I actually wrote this a while ago but being at the beach today reminded me of it, and I thought I'd share it with the cool and popular people...
Shababes on the Beach
I went to the beach this afternoon, hoping for a little alone time to enjoy the beauty of the water and the feel of sand between my toes. Also, I want to take advantage of the time I have living near the beach because, let’s face it, with my track record, who knows how long I’ll get to stay here? I always thought that if I lived near the beach, I’d hang out there all the time, and I haven’t so far. I have been a little busy with Anne and her crafty projects (which I suck at), but mostly I’ve been lazy about getting up and going outside. So today I did.
I wandered down the street and on to the beach and immediately noticed an infestation of shababes. Shabab is an all-encompassing word for “young men,” which has come to mean so much more to me, but in the Lebanese accent it is pronounced “shababe.” This is something I’ve always made fun of before I knew I’d end up here. Still, there’s something about the pronunciation “shababe” that is fitting. These are the guys with their hair perfectly caked with gel, the tight pants, the long pointy shoes, the forest of chest hair poking out of their shirts…anyway, they were all over the place, but this time in their little shorts or speedos or stylish running outfits (little aside: I have seen more cracks here than anywhere else! I wonder why these guys wear their shorts so tight and low…definitely not enhancing their best feature). With the practiced eye of an introvert, I scout out the nearest alone place where I can sit on a rock out of the way of prying eyes, dangle my feet in the cool water, and read my Arabic poetry. Now I know that reading poetry on the beach is really cliché romantic crap, but reading with a dictionary tends to kill the romance of it enough for my cold and unfeeling personality to tolerate it as an acceptable beach pastime for one such as myself.
I saw him coming from a ways down the beach before he got there. I hoped (in vain!) that he was going beyond me to the scantily clad amateur rock fishermen who were standing a ways away from me waving their fishing rods in the air. But in my heart, I knew his end goal. I quickly put away Nizar Qabbani’s love poems, thinking that it would be too much inspiration for him should he notice what I was reading, and put in my earphones, in an attempt to deter him from talking to me. But alas, undeterred, he settles down beside me, waiting a few minutes before rudely interrupting my music to speak to me. He starts with the classic line, “I haven’t seen you here before.” Then he moves on to the “where are you from,” “how long have you been here,” “your Arabic is a little strange, you must have lived in the States for a long time” (is that a compliment or an insult to my Arabic?), “which one of your parents is Arab” (seriously, if we weren’t in the land of plastic surgery, I would have asked what part of my blondish hair and blue eyes looked Arab to him), and so on. He asked for my name and phone number which I refused to give him. Then I said, “Nice to meet you,” and stood up, in an attempt to get rid of him. This attempt failed, and he continued to follow me down the beach, shamelessly begging to see me again. I continue to refuse him, and he continues to insist that he is a good guy who just wants to get to know me in a one-on-one situation, and I am misunderstanding his proposition. “No,” I say, “I understand you perfectly, and you have no chance.” “Why not?” “Because I’m not giving you one.” “But why won’t you tell me your name?” I really want to answer, “if it’s destiny we’ll meet again” ala that one movie that Ashley told me the whole plot of but graciously never made me watch. However, I restrain myself not wanting to commit the danger of tempting fate and besides this town isn’t that big. Finally, he gives up and leaves, but another guy leaves his soccer game briefly to ask if the first guy (who just left) is bothering me and if so, he’ll take care of it (My white knight!). I tell him I was fine thank you and continue on my walk.
I come to a nice little deserted stretch of the beach and sit down to enjoy the miniwaves (the Med isn’t like the Indian Ocean on the south coast of Java ). Soon a nicely proportioned runner jogs past me. He stops strategically nearby and stretches a bit. Then he dives into the water and starts swimming. I notice him because he swims right in front of me, and I have a brief moment of jealousy, wanting to be swimming in the water myself. Then I forget about him and admire the view of Tyre
Attack! Well, not yet. He has made it to the shore. He starts playing in the sand beside me. Odd and disturbing, but I’m not going to say anything to him. Wondering if my sullen silence will dampen the romantic mood of that shimmering sea water, I hope that he will lose his nerve and go away before I lose control over the desire to laugh that is swelling in my soul (Nizar Qabbani is inspiring). So, I’m really trying hard not to laugh. I know that if I laugh, that will encourage him. There is a saying I heard in Jordan that probably holds true for all the Middle East that a girl who laughs is easy. But the Jaws theme song and the playing in the sand are really getting to me. And then he speaks…
Jaws: “Hello.”
Me: “Emm.”
Jaws: “Don’t be nervous.”
Me (I was intending to do another “em” but this was too much for me): “I’m not nervous.” (added to that statement under my breath: Freak)
Jaws: “I think you have a lot of stress. That is why you come to beach to look at sea.”
Me (thinking: I have stress now!): “Emm.”
