“Welcome to Lebanon”
“Cigarette?” our
cabbie offered as we drove away from Hariri International airport, the late
Sunday afternoon sun casting long shadows on the beige and cream buildings dotting
the landscape of Beirut. Both Austin and I gracefully declined the offer, but
gave approval to allow him to smoke in the car as we rode along: as if such a
thing was going to stop him. For a modern day American, this might be the
biggest culture shock when traveling to Lebanon. Not the language, the culture,
nor the religion: but watching people smoke left and right, inside and out,
with no regard to whether anyone else might be offended, it’s like traveling
back in time to another era in history, let alone another part of the world.
“Why Lebanon?”
It was a question I found myself often asked in the weeks
preceding my trip. The uncertain curiosity from friends, relatives and
coworkers rose to such a level that I eventually found myself replying to those
inquiring where I was going on my upcoming vacation in a similar manner.
“Lebanon?” I would reply, my voice inflecting the last syllable upwards, as if
to simply imply before they could even ask, “and I have no idea why”. That
really was the honest truth, and the real answer to “why Lebanon?” was quite
easy. Why the hell not?
In full disclosure there was a little bit more rationale
than that. The truth was I was headed to Lebanon to visit an old friend and
travel companion Austin, who was doing a med-school rotation with a doctor in
Beirut for the month of March. From there the trip more or less developed along
the lines of “that would be a cool place to visit” and then “I booked a ticket
and am coming.”
Austin, a man with a travel list most jet setters would be
jealous of, and I had travelled together through much of Latin America a few
summers earlier, and at this point we had a pretty good feel for being on the
road with one another, the sort of feel where you can agree to spend a week in
the middle east together based on about four emails. Now in his final year of
medical school at the University of Iowa, he had taken it upon himself to
arrange a series of rotation assignments abroad rather than completing them at
the normal hospitals back in Iowa. From India and Ghana he was now onto one of
his final rotations before graduations, working on palliative care with a
doctor in Beirut he had found through and internet search.
I myself was merely looking for a new chance to venture
abroad, having completed a two week backpacking trip in Europe the previous
summer. Needing inspiration for somewhere different besides Europe and Latin
America, the only two areas of the world I had visited thus far, I saw an
opportunity in trying to sync up with Austin during one of his rotations.
Though appealing, Ghana I knew would prove difficult to manage for only a week,
especially considering that Austin would not be located in the main city of
Accra. India was even more so, and I knew that only a week there would do
nothing more than simply wet my appetite and deepen my curiosity to explore the
subcontinent.
And Lebanon? A small country, easily traversable in a single
day, that contains beaches, mountains, fertile valleys and thousands of years
of human history, it was a clear stand out. Throw in the fact that we would be
staying in Beirut, a cosmopolitan city well known for its wonderful cuisine and
nightlife and I was sold.
It felt good to be on the road together again, immediately
recalling memories of our two month excursion through Latin America. Austin,
with his natural bleach blonde hair and good German features, was never one to
blend in well when traveling abroad, and together we clearly stood out with our
European bloodlines and American clothes. Looking around I could tell this
would be the case once again herein Lebanon. But for as much as he stood out,
he was great at fitting in. By now we were both comfortable with a travel plan
that for the most part steered clear of the normal tourist circuit. We were
here to meet the people, eat the food, and experience the culture as best we
could. That was the supreme challenge of it all.
As we walked the streets of Beirut that first night I smiled
a bit, recalling the intrigue, skepticism, and even downright worry that many
friends and family had expressed at my impending trip to the Middle East. To a
point it was hard to blame them, especially those of a generation before me
(including my mother, who even seemed a little more worried than usual compared
to my other worldly explorations), for worrying about my trip to a country that
had been engulfed in a civil war for most of their formative years of
adulthood. And despite the fact that the civil war ended over 20 years ago now,
recent flair ups in tensions regarding the sensitive region of the Levant has
led to violence still within the last 6 years, a much more recent development
in the grand scheme of time.
But overall things have changed drastically in the last two
decades. For 15 years, from 1975 to 1990 Lebanon was embroiled in a very
violent and devastating civil war. Not only did the war, fought primarily along
the Christian/Muslim divide within the country, cause horrific civilian
tragedies and destroy much of Beirut, but it also caused the collapse of a once
thriving tourism industry that centered on Beirut’s reputation as the “Paris of
the Middle East”.
When peace was finally and permanently brokered in 1990 a
concerted effort to rebuilding Beirut into the destination city and financial
center again was undertaken, led by then Prime Minister Rafic Hariri. The
progress since then has been remarkable, with much of central Beirut having now
been completely rebuilt, and the visual relics of the civil war becoming fewer
and farther between. Much of the reconstruction, especially in central Beirut,
has focused on higher end development, and now as we strolled in the Sunday
evening air, I found myself not feeling out of place because of any ethnic or
cultural sense, but because I wasn’t wearing Ralph Lauren Polo or carrying
shopping bags from Armani.
