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 Page A
Authors: P. J. O’Rourke
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all," said one, "this part of the world has a
Moslem majority. Is your government crazy or what?"
Half an hour later Hussein came in and shook hands with
everyone. He's a thin man of middle size, about forty-five. He was
dressed in a sort of semi-military leisure suit and was very calm
and dignified in his bearing but had, I swear it, a twinkle in his
eye.
Hussein ordered a gunman to bring us coffee and cigarettes.
The young man who spoke English less well acted as translator.
"Were you responsible for the bombing of the Marine base?" asked
Charles. I nearly lit my nose instead of the Marlboro. Hussein
answered with equanimity, pointing out that any number of people,
including the American Democratic Party, stood to benefit from the
attack on the Marines.
"How long will this peace last in Lebanon?" asked Charles.
"This is not peace."
"When will there be peace?"
"When there is Islamic justice everywhere," came the answer.
"Everywhere?" asked Charles. "Will there be a place for Christians and
Jews under Islamic justice?"
"Islam allows a place for everyone," said Hussein. The translator paused
and added on his own, "Except, you know, Zionists and imperialists and
other types."
"The Zionists will have to be driven out?"
"Yes."
"That may take a long time," said Charles.
Hussein fixed him with a smile. "Long for you. Short for us."
Hussein expounded upon the destiny of Islam and a believing
man's place therein. The translator got himself tangled up with
"Allah's great wishes ... I mean, large would-be's ... That
is..."
"The will of God," I suggested.
Hussein turned to me and spoke in English. "Do you understand Arabic?"
"No," I said, "I just recognized the concept."
He said something to the translator, who said to me, "He
wants to know if you believe in God."
I didn't think I should quibble. "Of course," I said. Hussein
nodded. There was intensity in his look and no little human
concern. He continued on subjects theological.
"To get back down to earth for a moment ..." said Charles.
Hussein laughed. "Oh," said the translator, "all this is very
much down to earth."
Charles continued to ask questions. I continued to ponder
Hussein. He was practically the first Lebanese I'd met who didn't
tell me he had a cousin in Oklahoma City. Although, as it turns
out, his brother is a petroleum engineer who used to work in
Dallas.
Charles asked Hussein about Johnathan Wright, the missing
Reuters correspondent. "I hadn't heard about this," was the reply.
"Also he wasn't headed this way."
Hussein told Charles he should study the Koran.
At length we took our leave. As we were being escorted back
to our car I noticed a woman on a nearby roof wearing a chador and
hanging out lacy black lingerie on the clothes line.
Less than a week after our visit, the U.S. embassy annex in
East Beirut got blown up. I hope it wasn't anything we said.
The hotel at Baalbek is the Palmyra, built in the 1870s. It's a
massive Ottoman structure furnished with antique carpets and heavy mahogany Victorian furniture. The leather-bound guest register bears the signatures of Louis Napoleon, the Due D'Orleans,
the Empress of Abyssinia and Kaiser Wilhelm II. There's an air of
twilight and deliquescence to the place. Only the owner and a
couple old servants are left. No room had been occupied for
months, and only an occasional Syrian military officer comes to
dinner.
Charles and I sat alone that night in the vast dining room.
Pilgrims were still returning from Mecca, and celebratory gunshots
sounded outside. "Happy fire" it's called. The electricity guttered
in the bulbs and cast the long tables and tall ceiling into gloom.
The forces of darkness and barbarism seemed to gather around. It
was as though we were the last two white men in Asia. We sat up
past midnight drinking the bottle of Arak a grizzled waiter had
smuggled to us, talking politics and literature and citing apt
quotations:
... and you just
Moslem majority. Is your government crazy or what?"
Half an hour later Hussein came in and shook hands with
everyone. He's a thin man of middle size, about forty-five. He was
dressed in a sort of semi-military leisure suit and was very calm
and dignified in his bearing but had, I swear it, a twinkle in his
eye.
Hussein ordered a gunman to bring us coffee and cigarettes.
The young man who spoke English less well acted as translator.
"Were you responsible for the bombing of the Marine base?" asked
Charles. I nearly lit my nose instead of the Marlboro. Hussein
answered with equanimity, pointing out that any number of people,
including the American Democratic Party, stood to benefit from the
attack on the Marines.
"How long will this peace last in Lebanon?" asked Charles.
"This is not peace."
"When will there be peace?"
"When there is Islamic justice everywhere," came the answer.
"Everywhere?" asked Charles. "Will there be a place for Christians and
Jews under Islamic justice?"
"Islam allows a place for everyone," said Hussein. The translator paused
and added on his own, "Except, you know, Zionists and imperialists and
other types."
"The Zionists will have to be driven out?"
"Yes."
"That may take a long time," said Charles.
Hussein fixed him with a smile. "Long for you. Short for us."
Hussein expounded upon the destiny of Islam and a believing
man's place therein. The translator got himself tangled up with
"Allah's great wishes ... I mean, large would-be's ... That
is..."
"The will of God," I suggested.
Hussein turned to me and spoke in English. "Do you understand Arabic?"
"No," I said, "I just recognized the concept."
He said something to the translator, who said to me, "He
wants to know if you believe in God."
I didn't think I should quibble. "Of course," I said. Hussein
nodded. There was intensity in his look and no little human
concern. He continued on subjects theological.
"To get back down to earth for a moment ..." said Charles.
Hussein laughed. "Oh," said the translator, "all this is very
much down to earth."
Charles continued to ask questions. I continued to ponder
Hussein. He was practically the first Lebanese I'd met who didn't
tell me he had a cousin in Oklahoma City. Although, as it turns
out, his brother is a petroleum engineer who used to work in
Dallas.
Charles asked Hussein about Johnathan Wright, the missing
Reuters correspondent. "I hadn't heard about this," was the reply.
"Also he wasn't headed this way."
Hussein told Charles he should study the Koran.
At length we took our leave. As we were being escorted back
to our car I noticed a woman on a nearby roof wearing a chador and
hanging out lacy black lingerie on the clothes line.
Less than a week after our visit, the U.S. embassy annex in
East Beirut got blown up. I hope it wasn't anything we said.
The hotel at Baalbek is the Palmyra, built in the 1870s. It's a
massive Ottoman structure furnished with antique carpets and heavy mahogany Victorian furniture. The leather-bound guest register bears the signatures of Louis Napoleon, the Due D'Orleans,
the Empress of Abyssinia and Kaiser Wilhelm II. There's an air of
twilight and deliquescence to the place. Only the owner and a
couple old servants are left. No room had been occupied for
months, and only an occasional Syrian military officer comes to
dinner.
Charles and I sat alone that night in the vast dining room.
Pilgrims were still returning from Mecca, and celebratory gunshots
sounded outside. "Happy fire" it's called. The electricity guttered
in the bulbs and cast the long tables and tall ceiling into gloom.
The forces of darkness and barbarism seemed to gather around. It
was as though we were the last two white men in Asia. We sat up
past midnight drinking the bottle of Arak a grizzled waiter had
smuggled to us, talking politics and literature and citing apt
quotations:
... and you just
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