THE SMELL OF MARMITE

Samer, my new cousin, had taxied in from Abu Dhabi to spend the New Year with us in Dubai. He stayed for two nights in luxurious comfort on sofa cusions on the floor, which parted whenever he moved and dropped him gently onto the cool tiles beneath.

I had met Samer before in a restaurant in Beirut and had been struck at the time by his ability to talk; He holds an opinion on everything; not a scant, ill-conceived set of notions but properly reseached and thoughtful opinions ranging from the supremely sillly and frivoulous through to the wise and ponderous. Samer will bombard you relentlessly with high good humour, a quick turn of phrase and a speedy delivery. He has an avid interest in everything and so, as a companion, he is never boring but a deep shaft of information to be mined. His twin brother, on the other hand, is almost silent unless directly questioned. I wondered then if there had been some mis-appropriation of the DNA of speaking while in the womb.

I had brought a book of Black Country dialect with me (lest we forget) as I find it hilarious when Kamel tries to speak with a Midlands accent, and I wanted to extend his repertoire (for my own amusement) with a book that showed our variety of language and its pronounciation in phonetic form. Normally, his accent is utterly charming; pronouncing English correctly but with a soft Lebanese burr that is a delight to listen to. For most of our relationship I have communicated with him using R.P. and B.B.C. pronounciation with little to hint at my shameful Midlands roots. I find it makes for clearer understanding.

One day, though, I was desperate for the toilet and couldn't see one anywhere. After hopping about and turning a funny colour he asked what was wrong. Foolishly and without thinking, due to the pressing nature of my need, I squeaked in agonises tones, "I need to go to the loo for a wee." A phrase which is common enough 'round our end'. He replied with a blank look, shook his head to clear this gobbledy gook out and asked me to repeat. I realised the problem immediately. "I need the toilet." I said slowly and with gravid meaning.

"what is a low?"

"Loo".

"Low".

"Loo, looooo, looooooo". I was seriously in need of one at this point and possibly over-emphasisng the 'oooo'.

Upon my return he was intent upon mastering this new phrase. so, after much practice, he said, with a sweet smile, "I NEED to GO to the LEOU for a WI wi".

Samer, spotted the book on New Years' Day and launched into rapaciously, and was soon joyfully mis-pronouncing words and needed taking in hand. "Let's start with something easy. Now, we usually say, 'that's lovely,' but in B.C. they say, 'luvlaaay'". We went through; shoes; shooo wers, hospital; 'ospicul, my;mi, pinching;pinch ING, in order to produce the sentence:

I went to the 'ospicul but mi shooers was pinch ING. To hear the pair of them seriously practicing this new found wealth of language had to be heard to be believed. Kamel correcting Samer; me correcting both of them, "No, Shoo WERS", while inwardly crying and in pain with the sheer incongruity of it all. Why would any sane person desire to gain an accent abhorred buy the rest of England?

Samer failed to sound like a convincing Black Country inmate, for which he should be thankful. He mangled the vowel sounds as he persisted in his efforts all the way through breakfast, until he was confronted with a jar of Marmite.

He put down the book and turned his attention to the buttered toast. Spurning marmalade, he picked up the open jar of Marmite and sniffed the contents with a slightly suspicious frown. He fell completely silent and nodded his assent to try it on the toast. He took the toast and again sniffed the black sticky substance; a frown of perfect concentration
puckering his smooth brow. He took a tentative bite and rolled the morsel around his palate to gain the full flavour, rather as a wine taster; indeed, the movement of jaw, the slapping sound of the tongue and the breathing down the nose took so long I did, in fact, cast my eyes around for a suitable spittoon, should one be needed.

Finally, he swallowed, shook his head slightly, sniffed the toast and Marmite deeply and bit again. Throughout the process, Samer did not speak and neither did we. We merely watched, fascinated, while crunching our way through the same delicacy but clearly with far less appreciation; signally failing to savour the rich, yeasty and exotic flavours of this foreign but classic condiment.

When the final crumbs of toast has vanished, Samer sat in deep thought; tongue, lips and palette ablaze with a new flavour, "It reminds me of the first taste of Gorgonzola". he finally said.

Lebanese Mafia Mountain with a Twist of Gay

One of the most memorable evenings I spent in late December 2009 was the night we went to the mountains for a 'traditional' night of Lebanese food, singing and dancing; a delightful and beautiful location an hours' drive from the city.
As our party, consisting two couples, a cousin and a friend, settled down to eat, drink and chat, I cast an inquisitive eye around the narrow balcony room with its arched openings and panelled picture windows and tuned in to the conversations on my table; all conducted in Lebanese-Arabic. Odd words and phrases were understandable to me but despite the abundance of food and beer I began to feel excluded and bored. Not for long, however.