On Beyrouth
I awoke Monday morning feeling much more refreshed, mostly
devoid of any symptoms of jet lag. Austin had the day free from
responsibilities at the hospital, so we headed out for some breakfast and a
walk. As we began our walk one of my initial thoughts from the previous night
again resurfaced into my head; there is an astonishing amount of construction
occurring in Beirut. The city already had a very dense and chaotic feel to it,
but still there was almost always a new building rising from the ground or
foundation excavation happening in every lot that did not already contain some
sort of modern structure. It was a remarkable thing.
Beirut itself does not contain much as far as tourist sites
go, but we managed to incorporate a few of the bigger items to see in our walk
about town that first day. One of the first we came upon was the ruins of an
ancient roman bath house, uncovered not too far from the Parliamentary
building. The ruins had been fairly well uncovered and set up for people to get
a good look at, though you couldn’t actually walk around through them. Still,
there didn’t seem to be many other tourists, or anyone in general, who seemed
to be paying much attention to them. In fact I hadn’t observed many tourists at
all in Beirut, at least as far as I could tell. I wasn’t sure if this was
because of the fact that it was still a little early in the tourist season and
the weather not quite warm enough, or because there just aren’t that many
tourists visiting Beirut these days.
East of the roman bath ruins lies the Mohammad Al-Amin
Mosque, a newly constructed Mosque adorned with a striking blue dome that draws
the eye from quite a distance in all directions. The mosque was inspired by the
famous Blue Mosque of Istanbul, and though not built to quite the same scale;
it still holds a place as one of the most dominating structures within Beirut.
We took off our shoes and stepped inside to take in the
interior of the building. This was my first time traveling to a majority Muslim
country, and now beyond that my first time entering into a mosque. I found myself studying much of the
architecture and remembering the things I had learned from World Civilizations
class so many years before. The pointed arches, the use of tiles and the ever
present repeating geometric patterns, they were all there, and done in an
impressively luxurious manner. It was hard to describe the decorations as
anything other than simply beautiful.
Though our visit fell in between one of the five daily calls
to prayer, there were a handful of worshippers stopping in to conduct their
prayers in the early afternoon. We sat on the carpet for a while, just taking
in the surroundings and enjoying the peace and serenity, something that is nearly
impossible to find in central Beirut. I was glad to experience a new place of worship,
but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking of everything around me in a slightly
different light. The ritualistic praying, the absurdly ornate decorations, and
such blind devotion to ideas and theologies: “How is it that Muslims and
Christians can’t get along when they really have so much in common?” I thought.
And with that spiritual epiphany, I decided it was time for
a beer.
When it comes to beer, Lebanon is not Belgium, despite their
geographic similarities in size, and this is probably not terribly surprising.
The main offerings in the country are Almaza and LB, both pale lagers brewed in
Lebanon that are drinkable, but probably wouldn’t ever be worth purchasing
outside of Lebanon. But complaining about the quality of alcohol in a majority
Muslim country seemed a bit absurd, so we made do with what was available. On
this afternoon however we were blessed to find a bar offering selections from
961, a new brewery that offers a bigger variety of styles and markets itself
more similarly to the American craft brewers.
What Lebanon may lack in brewing culture, they make up for
in drinking and food culture though, especially when it comes to serving food
with drinks. As is more customary in this part of the world, and many places in
Europe as well, alcohol is rarely served without some sort of accompanying
snack. This is not a unique concept (think tapas in Spain), but in a new part
of the world it provided an opportunity to explore a fresh array of offerings.
Our beers this afternoon featured an assortment of mixed nuts and fresh
carrots. As unappetizing as fresh carrots might sound, when soaked in a little
lime juice and sprinkled with a little salt on top they actually became quite
good. Little did I know that this would be only a precursor to the intricacies
of Lebanese cuisine; never before have I eaten and enjoyed so many fresh
vegetables in my travels.
We finished up Monday night with some dinner from the street
vendors and smoking hookah at a nearby café, a very Beiruti evening to say the
least. I was beginning to notice that the smoking culture did not apply only to
cigarettes, but to hookah as well, or narjileh as it is known locally. Hookah
is a large pipe for smoking flavored tobacco. The device features a wet,
molasses laden tobacco placed under a topping of hot coals. The smoke is drawn
through a vase of water in the base of the pipe, which cools it down and leaves
it smooth and easy to smoke. If you look hard enough you can find a handful of
places that offer hookah in most American cities, but here in Lebanon almost
every café and restaurant served the flavored tobacco. I quickly noticed it was
not uncommon for a lone person to sit and enjoy a smoke session alone, perhaps
with nothing more than a simple Ipad to pass the time.
I awoke Tuesday with hopes of venturing into the interior of
the country to Baalbak to see the ancient Roman ruins located there, some of
the most complete Roman ruins found in the Middle East. Austin had obligations
at the hospital that day so I was on my own for adventure. Not wanting to begin
the day by sitting on a bus for two hours, I decided to take a random stroll
through some of the neighborhoods to the west Hamra, the neighborhood where
Austin’s apartment was located. It was another pleasant day and the walk
through the upper class Muslim neighborhoods of West Beirut felt like a nice
use of the time.
