southern-hemisphere friends about the bitter cold; the snow in Lesotho causing Bloem to freeze up; the rain on Cape Town's beaches; the frost on Jozi's grasses - I find it rather obnoxious of me to complain about the heat (something I'll choose anyday over the water-drenching cold). But jeepers, when something's hot, you gotta talk about it.

When other Beirutis flock to the air-conditioned coolness of their apartment tiles, I've escaped to the ABC Mall down the road in Achriafieh whenever I need to hit an A/C-cooled store and I just can't afford to have the fourth ice cream of the day (we have a wedding coming up!). Gone are the walks to interviews - I'd rather wait 15 minutes in the shade of a towering wall for a crappy bus to appear than allow my thighs to rub against each other in the sweaty, humid air. Five-litre bottles of drinking water don't last longer than two days, and the hot-water tap is hardly turned when I hit the shower.

And then, like a muscular angel straight from the gym, Irish flatmate's boyfriend deposited two twirling contraptions in our apartment last night, assembling them and placing them in our rooms for heat relief.

I have a fan! It's all over me right now. And it feels good.

Some more Gossip

2010-08-03T00:43:00.000-07:00

You don't exist until they talk about you. That's the tagline of Gossip magazine, where I write under the pseudonym of Veronique Loger. Well, let's hope people start talking about Veronique because two of her stories are in the Aug/ Sept issue...

The mag can be grabbed for free from all Aizone stores around the Middle East.

A feature on Nora Habbal and Dana Mortada, two Lebanese students who've started a clothing and shoe label called Royal Threads.

Getting ready for the ninth Lebanese Film Festival, from 19-23 August. I'm super excited for this. It'll be a great way to see what's happening in film locally - beyond the silver, Hollywood-infested screen.

Garden produce

2010-08-02T04:53:00.000-07:00

So Mom and Dad have arrived, the mountain 'villa' is alive with Mom's chatter and Dad's CDs, there's a new oven and a myriad of fruit and vegetables growing in the garden that can be cooked in it.

Dad, who promised not to do any house work until next week, so that he could relax for a while, has already started on his patio-building project with fat neighbour. When they were speaking about it on Saturday night, fat neighbour said he'd get a worker to come 'bookra'. Bookra in Lebanese, means tomorrow - but it's used when you mean next Thursday, the week after or even next month. That's what we've come to expect. However, fat neighbout used it literally this time and at 7am on Sunday morning, a Syrian worker began chopping down old trees and cutting metre-long weeds to make way for the patio. Nice wake-up call, the sound of sweeping...

Anyway, I'm looking forward to sitting on the patio in a month's time and having a stunning view of the fruit-and-veg-filled garden. Look at what's soon going to be ripe for the picking... (and I didn't even capture the cucumbers, limes, mielies, parsley and strawberries!)

One half of the garden.

Dad 'relaxing' while Mom looks for us through the window.

Fat neighbour and Dad taking measurements for the patio.

Basil

Grapes.

Pears

Prickly pears

Pomegranate

A citrus fruit only used for marmalade

Peaches

Lemons

Avocados

Watermelon

Tomatoes

Up in my Lebanon

2010-08-02T04:50:00.000-07:00

This is the Lebanon I came to see. I think it’s the fact that this is the Lebanon I grew up with that makes it closer to my heart than the busy-body hub of Beirut city, but the mountainside feels like it has so much more to offer a wandering soul like mine. The filled-to-capacity streets of Beirut are exchanged for giddy roads that wind up the mountain, while the sound of hooting makes way for the loud Arabic beat of the derbakke and the exciting bubbles of the arguile.

In Beirut, people either stay put in their air-conditioned apartments to escape the melting heat, or head to one of the million air-conditioned restaurants or fake-air malls. Up in the mountain, families gather on their balcones (balconies) or stayghas (patios), playing cards, eating mezza or jast chatting the night away in their pyjamas and slippers, breathing in fresh mountain-top air.