Jaws: “Don’t be afraid. I am nice boy. My English is not so good. I know Francais.”
Me: “No problem.”
Jaws: “You are alone here?”
Me (thinking: can’t let him assume I’m alone here if I give another ‘em’): “No. With friends.”
Jaws: “You work here or visit?”
Me (don’t want him to think I’m one of those tourists who is going to fulfill his every fantasy on the beach right now): “Work.”
Jaws: “What is your work?”
Me (let’s use big words fast and break down this little French-speaking Romeo): “Humanitarian aid and community development.”
Jaws: “What?”
Me: repeat myself faster and more mumbly.
Jaws decides to try a new tactic. Goes with first guy’s “I’m really a nice person” tactic. Still gets mumbled responses from me.
Jaws: “I think I am bothering you” (you think?! Finally he must have remembered all that stress I’m trying to relieve by looking at sea). I go now.”
Me: “Ok. Thank you.”
I forgot to mention that in between Jaws swimming in from the sea to sweep me off my feet with his chiseled body and broken English, my white knight had left his soccer game yet again to reassure me of his protective services (he’ll beat up the guy and the call the police) and also tell me of his European travels and his Polish ex-wife and all his relatives living abroad. I thanked him for his offer (again) and failed to mention my name when he mentioned his. I did consider taking him up on his offer when Jaws stopped by, but I don’t like to put myself in other people’s debt.
I walked on down the beach towards the Rashidieh Camp, finally getting to laugh to myself while jumping and spinning around in the waves like an idiot (going for the retarded foreigner look, thinking it might stave off some more hopeful young men). I hear the pitter-patter of a runner behind me, and it’s Jaws! He’s come to warn me against walking any farther.
Jaws: “I sorry. Don’t want to bother you but is dangerous here. I must to go, but you know Palestine Palestine
Me: “Rashidieh Camp? I know it’s Palestinian. I like Palestinians.”
Jaws: “OK. Is dangerous. Do you want anything?”
Me: “Salamtak. Bye.”
Exit Jaws, stage right.
I keep walking down towards the dangerous Rashidieh Camp where I am going tomorrow for a project. I see a nice little family walking towards me. The mother is muhajibeh and the father walks protectively by her. The daughter and son run up to me after I smiled and waved and ask me, “What is your name?” We strike up a conversation in Arabic and a few words of English that they want to practice and find out that they are from the dangerous camp. They invite me to come in further towards the camp to get some tea or coffee at one of the beachside shacks. I notice that it’s getting late, and I need to be home, so I decline. We part ways amicably.
I start walking back down the beach and five little boys run up to me screaming “What is your name? What is your name?” I feel pride in the successful teaching abilities of English instructors in this area who have evidently engrained those words into the minds of young children here. I soon find out that all of these boys are from the dangerous Rashidieh Camp. I take their photo, which pleases them immensely. They convince me to take off my glasses and have a great time marveling at my blue eyes. We shake hands all around and they scamper off. Most surprising discovery of our little interview: only one of them was named Mohammad!
I continue on back down the beach. I stopped for another brief moment with the sun and the water and the shimmering. A moment was too long because soon another young lad joins me, trying to practice his flirting and his English. He looks about 15. Seriously, do I look that desperate for a guy? We have a very familiar conversation and then he wanders off. I look at my watch again and realize that I have to leave too and that unfortunately that means I have to walk by him and his posse. When I walk through his group, another one of his friends decides to try his luck where his pal failed. He is equally unsuccessful, although he points out that his uncle is right there and so it would be totally appropriate for us to get to know each other in this setting. I decline the offer and continue home. And amazingly I make it without another offer of companionship.
Well, it was an eventful afternoon. I had fun marveling at the persistent ridiculousness of hormone-driven boys. I thought it was pretty funny while being extremely annoying at the same time so I thought I’d share. And Nizar Qabbani says:
“What torments me about your love is that I can’t love you any more!”
---translation by Me
First off, I do not appreciate the bossiness of you telling mers and me that we HAVE to comment.
ReplyDeleteSecondly, I did not like the fact that we had to stop making out (breaking our schedule) to come comment.
Third, Your blog was pretty good, we laughed.
Finally, we miss you, and you have a comment :D
haha Reading that previous comment, I completley forgot what I was going to say... but I think it was something like this:
ReplyDeleteI've never met an American who was nearly as frightened of the refugee villages here as are the Arabs who live in the city. They're truly worried for me whenever I tell them I'm going for a visit.
I think Jaws was probably a really nice guy. You really should have shown him the love of Jesus.
I think with your experiences you will be able to write some incredible Lori Wick novels. I will be your editor. We will become rich and famous. Marian and Dad can do illustrations and help us write too. Mom can write theme songs for the movies that will come out of the incredible books we write. :)
ReplyDeleteYou lead such an interesting life...
ReplyDelete