We are always happy to receive stories of riding the bus, particularly when they highlight the diversity of gendered experiences on Lebanon’s transit, as part of our occasional but still ongoing #HerBus series. And these stories are even more special when they intersect with our own!
Fun fact: googling how to get to Fanar by bus was the exact same way our team first got together!
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Being a Beiruty girl, who loves to go out, but is living outside of Beirut without a car, has never been easy.
Needing a family member or a friend to drive me, or paying a minimum of $10 to go anywhere, drove me to buy a car in my early twenties; lack of parking spaces and nervousness while driving from Bshemoun to work in Hamra drove me to give my car away and miss out on most events in my late twenties.
I created a car-less pattern that suited me: I go in the morning with dad go to work in Hamra; I stay after work in Hamra to feel alive, then make dad come and take me home.
I was once asked by a foreign friend while nagging about my problem why I didn’t take public transport? And at that time, I remember feeling ashamed while saying to him that we don’t have any.
The pattern I created went great until my dad needed to travel for two weeks and I left my job and needed a more economical method to go to Fanar to conduct a study, so I started googling, and by coincidence, I found the Lebanon Buses app.
Using the app, I learned how I could take the Number 15 from Corniche then jump into the Number 5. On the way back, I could take a service to Dawra and then the Number 2 to Hamra.
After using the app, I paid 3000LL instead of 30,000LL per day, and I became curious about how I could use more buses.
When I shared the app and map with my friends, half of them said: “you wish!” And I was so pleased to tell them that the app is correct; that the buses do exist and the map simply tracked them down.
With every bus ride, there is a story. They’re safer and funnier than taxies, so hopefully I will be sharing these stories with you as they come along.
Courir pour l’attraper alors qu’on sait pertinemment qu’il en arrivera un autre cinq minutes plus tard et sauter pour en descendre parce qu’on est trop impatient pour attendre qu’il s’arrête. Les sièges en cuir patiné qui craquent quand on s’assoit un peu trop bien, les cigarettes grillées en cachette à l’arrière en essayant d’éviter le regard amusé du chauffeur.
Porter ses écouteurs sans musique pour ne pas se faire embêter; aller s’asseoir exprès à côté de tous les passagers pour les entendre raconter leurs histoires. Bus stoppé à Dora, bus stoppé à Cola, bus stoppé partout parce que Fawda w ma fi dawle, habibte, c’est ça, Beyrouth. C’est ça, Beyrouth, ou en tout cas c’est beyrouth par morceaux, et ça n’a jamais été autant Beyrouth que dans les fragments de vie que l’on capture à bord du bus.
Bus 15 bondé en milieu de journée avec les piétinements des passagers debout qui forment une dabke folklorique sur des musiques de 2011; bus 15 solitaire de 4h du matin, tu ne sais pas ce qu’il fait là, il est désert, furtif et il roule plutôt vite.
Les chewing gums à l’abricot, les colliers de jasmins, les billets de 1000LL et les camel qui passent de main en main. Les pelures de bezer partout par terre, les restes de café qui jaunissent au fond des gobelets.
picture Garine Gokceyan
Le bus en août et sa chaleur suffocante qui se mêle à l’odeur des gardénias flétris. La pluie d’octobre qui suinte à travers la fenêtre mal fermée. Le coucher de soleil insignifiant et majestueux de janvier sur la corniche. En mai on ne prend plus le bus on marche.
Les ados qui descendent à Gemmayze pour humer l’interdit et brûler leurs ailes sur le bitume âcre de la nuit tombée, les amants qui semblent n’aller nulle part et les ouvriers qui reviennent de Cola avec le sentiment du devoir accompli. La plupart ne savent pas où il va, mais reconnaissent par où il passe.
Le bus 15 en escarpins en revenant de Mar Mikhael, le bus 15 en baskets après un jogging avorté sur la Manara. On décide de s’arrêter au Luna Park, on monte dans la grande roue déserte à 4000LL, et on regarde enfin les bus microscopiques d’en haut, qui rythment inlassablement le trafic de leurs striures blanches.
I usually run to catch it even though I know for a fact that another one will come five minutes later; and I jump to get off because I’m too impatient to wait for it to stop. With its patinated leather seats that crack when I make myself a little too comfortable, and the cigarettes I grill on the back seat trying to avoid the amused glance of the driver.
Sometimes wearing my headphones without music to avoid being annoyed, sometimes sitting on purpose near all passengers to hear them tell their stories. Bus stuck at Dora, bus stuck at Cola, bus stuck everywhere because “fawda w ma fi dawle, habibte, this is Beirut.” This is Beirut; or at least, pieces of Beirut, and never has it been more Beirut than in the fragments of life you get to catch onboard.
Bus 15, overcrowded in the middle of the day, where the feet of passengers standing draw a folkloric dabke on songs from 2011; bus 15, solitary at 4am, you don’t know how come it is still on the road, empty and stealthy.
Apricot-flavored gums, jasmine necklaces, 1000LL bills, camel running from hand to hand, with bezer shells all around the floor, and coffee leftovers yellowing the wrinkled plastic cups.
The bus in August and its suffocating heat, rising up in the air along with the mesmerizing smell of rotten gardenia. The October rain oozing through the half-closed window.
The meaningless and majestic sunset of January on the corniche.
In May, I don’t take the bus — I walk.
The teens that get down at Gemmayze to smell the forbidden and burn their wings on the pungent asphalt of the falling night; the lovers that aren’t heading anywhere, and the workers coming from Cola with their satisfacted sense of accomplishment. Most of the riders don’t know where the bus is going, but they are certain it will pass by some place they know.
Bus 15 wearing stilettos after an evening in Mar Mikhail, bus 15 wearing sneakers after an aborted morning jog on the Manara. I decide to stop at Luna Park, I pay 4000LL to climb in the deserted big wheel, and I finally catch a glimpse of the microscopic buses seen from above, relentlessly punctuating the traffic with their white streaks.
