Cute anecdote

The Beirut taxi driver, a bronzed, seventysomething old timer, face deeply etched with the wrinkles of war, squeezes my hand as we pull up outside Lebanon’s only non-military airport, saying, “Merci d’être venu au Liban et reviens vite” (thanks for coming to Lebanon and come back quickly) On the short fifteen-minute drive along the sun-kissed coast we have talked about the many changes he has seen in his lifetime, about how his Beirut, his Lebanon, is like a glorious phoenix that has risen from the ashes of war and terrorism, a majestic emblem of hope and survival, a destination that people no longer need to fear. He has recounted that his daughter is a teacher in England and while his wife visits her every year he has a deep-seated fear of flying that keeps him tied to the city in which he has spent his entire life. Although I advise him to take a boat across the Mediterranean and then go overland I sense in his resigned smile that his last day on earth will be spent in the same city where he first emerged from his mother’s womb. Is it not more than just a little ironic that this man can be afraid of flying after living for so many years under that irrational storm cloud, the uncertainty of shells and bombs?

I don’t promise him that I will return, but Lebanon is somewhere that I would, with neither hesitation nor trepidation, love to spend longer getting to know more intimately. Here is my diary from the five days I spent courting this beautiful country.

Pre and post diary waffle

It has often been said that Lebanon, and Beirut (the appropriately named Paris of the East) in particular, is a place where East meets West. A simplistic analysis, but not without elements of truth. You can visit the much photographed Barakat building that was on the so-called green line, known for years as the demarcation point where Muslim West and Christian East literally shared many a kiss of death together. Beirut, where bombs met sites and bullets targets, intended or otherwise, where terrorist and victim were often enforced bedfellows. Now, however, since war shook hands with peace, it is only a very occasional echo of the past that surfaces: a bomb, an assassination, an altercation.  Beirut today should be viewed as a plethora of other meeting points. In terms of art, music, literature and cuisine it is the place where Europe meets Asia, where Christian meets Muslim, It is where sea and mountain join forces, where you can look out over the Mediterranean as you ski and look up at Mount Lebanon from your jetski.

Beirut is one of those places that  you don’t relish telling your loved ones that you are going to, especially those old enough to remember the 15 year long civil war, the truck bombs in 1983 that hit the heart of the US intelligence and military, the spate of kidnappings of westerners, the disgraceful massacres on the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps, the daily death that resided in the city where the world’s elite had partied for the preceding twenty years . I can, nevertheless, state quite categorically that I did not feel in danger at any time whilst I was here, unlike that uneasy sense of imminent demise that hits you in some parts of Central America.

Why do I love places like this? Lebanon, Colombia, Nicaragua, Uganda. I can only think that it is this: they are countries that have been visited by terror, an evil, unwelcome guest that has turned their homes into bomb sites. Yet somehow they have pulled through stronger, they have a vital joie de vivre and an ingrained carpe diem attitude that has this one guiding principle: you can’t put off today what could be done tomorrow, because that day doesn’t always come. I think that I will love Syria for that exact same reason. War attempts total destruction but, paradoxically, indestructible seeds of creation spring up from amidst the rubble even before the dust has settled, a catalyst for priceless works of art, music and literature. This is all around you in Beirut. Take the novel B as in Beirut by Iman Humaydan Younes, the Beit Beirut photo exhibitions in the Barakat or the collection of boutiques and ateliers in Saifa village that have all emerged from the ashes on the wings of the phoenix that is 21st century Lebanon.