Being the usual self confident traveling male I was
determined to find the bus station myself despite the limitations that 1) it’s
not really a station but merely a big intersection where many of the buses for
destinations outside of Beirut depart, 2) the map I was using in the guide book
listed very few street names, and 3) almost none of the streets had signs
listing their names anyways, making the few street names from the map utterly useless
anyways.
The end result of my hubris found me wandering in the
general vicinity of my destined bus stop, but by the time I actually located
myself and the direction I needed to go, it was almost 1pm and I no longer had
the desire to venture to Baalbak for the day. Instead I decided to turn my
attention to the decently sized park located just across the street with which
I had used to locate myself on the map. This was the first park I had seen in
Beirut and I therefore determined it was worth exploring.
As I walked through the park I began to reflect on the
thought that this was the only park I had seen, and I remembered Austin’s earlier
comments about trying to check out the park near his apartment, only to find it
closed and guarded. This spoke to a larger issue I was beginning to notice, now
in my third day of exploring the city; there was a noticeable lack of public
space for such a large and dense urban area.
Actually it spoke to an even larger and more significant
issue: the startling, perhaps even alarming, lack of public spaces, civic
institutions, and general infrastructure to go with a capital city of 2 million
people. This is not unique in the developing world, but in a city such as
Beirut, which was currently undergoing an extensive process of rebuilding and
revitalization, the opportunity existed to correct many of the fundamental
issues that plague these types of cities, yet as far as I could observe it was
an opportunity being wasted.
Everywhere I looked there were new office buildings and
condo towers going up, but by far the majority of them appeared to be high end.
Aside from this there was very little development occurring. Parks, plazas and
other large scale public places were almost completely absent aside from the
Cornishe, the large promenade that runs along the Mediterranean on Beirut’s
northwest side. The city’s streets were convoluted and gridlocked, public
transportation existed only as a hodge podge of mini buses and a cottage
industry of service taxi’s, which function essentially as a hybrid between a
bus and a taxi. I was beginning to get the impression that almost no urban
planning was being conducted during the rebuilding of the city, a fairly
disturbing thought.
I had hoped to spend some time exploring the park, but after
a short while I discovered that half of the park, much of it seemingly
beautifully landscaped, was separated from me by a fence, of which I could not
find any way around. The park appeared to be sectioned off into two halves,
with no particular explanation as to why. I was disappointed but in the end not
all that surprised. This was becoming a common occurrence already during our
stay in Beirut. Whether it was the security guards at the American University
of Beirut, who would occasionally stop us from entering the grounds but not
always, or the random police checkpoints that prevented passage down otherwise
seemingly innocuous streets, Beirut was a city of arbitrary boundaries, ones
that were enforced at the discretion of the person put in charge at the time. A
rule in Lebanon exists only if it is enforced.
I finally decided to head back towards Austin’s apartment in
the late afternoon, completely exhausted from a day of walking. It had been a
good, though frustrating day. I felt I was beginning to really understand
Beirut, but at the same time I was ready to get out of the there. I needed a
break from the air pollution, the honking, the boundaries, and the general
chaos that is Beirut. Tomorrow needed to bring us to a new location; of that I
was sure.
Ancient Civilizations
Byblos, about 40 km north of Beirut, is believed to be the
oldest continually inhabited city in the world, dating back to about 6000BC. It
was almost hard to grasp this much human history at once. In the grand scheme
of things, this makes your average 500 year old European building look like a
quaint 50’s Dinner, and it makes the oldest American buildings look like the
crappy Wal-Mart that was built down the street a couple years ago. 8,000 years
of civilization! It’s a truly amazing thought. The problem with such an ancient
city though, when regarded by historians and archeologists, is that most of the
societies that existed previously on these sites didn’t give two shits about
history or archeology. So what that leaves is 8,000 years of civilization built
directly on top of itself, resulting in a historical site where many of the
structures had to be moved from their original positions in order to access the
older sites beneath them.
This is the backdrop upon which one gazes at the ruins of
Byblos, or rather the most important ruins situated along the Mediterranean
shoreline, now convalesced into a historical site open to tourists. This was
our adventure for the day, befitting of my desire to finally make it beyond
Beirut, but at a distance also befitting the fact that we did not return from the
bars until 4am the previous night.
Unfortunately the weather decided to not cooperate, and the
chilly temps, rain and wind made seeing the sites less than ideal. Even though
it was March and we were in the Middle East, the temperatures struggled to reach
above 50 degrees Fahrenheit. We based ourselves in one of the new structures, a
fortress built during the crusades, making brief ventures out to the rest of
the grounds during breaks in the rain. The Phoenician ramparts, Roman theaters,
Greek Temples, all were there to see, and often in places adjacent to their
original location in order to allow even older ruins to be excavated from
beneath.
Neither Austin nor I could readily claim to be knowledgeable
enough about the subject to succumb to pure awe at the sights, but I could
appreciate the story, the connection, and the spectacle of all this still
existing thousands of years later. This was a new kind of ancient for me, and I
was glad to have taken it in.
