The boar was a gift from a taxi driver we were fond of named Mansour. He’s such a character we’ve even named one of our rescue cats after him. As he took me hither and yon, we’d often exchange recipes with one another. He’s a large man with a delightful hearty laugh and a penchant for Mr. T-like gold framed sunglasses. In the past his gifts were a bit more modest. He brought me kishik, a pungent dried yogurt powder, that his wife made. He even invited us to his daughter’s wedding up in the mountains, which I still am mad we had to miss because I had pneumonia. Just before the Revolution started, Mansour called my husband and told him his nephew had just shot a wild boar up in the mountains and would I like a leg? In theory I was thrilled, but in a bit of a mood with the turmoil around us. So it sat in my freezer, waiting for the perfect occasion and inspiration. 

I tried to walk most places in Beirut to run my errands or go to work, a welcome opportunity to stretch my legs, but the sidewalks were most certainly not user-friendly, filled with piles of dog poop and uneven to the point that any shoe with a heel was long ago abandoned to the back of my closet. But a walk was a wonderful way to gawk at the ornate Ottoman architecture that remains and bask in the warm Mediterranean sun. Pedestrians absolutely don’t have the right of way at intersections and scooters come racing the wrong way down one-way streets so you have to look left and right and left again before daring to cross even the sleepiest looking lane. Often the heat and humidity of the long summers made walking with my groceries just about impossible and similarly the ferocious winter storms could turn roads into chilly rushing rivers within moments.  

So when a taxi was necessary, the rides were often an adventure. In my first weeks in the city a driver and I fought over the fare and I ended up storming off with him yelling after me causing passersby to stop and stare. Another time an elderly gentleman with tufts of hair growing out of his ears, turned to me in the back seat and demanded I give him a kiss as he climbed up over the seat towards me (I quickly got out of the car). To avoid these kinds of interactions, I almost exclusively used a local company in our neighborhood called High Taxi, where we had an account so there was never any bartering over fares, and I knew all the drivers by name. Leaving them was like leaving family. I learned so much about Lebanon from them.

During an unexpected downpour my first Spring in Beirut, Elie, one of the drivers, explained that there’s always a rain in the late Spring, after you think it’s done raining for the year and all of the trees have bloomed. This rain’s purpose is to wash all of the blossoms and seeds from the plants and burry them deep in the ground. Folklore? Most likely, but I love the premise and watched for that particular rain each Spring.

My rides were also the perfect opportunity to practice my Arabic (many of the drivers speak some English, but I do try). Early in my time in Beirut, conversations were limited to the weather or their families or the awful drivers on the streets. By the time I left they were definitely more serious and thankfully my skills improved enough to ask them what they think the government will do about the ongoing political crisis and Revolution, what in the world will the latest Corona lockdown do to their business, where are they finding Dollars, and if they lost their homes or family members because of the August 4 Beirut Port explosion. 

You see, just about the same time as I was gifted that leg of wild boar, Lebanon has been teetering on the edge. The Thawra which started in October 2019 was just the beginning. In early 2020 after years of sectarian squabbling within the government there was a catastrophic economic collapse in which the banks basically stole the public’s money in an audacious ponzi scheme by the Central Bank.  US Dollars, to which the local currency was pegged to, are suddenly as rare as hen’s teeth and being traded on the black market at many many times their previous value. The final indignity to this sad state of affairs was the catastrophic explosion at the Port of Beirut on August 4, 2020. More than 200 were killed, 3,000 injured, and 300,000 + left homeless. And yet still life goes on. There’s just no other choice. 

Raymond, one of the younger drivers, constantly talks to me about the government thieves, the Sulta, as they’re known here. He would sometimes asked me if I trusted him just before he accelerated into oncoming traffic to avoid waiting in line. He spoke perfect English and in better times was a photographer. He grumbled about how furious he is at the government and banks who have stolen his money and with it his chance at a better future. One morning, on my way to a meeting, to avoid traffic he whipped us through back roads in an area I’d never seen before. It was a bustling residential area with faded striped sun-curtains framing balconies, 1950s signage over shop doors, fruit and vegetables spilling out of unmarked doorways, young boys delivering propane gas canisters on trolleys, men playing backgammon and drinking tea. As we approached an intersection Raymond told me this was precisely the spot where the Civil War had begun. The street we were driving down had marked the front line between the two sides of that bloody 15 year conflict. It was also the street where he was born. He shook his head with profound sadness as he pointed out his grade school behind a tall concrete wall. 

Any car can be a taxi, not standard issue as you find in cities like the yellow cabs of New York or famous black cabs in London. They are also in various states of wear and tear with some pristine and others literally falling apart with multiple check engine lights permanently glaring from their dashboards. During the pandemic some installed a shower curtain rod with a clear plastic curtain swinging from it between the front and back seats. A small cubby crudely fashioned in the middle so cash can be passed back in forth, of course. Always, I preferred to sit up front so I could yell at the cars that cut in front of us or bemoan the lack of electricity at certain intersections which makes my heart beat just a bit faster as the cars seemed to speed up upon approach instead of cautiously yielding to traffic. 

The drivers often worried over me like family, prescribing remedies when they suspect I’m under the weather. Exhausted from opening a restaurant kitchen, I had walking pneumonia, and was heaving with a cough for most of my ride. Tony, the rotund retired jolly pastry chef, told me I must eat honey. Good honey! I nodded and coughed some more. As we sped towards a busy traffic circle he reached under his seat and brought up a plastic bag to reveal a jar of honey from his sister’s house in the mountains. Careening along, he pulled a spoon from his breast pocket, opened the jar and insisted I take a spoonful.

There’s also Fatayer Fahdi, as I named him in my phone contacts folder. He’s a little man missing several teeth who talks about enjoying his whiskey in the evenings up at his village home. As with many of the drivers, his ardent Christianity decorated his car. Stickers with iconography next to the gearshift and a little Virgin Mary statue stuck to the dashboard, and of course, a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. Fahdi crosses himself at each church we pass. As he was dropping me at an appointment one afternoon he jumped out as we stopped, blocking traffic behind us, and told me to wait as he opened his trunk to reveal a tray full of still warm spinach and onion pies, or fatayer, he’d made that morning. He pulled out a Kleenex and scooped up two for me to take with me on my way and took another for himself to eat as he continued driving.  Now, occasionally, he’ll call me out of the blue with a delivery of food he’s cooked himself, mograbieh d’jadj (spiced chicken stewed with pearl couscous) or mahshi (vegetables stuffed with spiced ground meat and rice) or loobia bi zeit (green beans in tomatoes). His generosity even more dear given how the prices of ingredients have skyrocketed over the past years . Once we’d eaten his treats I’d send his dishes back to him filled with homemade cookies or cakes. 

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