In Beirut it is impossible to be bored for more than a few moments; such is nature of the city; stuffed full of incongruity, eccentricity, impossible contrasts and a healthy amount of iniquity.

Like anyone else who has never visited the city, my imagination was full of images of this small area of the Middle East as being strict, stern, war-torn and ruined. My surprise and delight on first landing was tempered by one of extreme shock that Beirut was a modern, vibrant city with an over-active night life and a very lax attitude towards any kind of rules and regulations, be they tedious traffic laws, all the way through to proper religious observance. The oft used phrase, "Everything is allowed . . . after midnight," proved to be true. By day, the citizens conducted themselves with due consideration and decorum but come the night, mischief and naughtiness abounded. As such, it is always interesting to observe the people in any location and I tend to do so whenever an opportunity affords itself.
One of the most fascinating pastimes that a visitor can engage in is Lebanese woman watching; as a breed, they are utterly unbelievable creatures. I don't think I have seen a Lebanese woman under the age of seventy five in public without having first used a full armory of beauty products and preparations. Nails must be long and garishly glossed, hair is always long, styled and sprayed to perfection, clothing, regardless of age, taste or figure will be tight fitting and flirtatious, make-up should be plentiful and colourful and a plethora of accessories are obligatory. The women, I have noticed, dance quite gently in case their make-up slips. It was exactly these kinds of women who were sharing the balcony room that night.
There were more distractions to come. Late in the evening a group of oiled, suited, pony-tailed men and their 'molls' arrived. In style and bearing they screamed 'We Are Mafia' as they strolled casually but purposefully to their reserved table. The tallest and thinnest Mafia Boss, who sported the classic greased back, black pony-tail, had a chubby, nay, fat, young moll, squeezed into a over-tight shiny blue corset top, where all her flesh from waist to chin, moved as one, on his arm. Her abundantly coiffed spiraled ringlets sprang artfully from her head and spilled over her ample bosom at every breath and smile; in short, any vibration, however small, shook her generous frame, and onlookers watched, rapt, at her quivering flesh.
Overfed Mafia Boss Two had a thick jaw and the satisfied expression of a recently sated shark. His protruding eyes and teeth did nothing to belay this impression; merely adding to the amphibious ambiance of his toady presence. His escort seemed rather like his mummy as she was clothed in a rather frumpy frock and spent her time tenderly feeding him little tidbits while, in between mouthfuls, he plied his mouth with both of his own free hands. Interestingly, he never once removed his expertly tailored jacket.

Boss three was short and greasy-haired with a woman who could have been mistaken for a 'lady of the night' such was the thickness and brilliance of her colourful make-up and clashing garments. His face, form and features were so instantly forgettable that he was clearly the man who did the dirty work; his girlfriend chosen, perhaps, to make up for this lack of presence?

After twenty minutes of avid staring my attention was ripped away by the sudden high-pitched wailing of the Lebanese-Arabic singer who sported a flat back to his head and a tight-buttocked, flouncing prance as he made his way to the performance spot. His singing was soulful and familiar to most and the balcony was soon alive with tipsy Lebanese singing and clapping along to every chorus.

The Lebanese mafia decided it was time to dance and they rose en masse, swaying their hips and waving their arms; each duo gracefully carving out their own romantic story.

By this time latecomers had arrived and the balcony was now brimming with a bevy of bending dancers weaving their way carefully around each other in elegant movement. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a shimmy and turned my head to observe the campest man I have ever seen, outside of a gay cabaret, wiggling, jiggling, shimmying breast and buttocks with an expression of such abundant pleasure it was hard not to stare at every nuance of his performance. In a collared T shirt slashed almost to the waist, he flung himself up from his seat time and again, clearly unable to contain his passion, and launched, Rudolph Valentino-esque onto the floor. With head held high and proud, back; ram-rod straight he nimbly abaresqued and flounced; flitting, fey as a butterfly from flower to flower on his journey into ecstasy. His male-companion, often glanced long-sufferingly across at his lovers gay jaunt with an expression that confessed something slightly uncomfortable was lodged up his arse as he didn't once smile but oozed disapproval as if it were in short supply. Yet each time, our hero stepped out with unconcerned abandon, head to one side as his body swiveled; snapping his head smartly around to catch up before again indulging his shimmy, shimmy, flounce and turn.