So….it is the 13th of December. Two days ago was the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Syria. About a week ago, it rained in Syria for the first time this year. Yesterday, it started snowing. And didn’t stop. I was told by a 26-year old Syria colleague that she had never seen this much snow in her entire life in Syria.
Currently I am sitting in the American Language Centre in Damascus, where I teach English part-time, typing away frantically on my laptop. The main reason I am here is that there has been no electricity in my house since last night, so I am using the ALC’s miraculously resilient electricity supply to ‘fill up’ my laptop and phone, before they close for the day at noon. Also, the ALC has some strange set-up with its internet connection which means that you are able to access sites that are otherwise inaccessible in Damascus, such as facebook and - my blog! So I thought I’d spend the 14 minutes remaining until the ALC shuts down to post a quick entry.
After all, it’s been a good five months. In both senses. The tentative equilibrium hinted at in my last entry has developed into a relaxed existence in Damascus that mostly evades my hyperactive attempts to question what exactly I am still doing here. Perhaps this relaxedness is also what has made writing blog entries seem less appealing. Once I’m relaxed, as I normally am in London, I seem to lose interest in maintaining regular communication with people. Nice, right?
On the face of it, the overriding rationale for me being here remains pretty clear. I came to Damascus to study Arabic; I’ve still got a long way to go. I finish my internship with the UNHCR in a couple of weeks and am pretty excited about returning to intense Arabic study.
I decided a few months ago to extend my time in Syria and, in the process of doing so, mercilessly razed a very coherent, clear plan for the next few years of my life that had taken a lot of effort to put in place. There were some very sensible reasons for this; my Arabic was nowhere near as good as I wanted it to be; I wasn’t so sure about the kind of work that the plan obliged to be getting into when I returned to London. However, the momentum for my decision came from somewhere else, really. Living in Damascus, studying Arabic, reading for pleasure, sniffing around in a very different society…. These things together felt exciting enough to warrant a little more of my time and attention.
As a self-confessed man of extremes, I have, I feel, in the past five years or so of my life, become exceedingly, indefatigably sensible. It felt nice to do something just because it felt like the right thing to do (the sensible reasons were of course there as a supporting act - I don’t want to become reckless). I don’t know when this little adventure will peter out, or if it will lead somewhere else, but I feel assured that a life of sensible slogging will not become magically inaccessible at some point.
So in other news I moved house AGAIN about two months ago, although the good news is that I seem to have found an area that is perfect. The part of town I live in is called Muhajereen. It’s leafy (not easy around here), quiet and there are hardly any people around. So far so good. People are conservative, although they (mostly) keep themselves to themselves. It’s also right in the middle of town, close to everything, but on the massive mountain at the north of Damascus (Qasiun), so I have a super view out of my bedroom. Photos will follow shortly.
One of the most funniest things about my time in Syria is the difference between my life as it looks from the outside (calm, relaxed, snacking, reading, moving around nice parts of Damascus) and my internal life (in roughly chronological order: unrelaxed; homesick; study-obsessed; hating Damascus so much I wanted to move somewhere else in the Middle East; and then a slow, gradual falling-in-love with Damascus alongside a re-evaluation of what kind of life I wanted in the immediate future). This is the inverse of what my life has been like recently pre-Syria, with lots of internal stability and equilibrium and lots of changing and new experiences going on outside. I don’t know what the significance is. On the plus side, I sometimes feel like I am a character in a novel. Can’t ask for more than that I suppose.
I am now being accosted by a very gregarious and loud student of mine (last time I saw him, he had taken off his shoes and was throwing milk everywhere) so I should move on. More soon!
Monday 13 December 2010
Tuesday 27 July 2010
a few months on...
It has been a while…
For those in any doubt about the cyclical nature of things, I am writing this entry from Damascus’ Old City, the place I vowed never to return to three months ago. I had spent two months with a Syrian family in the Old City, an initially charming but eventually exasperating experience. Damn novelty - it always gets in the way of actually seeing what’s what. Two months of sleeping with my head by one of Damascus’ busiest streets, being woken every morning by screaming kids/adults and constantly feeling like I was in the way culminated in an intense distaste for the Old City and its horrendously tourist-congested streets. Away!
So for the past three months I had been living in a part of Damascus called ‘Mezze Jebel’ (Mezze mountain) in a nice apartment (with a balcony). Mezze Jebel was very much another side of Damascus. Whereas the Old City was all winding paths, old Arabic houses and the occasional epic Roman arch, Mezze Jebel is a sprawling neighbourhood on a mountain populated by ugly, not-quite-finished-looking apartment blocks. If it appears haphazard, that’s because most of the buildings were built without planning permission and, as such, were built bloody quickly. My neighbour, a divorced man who woke up 11 every day and seemed to be in pyjamas most of the day, was fond of pointing out how his wonderful view was spoilt by the hulk of an apartment block that had been hastily erected in front of our building.
