Mexican Ninja, A Beirut day that will be funny a month from now, General Security retards
According to Lebanon's own news radio this country ranks among the worst when it comes to work week hours for government offices. From Monday through Thursday the Office of the Security General closes at two in the afternoon, except for Friday when it closes at noon to accomodate the Islamic friday prayer. So I made sure I was on the bus at 10:15 in the morning for the 45 minute ride to the center of Beirut, leaving me plenty of time to blow my lid/pop my top as I prodded and poked the idiot military bureacrat's for answers regarding the whereabouts of my passport that has now been in their custody for almost three months.
Upon arriving, I was greeted by a guard dressed in the gray camouflage uniform designed for city combat, but it seemed that the only action he's seen involves artillery of the sandwich, cookie, cake, and pie variety. He was eating a schwarma as he spoke to me. Incoming!!! He told me that the office was closing in three minutes at 11 am due to unknown factors and that I would have to circumnavigate the building and enter through the main entrance so I could speak with one of the officers upstairs. I wanted to tell him that it would be easier than circumnavigating his waist line. Zing!
I got upstairs and saw the same faces I've come to know over these last few months. They've become familiar to me like a dentist to a candy-addict, except that I'm attempting to extract information about my passport rather than teeth while they're apparently in the process of extracting me from this country.
Today, not in the most direct words, I was accused of being a spy. And though it IS pretty cool that not just some random joe-lebanese dude, but the government itself, would confuse me with someone who is capable of "covert-ops" I realize that this is a matter I cannot take lightly. Five days. They told me I have five days to leave the country, but after some angry faces and mistranslations I was able to explain to them the meaning of the word "impossible." How am I to change my ticket in five days when my travel agent is on vacation nowhere to be found? . . . not to mention her base of operations is in Anaheim.
I left the building with a three week grace period . . . minus my passport. That leaves me three weeks to jostle my way into the government's good graces and eventuallt let me exit this country on the ticket I came in with. Want me to patrol the Israeli border? I'll do it. Need me to help in the reconstruction of the big bridge that was bombed on the way to the Bekaa? I'm there, just let me stay to see out what I had originally come to do . . . watch Marina graduate.
My cab took me to the doctor's office pretty quickly for the amount of traffic that crowded the streets and I'd like to say that that made me happy, but I was on my way to be fitted for a brace intended on stiffening my ankle after spraining it, itself a result of a recently sprained knee buckling whilst playing basketball. I arrived to meet the doctor a little early, he was nice enough, but he made arrangements for me to walk four blocks to pick it up because in his own words, "I didn't want to make you wait the half-hour it would take to deliver it."
After hobbling around for a half hour on my sprained ankle, eventually I found the building, limped in, and was greeted by the woman who worked there. She asked me if I was Miguel. I said yes. She asked if I was Japanese. I replied that I was not and that "I am constantly being confused for Japanese and Chinese, but I'm Mexican." Maybe it was the inflection I used when uttering the word "constantly" or perhaps it was my face which betrayed my frusteration, but I could tell she felt bad and explained that the doctor had told her to look out for a Japanese guy. Before I leave, which may be sooner than expected, I'm gonna' get one of the full-body black chadoors that the Yemeni women wear, wash it, then dry it like a hundred times on the warm setting until its nice and snug around my body, buy some throwing stars, and prance around Hamra like a ninja, like a stumbling chubby mexican fucking ninja.
Upon arriving, I was greeted by a guard dressed in the gray camouflage uniform designed for city combat, but it seemed that the only action he's seen involves artillery of the sandwich, cookie, cake, and pie variety. He was eating a schwarma as he spoke to me. Incoming!!! He told me that the office was closing in three minutes at 11 am due to unknown factors and that I would have to circumnavigate the building and enter through the main entrance so I could speak with one of the officers upstairs. I wanted to tell him that it would be easier than circumnavigating his waist line. Zing!
I got upstairs and saw the same faces I've come to know over these last few months. They've become familiar to me like a dentist to a candy-addict, except that I'm attempting to extract information about my passport rather than teeth while they're apparently in the process of extracting me from this country.
Today, not in the most direct words, I was accused of being a spy. And though it IS pretty cool that not just some random joe-lebanese dude, but the government itself, would confuse me with someone who is capable of "covert-ops" I realize that this is a matter I cannot take lightly. Five days. They told me I have five days to leave the country, but after some angry faces and mistranslations I was able to explain to them the meaning of the word "impossible." How am I to change my ticket in five days when my travel agent is on vacation nowhere to be found? . . . not to mention her base of operations is in Anaheim.
I left the building with a three week grace period . . . minus my passport. That leaves me three weeks to jostle my way into the government's good graces and eventuallt let me exit this country on the ticket I came in with. Want me to patrol the Israeli border? I'll do it. Need me to help in the reconstruction of the big bridge that was bombed on the way to the Bekaa? I'm there, just let me stay to see out what I had originally come to do . . . watch Marina graduate.
My cab took me to the doctor's office pretty quickly for the amount of traffic that crowded the streets and I'd like to say that that made me happy, but I was on my way to be fitted for a brace intended on stiffening my ankle after spraining it, itself a result of a recently sprained knee buckling whilst playing basketball. I arrived to meet the doctor a little early, he was nice enough, but he made arrangements for me to walk four blocks to pick it up because in his own words, "I didn't want to make you wait the half-hour it would take to deliver it."
After hobbling around for a half hour on my sprained ankle, eventually I found the building, limped in, and was greeted by the woman who worked there. She asked me if I was Miguel. I said yes. She asked if I was Japanese. I replied that I was not and that "I am constantly being confused for Japanese and Chinese, but I'm Mexican." Maybe it was the inflection I used when uttering the word "constantly" or perhaps it was my face which betrayed my frusteration, but I could tell she felt bad and explained that the doctor had told her to look out for a Japanese guy. Before I leave, which may be sooner than expected, I'm gonna' get one of the full-body black chadoors that the Yemeni women wear, wash it, then dry it like a hundred times on the warm setting until its nice and snug around my body, buy some throwing stars, and prance around Hamra like a ninja, like a stumbling chubby mexican fucking ninja.
posted by miguella guerilla at 7:28 PM
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