Inside there was a nice mini-museum which quite a bit of
information about the history of the site and the various people who had called
this area home throughout the course of history. Austin, per his usual self,
showed little interest in reading the entire chronicles of local history, and
we made a brief tour through the museum rooms. He claimed not needing to read
the information now as he would be back the next week when another friend was
to visit. “So you’ve got plenty of time to not read them later” I joked.
After we had finished our tour of the site there remained
one question: how exactly were we supposed to catch a bus back to Beirut? We
didn’t get a chance to see the bus station in Byblos after our bus driver kept
on plowing down the interstate past the exit until I roused him from his debate
with a fellow passenger in order to pull over and just let us off in the middle
of the highway.
We returned to the highway, initially wondering if we should
just head back down to the roadside and try to flag down a passing bus, as it
was almost guaranteed that all buses heading south were on their way to Beirut.
It seemed a bit implausible to just be able to hail a bus along the highway,
but after asking a few locals, we found that was indeed what one did around
these parts.
Transportation in Lebanon is mix of taxis, minibuses, and a
few larger buses operated by more established companies. Using it is an
acquired skill, with the only real method of acquiring said skill being to
begin to travel around, observe others, and do as they do. I was only now beginning
to pick up the nuances of the mini buses, while service taxis remained a
confusing mystery.
Despite the weather, our day trip to Byblos had been
fruitful not only for the sights, but for better preparing me for my planned
adventure the following day: a journey into the interior of the country to
visit Baalbak, the ancient Romans ruins located in the Bekaa valley.
Baalbak is of note for two reasons. The first being the
ancient Roman ruins located in the town, widely considered to be the most
complete within the Middle East. The second is that it is the administrative
home for Hezbollah, the Lebanese political party slash terrorist organization,
according to the United States. As far as I could tell Baalbak remained a
relatively safe destination for Westerners to travel, and most of the party
affiliations in the area are considered to be related to the political side.
Terrorism is a loaded word in the twenty first century,
especially in this part of the world. You could feel the sentiment when talking
to the Lebanese, who understand first-hand the complexities that exist when
trying to understand and deal with organizations and groups of people that are
considered by the West to be terrorists. They become resentful that the
cultural, ethnic and socio-economic reasons that these groups thrive in areas
such as Lebanon, Afghanistan and Pakistan get boiled down into simple phrases
like “they hate freedom” and “religious Jihad” back in the United States.
“Now you can see that we are not all terrorists” joked the
Boss, a few nights before my trip to Baalbak. This was Austin’s affectionate
nickname for the owner of Mantis, the nearby bar which had become our nightly
watering hole and induction into Lebanese culture. It was said tongue in cheek,
but you could hear the exasperation in his voice that indicated a small degree
of honesty behind the statement. When I pressed him on the situation a little
while later he offered up a telling anecdote about how things work in this part
of the world.
Even though it was Hezbollah who had initiated the 2006 war
with Israel by killing and capturing several Israeli soldiers in a raid, it was
also Hezbollah who paid to have each house that was destroyed by the
retaliatory rocket fire rebuilt, oftentimes for more than it was worth. In the
grand scheme of things, it was net sum zero, but in the eyes of the poor
Muslims, especially displaced Palestinians, who had their possessions destroyed
and then quickly rebuilt thanks to an organization that had declared war on
Israel, it helped fortify their position as those who “serve and protect” the poor Muslims of
the region.
We talked a little while longer on the subject, though I was
careful not to inquire too deep into what can be a sensitive subject in
Lebanon. The overall sentiment I got from the Boss, and felt echoed by other
Lebanese in close to so many words, was a general frustration with many Americans
for being shitheads and thinking that everyone in Lebanon is a terrorist, but
that those feelings were paired with a frustration with Hezbollah as well,
usually for just generally being shitheads.
I kept these thoughts in my mind as I sat on the mini bus
headed towards Baalbak. Over the two days I had slowly figured out the system
for getting a bus from the depot (really just a chaotic intersection), which
consisted of asking people which bus was headed your direction, hopping on, and
then waiting some indeterminate amount of time until the bus driver felt there
was enough passengers on board to set out on the journey. It was an excruciatingly
painful experience for a Westerner accustomed to operating on set schedules.
All was going smoothly until the rest of the passengers
departed in Zhule and I was the lone remaining for the last leg to Baalbak, and
so my driver decided not to continue, and rather pulled over and found another
bus that would take me the rest of the way. In the confusion, as in I had no
idea what the hell was going on, I think I paid twice for the trip, but after a
few minutes I was on my way in a new mini bus full of Lebanese soldiers, all of
whom appeared quite jovial, and possibly a little tipsy. Only one spoke a
limited amount of English, enough to ask my name and where I was from. I
responded that I was from America, which drew a nice response of “welcome” and a
smile, but as I thought about where I was headed, traveling alone, and the
company of people who occupied the bus, I began to think that perhaps a little
white lie might have been the better response.