The slightly less pretentious diary bit

Day 1: Sunday 2^nd June

I emerged into Beirut Arrivals Hall with two thoughts in my mind: get yourself a Lebanese SIM and don’t be tricked into paying more than $20 for a taxi. I’d read that this is the going rate online and confirmed it with a car rental guy in the airport. The phone shop was unable to offer anything appropriate so I decided to wait till I got in to the city to deal with mind thought number 1. At this point I was bombarded from all sides by taxi drivers. I’ve said this before but there are times when I seriously think my first name should be Taxi. I was accosted by one fraudster offering a discounted price of $45. I checked in a mirror to see if I had the word “mug” emblazoned on my forehead before laughing and dismissing him with a wave, on to another victim. I was offered all kinds of prices but refused to budge, telling that famous, and very useful, little white lie:”You must be joking. I never pay more than 20” This has served me well throughout the world, along with: “It’s fine thanks. I live here.”  Blagging, to appear as if you are part of the local furniture, works wonders. One driver had a brainwave and went to see if he could con another passenger and returned with his victim. This meant that I paid my 20 and a Kuwaiti businessman paid his 35 as we were both taken into the city in the same car. Good’s a job one! The white knuckle ride only lasted 15 minutes but I had an early insight into the joys of a Beirut taxi ride. A breakneck weave is not an innovative hairstyle but a taxi ride along the coast and into Hamra district. On this and every subsequent taxi rollercoaster I had a front row seat ticket to a celebration of beeping, cursing antics. It was a frequent occurrence for windows to be wound down angrily and for there to ensue a full scale slanging match at a traffic light or even while still driving. It’s amazing how many Lebanese men were given birth to by dogs and donkeys. The offending son of an ass goes racing off, whilst your son of a female dog driver suddenly rediscovers his sweetness and light and you realise what welcoming and hospitable people the Lebanese are to visitors.

Arriving at Hotel Napoleon I assumed that I would be arriving at the emperor of all hotels, one to conquer all others. I was, however, sadly mistaken. This was Napoleon in exile, more like a hotel Elbe, a creation languishing in its former glory, if it ever had any. I’m sure it was once clean, that the backs of wardrobes were not once hanging loose, that the air conditioning didn’t seem to promise legionnaire’s disease seeping from its cracked and broken vents, that you could walk barefoot on the carpets. I guess you get what you pay for. It had its plus sides. I couldn’t have asked for a better location: just off Hamra St, ten minutes to the Corniche, shops, bars, cafes, restaurants literally on the doorstep. And the bathroom was mercifully a lot cleaner than the bedroom and the sheets and bedding pristine. As long as the aircon didn’t kill me I would be ok once I had got into the bed.

Almost immediately after arriving, not wanting to spend any longer than necessary in Hotel Delapidation, I nipped out to get me that SIM card, and stay connected whilst on the move round the city. For $20 I got 1.5 gb data for a week, which incidentally just ran out before I flew home, then crossed the road to the Co-op to buy a litre of water which cost 750 Lebanese pounds or half a US dollar. The Lebanese currency, like other countries, is permanently linked to America, so a dollar will get you 1500 LL. You can pay in both currencies but will get your change in Lebanese. At 4.13 precisely (how weird am I?) I left to go on a walk along the Corniche, which was about ten minutes away. I went down Basra St, turned left and headed past a row of cafes, past the evil M (you know the one: mcsugar, mcfatten, mcsupersize me) and round the right hand side of the university. I was immediately struck by how much greenery there is in the campus and the huge, ancient tree at the entry gate that has survived anything thrown at the city down the years. It was pretty hot out there along the corniche promenade. It was nice to see all ages walking along: old couples, some in abayas and hijabs, some in western dress; some men in ridiculously revealing Speedos; clusters of fishermen and fisherboys atop the mossy rocks; large groups of teenage boys weekend diving in scummy water that has seen cleaner, more litterless days.

The road winds uphill and bends round to the right, past small manned turrets overlooking the town to the airport road and out to sea too. Passing a bank I saw a soldier looking under a car for explosives with a kingsize mirror on a pole. Security obviously has to remain high here but it reassures you. As you reach the top of the hill in Raouche you can watch planes on their descent into Rafic Hariri whilst looking out at the famous pigeon rock view. After taking, but trying to customise, the obligatory clichéd photos of the two rocks, and wandering a bit further along the coast, I crossed the road for a cheeky Pepsi in KFC before zigzagging back inland again to try and locate communist bar Abou Elie (Red Night) in Kuwait St. Not for the last time on this trip the bar was closed, so I never actually got to see inside.