The rush of getting from one place to the next, taking into account the amount of traffic, the number of buses and the time of day makes way for a lifestyle where you wake up without an alarm clock, eat at leisure on the porch, walk to your gran’s house further up the village mountain, stop along the sidewalk on the way back to purchase fruit, pick some more fruit in your own garden, pop over to the neighbour to give her some pears (where you’re invited to enjoy some freshly baked pie), receive the other neighbours for a drink which you enjoy while listening to the night croaking of the garden frogs under a very visible starlit sky. This is my Lebanon.

Package deal

2010-08-02T04:47:00.000-07:00

Carrying my highlighter-kind-of-screaming-pink Douaihy bag through the streets of Achrafieh, I felt rather glam. It got me thinking about how this sweet-treat packaging is so very similar to the Lebanese woman. Dressed up in ‘packaging’ that cannot be resisted, where staring at such way-out beauty is the norm – decorated with all the glitz and glam one would expect from a showstopper, the Lebanese woman knows how to attract attention.

Like the gold lettering and handles of the Douaihy carry bag, the Lebanese woman embellishes herself with jewellery and glimmering make-up and anything else that will stop men dead in their tracks (or be the cause of death of some of these men – either because of the sordid affairs taking place due to such alluring beauty or because some of the oldest sidewalk-sitting Lebanese men are the ones losing their breath over these curvaceous vixens).

Just like the luscious Lebanese woman, removing the inner package from the decorated bag leaves no room for disappointment. In fact, when you remove the Cleopatra-like eyeliner, dangling sapphire earrings and designer heels, let down the coiffed hairdo and deflate the Botox lips, you’re left with a look that’s equally, if not more, intensely breathtakingly beautiful: intoxicating eyes, striking cheekbones, rounded hips, shoulder-length curls – just like the perfectly designed Douaihy box; sculpted according to the Creator’s perfect proportions.

You see, the outer packaging just protects what’s beneath, so only those willing to try the inner product will get to see the raw beauty of this Lebanese deal.

And when you finally get a taste of what’s deep inside that exquisite cover up, you see that the heart of the product surpasses all praise. It’s the sweetness of the woman, like the deliciousness of the baklawa, which becomes the most inviting aspect of the package. Suddenly, the material adornments and the deep hazel eyes are forgotten, and it’s the sweet gesture, the nutty conversation, the way she’ll stick with you no matter what, the way she’ll make you forget any worries, the variety of things she has to offer and the manner in which she brings excitement to your life by just being her colourful self that make her the most gorgeous gift in the world.

Although she doesn’t dangle in sapphire and hasn’t succumbed to the Botox fad, this entry was inspired by my friend for life, a gorgeous Lebanese woman: bride-to-be cousin.

Dressing up

2010-07-28T08:57:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the fashions seen at the village wedding, I popped into a few stores today to see if there were any dresses that tickled my fancy for bride-to-be cousin's wedding. Besides exhausting me, all the dress trying made me feel slightly ridiculous - and the ones I tried one would actually be too plain for a Lebanese wedding.

I think I'll be sticking to my original plan and wearing the dress I brought along.

Fly away with me

Star Trek

Seasonal confusion

Just plain gross

Gathering courage

The sequel to Shine

Sex and the Village

2010-07-27T07:49:00.000-07:00

Forget about the bride! Walking home from the kermesse I struck it lucky and walked onto the set of Sex and the Village, the glammed-up village version of this year's hit city film. Well, actually it was the church-exiting moment of a village wedding, but I did have to blink twice to snap back from my movie reverie. Even if Carrie Bradshaw had been the bride (again), these Lebanese ladies would have outshone her. Carrie may have worn a bird thingy in her hair for her wedding day, but one of these guests managed to get a bird-like statement onto her entire dress! Snapping away like a paparazzi freak, I managed to capture some fashionable red-carpet moments.

Suddenly, the dress I intend to wear to bride-to-be cousin's wedding in just over two weeks seems very, very plain...

Move over Carrie Bradshaw, this bird needs space to fly!

