Photo by Okinawa Soba

Tigers don’t care much for humor.

To be fair, most animals can’t really laugh; but if tigers could let out the occasional chuckle, it would probably fall somewhere in between a hiccup and a dying gazelle. I make that kind of sound as well, mostly when flawless Chinese women ask if I’d like an escort back home, and leave the option of post-coital marriage entirely on the table.

‘Home, now?’

‘Oh, sorry what? No, no; not tonight.’

‘You don’t like me? I can be better.’

Of all the illnesses that could befall a foreigner in China, lack of communication with the libido has to be the most frustrating.

‘Libido,’ said I, ‘did you just tell that pretty lady to leave without us?’

It was upon me; destroyer of worlds, bane of men, the force behind a woman’s chuckle, and Viagra’s entire marketing angle. I’d seen this in movies; none of them ended well.

Sometime during my stay in China, I’d been ruined. Whether it was the immense availability of the women, or the total disregard for their opinion inevitably brought on by our inability to communicate all but very basic ideas in English, I couldn’t say.

I was loss, I was despair; I was running to the hospital like a mad man with terminal cooties. A few nights and a dozen blood tests later I had worked my way through half a Chinese medical encyclopedia and a bottle of scotch but, alas, even the sweating dancers in my local club could stir nothing but my newfound stomach ulcer.

‘You don’t know China,’ advised my friend and interpreter. ‘The best medicines are secret; but I think you cannot eat.’

I’d endured duck heads, pig paws and tomato-dipped chicken feet (by God I said feet, not legs!); I was ready for whatever China could throw at me.

‘Why couldn’t I eat it?’

‘These problems,’ he continued, ‘need special medicine; need rare tiger penis.’

Bring it on! Well no wait, let’s window-shop first.

Selling parts of a tiger is illegal, and that translates to a 9 thousand dollar price tag on a complete organ; but of course a small (and ornately phallic) bottle of juice will only set you back about a hundred; a mere nothing for a dire need.

That night I ended up in a club, and another half a bottle of scotch had given me just enough courage to try the elixir; I opened the vial, took a deep breath and prepared for death.

‘You’re not really going to drink that are you?’

She was tall, beautiful and Dutch; but it was her grammar that took my breath away.

‘I’m sorry, can you say that again; or anything else for that matter, in your perfect English?’

‘How about, drop that vile looking bottle and buy me a drink?’

Be still, my beating heart.

Big Pharmaceutical dropped by 2 points, man-kind sighed and jungle-cats everywhere rejoiced. They say beauty is from within, and seeing how I almost drank down tiger mojo I’m now inclined to agree; charm, wit and great communication skills is where it all is.

But I guess it doesn’t hurt if you’re Dutch.

Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Women scare me.

Ask me anytime, and I’ll argue the merits of bachelorhood with the eloquence of Arabian philosophers and the conviction of pack-mules; any time, except around Valentine’s.

And no, the Hallmark spirit doesn’t penetrate my quiet but callous façade and seep into my shrivelled heart, birthing an organ of hope and love – ‘cause that’s weird; it’s just that around Valentine’s, women get dangerous.

Cue childhood trauma music.

Enter Rhonda, my very first experience with obsessive love; thankfully, I was not the object of her affections.

Rhonda was part of the circumstantial baggage that came with my first girlfriend, and my roommate Rami was the only boy she could ever possibly love. Ever.

I’ve since learned to identify that particular glimmer of insanity in a woman’s eye, the one you should never, ever reject; but back in our naive teens, we thought that the world was a happy place where yes meant yes, no meant no, and smiling women did not secretly plan on slitting your throat while you slept.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

‘He doesn’t want to make out, what do I do?’

This was the first time my girlfriend and I got close, and that was Rhonda talking loudly through my locked bedroom door at a rather critical moment. I was exasperated.

‘Rhonda, if he doesn’t want you it shouldn’t be forced; give him space.’

I would’ve mentioned that it was an inconvenient time to be discussing this, but it would’ve made no difference whatsoever.

‘But it’ll be Valentine’s in a few days, what do I do?’

I was young, it was late, and I had less than an hour left with my topless girlfriend; I had to say something. I never did get the chance to apologize to Rami.

‘Why don’t you give him the space now, and just plan a surprise for him for Valentine’s?’

I could feel her smile through the door; it was a dark thing, and I should’ve lunged out of bed and driven a stake through her evil heart. But try telling a teenage boy not to think of perfect breasts; really, go ahead. The story can wait.

My Valentine’s went really well that year, and by the time we’d finished dining and drinking we were just about ready to go back to her place and figure out what all that French kissing nonsense was really about. I say her place, because Rami had something planned back in our flat.

His date’s name escapes me now; all I remember is getting a call from her around midnight.

‘Karl, go home now; Rami’s inside, the door is locked and something weird is happening.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘He was fighting with a girl, and then everything went quiet.’