It is currently 19.10 and this satisfied customer has just eaten an amazing mouth-watering soujouk (minced lamb/tomatoes/pickles) toasted wrap. I’m watching the rush hour traffic as the sun goes down on Hamra Street. Mopeds flying past. Beeping taxis. Delivery boys waiting to rush off with their orders. People coming and going about their business. A ginger cat lapping up the attention of every passerby in town. I came to realise that Beirut is a city of cats. They were everywhere, coming out from under cars, jumping off walls. I’m sitting on an old wooden chair on the pavement on the corner of Hamra overlooking al Tawouk, their mustard yellow tuktuk on the pavement outside. Looking up I can see shabby white doors opening into balconies set on bullet ridden plaster. On the other side a crane sits amongst scaffolding, timber cross beams and metal rods. The twilight is welcoming in Iftar in this Muslim area of the city. Hungry bellies will be fed again as Ramadan nears its end.
Later that evening: Abu Elie was shut again when I got there so I ended up back at the hotel for a shower and to get changed before heading out again, this time turning right at the end of Basra St.and sitting round a bar with a cold beer. I went to bed fairly early but was unable to sleep due to the heat. Even with the aircon on 17 degrees I was sweating for half the night under the duvet, hiding from the one malevolent mosquito I had chased from my leg earlier, that was desperate to have another pop at my veins. `

Day 2: Monday 3^rd June

I headed out just after 8 for my custom made walk around Beirut. Mi intention was to follow the GPSmyCity app’s City Orientation walk, add in a few other places I wanted to see, and also wander off track and see where I ended up. I started with breakfast in Sam’s café on Hamra Street close to my hotel. Some kind of toasted turkey salad creation and an extra hot latte (standard!). It was delicious but why do I always eat more bread products when travelling? I was able to watch the city slowly wake up and come to life, aided and abetted by caffeine. People greeted me as they walked past. It is such a friendly place, but I have seen too many films and TV documentaries for most of the men to not look like warlords or mercenaries.

Setting off east along Hamra I went past the Haigazian University, originally set up to cater to students from the Armenian diaspora but now open to anybody regardless. From the lack of security on Hamra it suddenly tightened significantly, from huge concrete barriers to stop explosives laden vehicles driving onto pavements and into buildings to large numbers of heavily armed military on street corners, outside buildings and in booths on the sidewalk. Indeed as Hamra street became Bank Of Lebanon street and started to wind up towards the Embassies and the Serail I was stopped by an armed soldier who asked in French where I was going. I told him and he said I would have to go back, turn right and right again to double round the back of where I needed to be. This circuitous route led me through a whole host of areas.The thing that strikes me here is the colour and the juxtaposition of old and new. You see brand new designs standing alongside the crumbling facades of long disused buildings. But in front of the drab delapidation your eyes are treated to the most wonderful lilacs and pinks of a joyful Lebanon in bloom. As I circled round I came by chance upon the ruins of the Roman baths next to le Grand Serail. It was on my itinerary but not this soon.

I decided to rip up the app route (can you rip up an app?) and just meander and see what I could see.

I passed through the utterly sedate Place de l’Etoile dominated by the Rolex clocks of the Nejmeh Square Clock Tower. Quaint over-priced cafes surround the square which is guarded due to its proximity to a number of government and religious buildings.

Just off here is an open area that has been excavated and next to which stand the Mohammad Al Amin Mosque, commissioned at the start of this century by assassinated former prime minister Rafik Hariri, who is buried here now. A symbol of unity, it stands next to the Maronite Cathedral of St George and the Roman Cardo Maximus, five columns remaining from a Roman market. This whole area is everything that Beirut gives you, a collision of the layered chapters of a chequered history and a coming together of some of the 18 different religions and denominations of this multi-faith city.

Just across from the mosque, blue-domed in imitation of Sultan Ahmed mosque in Istanbul, sandwiched between two congested highways is Martyr’s Square, formerly la Place des Canons replete with impressive statue. It celebrates the Lebanese nationalists who were hanged in the square on May 6 1916 for rebelling against the Ottoman rule. Taking my own life in my hands I practically became a martyr myself for rebelling against the traffic and daring to cross a busy road with the green pedestrian light showing. These don’t seem to be universally accepted or respected here.  