It turned out not to matter in the end, as I arrived safely
in Baalbak almost 3 hours after I departed, despite covering a distance of only
about 85 kilometers. I stepped out into an overcast, chilly and windy day and into
an almost entirely deserted tourist site. After paying my entrance to the park
I was immediately approached by a short elderly man who offered his services as
a guide, something he assured me was a critical part of truly appreciating the
ruins. He offered a private tour for $20, which I knew wasn’t a great deal, but
I was cold and ready to move on, and since the only words I had uttered the
entire day up until that point had been “Coca Cola, OK, and falafel”, I figured
a conversation in English was worth that much alone at that point.
We began our tour in the temple of Jupiter, which like many
of the sites in this part of the world, had been slowly evolved and adapted by
the various groups of peoples who had inhabited the area, though always
revolving around some form of temple or place of worship. I again did my best
to be appreciative and impressed with tales of antiquity presented to me, and
with the impressive nature of the structures, the large stone pillars and
vaulted temple walls, it was not too difficult a task. The ruins were in
remarkable shape given the age, and the scale and grandeur conjured up thoughts
of wonder of how such feats of design and engineering could have been
accomplished so long ago. And yet despite all that there was to see, we had the
place almost all to ourselves. It felt almost like walking through the Roman Forum
alone, if one could ever imagine such a thing.
We finished our tour in a little over a half an hour, which
might have been a bit quick for the size and immensity of the ruins, but I was
underdressed and therefore cold and happy to be done. While chatting with my
guide I had learned his story of studying at the University of Beirut, before
the war I would presume given his age, and his background in working for the
various archeological sites both in Lebanon and around the Middle East. Though
I usually maintain a fair degree of skepticism around these types of “guides”
in developing countries, I was beginning to feel a connection towards mine, and
thought maybe his passion for the history was truly what was driving his work
here.
As the tour finished, and my visit cut even shorter thanks
to the current closure of the accompanying museum, my guide offered for me to
join him for a cup of tea. In my most optimistic mind I thought about how nice
it would be to sit down and chat with him and that if he was really just using
me to get a free cup of tea it would be more than worth the expense. But as we
walked into the souvenir shop just a block away from the museum entrance, I
realized that this was not the case at all.
The grift was on, as it always is in such places. After
being offered a cup of tea I was presented with a host of authentic and
assuredly high quality gifts to purchase. Necklaces with scented rosin beads,
carved pictures of the ruins, commemorative plates, it was all there. Everything,
they ensured me (they including now my guide), was of the finest quality. After
about 10 minutes of declining every trinket they could possibly offer I decided
that it was time to go. I offered to pay for my small cup of tea but they
declined to take my money, something I let slide given my growing impatience
with the whole situation.
Outside I paid my guide, who made sure to remind me several
times how the $20 fee was mandated by the government, and if I wished to show
my appreciation to the guide I should consider giving more than that. Even
though I could easily see through his bullshit, I acquiesced for another $5 and
quickly made my departure from the ruins, slightly dejected by how the visit
had ended. In my heart I couldn’t blame the guide, the vendors and everyone
else around the area who had tried with full effort to loosen as many bills
from my grip as possible. I had seen a grand total of 4 other visitors during
my entire journey and visit to Baalbak, so it was rather safe to presume that
the tourist dollars were at a premium here these days. It was no different than
almost any other place in this part of the world, the same “guides”, the same
“shops”, and the same schemes all over again. Really I was only disappointed
that for a brief moment, I had allowed myself to believe that here it was
somehow any different than everywhere else.
Before heading back towards Beirut I wanted to first venture
into the town of Baalbak to get at least a little taste of the town outside of
the tourist ruins that lie near its outskirts. I was surprised, pleasantly so
after my earlier experiences at the ruins, that my wanderings through the town
drew little attention, despite the fact that there were almost no other
Westerners around. I can only presume that in the days of bigger tourism the
people here were used to such a sight, and now even in leaner times it is not
something that draws attention more than normal. Either way, now only a few
hundred yards away from the ruins I was left to my own devices, no longer eyed
as a wandering sack of money.
What I found was what seemed to be a typical Lebanese town,
none too rich but neither destitute. The most noticeable things around town
were the street pole signs, adorned with pictures of young soldiers and
overwritten with Arabic words, what they said being completely lost on me. On
the backside of the signs was the flag of Hezbollah, proudly displayed here as
a symbol of regional, religious and military pride. I was walking down the
street in a city that headquarters an organization that my country considers a
terrorist group, a group whose armed soldiers in the signs fought against every
geo-political issue that my own country supported, and yet no one seemed to
really give a damn. It was nice.
“Welcome to Lebanon” the street vendor called to me as I
walked through the market.
“Washington?” he asked me, to which I indicated no
in response. “New York?” he tried again.
I shook my head again and called out “Iowa”, and he smiled and nodded.
He didn’t have a clue what Iowa was, of that I was sure, but he was much too
eager to show his knowledge of the United States to let that little fact get in
the way. I smiled and waved as I headed on my way, not sure if this discourse
was able to rise above the geo-political strife of the region, or merely too
far below it to register. Either way we seemed to be doing just fine without
it.