Fun in the village

2010-07-27T07:45:00.000-07:00

I was up in the village this weekend, preparing for the arrival of two very special parents. There happened to be a kermesse (carnival) going on, so I followed the noise and checked it out. I love these pics for the village they show beyond the activities taking place. Don't you just love the old houses on the mountainside?

My virtual middle finger

2010-07-23T05:55:00.000-07:00

Irish flatmate came home in a state last night, venting about the way her supposed service driver charged her full taxi fares (10 000) for her short trip home, and not the expected 2 000 service fare. She was huffing and puffing in fury, which sparked on my huff and puff too.

We've had it with these bloody taxis. Enough of taking advantage of us foreigners. Just because I speak Lebanese with the accent of an 'ajnabieh' (foreigner) doesn't mean you need to treat me like a fool who doesn't know better. You might think I'm rolling in it, but trust me, if I were, I'd be purchasing a car and giving you the finger as I drive by, screaming profanities with my non-Lebanese tongue.

Yesterday, the guy bringing me back from the pool demanded 10 000 before I got into his taxi. I worked him down to 5 000 (although I had originally asked for a double service price of 4 000). A guy (Lebanese with a very Lebanese accent) got in 100m down the road, and got out at exactly the same place as me, and only paid 2 000. I asked the driver why he made me pay more - was it because I'm ajnabieh? No, he said, it's because he only took this route for me, and then the other guy happened to want to go in the same direction. Slamming-door session number one.

Last night the taxi driver said he'd take us to the art gallery in Quarantina for a full taxi fare (10 000). Fair enough, it's a little out of the way. Once we got there, he insisted on an extra 5 000 because we made him go in circles, he said. Slamming-door session number two.

Just now I asked for a 8 000 ride to a meeting in Hazmieh. The driver agreed, I got in, I gave him very thorough directions as given to me by the person I was meeting. He took the longest route possible, then went in the opposite direction and had to be rerouted by another person who jumped in, and then demanded another 5 000 for the complicated ride (which, I discovered on the way back, with a driver organised by the company I'd visited, was actually a simple 10-minute ride from home!). I gave him 10 000 and slammed the third taxi door in two days.

Bride-to-be cousin is picking me up tonight and I'm heading to the village, leaving taxis and door-slamming very far behind me.

Take that (here's where I show my virtual middle finger)!

A lot goes a little way

2010-07-23T00:34:00.000-07:00

Somehow I managed to spend a lot of money yesterday - on nothing. This country has an incredible way of making you put your hand into your wallet every half hour without even noticing!

What would have cost me nothing back home - a day at the beach and an art gallery exhibition opening at night - set me back around R380! Now imagine if I'd actually decided to do something that should cost money! Thank goodness for another job in the pipelines...

(All prices are in Lebanese Lira, where 2 000LL equals about R10.)

2 000 service to St George Yacht Club and Marina

25 000 entry to the St George Yacht Club and Marina

17 000 burger and 1-litre water for lunch

5 000 taxi back home

15 000 taxi to art gallery (he charged 5 000 more than a normal taxi because he said it was complicated and out of the way)

5 000 waiting fee for taxi, who we ended up sending home anyway

2 000 service back home

Because I can

2010-07-23T00:11:00.000-07:00

While other people in Lebanon's workforce live for the weekends where they can get away from the office and hit the sun and water, I realised this week that I'm not one of those people. I'm a freelancer. I am my office. So if I choose to set up office alongside one of Beirut's most notorious swimming pools, then so be it!

Thanks to my refreshing revelation, I spent the whole day yesterday at the St George Yacht Club and Marina, surrounded by the great Lebanese contrasts: the calm Mediterranean before me, filled with some of the biggest yachts I've seen in real life (and I've been to Monaco!), a big construction project in progress - built into a reclaimed part of the sea, with a planned hotel and sea-front restaurants coming up - and then the towering new Four Seasons Hotel and iconic Marina Apartments to the right of my view. Directly behind me was the Phoenicia Hotel, frequented by celebrities, kings and queens in the 60s and early 70s before the war. It now overlooks the spot where Rafiq Hariri was assassinated in a car bomb in 2005. To the left of me was another reminder of the devastation that has ripped through Beirut - the St George Hotel, built in 1932 but destroyed during the civil war and then destroyed once again during the car bomb assassination when it was being fixed up again...