The next stop was to go uphill to Saifi village, virtually all closed while I was there. This area, on the division between east and west Beirut was utterly destroyed in the civil war and was rebuilt to become a chic area of boutiques and art galleries and workshops with a quaint square for people to sit, not unlike some sleepy French town. It was disappointing that more wasn’t open but I sat for ten minutes on a bench in the square and watched a young couple have their engagement portfolio taken by a professional photographer. From here I started to walk uphill through a quiet residential neighbourhood. For the briefest of seconds I had a sense of what it must have been like to be around during the war, as a car with blacked out windows pulled into the narrow street I was walking up and drove slowly past me. It would have been easy to bundle me in the back and take me away some place and demand a ransom. And I was walking pretty much along the green line. Turning a corner I passed a guarded Catholic church before walking the final five minutes or so to the Barakat building, a former upmarket residence that ended up being taken over by snipers picking off people who tried to cross the green line. Why the green line? It was called this because it was a no man’s land between Christian east and Muslim west Beirut that was overrun in time by foliage as buildings were destroyed and cars no longer passed. It is highly symbolic that nature continued to thrive while the two sides went about annihilating themselves. There are still a number of abandoned buildings up this street. The bullet holes in buildings are like the acne of war, they are the pock marks that serve as a reminder of what once attacked you, that you move on from, but somehow can never forget. The Barakat itself has been left pretty much as it was, as a reminder, and currently houses the Beit Beirut Museum which was closed on the day I passed. Here is a link to an interesting video about the green line. https://m.facebook.com/watch/?v=2133366460020140&_rdr

After walking solidly in the sun for a couple of hours I stopped about 10.30 at Cafe Younes just around the corner from Beit Beirut and sat with a mint lemonade that set me back 8000 LL, not cheap but just what this doctor ordered. I took my time to go back to the hotel, taking a circuitous route via St Nicholas steps, which is reminiscent of some of the steps leading up to the Sacre Coeur and  Montmartre in Paris. It’s easy to see why certain parts of Beirut merit the title Paris of the East. I headed down to the port area and followed the sea along past Zaitunay Bay with its waterfront restaurants and yacht clubs, and people swimming in outdoor pools. Then it was back to the corniche where I ate an amazing Mediterranean salad and drank more fresh juice. The heat seems to kills the desire for coffee in me.
I was desperate for a shower so made my way back to the hotel for an hour where I booked a Baalbek tour, watched events unfolding in Sudan on an AlJazeera news channel and listened to French electroswing music.
Later I went to check out Red Night again but it was closed for the third time. In fact none of the bars I found online were any use. Checkpoint Charlie and Gatsby seem to be closed down or not where they are showing on my map and Red Night is never open. Hence here I am in London Bar writing this diary,  really close to the hotel, just past Rabbit’s Hole Bar. They are a rowdy happy hour crowd in here. Bloody hooligans if you ask me! It’s still only 7.20 so it could be chaotic in a few hours.

Day 3: Tuesday 4^th June
Today, for 6US$ I took breakfast in the hotel, a Lebanese style buffet with labneh, fresh fruit, salad and crudités, croissants and lashings of Turkish coffee. And I thought they fought to get red of the Ottomans and the French. The food here does bear further testimony to the influemces that have shaped the country down the centuries.   I picked up a taxi to Charles Helou bus station just outside the hotel. The driver seemed pleasant enough but got involved in a slanging match with another guy at the traffic lights and there was lots of cussing and horn-beeping and posturing and mother-describing. In spite of this he got me to the bus station and pulled up behind a rusty contraption containing a few humans that you might call a bus. So I never actually got in to the bus station, which wasn’t in the script and left me hastily trying to suss out what the rules of this game were.  Nobody aboard spoke English or French but I assumed it was the right bus to get me to Jbeil (Byblos) ! I tried to pay and he held up two fingers which I assumed meant 2000, basically £1 for an hour ride. Inshallah we get there, I thought. Well I nearly didn’t. The driver remembered that I was going to Jbeil about 15 mins past the turn off. He dropped me at the side of the busy highway, only charging me half the fayre, i.e. 50p  for the hour ride. It had been a life and death mission getting to this point, bearing in mind the grinning death wish of the driver who swayed in and out of the traffic at breakneck speed. He seemed to take great delight in speeding up while going downhill. Getting off the bus in no-man’s land I  had to then cross the bridge over the busy freeway and walk down towards the sea. I then figured it was too far to walk all the way to Byblos as the sun lashed down upon my neck and had to hail a taxi to take me back along the coast, back through the heavily armed checkpoint, where the concrete blocks were painted greens and khaki. The driver called the soldiers habibi which they seemed to like, and they let us through with a smile. The taxi driver had worked a long time in Kuwait but returned to Lebanon because he wanted his daughter to grow up without the dust and heat. He spoke about the refugee crisis in Lebanon of a million Syrian children, but sounded decidedly ultra-nationalist, talking of them taking our jobs and water. He told me the economic and refugee crisis is the new war and bemoaned foreigners thinking that Lebanon is still too dangerous to visit. I got off just before the souk in Byblos, the most serene one I think I’ve ever been to. Hardly a visitor in sight, shopkeepers lazily arranging their wares under the shade of their canopies. Selling mostly souvenir tat, the musical instruments and bongos most caught my eye. At the end of the souk you get your first glimpse of exposed ruins before seeing the bloom-framed castle ruins.