The ride back to Beirut was more of the same in Lebanese
travel. Not more than a minute or two after beginning my search for a bus to
Beirut I was hailed over by a driver of a parked mini-bus who responded to my
question that he was indeed going to Beirut. I tried to elicit from him when
the departure would be, considering there were no other passengers on the bus,
but this was beyond his grasp of the English language. Instead he continued to
speak in Arabic and motion for me to get into the van, still repeating the word
“Beirut” over and over. This went on for awhile with me making several
indications at my watch and feigned nods of agreement before I decided simply
to just get in and see how it went.
Much to my surprise we departed after only 5 or 10 minutes
despite no other passengers on board. But instead of speeding off towards
Beirut, we maintained a slow pace, hugging the right hand shoulder, offering
inquisitive honks to any roadside strangers who could potentially be
passengers. I was beginning to grow weary of the Lebanese mini-buses, which
operate in a sort of reverse-taxi mode, where the buses hail the passengers, often
relentlessly, even after the people have ignored several of the drivers
preliminary honks. For the life of me I could not envision how this could ever
work, as if the people on the side of the road would suddenly remember, after
about 10 honks, that “Oh Shit! I forgot we were actually here to get on a bus!
I do hope that one will come back for us.” But questioning the transportation
system seemed frivolous at this point, and it wasn’t like any of the surrounding
passengers would understand me anyways, so I mostly kept to myself.
Back in Zhule, the dilemma of how many passengers were
needed to complete the journey surfaced once again. There were only a few other
passengers in our bus, and it was clear that our driver had no intention of
making the trek over the mountains to Beirut without a bigger payout. This
issue was compounded by the fact that there were several other buses in Zhule
doing the exact same thing, and so for the next 20 minutes we alternated between
sitting by the side of the road and driving around the center block in circles
looking for passengers, slowly accumulating a few more lonesome souls.
Still, we were losing the battle to a rival bus, a sleek
looking white number with pot bellied driver adorned in a very full goatee.
With each passing the drivers would either exchange glances or words until
finally a decision was reached. Much to my disappointment, we had been traded:
offered up to the other bus in exchange for fare so that our driver could cut
his losses and return home. I was annoyed at having to change buses again, but
the reality was that I now sat in a much fuller bus with a likely earlier
departure time. And yet we still spent an additional 10 minutes filling up the
last few seats before finally, mercifully, we were on our way, speeding along
into the now foggy mountain pass, visibility only about 100 feet in front of
us, and life expectancy probably not too much greater than that.
It had been a stressful ordeal, for both passengers and
drivers alike, to finally arrive in the arrangement that had allowed us to
proceed onwards to Beirut. As we drove, the driver spoke in a loud, animated
fashion with one of the passengers for much of the beginning of the trip. I
could only presume by his booming voice and tone that they were arguing about
something to do with the travel arrangements. Yet at a point later, still in
the same conversation, several of the other passengers began to chuckle and
laugh, as did the men in the conversation. I slowly began to realize that
instead it was merely some humorous story or anecdote that was being shared.
This is a difficult difference to distinguish in Arabic I was beginning to
learn.
A sense of total relief consumed me when I finally made it
back to Austin’s apartment after my 3 hour return trip. The day had been cold
and the travel taxing but I was now back in a warm apartment with someone who
spoke English, it was like being at the Playboy Mansion as far as I was
concerned.
For dinner we walked
over to Rue Bliss, the main street which runs along the American University of
Beirut (AUB) campus and is named after the founder of the university. There we
were able to get some Lebanese street food, usually consisting of some variety
of meats, cheese and veggies wrapped up in a pita like bread. The construction
had a name, but it was difficult to remember and pronounce, so over the course
of the week we had merely taken to calling them Lebanese Burritos. Was it
culturally insensitive? Sure, but these things served almost an identical
purpose. It was the combination of all the best parts of the cuisine wrapped up
into a nicely transportable package.
Beirut in the
Nighttime
The weekend started on a quiet note. Friday was another
cold, rainy day, the third in a row. The tribulations of getting to Baalbak the
day before made me reluctant to want to depart from Beirut again, so instead I
chose to hang in town. When Austin finished his morning duties at the hospital
we ventured off for some afternoon lunch at Le Chef, a well recognized eatery
that features great working class Lebanese food at a cheap price.
In order to get over to Gemmayzeh, the neighborhood in which
the restaurant was located, we took a taxi, even though we knew the rain would
make traffic even worse than it already normally is. This proved to be quite
true, and thus we sat in our cab, inching along, not much faster than we could
have covered the distance by foot, but at least we were out of the rain. As we
sat in traffic I thought about the people who do this day in and day out in
Beirut. The traffic, the chaos, the smog, it was no wonder that we had met
several Beirutis on our trip who spoke wistfully of being able to leave the
city.
