Read Online Holidays in Hell: In Which Our Intrepid Reporter Travels to the World's Worst Places and Asks, "What's Funny About This" by P. J. O’Rourke - Free Book Online
Authors: P. J. O’Rourke
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the Syrians, who are doing a better
job than the Israelis at Tyre. The captain in charge came up and
introduced himself. His English consisted of "Hello." "Hello," he
said and shook hands. "Hello," he said and waved goodbye.
Outside the ruins, Baalbek is a tense and spooky place. All
the Christians, Sunnis and Druse have fled. Giant posters of
Khomeini are hanging everywhere. There are few women on the
streets, and they are carefully scarved and dressed down to the
feet. The men gave us hard looks and fingered their weapons. The
streets were dirty and grim. Syrian soldiers stayed bunched together. The tanks are still dug in around the city. You cannot get a
drink or listen to Western music or dance or gamble, and you'd
better not whistle the "Star Spangled Banner."
The tour guide led us directly from the temples to a souvenir
store. There was something about risking my life to visit a pest hole full of armed lunatics and then going shopping that appealed to me.
The store looked like it hadn't been visited since the Crusades,
except all the ancient artifacts were new, made this month and
buried in the yard fora week.
The nonsense you hear about bargaining in the Orient is, like
most nonsense about the Orient, perfectly true. I had not been in
the shop three seconds before the owner was quoting prices that
would do justice to a Pentagon parts supplier and flopping greasy,
ill-made rugs in every direction-like somebody house-training a
puppy with the Sunday New York Times. There's a charming banter
that goes with all this. I mean, I suppose there is. Some of the
verbal flourishes of the Levant are lost in a minimal English
vocabulary. "Good, huh? Real good, huh? Good rug! Very good!"
"He has a cousin in St. Louis," added the tour guide, helpfully.
It seemed I had to hold up both ends in this legendary duel of
wit in the Bazaar. "Tell him," I said to the guide, "his goods are of
the greatest magnificence and pleasure flows into my eyes at their
splendor. Yes, and I am astonished at the justice of his prices. And
yet I must abase myself into the dust at the humbleness of my
means. I, a poor traveler, come many miles over great distances . . ." And so forth. Out came bogus Egyptian dog-head
statues, phony Roman coins, counterfeit Phoenician do-dads, and
more and worse and bigger rugs. After an hour and a half I felt I
had to pay for my fun. I settled on a small bronze "Babylonian" cow
with some decidedly un-Babylonian rasp marks on the casting. I
bargained the shopkeeper down from $200 to $30. Good work if the
cow hadn't been worth $0.
Charles Glass has spent years in the Middle East and was
completely bored by this, however. He said we should go meet
Hussein Mussawi.
Our Shiite driver was sent to negotiate. After the customary
amount of temporizing and dawdle, Hussein consented to see us.
We were taken to a shabby and partly destroyed section of town,
where we were surrounded by nervous young gunmen. Though
whether they were nervous about us or nervous that they might get
a sudden invite to make like a human Fourth of July, I don't know.
We were marched into a tiny and dirty office and told to sit down. We waited. Then we were marched to a larger office furnished
Arab-style with couches around the sides of the room. Khomeini
pictures abounded. We were served tea, and Charles and I, though
not our Moslem drivers, were very thoroughly searched. Charles's
tape recorder was taken apart with special care. Our guards were
pleasant, but small talk did not seem the order of the day. We
waited some more. Finally, another group of armed young men
came and took us through a warren of narrow filthy alleys to a
modest and well-protected house. We were put into a small study
lined with Arabic books and decorated with more pictures of
Khomeini. There were two young men who spoke English waiting
for us. They asked in an affable way what was going on with U. S.
foreign policy. "After
job than the Israelis at Tyre. The captain in charge came up and
introduced himself. His English consisted of "Hello." "Hello," he
said and shook hands. "Hello," he said and waved goodbye.
Outside the ruins, Baalbek is a tense and spooky place. All
the Christians, Sunnis and Druse have fled. Giant posters of
Khomeini are hanging everywhere. There are few women on the
streets, and they are carefully scarved and dressed down to the
feet. The men gave us hard looks and fingered their weapons. The
streets were dirty and grim. Syrian soldiers stayed bunched together. The tanks are still dug in around the city. You cannot get a
drink or listen to Western music or dance or gamble, and you'd
better not whistle the "Star Spangled Banner."
The tour guide led us directly from the temples to a souvenir
store. There was something about risking my life to visit a pest hole full of armed lunatics and then going shopping that appealed to me.
The store looked like it hadn't been visited since the Crusades,
except all the ancient artifacts were new, made this month and
buried in the yard fora week.
The nonsense you hear about bargaining in the Orient is, like
most nonsense about the Orient, perfectly true. I had not been in
the shop three seconds before the owner was quoting prices that
would do justice to a Pentagon parts supplier and flopping greasy,
ill-made rugs in every direction-like somebody house-training a
puppy with the Sunday New York Times. There's a charming banter
that goes with all this. I mean, I suppose there is. Some of the
verbal flourishes of the Levant are lost in a minimal English
vocabulary. "Good, huh? Real good, huh? Good rug! Very good!"
"He has a cousin in St. Louis," added the tour guide, helpfully.
It seemed I had to hold up both ends in this legendary duel of
wit in the Bazaar. "Tell him," I said to the guide, "his goods are of
the greatest magnificence and pleasure flows into my eyes at their
splendor. Yes, and I am astonished at the justice of his prices. And
yet I must abase myself into the dust at the humbleness of my
means. I, a poor traveler, come many miles over great distances . . ." And so forth. Out came bogus Egyptian dog-head
statues, phony Roman coins, counterfeit Phoenician do-dads, and
more and worse and bigger rugs. After an hour and a half I felt I
had to pay for my fun. I settled on a small bronze "Babylonian" cow
with some decidedly un-Babylonian rasp marks on the casting. I
bargained the shopkeeper down from $200 to $30. Good work if the
cow hadn't been worth $0.
Charles Glass has spent years in the Middle East and was
completely bored by this, however. He said we should go meet
Hussein Mussawi.
Our Shiite driver was sent to negotiate. After the customary
amount of temporizing and dawdle, Hussein consented to see us.
We were taken to a shabby and partly destroyed section of town,
where we were surrounded by nervous young gunmen. Though
whether they were nervous about us or nervous that they might get
a sudden invite to make like a human Fourth of July, I don't know.
We were marched into a tiny and dirty office and told to sit down. We waited. Then we were marched to a larger office furnished
Arab-style with couches around the sides of the room. Khomeini
pictures abounded. We were served tea, and Charles and I, though
not our Moslem drivers, were very thoroughly searched. Charles's
tape recorder was taken apart with special care. Our guards were
pleasant, but small talk did not seem the order of the day. We
waited some more. Finally, another group of armed young men
came and took us through a warren of narrow filthy alleys to a
modest and well-protected house. We were put into a small study
lined with Arabic books and decorated with more pictures of
Khomeini. There were two young men who spoke English waiting
for us. They asked in an affable way what was going on with U. S.
foreign policy. "After
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