In between taking many dips in one of the four pools and enjoying a walk along the marina, I did actually do some reading research - so, yes, my office proved constructive. And rather cool!

The yacht club.

The Marina Apartments.

The St George Hotel.

Different shades of white

2010-07-18T09:50:00.000-07:00

My first visitor might be living in the bling that is Dubai, but it's the light of Lebanon that charmed him more - the light reflecting off two very white Lebanese must-sees. One in the form of a rooftop lounge known as White (no guesses as to the interior - well, exterior - decor colour scheme) and the other a luxury beach resort in Jiyeh called Orchid (also all decked in the neutral colour).

The thing with White is that it's the kind of place you have to reserve a table at in order to find a seat - and these tables are reserved a month in advance. Plus, they prefer to give them to Lebanese people (the ones without a South African accent). I still don't quite get why there's this big thing about sitting around tables at nightclubs in Lebanon, but it was explained to me that even though people arrive at 11pm after dinner and have no intention of sitting down to a meal at White, they have become so used to the practice of reserving a table (since the good old Lebanese heydays) that they've now come to expect to have a seat to sit at and a table to leave all their bags on. This means that the space for dancing is limited, and everyone dances around their table, so there isn't the kind of dancing and mingling I'm used to, and when I did try to do the mingling thing (let's just say there was a very good-looking Lebanese man two tables down), it was not well-received for me to be bashing past the stiff-dancing Lebanese dollies trying to keep their make-up from smudging down their perspiring summer-night faces onto their Botox lips. After my edging past, they immediately gave a shove of their cleavage, readjusting it in their designer dresses while they did little tap-taps on their red-soled Louboutins.

I must add here that when Swiss-Dubai visitor sent his girlfriend a message that we were heading out on the town, she sent him one back asking whether we were going to White. It seems it was recently written about in a Swiss newspaper as the place to see and be seen in Beirut. And somehow, it is. Which makes it even more surprising that Swiss-Dubai visitor and I managed to get in without a reservation. A month ago three of us gals tried entering - we'd gotten dressed up especially - and were turned away by the burly bouncers without so much as a 'sorry we made you put on such high heels'. So this time we got there early - early in Lebanon means 9pm. This clever tactic scored us two seats at the white Perspex bar.

This luck is what ricocheted us into a weekend of all-white decadence, thanks to a wild Lebanese girl who was seated next to me at the long bar. She insisted I tell the guy at the end of the bar to move up and make everyone else do the same so that I could fit my chair in, as it had been edged out as soon as we were shown our place, by the guy who sat down before us. This meant that I was sitting right on top of Swiss-Dubai visitor and wild child, forcing us to become big chommies. While Swiss-Dubai visitor treated me to a colourful (and very expensive) bar dinner and cocktails of every description (we may have tested the entire menu!), two of wild child's friends were chased off their bar seats to make way for two higher-paying gents. Of course this didn't go down well with wild child, who put up a big fuss with all the White managers, but unfortunately this didn't help and they ended up sitting at a table behind us until the people who had reserved that table arrived - and then they just hovered nearby.

Wild child was livid. She's been a White regular since last year, when she used to go every weekend, even getting a turn at the DJ booth now and then. Everyone who works there knows her by name, she isn't afraid to spend on booze and tips well (she didn't tell me this, I witnessed it myself!), so it was a real slap in the face.

At the end of our night, when it was just wild child, Swiss-Dubai visitor and I left, and we'd decided it was time to depart, a bottle of Moet & Chandon arrived in front of us at the bar (the tiny space we were still confined to, where we were dancing like wild-child converts). Attached to it were fireworks, spitting sparkles. We were each poured a glass and offered it by the barman - this was White management's way of apologising to wild child for the incident. And so we drank some more. That's where things went downhill...