Lunch at Le Chef was an excellent experience into the more
practical side of Lebanese cuisine. It is not known as a particularly haute
cuisine, but still I knew the dishes we were consuming in the restaurants so
far were not representative of how your average Lebanese family eats. I enjoyed
the dishes at Le Chef for their simplicity, my fish and rice was hardly dressed
up beyond what you might find in any house just around the corner, but still
delicious and filling as one would require.
Going out to the bars is not something one can often do in a
majority Muslim country, but luckily for us in Lebanon the exception proved
true. Admittedly this is because of a significant non-Muslim portion of the
population, but it still allows for the unique experience of being able to tour
mosques and hear the muzzelein during the day, and then proceed to party your
ass off immediately afterwards. And party is something they do well in Beirut.
Harkening back to the jet setting days of Beirut in the 60’s, the party culture
managed to survive the war.
Selim, our bartender friend at Mantis, was our ambassador to
the Beiruti nightlife. Though he originally hailed from Tripoli, a more
conservative area in the north of the country, he was now located in Beirut,
and had dedicated himself to a life of indulgence, sarcasm and vice, not
something often found in these parts of the world.
But because of this we had a crowd, a group of people to
share the night and talk about all things, be they Lebanese or not. And this
was an easy crowd to do so with, as nearly everyone hanging out at Mantis was
fluent in English. Not just that they knew how to speak it mind you, but that
they were capable of holding normal conversations over the blare of the DJ, a
true testament to language fluency.
Our Friday had begun with intentions of bar hopping, and
perhaps visiting one of the famous clubs that Beirut has become so well known
for, but instead it was almost 4am when we finally departed from Mantis after a
full night of drinks and music with the regulars. The night was far from over
at this point. A requisite stop at Barbar, a do everything establishment that
offers up a variety of quick and simple Lebanese food items, was first in
order. After quickly consuming some excellent chicken schwarma sandwiches it
was time to head back to Gemmayzeh.
We were now with the late night club, those
who still managed to keep going right through the night, the pace of cigarette
smoking increasing with the hours until it reached such a fevered pitch that
the first light of morning revealed into the bar the haze that had surrounded
us. A few more rounds and the kinds of conversations that can only accompany
such an hour passed before we finally stepped out into the morning sun and
hailed a taxi back to Austin’s apartment.
Our reward for enduring 3 straight days of rain, wind and
cold temps came Saturday afternoon as we headed back towards the Cornishe for
an afternoon stroll towards Pigeon Rocks, the well known rock outcropping on
the western coastline of Beirut. From the promenade, looking back east towards
the city center, the snow capped Lebanon Mountains were now plainly visible.
The rain had served its purpose, and washed the city clean, including its air,
of the built up pollution that so easily occurs in a city flanked by an
easterly mountain range. Now, with the smog washed completely away, we were
able to see the mountains that rise up almost directly from the outskirts of
Beirut, topping out at around 10,000 feet, and offer up some of the only
natural skiing in the Middle East. Beirut looked reinvigorated, renewed and
simply sublime on such a nice day, and it seemed as if everyone in town was out
to enjoy the clear day along the walkway, despite the still cool spring temperatures.
We arrived at Pigeon Rocks, a set of rock formations with
natural arches just offshore in the Mediterranean in the late afternoon as the
sun was setting out over the sea to the west. After hiking down the cliff for
some closer views and pictures of the rocks, we headed toward the restaurant
overlooking the bay for a late afternoon snack and some hookah. Once again, as
if to just reinforce all my experiences from the week prior, we were presented
with a great meal that was ordered mostly at random: hummus, grilled eggplant
and yogurt, chanklish a favorite cheese and vegetables dish – every great item
selected seemingly at random. It was truly hard to go wrong with Lebanese
cuisine.
We lounged for a bit as the sun dipped below the horizon,
only slightly offset from the rocks, creating a natural landscape that drew
photographers from many of the restaurant’s table to the railing. The obvious
jokes about the romantic nature of the setting arose, and we both admitted that
we had found a pretty good date spot, but instead were left with each other’s
company for the time being. I couldn’t complain though, date or no date, it was
an idyllic setting to find oneself in no matter the company, and hell who knew,
maybe if I tried hard enough I could try a couple moves on Austin and see where
things went.
St. Patrick’s Day is a peculiar holiday. It has obvious
Irish roots and is still celebrated largely in the British Isles, but the real
adaptation of the holiday into what it is today has been driven much by
American culture. This is actually something we as Americans do quite well; we
take another culture’s religious, cultural or family holiday and turn it into a
party. St. Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, Mardi Gras, all are prime examples, and
from this adaptation what has now become one drunken celebration of the color
green and Irish culture has spread all across the globe.
Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day, even in Lebanon, seemingly
as far away from Ireland as one could possibly get. One of the DJs at Mantis
had invited us to a party in Hamra that night, and with nothing better to do we
figured it was worth a look to see how the Lebanese celebrated the famed
holiday. Already as we made our way over to the club I was surprised at the
number of people dressed in green and that we had witnessed a fight before the
night had truly began. Apparently they understood the basic principles of St.
Patrick’s Day quite well in Beirut.