I liked Mezze Jebel. There was absolutely nothing going on - brilliant. Primarily a residential area for lower middle-class Damascenes, it was fantastically unexceptional and, more to the point perhaps, I felt as anonymous as a paving stone. Also I was a short stroll away from ‘Falafel Ala Kaifek’, arguably Damascus’ most famous falafel shop (it’s been around for 40 years according to informed falafel-eaters), where a sandwich that could feed a small family is yours for the equivalent of roughly 50p. Many of my phone conversations with Syrian friends would end with “….do you think you could pick up a sandwich from Falafel Ala Kaifek on the way? Ok…[discussion in background]… actually can you get five?”.
So now I’ve moved back to the Old City; I had to move at short notice after my capricious landlord decided that the sinful arrangement of a man and woman who aren’t married living together was outside his comfort zone. It’s quite a familiar story - in the conservative parts of Damascus (i.e. most of it), neighbours and, more pertinently, landlords assume that their values, which appear incomprehensible to the majority of Westerners, are universal, in casually expecting them to be adhered to end up imposing them on their tenants. It’s strange to come face-to-face with that genre of wilfully idiotic ideas that springs from conservative social values and find yourself unable to laugh them off. Because you’re homeless.
Anyhooo, I am, as I say, back in the Old City and actually I’m rather loving it. I live in a very nice, clean house which manages, I’m not quite sure how, to be smack bang in the middle of the Old City and yet be wonderfully quiet. For example, I left the World Cup final halfway through because, well, I was tired (this was the highly unimpressive culmination of my attempt to generate enthusiasm/interest for the World Cup which, by the way, Syrians were CRAZY about) but, even though I fell asleep outside, I didn’t even know that the game had ended because I didn’t hear a peep - the horn-honking, screaming and general commotion couldn’t scale whatever it was that stood between my lovely new house and the masses. I’m very excited about all this because I am an extremely light sleeper and Syrians are, in general, pretty noisy. Actually I don’t know if I can even justify that national classification - I may just be talking about human beings (who I generally tend to find noisy).
I live with all Arabic speakers which is wondrous, perfect for my Arabic. There are lots of plants everywhere. Overall, it’s great. I feel like I am experiencing the Old City in the manner that I would have expected myself to be experiencing it first time round but for some reason I never seemed to get round to. This means going for pleasant aimless wanders through the web of tiny paths that offer the only way around the majority of the Old City, discovering what lies behind big, wooden doors that reveal nothing from the outside and focusing my mind on my continuing research into Damascene snacks. I seem to have, one way or another, replicated that delicate mix of anonymity and sociableness that I find so irresistible and feel both engaged in an exciting little adventure and able to socialise with interesting people when I fancy it.
As may be evident from the above, life in Damascus is (mercifully) approaching something of an equilibrium after a six month period where it was difficult to pick out a coherent theme or even an idea of what was being aimed for. I’ve embarked on an internship with the UN office here and am writing for a newspaper on the side, which, together with my Arabic lessons, is keeping me nicely busy. My Arabic improved like crazy for about two months but, perhaps because of the excessive ego-stroking that ensued, the pace of development seems to have slackened somewhat. Maybe I have reached the ‘intermediate plateau’ (I think that’s a proper name) but I have certainly noticed that improving has suddenly become harder work - the learning curve has flattened out and I have found myself able to construct sentences but with a vocabulary gap the size of the Pacific Ocean separating me from native speakers. The search is on for some kind of a solution. I suspect that patience may have something to do with it.
In any case, I now live in Damascus. In many ways, I feel like my time here has only just started.
For those in any doubt about the cyclical nature of things, I am writing this entry from Damascus’ Old City, the place I vowed never to return to three months ago. I had spent two months with a Syrian family in the Old City, an initially charming but eventually exasperating experience. Damn novelty - it always gets in the way of actually seeing what’s what. Two months of sleeping with my head by one of Damascus’ busiest streets, being woken every morning by screaming kids/adults and constantly feeling like I was in the way culminated in an intense distaste for the Old City and its horrendously tourist-congested streets. Away!
So for the past three months I had been living in a part of Damascus called ‘Mezze Jebel’ (Mezze mountain) in a nice apartment (with a balcony). Mezze Jebel was very much another side of Damascus. Whereas the Old City was all winding paths, old Arabic houses and the occasional epic Roman arch, Mezze Jebel is a sprawling neighbourhood on a mountain populated by ugly, not-quite-finished-looking apartment blocks. If it appears haphazard, that’s because most of the buildings were built without planning permission and, as such, were built bloody quickly. My neighbour, a divorced man who woke up 11 every day and seemed to be in pyjamas most of the day, was fond of pointing out how his wonderful view was spoilt by the hulk of an apartment block that had been hastily erected in front of our building.
