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...

 

  

  

  

 

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.

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. 

Goodbye 2009, an eventful year...

New Year's Eve in the Old City. I got a bit lost on the way home.

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’.

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.

My room

I have found a room. Entirely predictably, my patience with house-hunting amounted to something infinitesimally greater than non-existent. The first place I saw was pleasingly cheap but was (despite factoring in housing-cultural-relativism) a total dive. I mean, the wiring went THROUGH the bedroom window. Mmmm, that delightful ‘sleeping outdoors’ sensation, in the middle of a sub-zero Syrian winter. The second place I saw was actually reasonable and my brain started firing instructions at me: TAKE THIS PLACE! TAKE IT AT ONCE! But it was way over my budget; it was already taken; in fact I’d had to wake up the tenant (not to mention his wife and child) in the middle of the night to see it. Sigh sigh sigh.

So, when I saw a room with lots of ‘potential’ in a charming old-school Arab house with rooms around a courtyard (like the house I was born in!), I was actually reasonably decisive about the whole thing. Once I’d taken out the ‘torture chamber chic’ light-bulb (a merciless white glare) and put in a rug and few bits of nice cloth things the room actually looked kind of alright. Anyway, step 1 is out of the way...

Dinnertime conversation

“Everyone says they’re in Syria to study Arabic. Then you find out what they’re really here for.”

While humoured by this wry observation, I felt the need to clarify my position.

“But I’m really here just to study Arabic.”

Eyebrows were raised.