A gentle meander down a winding lane brings you in a few minutes to Byblos Sur Mer, the picturesque port, guarded by a solitary bored-looking soldier. Dodging the Jehovah’s Witnesses prowling the jetty, I landed in a cafe that jutted out into the sea, an oasis of tranquility and breeze in the 11.22 sun. That is the exact point you find me now, writing these thoughts into the notes of my phone, the modern day pen and paper.

After leaving there I thought I’d better go into the castle after coming all this way so paid the entrance fee. It’s an extensive complex. I think they called the surrounding area urbanisation. The views were spectacular, from the castle, out to the Mediterranean on one side and up to Mount Lebanon on the other. This country really has something to offer everyone. I spent about an hour wandering up and down castle steps taking photos, getting burnt, before heading off to look at all the eating places.

The outside food quarter is one of the best I’ve ever seen. It’s a floral extravaganza, a proliferation of purples, lilacs, pinks and reds. I ended up wandering into a cemetery. I think the last time I did that was in Panama, oh no hold on… it was actually Pere Lachaise in Paris. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Arabic inscriptions in tombstones though. It adds an extra artistic quality not seen in Roman script. Again, there were some outstanding floral tributes.

I headed off for something to eat at a small place before going uphill to wait for the bus on the side of the motorway. Yes. You heard me right. And I nearly committed the schoolboy error of getting knocked over in the slip road while trying to get onto the bus that was slowing down for me in the first lane. Once I got back to Charles Helou bus station it was just a case of a sweaty half hour walk back to Hamra, crisscrossing the closely monitored downtown streets. I saw a soldier with a dog trained to sniff out explosives walking along rows of parked cars and rubbish bins. Luckily the dog didn’t pick up on anything. There were rolls of barbed wire blocking some steps and manned barriers blocking roads. I got back to the hotel about 4pm but not before a single scoop of black berry ice cream and a large Vitamin C fresh juice (Orange/lemon/kiwi) A couple of hours in the hotel and now here I am in Starbucks getting a much deserved coffee, seeing as my legs are aching so much. How is that for coffee lover logic?
From Starbucks to the Tipsy Goose happy hour it is. Thank you and good night. It’s been a pleasure doing chat with you.

Day 4: Wednesday 5^th June

It is 7.48 am. I am breakfasted, suited and booted (well shorted, teeshirted and sandaled) and sitting in a minibus with three silent types waiting to go on our little jaunt to Baalbek, Anjar and the winery.

Later….So the minibus filled up with some more talkative types and took us to the Nakhal office where we were offloaded onto a bigger bus ready for our trip to the Beqaa valley. Beqaa means pieces or spots because of all the different things dotted around.  We have a guide called Waleed and a driver named Tony
The Damascus Highway took us away from the centre of Beirut and up over the mountains before descending into the Beqaa Valley. We stopped for fifteen minutes at a service station, then drove through Chtaura, the valley’s hub for banking and transportation, and the place from where buses to Damascus go. Waleed joked with us, “If you change your mind we can do something different today.” Just one kilometre from the Syrian border we turned left to Anjar. This 8^th century Umayyad city was a crucial trading post/town that sprang up on an intersection between Beirut and Damascus one way and Homs and Tiberias in the other direction. A bit like the ancient equivalent of an Ikea retail park at the intersection of two motorways. We had about 35 minutes to wander through the ruins taking photos before boarding the bus again.  