I liked Mezze Jebel. There was absolutely nothing going on - brilliant. Primarily a residential area for lower middle-class Damascenes, it was fantastically unexceptional and, more to the point perhaps, I felt as anonymous as a paving stone. Also I was a short stroll away from ‘Falafel Ala Kaifek’, arguably Damascus’ most famous falafel shop (it’s been around for 40 years according to informed falafel-eaters), where a sandwich that could feed a small family is yours for the equivalent of roughly 50p. Many of my phone conversations with Syrian friends would end with “….do you think you could pick up a sandwich from Falafel Ala Kaifek on the way? Ok…[discussion in background]… actually can you get five?”.
So now I’ve moved back to the Old City; I had to move at short notice after my capricious landlord decided that the sinful arrangement of a man and woman who aren’t married living together was outside his comfort zone. It’s quite a familiar story - in the conservative parts of Damascus (i.e. most of it), neighbours and, more pertinently, landlords assume that their values, which appear incomprehensible to the majority of Westerners, are universal, in casually expecting them to be adhered to end up imposing them on their tenants. It’s strange to come face-to-face with that genre of wilfully idiotic ideas that springs from conservative social values and find yourself unable to laugh them off. Because you’re homeless.
Anyhooo, I am, as I say, back in the Old City and actually I’m rather loving it. I live in a very nice, clean house which manages, I’m not quite sure how, to be smack bang in the middle of the Old City and yet be wonderfully quiet. For example, I left the World Cup final halfway through because, well, I was tired (this was the highly unimpressive culmination of my attempt to generate enthusiasm/interest for the World Cup which, by the way, Syrians were CRAZY about) but, even though I fell asleep outside, I didn’t even know that the game had ended because I didn’t hear a peep - the horn-honking, screaming and general commotion couldn’t scale whatever it was that stood between my lovely new house and the masses. I’m very excited about all this because I am an extremely light sleeper and Syrians are, in general, pretty noisy. Actually I don’t know if I can even justify that national classification - I may just be talking about human beings (who I generally tend to find noisy).
I live with all Arabic speakers which is wondrous, perfect for my Arabic. There are lots of plants everywhere. Overall, it’s great. I feel like I am experiencing the Old City in the manner that I would have expected myself to be experiencing it first time round but for some reason I never seemed to get round to. This means going for pleasant aimless wanders through the web of tiny paths that offer the only way around the majority of the Old City, discovering what lies behind big, wooden doors that reveal nothing from the outside and focusing my mind on my continuing research into Damascene snacks. I seem to have, one way or another, replicated that delicate mix of anonymity and sociableness that I find so irresistible and feel both engaged in an exciting little adventure and able to socialise with interesting people when I fancy it.
As may be evident from the above, life in Damascus is (mercifully) approaching something of an equilibrium after a six month period where it was difficult to pick out a coherent theme or even an idea of what was being aimed for. I’ve embarked on an internship with the UN office here and am writing for a newspaper on the side, which, together with my Arabic lessons, is keeping me nicely busy. My Arabic improved like crazy for about two months but, perhaps because of the excessive ego-stroking that ensued, the pace of development seems to have slackened somewhat. Maybe I have reached the ‘intermediate plateau’ (I think that’s a proper name) but I have certainly noticed that improving has suddenly become harder work - the learning curve has flattened out and I have found myself able to construct sentences but with a vocabulary gap the size of the Pacific Ocean separating me from native speakers. The search is on for some kind of a solution. I suspect that patience may have something to do with it.
In any case, I now live in Damascus. In many ways, I feel like my time here has only just started.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Personal pronouns and far away places
Greetings, me hearties.
For about a month now, I have been living with a Syrian family in Old Damascus. The main reason for this move was a desire to live in an environment where I could effortlessly practise my Arabic. My family don’t speak English so that has been a success; the family span three generations, but I only really talk to the oldies, as they are very friendly and warm. It’s nice, I get to eat the family’s AMAZING food and am regularly in the vicinity of hyperactive children and doting old women.
I’ve also just finished up my second level at the university, which was at a rather brisker pace than Level 1. Arabic. It’s quite a language. The level of complexity in the grammatical structure borders on the ridiculous. Really. For example, personal pronouns. For our “you” there are no less than five second-person personal pronouns, each of which require a different verb conjugation (in the past, present and imperative form…). In the third person (He, She, They), there are six of them, with a differentiation between a dual female and dual male form that I, for one, can’t imagine anyone using. Ever. In any event there seems to be no room for the kind of Neanderthal indifference to grammar that is cultivated by the British public education system. Words literally change depending on where they are and what they are doing in the sentence. Although it’s quite enjoyable studying the stuff in many ways – grammar is very logical and there is a wonderfully satisfying sense of making out the broader picture of the language.