There was an incident with a dropped glass that landed on my knee and foot, causing three blood-oozing gashes. But there was no pain (thank goodness for alcohol), so the dancing continued when my favourite Lebanese party song played (I wanna flyyyyyy with you babyyyy... or something like that). Then there was the attempt at chatting to an engaged guy (bat!), and then the drops of blood on a hotel lobby floor when showing Swiss-Dubai a cool artwork upon leaving White. That's where you say thank goodness for the taxi...

Understandably, waking up with a sore knee and an even more damaged head and very dry mouth leaves you wanting to veg out completely and drink lots of water. There's no better place to do this that at Orchid beach resort. Heck, there were even waves beyond the all-white decadence, that I kinda felt like I was 'hanging' back home. The Ferraris, Porsches and other slick wheels parked outside were an immediate indication of what we would find inside. Model-like bikini babes and, well, Lebanese men (I'm still not convinced of the hotness of these men). Private plunge pools and cordoned-off sections are found a little way from the circular common pool - which is anything but common - and white loungers are dotted all around the white, wooden decks, where waiters and other towel-carrying 'slaves' cater to your every whim.

I remember looking up from White, into the night sky, and asking my companions when the angels were going to appear. It seemed fitting. But then I guess all the angels were busy preparing to appear at Orchid the next day. That's what too much whiteness does to you...

(Please excuse the photo quality - they were all taken on my camera.)

We arrived at White just as the candle-ligting 'ceremony' was taking place.

With Swiss-Dubai visitor. Note the empty tables behind us. Three hours later one couldn't move an inch through that space.

One of the barmen.

An open rooftop bar in the middle of Beirut.

Louboutins are mandatory.

Outside Orchid.

Inside Orchid.

The Mediterranean on one side and the mountain on the other.

One of the private pools that can be rented out for the day.

The common pool for everyone who pays $20 for the day at Orchid.

Another table

2010-07-13T06:00:00.001-07:00

Now that my 'getting paid to eat out' mission is complete, I sadly have to pay for the food I consume - except when juggling cousin comes to visit from Germany and tall uncle takes us out for lunch! Yes, it's another food-obsessed blog post!

Tall Uncle had recently heard about the restaurant spin-off to Souk el Tayeb (the organic market I still have to visit) called Tawlet Souk el Tayeb in Mar Mikhael, and proposed we try it out today. 'It's Lebanese food, though,' he said, asking whether we'd prefer a burger joint. Perhaps he hasn't yet noticed my love of Lebanese food over any other culinary masterpiece you could lay on my plate - even if it happened to be a Mochachos burger!

The thing I find disapponting at most traditional Lebanese restaurants is that they always have the same thing on the menu - start off with mezzas (hot and cold), move onto meat scewers, and end off with fruit. You never see the things that Mom makes at home. That's why I loved today's lunch. The idea behind Tawlet(meaning tables) is that everyday there's a different cook from a different part of Lebanon preparing the lunch - traditional dishes from their part of the country. You can either choose to enjoy the buffet for $25 or have the dish of the day for $10. Today, this happened to be one of my favourite Lebanese dishes, shish barak, prepared by a lady called Josephine from the north. The $10 also gets you water and a green salad. We took the shish barak, something like meat dumplings (sombreros) cooked in laban flavoured with mint and garlic. It was so obviously healthy that I immediately felt a surge of energy! Even the rice was of the body-benefiting variety.

What added to this experience was the setting. It's a vibey place in a cul de sac, and is filled with a lot of Achrafieh tantes and many foreigners, and the long table in the middle of one of the two interleading rooms means that all of these strangers could actually eat together (but they didn't today!).

They give cooking courses too, so guess what I'm looking into!

The other finale

2010-07-13T05:56:00.001-07:00

Sassine Square changed its look on Sunday and went from this

...to this

Viva Espana! I hope you could hear your Lebanese supporters who kept me up all night after the 1-0 win.

