Life in Libya

It's been a while since our last entry. We've learned that part of working abroad means everything else that comes with that comes abroad along with you; long hours at work, being tired from your day, short weekends, and for teachers, planning and grading.

But I think that's that real treasure about transplanting your life from one world to another, while we've gotten into some routines, as the weeks go by, our lives become intertwined with the community around us.

 That's the big difference between traveling as tourists and actually living in another country. When we first arrived, everything was new, everything was something to discover, it was all exciting. Life in a new relationship, we were in a honeymoon period with Libya. When you travel as a tourist on vacation, it's all the honeymoon period, you leave before that wears off, and your left with the sweetest memories of the time you spent there. But now, some of that initial excitement has worn off and we're getting to see life in Tripoli not as an outsider passing by, but as outsiders stepping in, trying to find our space to call our own.

While we still have big plans in the works, a whole country to explore, I wanted to document just some snapshots of our daily life here. While I use the word routine, life in Libya, we have found, cannot be defined as routine, unless you can call it life with routine elements of surprise. So, I'll be posting a few short pieces from our time here, until our next big trip. Hope you enjoy.


The Gas Station Guy

So, we received our cars with a full tank of gas. With really good mileage, we didn't really have to fill up too often, even after our trip to Sabratha. But soon enough it was time for us to figure out how to get our tank full again.

So, we pull in to the gas station nearest to our home. While there are plenty of pumps, cars line to pump gas from only two pumps. The stations are set up just like at home, two sets of pumps at the island, with a mechanic shop or small store off to the side. It seems that most gas stations have a guy to pump the gas for you. The cars are lined up waiting to pull up to the pump next to the guy holding the money. So, while there are four pumps, each with two hoses, only two pumps are being used. We wait in line for a while, trying to follow what seems like routine to everyone else.

The guy operating the pump in our line was a young boy, maybe 15 years old. There was another guy, older, maybe 30-35 years, taller and heavier, with a big smile. He was going between the two pumps and the store. I get out of the car after we pulled in for our turn. Now the fun begins.

boy - Something in Arabic

me - full - I put my palms together, vertically, then separate them while I say this. In my mind, at that moment, that was suppose to signal that I want my tank full.

The big guy comes over - Something in Arabic - he smiles while he says this

me - full - I make the same motion with my hand.

big guy - Ah Ah, full!

Success!

He tells the kid to pump the gas. I look at the numbers and try to make sense of them as two sets of numbers start counting upwards. I realize that the price of gas is about .20 dinars a liter. I don't know exactly how to convert that, but I'm pretty sure a liter is less than a gallon, and .20 dinars is about 14 cents. 

So, as the gas is pumping, the big gas station guy and I try to make conversation. I figure out that he's asking me about where I work.

Big Guy - company? company?

I tell him I work at the American School, in Seraj, which is one of the suburbs of Tripoli.

Big Guy - house?

I tell him we live not to far away, right here in Janzour.

What might seem like a 2 second conversation took up most of the time since we spoke with more hand signals than words. But he seemed pretty excited about talking with us about anything.

Soon we were done, I paid the guy about 8 dinars, like $5.60, for our full tank of gas, and said good bye, and shukran, which is thank you in Arabic.

Now, the best part of this story happens a few days later. No, the gas didn't mess up our car. But we ran into Big Guy again. We were driving home from work one day when we saw a car behind us get really close. Now, back home, tailgating can be pretty aggressive and dangerous. Here in Libya, tailgating is pretty routine. And by tailgating, I don't mean just staying close behind, Libyans don't really see a need to keep more than just a couple of inches between you and the next car. In my rearview mirror, I can't even see the guy's hood behind me, much less his front bumper.

So, we see this guy tailgating, and just wait for him to pass us up. When he does, he slows down next to us and honks. We turn to see the Big Gas Station Guy waving and smiling at us, honking his horn. We wave and honk back, then he almost cuts us off. He pulls of to the side of the road, then makes a u turn, waving and honking as he goes back the way we came.

He basically drove out of his way, drove dangerously close and around us, simply to say hello because he recognized us on the road. Thats how nice people are around here. That's how eager they are to welcome folks from outside. So, we always go back to that gas station, hoping to be able to say hi to our local gas station guy.


Ordering Meat

We went about three weeks without eating red meat. Now, it wasn't a health conscious decision. It wasn't really a decision at all. It came out of the fact that in order to buy meat we would have to go into one of the many butcher shops around town.

Now, if you grew up watching tv like I did, you know that butcher shops are supposed to be clean, with a fat jolly guy with a mustache behind the counter that kind of resembles Super Mario. Maybe it's just me, but I don't remember the cow carcasses hanging in the windows and the blood on the floor. It's kind of hard to walk into a butcher shop when the cow's eyes seems to follow you as you walk by the shop, like a creepy old painting in a Scooby Doo episode.

After almost a month of eat chicken and potatoes and pasta and rice, we decided we had to grab the bull by the horns and order a nice chunk of cow. And we failed miserably.

The first time we walked into a butcher shop we were chased out by the thick stench of blood. That and the utter helplessness of not knowing how to order meat from a butcher. The smell and sight overwhelmed our senses and soon we were back in the street. We would have to try again another time.

 So, we found another butcher here in the Janzour area that didn't have as much blood on the floor. We walked in, took a breath, and were fine. No foul stench of death in the air, just a bunch of guys behind the counter and a bunch of guys ordering meat. No Super Mario, but we could handle it.

So, now to order. We waited for some of the crowd to thin out before approaching one of the butchers. Meanwhile we looked around and tried to guess as to what exactly we were going to order. We decided we would start by asking for some ground meat, even though we saw none around. So, one of the guys asked what we wanted, and we started again with the hand signals. We noticed that they had a machine to ground up the meat, so we asked for a kilo, which is pretty universal, and pointed to the grinder, and to make sure he understood I made a motion with my hands like one would signal for 'movie' when playing charades , to signal the grinder.

We went back a forth before we completely understood each other. Luckily there was a man there, also a customer, who spoke English and helped us translate.

The best part of trying to talk to shop owners is the fact that the eyes of everyone else in the room converge on you. The simple act of ordering meat becomes an event that the rest will talk about with their friends, about how a couple of foreigners made the strangest hand motions to do the simplest task.

Finally, we got our order, then he asked what kind of meat we wanted.

Libyano o Braziliano?

eh?

I thought I understood, but our friendly translator helped to clarify. The Brazilian meat was frozen, since it was imported from Brazil. The Libyan meat was fresh and from local ranches. So, we ordered the Libyan meat. Thats when the butcher came out from behind the counter, with a large knife, and walked over to one of the skinned cows carcasses hanging in the window and began to cut off our order of meat. He then walked it over to the grinder to complete our order.

While our meat was being ground and packaged, our butcher asked our translator where we were from. We told him we were from the United States. Next, they burst into an argument about World Cup soccer and the role of the U.S. team in the tournament. That's all we could catch in the argument as it was all in Arabic. But, we would soon discover that soccer is not only a universal sport, but a universal language which would help us in our attempts to make friends here.

Soon we were on our way home with lots of meat to cook for dinner. We've gone back once since then, and will probably be going back more often.

Slowly, we're getting to know the people in our neighborhood, and  as they become part of our routine, we'll feel more at home as the days and weeks and months come and go.