I was too young to drive. In the time it took me to call a cab and get home I’d walked my imagination from murder (his or hers) to sudden uncontrollable love; all possible outcomes to my roommate’s predicament.

Except one.

I ran into the living room; Rami was asleep and naked on our couch, and the panicking girls reported that no one else was in the flat. Rhonda was gone, but had left some of her things, including underwear and a purse, complete with a box of date-rape pills.

I’d (years) later find out that she’d given him too many, which not only knocked him flat out but also hindered whatever male prowess his body could’ve mustered for her psychotic lust; I would’ve told him too, but we’d long since lost touch.

I hear she’s happily married now; I fear for the future.

I'll continue to blog about China (I've all but moved here now) and wondrous Beirut, but I have a couple of other things I'm toying with behind the scenes. If either of them turn out pretty, I'll have a new column to share.

Happy new year. Oh, and I'm buggering off for a month.

The bearded mother

You're something of an icon in theater...

Well let me tell you, I act alone and people who act alone typically run three or four shows. It's often an intellectual show. I've held four plays, one man shows, and with each one I've met with great success. I was able to carry them around the world with me. This makes me happy. I was able to create a popular theater out of this style. I like that my audience will have anyone in it from the highly educated to the everyday theater goer.

What do you feel gives you this edge?

They believe me. When I had the spot with UNIFIL [United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon], a lady came up to me and said: ‘UNIFIL chose well. It's not that you're an actor. It's that people believe you.' These are the type of words you hear with your heart, not your ears. When I have a play all the Lebanese come, irrespective of their religions. The topics I choose are heartfelt - the emotions of a father, the problems of the youth, the discrepancy between parents and children. My grandfather spoke to my father and my father spoke to me. But I can't speak with my son. There's a different education in place.

You've succeeded where other actors failed...

In one of my plays I say I don't have a tribe. We're a bunch of tribes, aren't we? No matter how educated we get, or how far we travel, we're all just a bunch of tribes. I have no tribe. I'm from a village and in my village we plant an olive tree for every child that is born. I have a lot to talk about - why should I play Shakespeare when there's so much here to talk about? People still believe me and I still have a good name. This makes me fulfilled.

I've noticed that people always associate your name with one particular play, The Bell. Why is that?

It was shown at the right time. I staged it in '91, as soon as the east and west border fell. I didn't talk about the war as such - I talked as a Lebanese citizen who lived in the south, a father who lost his son during the civil war. I lived in west Beirut and staged it in the east. When I took on the role of a woman and cried over my deceased son, the women in the theater cried along with me for their own sons. They loved this woman, with her white beard - even makeup is a lie sometimes. I get up and say :‘I'm Rafic Ali Ahmad and this is my white beard. But this woman I'm playing, she's hurting.'

What is your favorite place in Lebanon?

Wherever I'm sitting down and happy. Anywhere that gives me a moment of clarity. And Beirut is life and civilization, a meeting place of humanities.

Photo by by Tania Traboulsi

Armenian rocker Eileen Khatchadourian has managed to blend traditional Armenian rhythms with rock, and more rock. Here's how she did it.

Why Rock? Do you feel it talks to people better?

I love rock! Many kinds of rock, and I wanted to adapt Armenian music to a style suitable and accessible to teenage Armenians, or simply to Armenians of a certain age, and of course a style my musicians and I would enjoy composing, rehearsing and performing. There is a gothic touch in my music, but it can be generally categorized as Alternative Rock . I am not the one who arranges the songs, my arrangers are Miran Gurunian and Mazen Siblini, I give the go-ahead after debates and discussions, I get to say the final word, isn't that cool? Traditional Armenian songs have never been given a good rock before! This might be one of the major reasons why people enjoy it.

Don't you feel this limits your crowd?

Definitely not! The crowd and listeners are Armenian youngsters, Armenian adults, and non Armenians who like world music, rock, and mostly good music. Music is universal; do you really need to understand the lyrics to appreciate a song? Do you need to be a musician to feel the music?

So what's the point then?

I'm trying to introduce traditional Armenian songs that might very well disappear in time. I want the young Armenian generations to feel their roots, to abide by them if need be. Also, I'm trying to introduce Armenian music to the non Armenians.

We need a drink; what's your favorite?

Fernet Branca!

What she said, and a Jack please. So how about those flashy outfits?

I design my own outfits sometimes, and I've been a stylist for many yeas now, so I put them together. But since I came back to Beirut Krikor Jabotian, my friend and fashion designer, designs my concert outfits. His style is just what I like. It's as if his clothes were made for me

Do you like feathers?

Feathers? Mmm... Now that's the most interesting question I've heard. It depends where and how I am using them.

I'll need more ice here, methinks. What's next for your singing career?

Well, we're planning some concerts abroad, in Europe, nothing confirmed yet, negotiations still en cours. So let's cross our fingers. Also, an album in English

Can I have your autograph?

Well, if you've been a good boy maybe I'll surprise you..You're flushed [laughs]; don't worry, you got it.