Also another very important point about Arabic is that, in order to be able to read, write and speak Arabic, I actually have to learn two languages. This is because written (and sometimes very formal spoken) communication takes place in the standard Arabic (foos-ha in Arabic) while oral communication is in the local dialect (or ami’a). And when I say dialect, I don’t mean a charmingly different pronunciation of vowel sounds but, you know, different vocabulary, a different way of conjugating verbs, dropped sounds… Part of the challenge is how to approach this.
My life continues to be full of change. I am not returning to the university (far too expensive, full of English-speaking people who remind me of the people I wasn’t friends with at university…) and it’s highly likely that, despite the charms of my family home, I will be moving yet again in the near future (my flat is insanely loud and very expensive; I am making enough Syrian friends that the benefit of speaking Arabic at home is less important; also the Old City is nauseatingly chock-a-block with tourists and foreign students). Although I now feel quite settled in Damascus, it’s tricky getting myself to something approaching an equilibrium because I don’t know what exactly I want; it’s more a case of sniffing out what you want more of, what you want less of. Part of the problem was that I hadn’t envisaged exactly what kind of life I was to be leading out here. Not necessarily a huge problem apart from the fact that human nature/the allure of convenience mean that you’re likely to end up following the herd. Which in many ways is exactly what I have done so far, studying at the very popular UoD and living in the Old City, where all the foreign students live. Yuck. Anyway, more change soon come. Don’t know what exactly, but the next few months should be rather different from the previous few… Other than that I’ll still be in Damascus… probably….
---------
When I was in London at the end of last year, someone asked me if I was having fun; because, they said, adventures always sound fun when you describe them, but that’s not to say that they’re necessarily as fun as they sound when you’re doing them. It’s a great point which touches on so many things; part of it is about the difficulties that arise when you’re trying to create a life that fulfils a certain goal (in my case, learning Arabic and about Syria) without a clearly defined programme of action. There are also the romantic ideas (in the philosophical rather than amorous sense) associated with 'travelling'. I think that even me, with my stereotypically-Generation-X-esque cynicism about things that, you know, other people have done before, couldn’t help but be infected by the temptations of the idea that something magical happens when you cross borders.
Part of the draw of this idea is that, particularly when you are going from your normal, established life to do something completely different, is that, by cutting yourself off from so much that defines you – your friends, family, work, routine, whatever it might be – you are, in a sense, subjecting yourself to a “Who am I exactly?” test. Surely something dramatic could happen then? I suppose it’s possible you could find out that you’re actually a raving sociopath or that you no longer love your wife and kids (etc). I don’t know. When I first came here, I felt a bit nervous. Now I don’t. I’m starting to recognise the re-emergence of characteristically “Admas” patterns of behaviour. Lots of pyjama time. The absence of guilt when turning down social invitations. Taking pleasure in impromptu conversations with strangers. I even got told off for being a copy of the Economist to a nightclub. I’m rather happy about it all.
-----------------------
At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.
For about a month now, I have been living with a Syrian family in Old Damascus. The main reason for this move was a desire to live in an environment where I could effortlessly practise my Arabic. My family don’t speak English so that has been a success; the family span three generations, but I only really talk to the oldies, as they are very friendly and warm. It’s nice, I get to eat the family’s AMAZING food and am regularly in the vicinity of hyperactive children and doting old women.
I’ve also just finished up my second level at the university, which was at a rather brisker pace than Level 1. Arabic. It’s quite a language. The level of complexity in the grammatical structure borders on the ridiculous. Really. For example, personal pronouns. For our “you” there are no less than five second-person personal pronouns, each of which require a different verb conjugation (in the past, present and imperative form…). In the third person (He, She, They), there are six of them, with a differentiation between a dual female and dual male form that I, for one, can’t imagine anyone using. Ever. In any event there seems to be no room for the kind of Neanderthal indifference to grammar that is cultivated by the British public education system. Words literally change depending on where they are and what they are doing in the sentence. Although it’s quite enjoyable studying the stuff in many ways – grammar is very logical and there is a wonderfully satisfying sense of making out the broader picture of the language.
Also another very important point about Arabic is that, in order to be able to read, write and speak Arabic, I actually have to learn two languages. This is because written (and sometimes very formal spoken) communication takes place in the standard Arabic (foos-ha in Arabic) while oral communication is in the local dialect (or ami’a). And when I say dialect, I don’t mean a charmingly different pronunciation of vowel sounds but, you know, different vocabulary, a different way of conjugating verbs, dropped sounds… Part of the challenge is how to approach this.
