One day last week the Lebanese woke up to new traffic laws, supported by a media and law-enforcement campaign. This news, which may seem to be the least important of the week’s headlines, has inspired me to write about traffic. In fact no other factor of life in Beirut is more complex or emotional or amusing than traffic.
Before I went to Lebanon I read that book, The Ugly American, and I vowed never to be one of those. I would be humble, non-judgmental, adaptable, law-abiding. In Beirut I would do what the Beirutis did, at least anything a Christian Beiruti could do. Or so I thought, until I got behind the wheel of a car. Even then I was willing to obey the rules if I could discover what they were. In a busy intersection, I absolutely had no idea whose turn it was to go. On a blind curve I could not believe this guy was passing me.
Lesson no. 1: Life in Lebanon is more complicated than anybody planned.
Bear in mind that we had studied colloquial Arabic, the Lebanese version of which does not often square itself with the written language. Not that the written language mattered at this point, because we were illiterate. Certain road signs use international symbols, of course, but the behavior I needed to imitate clashed with those symbols in disturbing ways, and that beautiful flowing Arabic on other signs resembled art more than instruction. And, though I hate to mention it, the French was mostly lost on me.
Some general information came to me incidentally by way of a young Lebanese who was not even talking about Lebanon. He had just come back to Beirut after a year spent studying in Germany, and he was remarking on the weirdness of the Germans. They were really petty, he found, about little things. For instance, a stop sign or a red light meant that you absolutely had to stop. If nobody was coming in any direction for a mile, you must sit there! “My friends screamed at me once,” he said, “because, you know, I slowed down and seeing that I had time to get through the intersection before the next car that was coming, I went on. They were angry; they threatened never to ride with me again.”
Lesson no. 2: The Lebanese are not petty (like the Germans) about little rules.
There were a few traffic lights in Beirut (a city with only a million people), and their seriousness was emphasized by the posting of policemen beside them. These uniformed figures, planted beside the light poles, normally just stood there until public aggressiveness had hopelessly stopped all progress through an intersection. Then they would reluctantly get in the middle of the noisy chaos and start directing traffic, an optional method for disobeying traffic lights. In a way it never mattered, because if this situation developed and the responsible policeman had taken a lunch break, some driver would get out of his car, perform the necessary function and get the traffic moving again.
Once, I (this foreign woman determined to be a good visitor) created the traffic jam myself. I inadvertently got into the left turn lane in a place where turning left would have been catastrophic to my all-important schedule. There was a long line, and all I wanted to do was to verge into the lane to my right so that I could go straight ahead, but someone had predicted this very maneuver and placed concrete blocks strategically in a row to prevent it. While I was discovering this, two or three local Beirutis noticed the foreign woman in a predicament, jumped out of their cars, leaving the doors hanging open, ordered other drivers to back up, motioned a dozen or so to wait, moved a couple of concrete blocks and then, having helped me break the rules, went on with their merry way.
Lesson no. 3: Lebanese drivers are tolerant, practical, take-charge people, and this can be a saving factor in a traffic jam.
I did observe that occasionally, the policeman would be wearing a pistol. In this case the inclination to ignore the light was noticeably diminished.
Lesson no. 4: Contrary to first impressions, Lebanese drivers do have a self-preservation instinct.
A lot of traffic problems in Beirut, as in San Francisco, were created by the need to park. What to do with the car when you get there? How to drop somebody off and wait while they take care of some small detail? A few months after going to Lebanon we had a visitor, a young American with no word of Arabic in her head and no knowledge of this place she had dropped into. I needed to take her to a certain office, give her a few minutes to complete her chore, and then take her back home. I tried.
There were signs in that place on numerous parking spaces. They said (translation mine) “private.” That meant I could not park there. Right? It is reserved for someone. I drove around and around and finally put my car into a slot with a very brief time limitation. I did understand that. My friend disappeared into the building, and I waited. The permitted time passed, and she did not return. What to do? If I left and drove around the block, the space would be gone when I returned. If my friend came back, and I was not there she would be terrified. On the other side of the street a policeman stood watching me. I watched him watching me. Clearly, he knew I had stayed too long. Finally, he crossed the street. Slowly, slowly.
I had been forewarned about such a possibility. A senior missionary of whom I stood in awe had said, “Never speak Arabic with a policeman. He will get the impression that you know the language well. Then he will use words you don’t know and will not believe you when you say you don’t understand.” Remembering, I thought, I have to be careful now. The officer stood at my car window and told me, speaking in Arabic, that the allowed time had passed and I must leave now. I understood, but I answered him in English that my friend went in to do this small thing and would be back in just a minute. The officer told me again, speaking slowly, enunciating carefully, adding gestures, that my time was up and I needed to go. I replied in English that I could not understand what was keeping her so long.
The dear man turned away, lifted his hands in a helpless gesture and said, “Shu bedna na’mal? What are we going to do?”
Lesson no. 5: A lot of Lebanon’s problems are caused by outsiders, some of them ugly Americans, and the Lebanese are frustrated but never fooled.
Later I learned that the word I interpreted as “private” means in that context that it is for individuals, not the establishment, in other words, “public.”
Lesson no. 6: Becoming literate in more than one language is a Lebanese thing to do and makes everything go better.
There were times during the civil war when one dared not get into the Beirut traffic without a food supply and an empty bladder. I knew a woman who began to weep after sitting behind the wheel for two hours in the summer sun without moving and without knowing why. The problem, it turned out, had started with the closure of another, alternative road where there was fighting. I once sat, not that long, but long enough to form a friendship with the policeman on the corner. He strolled over just to chat, and I found it a welcome release from the boredom. We told each other stories and laughed. Needing a smoke, he invited me to join him.
I said, “Thank you, I don’t smoke, but if you have a cup of coffee in your pocket I’ll take it.”
Would you believe? He reached into a pocket, brought out a packet of small brown disks, about the size of throat lozenges, and said, “Your coffee, madam.” It tasted like coffee, sweet with milk, and in five minutes I could feel the caffeine. He showed me the wrapper, “made in Spain,” and told me where to buy them. After that I could have my after-lunch coffee without a cup in sight.
Lesson no. 7: A problem can easily be turned into a party, in Lebanon.
The new laws that took affect in Lebanon last week are divided into five categories, number one being the least serious and the least costly for the offender. I once committed a number four, so I hope the statute of limitations has expired. It was an unintentional mistake, but there I was, going the wrong way on a one-way street. Before I could extricate myself, a policeman blew his whistle at me. It happened that I had with me in the passenger seat a very attractive young American woman. The policeman, rather young and attractive himself, leaned into my window and was visibly surprised to see two foreign women. The words he had meant to say did not come out. He hesitated; he put a hand on his chest and said, “I’m John.”
I said, “Good morning. I’m Frances and this is Julie.”
“Welcome.”
Then he told me with many gestures. “This way, no no. Wrong. This way, yes. Go this way.”
Turning around in that narrow street, clogged with cars, was not easy, but John and I pulled it off. I had the distinct impression that he enjoyed the whole thing.
Quipped Julie in retrospect, “When he said, ‘I’m John,’ I knew we had it made.”
Lesson no 8: Laws are mediated and mitigated in the streets.
The new laws are intended, the government says, to save lives. I certainly hope they do, but first they will create great confusion, even opposition. On day one there was a demonstration, and that was before 1,069 speeding tickets were issued. The Lebanese like their freedom to be reckless, and some people will wish for the good old days.
Lesson no 9: The times and the rules are changing faster than the Lebanese.