The finale

2010-07-13T05:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday saw me complete my 'get paid to eat out' mission with a trip up the Shouf Mountains to Mir Amin (near Beiteddine) - a renovated palace that used to be the residence of the last emirs of Lebanon. In terms of luxurious experience, it didn't match up to the previous four, seeing as we were not really greeted and had to wait for 10 minutes before anyone registered what I was there to do, and then got relegated to the Lebanese restaurant below the Oriental Terrace we were supposed to dine on. But nevertheless, good food, good company, and a lovely palace to wander around afterwards.

We may not have been treated like VIPs this time, but we sure ate like a king and queen worthy of a palace!

The traditional oud (long, long before the guitar) and something that sounded to me like me'bej when I asked him what the instrument was called. I tried it out, and it's rather heavy. You tap into the hollow with the stick for a deep sound and then tap against the top inside edge to get the metal clinking noise.

The main terrace courtyard where we should have dined.

Inside one of the suites (Mir Amin is now a five-star hotel) with its antique mosaic work.

How 'art' thou?

2010-07-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

Having Oliewenhuis so close to home while growing up must have paid off, because my first art review has just been published in the July issue of Time Out Beirut - my debut issue as art editor.

So that's one issue down, some more to go, starting with the August/ September bumper issue. Which took me to an interview with Rita Aad, the most upbeat artist I've ever met. She blasts her music (she gave me an awesome CD to take home) and 'explodes' on the canvas. The result is this:

Breakdancers

Michael, her son

Then it was on to Beirut's hotels in search of decent art for a feature I'm doing. What I found was Rudy Rahme's 'Season of Life' in the recently opened Four Seasons Hotel, made with his patented charcoal and colour extracted from rocks:

Rudy is the famous Lebanese artist who carved this impressive image of Christ at the ancient cedars of Lebanon. I got to interview him in his gallery yesterday.

My next find was Le Gray (well it wasn't actually a find, as I'd already been there and know it's Lebanon's foremost art hotel - or only art hotel really!). I love this contemporary setting - it's filled with fabulous and fun art pieces, including these:

This one by Frenchman Fred Bred hangs alongside the Poolside cafe.

These floral arrangements at the restaurant entrance were so beautiful that I'd call them art too!

Then there's the cutest little ellie in the lobby - so talked about, that the pastry team has started making cookies shaped like him and topping them with Smarties for the kids that stay at the hotel. And it happens to be an artwork by Mom's cousin, Nadim Karam. Nadim is famous for his Archaic Procession, a family of sculptural creatures created from his wild imagination, who have travelled the world - from Melbourne to Tokyo. This is one of them:

Nadim told me this week that his architecture, planning and design studio, Atelier Hapsitus, aims to 'make cities dream'. And that's why he loves exhibiting outside of art galleries. I love that idea.

Next was my visit to the brand new Beirut Exhibition Center for the retrospective exhibition of Lebanese-born Nabil Nahas, who's been living in New York ever since doing his Master's in Fine Art at Yale in 1973.

The Beirut Exhibition Center changes colour according to the time of day. It reminded me of the concept of the Green Point Stadium.

Nahas started his career with very geometric lines in the 1970s.

In the 90s he started collecting dead starfish and pasting them onto his canvases and painting over them with acrylics.

His latest work refers to his homeland, with images of cedars, pine trees and olive branches.

And then during the week, I also came across some graffiti art:

And political propaganda 'art':

They wanted people to boycott Tiesto because he was refusing not to go to Israel before coming to Lebanon, and a lot of people here feel that there should be sanctions against Israel, including sanctioning which performers they receive.

Last night I got to see original Botero drawings and Dali sculptures at a worldwide exhibition that happened to be on at La Posta where we dined.

I saw a mini version of this. Someone here bought it for $48 000!

Botero is known for his images of fat ladies. I like the guy!

But the most fun art moment this week was definitely the predominantly pink exhibition by Zena el Khalil at Espace Kettaneh Kunigk, inspired by pink Israeli propaganda posters that were dropped on Beirut from airplanes during the 2006 war.

'Peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars'

May this be your mantra too in the coming week. Go out and find the art around you!