My life continues to be full of change. I am not returning to the university (far too expensive, full of English-speaking people who remind me of the people I wasn’t friends with at university…) and it’s highly likely that, despite the charms of my family home, I will be moving yet again in the near future (my flat is insanely loud and very expensive; I am making enough Syrian friends that the benefit of speaking Arabic at home is less important; also the Old City is nauseatingly chock-a-block with tourists and foreign students). Although I now feel quite settled in Damascus, it’s tricky getting myself to something approaching an equilibrium because I don’t know what exactly I want; it’s more a case of sniffing out what you want more of, what you want less of. Part of the problem was that I hadn’t envisaged exactly what kind of life I was to be leading out here. Not necessarily a huge problem apart from the fact that human nature/the allure of convenience mean that you’re likely to end up following the herd. Which in many ways is exactly what I have done so far, studying at the very popular UoD and living in the Old City, where all the foreign students live. Yuck. Anyway, more change soon come. Don’t know what exactly, but the next few months should be rather different from the previous few… Other than that I’ll still be in Damascus… probably….
---------
When I was in London at the end of last year, someone asked me if I was having fun; because, they said, adventures always sound fun when you describe them, but that’s not to say that they’re necessarily as fun as they sound when you’re doing them. It’s a great point which touches on so many things; part of it is about the difficulties that arise when you’re trying to create a life that fulfils a certain goal (in my case, learning Arabic and about Syria) without a clearly defined programme of action. There are also the romantic ideas (in the philosophical rather than amorous sense) associated with 'travelling'. I think that even me, with my stereotypically-Generation-X-esque cynicism about things that, you know, other people have done before, couldn’t help but be infected by the temptations of the idea that something magical happens when you cross borders.
Part of the draw of this idea is that, particularly when you are going from your normal, established life to do something completely different, is that, by cutting yourself off from so much that defines you – your friends, family, work, routine, whatever it might be – you are, in a sense, subjecting yourself to a “Who am I exactly?” test. Surely something dramatic could happen then? I suppose it’s possible you could find out that you’re actually a raving sociopath or that you no longer love your wife and kids (etc). I don’t know. When I first came here, I felt a bit nervous. Now I don’t. I’m starting to recognise the re-emergence of characteristically “Admas” patterns of behaviour. Lots of pyjama time. The absence of guilt when turning down social invitations. Taking pleasure in impromptu conversations with strangers. I even got told off for being a copy of the Economist to a nightclub. I’m rather happy about it all.
-----------------------
At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.
Making friends in Syria: dead easy
People in Syria are bloody friendly. This cannot be overstated. Strangers talk to you all the time. Where are you from? What are you doing in Syria? You welcome. You ask for directions and people escort you to your location, buying you a pastry or a cup of tea on the way. People come up to me all the time and ask me if I want to be their friend. It’s not personal. They just like making friends. Part of it is that young Syrians in particular are really curious about the Western world and Western perceptions of Syria/the Middle East, so they hypnotically gravitate towards foreigners.
One man I met on a bus talked to me incessantly about God and various quite technical religious issues (the different kinds of hell and what have you); it was really a one-way affair, but I liked the innocent way his face lit up when he talked about it so I let him go on for longer than I would normally. At the end of it, he hugged me tightly and then kissed me about five times. Then he kissed my head and told me he loved me. Perhaps sensing my confusion, he said:
- Do you know why? Because you are a human being. And I want you to go to heaven.
It would be easy to laugh but I thought this was quite sweet. Beneath the dogma, there were warm, universal human thoughts and feelings. It can be easy to forget this about religion and religious people. Perhaps the sunshine had softened up my brain but I enjoyed this little exchange. After the hug (I don’t think I told him I loved him back) we stood there for a while longer, in silence and then he added:
- You know, it really upsets me when people go to the fire. It hurts me so much. Why do they do it?
I thought about it. I told him that it was good of him to care but he could only do so much; he couldn’t help everyone. This really pleased him and he gave me another big hug. I felt like I’d turned a sermon into a tiny conversation.
One man I met on a bus talked to me incessantly about God and various quite technical religious issues (the different kinds of hell and what have you); it was really a one-way affair, but I liked the innocent way his face lit up when he talked about it so I let him go on for longer than I would normally. At the end of it, he hugged me tightly and then kissed me about five times. Then he kissed my head and told me he loved me. Perhaps sensing my confusion, he said:
- Do you know why? Because you are a human being. And I want you to go to heaven.
