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 Read Free Book Online

villagers had nothing but affection for the
Druse Billy Hadad, who towered over most of them. One teenager,
summoning all the English at his command, told me, "Billy, it es
... le homme vert, to connais, `Credible Hulk!"' Billy said the
only real trouble he's had with his neighbors and tenants was when
he tried to convince them that professional wrestling is fake. It's
the most popular program on Lebanese TV.
    About ten o'clock there was a change in the festivities. Acting
on some signal I couldn't perceive everyone suddenly began to
drink and shout. A little later the bridegroom was carried in on the
shoulders of his friends accompanied by drums, flutes and the
eerie ululation Arab women use to mark every emotional occasion.
Awful tapes were put on a large Rasta box. There was bad Arab
music, worse French rock and roll, and Israeli disco music, which
is the most abominable-sounding thing I've ever heard in my life. A
sister of the bride got in the middle of the circled chairs and did
quite a shocking traditional dance.
    There was something of the freshman mixer to the party. The
young men and women held to opposite sides of the crowd, eyeing
each other furtively and being shoved out to dance only after
prolonged giggling and conspiracy among their fellows.
    "I haven't been laid since I was in Beirut last June," said
Billy. "Out in the country it's marriage or death."
    Good-fellowship in the Middle East can be a bit unnerving.
You'd best get used to being gripped, hugged and even nuzzled. I
was taken aback the first time I saw two fully armed militiamen
walking down the street holding hands. Large amounts of Arak aid
in acclimitization. The sense of affection and solidarity is comforting, actually, when you realize how many of the men throwing their
arms around you have pistols in the waistbands of their pants. A
Mercedesful of gunmen kept watch on the road.
    Eventually I was thrust onto the dance floor and matched with a hefty girl who had me do Arab dances. This was, justly, thought
hilarious. But my discotheque dancing made an impression. I
gather the locals are not familiar with the Watusi, the Jerk and the
Mashed Potatoes.

    The whole celebration was being videotaped, and every now
and then one of the revelers would use the Sony's quartz-halogen
light to dry the skin on a snareless Arab drum.
    Sometime in the early morning Billy and I returned to his
farm. There was protracted questioning from his housekeeper on
the floor above. She wanted to make sure we were us before she
threw down the door keys. We locked ourselves in with five deadbolts.
    I never did get to see the historical points of interest in Sidon.
    The overland crossing going north was a horror. The Israelis
run Betar and the midpoint interrogation center, and conditions
there are ugly but organized. However, the clumsy and violent
South Lebanon Army has control of the Jezzine checkpoint.
    There were about a thousand angry and panicked people in
the small town square when I arrived. Most of them were poor
Shiites, and all of them seemed to have screaming children and
every earthly possession with them. One group of two or three
hundred were fighting with fists to get on a bus. Soldiers ran
through the crowd screaming and firing Uzis in the air. It was only
ten in the morning but already 90 degrees. I looked for Israeli
officers. There were none. I sent Simon into the crowd. He returned in a few minutes.
    "No ways but bus across," he said.
    "How do I get on it?"
    "You can not."
    I paid him off and sent him home. I was sick with the
dysentery every foreigner in Lebanon suffers. My head ached from
the wedding party Arak. There was, it appeared, a man with a gun
selling bus tickets. But every time he tried to sell one a crowd of
three hundred would rush him like a rugby scrum. The man fired
his pistol directly over the people's heads. Bullets smacked into
nearby masonry. The crowd quailed and ran backward, trampling