Leaving Anjar we saw lots of rectangular white tents packed in to settlements where Syrian refugees live. The four million population of Lebanon has increased by fifty per cent with the arrival of two million refugees fleeing the crisis in their country. The settlements look grim, impoverished infants roaming around on what little space there is between the canvas, some of which have been personalised. Old tyres keep the roofs in place. Washing adds scant colour to the dismal scene.

Baalbek is the main draw of this tour but before we arrived there we were taken to a quarry just outside the town where the world’s largest stone is exhibited. This quarry sourced the Roman temples of Baalbek and it has been one man’s mission to keep it alive as an attraction and prevent a fragment of history from being lost forever. It’s an immense monolith called the Stone of the Pregnant Woman.

We drove through Riyaq, a big military town with a military airport and a station, although there has been no train system in Lebanon since 1975 and you can see rusted, disused carriages off the side of the road. On the way in to Baalbek Hezbollah has posted pictures of its martyrs. The tanks, the turrets, fortifications, road blocks, soldiers are all reminders of the past yet also of the fragility of peace in this region. You sense that something could flare again, while at the same time feeling safe because of the comprehensive security arrangements.
Baalbek was the Hellenistic city of Heliopolis and is the site of the Jupiter and Bacchus temples, the latter incredibly well preserved considering the earthquakes, war and plundering that it has endured through the centuries. I am not particularly inspired by the details of archeology and architecture but appreciate the aesthetics and the photo possibilities. All I know is that the place is huge and looks amazing on the eye. It is, and rightly so, a Unesco World Heritage site.

https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/294

We had a couple of hours here before heading off for lunch in Zahle, Lebanon’s third city with 120,000 people after Beirut and Tripoli. This city has a very peaceful feel about it. A raging river runs through it, providing water for the vineyards which grow, unusually, in the centre. I sat with two Norwegian couples (it goes without saying that they were Liverpool fans), a man from Barcelona, an Egyptian Londoner and a Chinese guy working in Jordan.
The food was delicious. We were in Lebanon, after all. It was like Middle Eastern tapas: stuffed vine leaves, cheese-filled crispy pancakes, Fattoush salad, labneh, fresh fruit, and arak. According to legend, vines have four children, two crazy and two good. Wine is a crazy child, as is arak. This aniseed drink which can be 95% strength was diluted with water for us, a small glass of milky liquid which leaves you feeling surprisingly at peace! It was a perfect warm up for the wine-tasting that was to follow in the Caves de Ksara. It was not the best wine ever but the long caves where the casks are stored were interesting. For more info on the history of the Ksara, go to http://www.photorientalist.org/exhibitions/chateau-ksara-jesuit-winemakers-in-lebanons-bekaa-valley/chateau-ksara-jesuit-winemakers-in-lebanons-bekaa-valley/

We were driven back through the Bekaa Valley, over the mountain and down into Beirut and the Nakhal offices before being put on minibuses and taken to individual hotels. It was really good value for money for a nine to ten hour trip.

Info on Nakhal Tours in Lebanon can be found at www.nakhal.com  

In the evening I went to the Blue Note Jazz for dinner and had penne and Fattoush, intending to see the live jazz but was a little early so went instead to London bar for happy hour and eavesdropped conversations between people talking mostly bullshit.

Day 5: Thursday 6^th June

This morning I had a very leisurely breakfast, wandered along the corniche, went to browse books about Beirut in a small bookshop along Hamra, bought the novel by Iman Humaydan Younes B as in Beirut, which Imentioned before, had a final relaxing coffee before checking out and getting in the taxi and taking you back to the first paragraph of this short blog post and the taxi driver. Five days over. Five days spent in an enthralling SAFE city with something for everyone. Why don’t you go?

©Si@cre8ivation