It would be easy to laugh but I thought this was quite sweet. Beneath the dogma, there were warm, universal human thoughts and feelings. It can be easy to forget this about religion and religious people. Perhaps the sunshine had softened up my brain but I enjoyed this little exchange. After the hug (I don’t think I told him I loved him back) we stood there for a while longer, in silence and then he added:
- You know, it really upsets me when people go to the fire. It hurts me so much. Why do they do it?
I thought about it. I told him that it was good of him to care but he could only do so much; he couldn’t help everyone. This really pleased him and he gave me another big hug. I felt like I’d turned a sermon into a tiny conversation.
Monday 8 February 2010
Snow
So I went snowboarding on Saturday. After a six-year hiatus, Admas was back on the slopes. I fell over so much (and so violently) I think fellow snow-cruisers began to suspect I was some kind of ski-slope-masochist. I cut something of a clownish figure as I queued for the ski-lifts amidst all the impeccably chic Lebanese skiers with their stylish all-in-ones and Gucci sunglasses. My ski-clothes were rented and didn’t match. I was covered head-to-toe in snow from all my falls. I looked like some kind of badly-dressed snow-monster.
In the end I only managed an afternoon on the slopes. My sampling of Lebanon’s ski scene coincided with the best snow so far this year AND a weekend, so me and my host had the pleasure of being joined by half of Beirut’s ski-ready population (i.e. half of Beirut) on the roads. So what should have been a 60-minute drive took three hours. Also, (the usual disclaimer preceding racist comments applies) Lebanese people are bloody awful drivers, so every traffic-related difficulty was invariably exacerbated by about ten cars trying to go up the one-way road the wrong way at once and blocking the route both ways. Ahhhh.
After passing my Level 1 exams with flying colours, I have just embarked on Level 2 Arabic (each level lasts four weeks and we get a little break in between) and it's great. It really feels quite different from Level 1, which was rather cuddly in comparison. This time, we have two teachers; one focuses on new grammar and vocabulary while the second does speaking and listening. With both teachers there is a noticeably steeper learning curve; far less time is spent going over new material than in Level 1, but both teachers are excellent so (speaking for myself) it feels pretty comfortable. Needless to say, I still feel a million miles away from expressing myself properly in Arabic but, I am told, some things take “time”. A lot of it. In fact this may well prove to be one of the most useful things learning a language is going to teach me: patience. The notion of taking, say, an entire year to do one thing has always generated a fair bit of scepticism in yours truly. 'Surely there's some inefficiency somewhere?' is usually my first thought. No better antidote for such crass impatience than learning something that has to take a long time. One year is the bare minimum for learning a decent chunk of Arabic, I am repeatedly told. If this patience thing goes well I might learn to play an instrument too.
So what else has been going on? I am soon to move in with a Syrian family in Old Damascus. Plus points: lots and lots of Arabic practice every day. Minus points: living in tourist-central and away from the snack-heaven that is Souk Sarouja (my current area).
Some readers of this blog have scornfully inquired as to why there aren't more photos. I have put aside the visceral distaste for photography that can only come with having studied it full-time for long enough to snap a few pics of Beiteddin, a beautiful village in the Shouf hills southeast of Beirut. Some people call this place home...
In the end I only managed an afternoon on the slopes. My sampling of Lebanon’s ski scene coincided with the best snow so far this year AND a weekend, so me and my host had the pleasure of being joined by half of Beirut’s ski-ready population (i.e. half of Beirut) on the roads. So what should have been a 60-minute drive took three hours. Also, (the usual disclaimer preceding racist comments applies) Lebanese people are bloody awful drivers, so every traffic-related difficulty was invariably exacerbated by about ten cars trying to go up the one-way road the wrong way at once and blocking the route both ways. Ahhhh.
After passing my Level 1 exams with flying colours, I have just embarked on Level 2 Arabic (each level lasts four weeks and we get a little break in between) and it's great. It really feels quite different from Level 1, which was rather cuddly in comparison. This time, we have two teachers; one focuses on new grammar and vocabulary while the second does speaking and listening. With both teachers there is a noticeably steeper learning curve; far less time is spent going over new material than in Level 1, but both teachers are excellent so (speaking for myself) it feels pretty comfortable. Needless to say, I still feel a million miles away from expressing myself properly in Arabic but, I am told, some things take “time”. A lot of it. In fact this may well prove to be one of the most useful things learning a language is going to teach me: patience. The notion of taking, say, an entire year to do one thing has always generated a fair bit of scepticism in yours truly. 'Surely there's some inefficiency somewhere?' is usually my first thought. No better antidote for such crass impatience than learning something that has to take a long time. One year is the bare minimum for learning a decent chunk of Arabic, I am repeatedly told. If this patience thing goes well I might learn to play an instrument too.
So what else has been going on? I am soon to move in with a Syrian family in Old Damascus. Plus points: lots and lots of Arabic practice every day. Minus points: living in tourist-central and away from the snack-heaven that is Souk Sarouja (my current area).
Some readers of this blog have scornfully inquired as to why there aren't more photos. I have put aside the visceral distaste for photography that can only come with having studied it full-time for long enough to snap a few pics of Beiteddin, a beautiful village in the Shouf hills southeast of Beirut. Some people call this place home...
Friday 15 January 2010
Breakfast.
I thought I'd give people a little insight into the gritty, austere life that I'm leading out here in the Syrian capital. I invariably get my breakfast from the local baker/pastry-man. I haven't quite got the hang of leaving the house exactly in time to catch the pastries coming out of the oven, but I am working diligently at it. These two guys are a representative sample of what the bakery has to offer.
Specimen 1 is my favourite. When it's fresh from the oven, it's really unbeatable. Let's take a look inside.
Specimen 1 is my favourite. When it's fresh from the oven, it's really unbeatable. Let's take a look inside.
The soft pastry houses a rich nut/cinnamon/sugar mix. The perfect start to a day of studying Arabic (or doing anything). Specimen 2 is less distinctive, but still has a lot going for it.
Mmmmm. What looks like a mere doughnut with fancy chocolate icing in fact has more to offer: specifically, some delicious custard-like filling. Good show.
Normally, I would have a pastry with a freshly squeezed juice or, if I'm short on time, I wait for a cup of sweet tea at the university.
Tuesday 5 January 2010
Speechless
I am learning a lot about the centrality of language to our day-to-day lives. As in, if you can’t speak the language that people around you are speaking, you really have problems saying things like ‘Do you have any digital Dictaphones that are Mac compatible?’ or ‘I like the look of your freshly squeezed juices but can’t be bothered to choose – could you recommend one?’. Obviously once my Arabic classes get into full swing I will be reciting menus and making erudite jokes about the news in Arabic effortlessly, but until then, I have had to develop something I’ve never really bothered with – non-verbal communication. Is that a highbrow-sounding term for waving your hands around like a moron? You bet!
My favourite piece of non-verbal communication so far has been ‘dictaphone’, which I attempted to convey to a bewildered shopkeeper by holding an imaginary object in my hand, saying ‘Salam Alekum’ [hello] into it, pressing an imaginary button and then, in my best 'dictaphone' voice (i.e. in a squeaky voice out of the side of my mouth) saying ‘Salem Alekum’ again. Just as if I'd pressed Play on the imaginary dictaphone. Bloody genius, I thought. The old shopkeeper responded by looking even more confused and animatedly pointed at something, probably the world outside his shop.
I’ve been doing a lot of pointing. That certainly gets you far. But I am getting by. I had a masterclass in non-verbal communication last week when I made my first Syrian friends – two seriously boisterous students at the University of Damascus. They got dragged into my taxi.
I was in the process of registering for my Arabic course, which for the purposes of studying at the University of Damascus, involves (amongst other missions worthy of the Crystal Maze) a trip to the AIDS clinic to confirm you are not HIV positive (clearly an important prerequisite for the study of Arabic). Having picked up my results (which I couldn’t even read – I assumed I was negative – the man who handed me the results gave me a little smile) I jumped into a taxi with a taxi driver whose English was ACTUALLY worse than my Arabic. He even looked confused when I said ‘Hello’. He also appeared to be illiterate, so I couldn’t just show him my letter with the University of Damascus header on it to show him where I wanted to be heading. After hassling some pedestrians, he seemed to get it – or so I thought. He took me to the wrong side of the campus (it’s a huge campus) and was not entertained when I refused to get out of his taxi. At this point, he started asking random people on the street if they spoke English (p.s. this is totally cool in Damascus – people are very friendly and helpful). Two young guys, full of smiley exuberance, came up to our taxi and I’m pretty sure one of them said ‘No’ to the taxi driver’s question but they both proceeded to give English their best go. The sound of words that he didn’t recognise was enough to impress the driver, who asked them to jump in the back!
This was how I met Oosam and Ibrahim, whose English was only slightly better than my Arabic. The driver seriously perked up when he had someone to talk Arabic to; the taxi ride to the other side of campus was all rowdy laughter. I occasionally sniffed out the broad subject matter of conversations and made modest contributions in Arabic, which the driver found hilarious. I correctly answered ‘No!’ to a question which went along the lines of ‘So, you’re from Eritrea, are you a drug dealer?’ which entertained all. I also answered appropriately when asked ‘How’s your health?’, ‘How is your mother?’ (nothing suggestive about this question in Arabic) and ‘How is your penis?’, which was accompanied by the driver poking playfully at my willy while I was sat in his front seat. You wouldn’t get that in a London taxi.
I spent a cool afternoon with my new Syrian friends sitting in the university canteen eating a ‘chip sandwich’ (sounds lacklustre but incredible – the Syrians take sandwiches very seriously), drinking sweet tea and smoking some sheesha. I conveyed most of my life story using mime, although I wasn’t able to do ‘lawyer’.
My favourite piece of non-verbal communication so far has been ‘dictaphone’, which I attempted to convey to a bewildered shopkeeper by holding an imaginary object in my hand, saying ‘Salam Alekum’ [hello] into it, pressing an imaginary button and then, in my best 'dictaphone' voice (i.e. in a squeaky voice out of the side of my mouth) saying ‘Salem Alekum’ again. Just as if I'd pressed Play on the imaginary dictaphone. Bloody genius, I thought. The old shopkeeper responded by looking even more confused and animatedly pointed at something, probably the world outside his shop.
I’ve been doing a lot of pointing. That certainly gets you far. But I am getting by. I had a masterclass in non-verbal communication last week when I made my first Syrian friends – two seriously boisterous students at the University of Damascus. They got dragged into my taxi.
I was in the process of registering for my Arabic course, which for the purposes of studying at the University of Damascus, involves (amongst other missions worthy of the Crystal Maze) a trip to the AIDS clinic to confirm you are not HIV positive (clearly an important prerequisite for the study of Arabic). Having picked up my results (which I couldn’t even read – I assumed I was negative – the man who handed me the results gave me a little smile) I jumped into a taxi with a taxi driver whose English was ACTUALLY worse than my Arabic. He even looked confused when I said ‘Hello’. He also appeared to be illiterate, so I couldn’t just show him my letter with the University of Damascus header on it to show him where I wanted to be heading. After hassling some pedestrians, he seemed to get it – or so I thought. He took me to the wrong side of the campus (it’s a huge campus) and was not entertained when I refused to get out of his taxi. At this point, he started asking random people on the street if they spoke English (p.s. this is totally cool in Damascus – people are very friendly and helpful). Two young guys, full of smiley exuberance, came up to our taxi and I’m pretty sure one of them said ‘No’ to the taxi driver’s question but they both proceeded to give English their best go. The sound of words that he didn’t recognise was enough to impress the driver, who asked them to jump in the back!
This was how I met Oosam and Ibrahim, whose English was only slightly better than my Arabic. The driver seriously perked up when he had someone to talk Arabic to; the taxi ride to the other side of campus was all rowdy laughter. I occasionally sniffed out the broad subject matter of conversations and made modest contributions in Arabic, which the driver found hilarious. I correctly answered ‘No!’ to a question which went along the lines of ‘So, you’re from Eritrea, are you a drug dealer?’ which entertained all. I also answered appropriately when asked ‘How’s your health?’, ‘How is your mother?’ (nothing suggestive about this question in Arabic) and ‘How is your penis?’, which was accompanied by the driver poking playfully at my willy while I was sat in his front seat. You wouldn’t get that in a London taxi.
I spent a cool afternoon with my new Syrian friends sitting in the university canteen eating a ‘chip sandwich’ (sounds lacklustre but incredible – the Syrians take sandwiches very seriously), drinking sweet tea and smoking some sheesha. I conveyed most of my life story using mime, although I wasn’t able to do ‘lawyer’.
Happy Snacky
In Damascus, there are some things that they do really well. Delicious cheap snacks, for example. This makes me very happy. Here are some examples of the things that are less than 5 mins from my bed:
- ‘shwarma’ – a chicken doner but served with yoghurt, gherkins and chilli oil in a thin wrap. Unreal. Why on earth all chicken doners are not served like this is beyond me. Cost: 70p
- ‘falafel’ – nuff said. With humour, gherkins, salad, tahini, etc etc etc (foams at mouth). Cost: 25p
- Freshly squeezed juice – apple, orange, pomegranate and more. Cost: 70p.
- Freshly baked bread all day. Cost: 5-7p per piece of bread.
- Freshly baked delicious pastries all day: Cost: 10-20p
I could go on.
- ‘shwarma’ – a chicken doner but served with yoghurt, gherkins and chilli oil in a thin wrap. Unreal. Why on earth all chicken doners are not served like this is beyond me. Cost: 70p
- ‘falafel’ – nuff said. With humour, gherkins, salad, tahini, etc etc etc (foams at mouth). Cost: 25p
- Freshly squeezed juice – apple, orange, pomegranate and more. Cost: 70p.
- Freshly baked bread all day. Cost: 5-7p per piece of bread.
- Freshly baked delicious pastries all day: Cost: 10-20p
I could go on.
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