This was reinforced even more when we arrived at the party,
an underground club event that was attended mostly by AUB students and
resembled in every way, shape and form an American frat party. It was a sloppy
mess, and for the most part I stood on the side, sipping a drink and trying to
remember exactly what country we were in. The music blared from the DJ, mostly
American stuff, and a large number of the conversations that surround us took
place in English, the language of choice at AUB. In a way I actually enjoyed it
from a cultural experience. This was what the young, educated, and well-to-do
in Lebanon do at night, and not surprisingly it’s not too much different than
what you would find across a spread of American college campuses. But in the
end it was still a college party, and after an hour it was time to move on.
After departing we met back with Selim and some of his
friends for drinks at a little more subdued establishment and spent the rest of
the night drinking and conversing. It was a perfect final night in Beirut,
spent talking to locals, sipping on Lebanese beer, and trying to put my
thoughts about the country into some sort of final idea that I could
communicate to those around me. We again managed to stay out well through the
night, and returned home under the glow of the early morning sun. By this time
I had realized that with two nights of staying up until the morning, I had
effectively returned myself to the normal sleep schedule that I would be on
back in the States. Jet lag would be no issue for me, and I felt this
effectively justified my nights of late night carousing.
South to Saida
Saida is a port city about 40km south of Beirut, which in
the scale of Lebanon actually puts it almost in the border area of the southern
part of the country next to Israel. The day did not begin in earnest thanks to
another night out and by the time our bus pulled into Saida it was well into
the middle of the afternoon. Still, it did not take long to become immediately
taken by the city.
In every way that Beirut embodies the new and modern
Lebanon, less connected to the past and more connected to the wider world,
Saida appeared to represent the opposite. The souk, the traditional market
where people go to buy and sell almost every item you could think of, appeared
to remain just as much a part of life in the city as it had for centuries.
Even though the day was winding down, the last lingering of
the Sunday market were visible as we strolled through the streets. We no longer
blended in, at least compared to the way we thought we had in Westernized
Hamra. Still it was wonderful to walk the narrow streets of the market, many of
them covered, taking in the people, the commerce and of course the food. It was
Sunday, and families and kids were out in abundance, which meant there was a
bevy of sweets on display for all who passed by. Outside of Beirut we were once
again struck with a language barrier when trying to inquire as to what each
pastry was, but that was eased by vendors who were more than happy to offer
samples when they couldn’t explain to us what each contained.
Here in Saida everyone just seemed friendlier in
general. Much like New York versus small
town America, no one seemed to hesitate to come up and strike up a
conversation, even if they didn’t have more than a few phrases of English at
their disposal. There was one phrase though, that every Lebanese person we came
across seemed to know. “Welcome to Lebanon”, said almost in some sort of salute
wherever we went, as if national law dictated that every Lebanese person is
required to greet all foreign tourists in such a manner. It was endearing, if
not a little annoying, and a constant reminder of how friendly and proud the
Lebanese people are.
From atop the ruins of Castle Saint Louis, an old
fortification from the era of the Crusades I watched my final Lebanese sun set
into the Mediterranean. Austin snapped photos and I took in the sights and the
sounds of everything that was laid out before me. Saida felt a world away from
Beirut, and I was happy to have seen this side of the country before my
departure. In a way, I could already tell it would be the place in Lebanon I
would miss most, the place that had felt the most real.
I could never live in Beirut, by now it was clear. The
chaos, the crowding, the posh and the pollution, it was a city that had
potential, but one that seemed to be diminishing with each shiny new apartment
tower that rose from the rubble of a 15 year civil war.
In 2009 the New York Times rated Beirut as its top
destination, a piece which many in the city still proudly reference. But now,
another 3 years removed from the trials and tribulations of war and struggle, I
had doubts that the Times would bestow such a title again. The city appeared to
be losing its edge, at least as far as I could discern, having only experienced
one brief snap shot of its history. I had limited experience here, but to me
the change was palpable, if not readily visible. The wealth is returning to
Beirut, reborn from within, imported from Lebanese abroad, and transported by
vacationing millionaires from the Gulf States.
This in itself it not a bad thing, if it weren’t for the
fact that it seems to be the only thing reviving Beirut, and maybe the entire
country. The war had done an interesting thing to the rich, it had humanized
them. The violence and terror, despite all its horrors, had served to bring
everyone together. In the period following, the idea of just being able to walk
down the street in peace was one that was shared by all, and it gave the
country a certain charm of which many, including the Times, had picked up on.
But that was over 20 years ago, and with time and peace comes the softening of
memories, and the rich are merely going back to being…well rich.
Behind all of this lies the fact that Lebanon, faced with a
high debt to GDP, a slowing economy, and little in the way of public
infrastructure improvements, might be headed for tougher times ahead than the
glut of glass adorned high rises popping up around Beirut would indicate. It
was impossible not to fall in love with the people, the culture and the food
here, but at the same time I wondered how much of this would survive the
current projection of the country.
My book of choice over the trip had been the Steve Jobs
biography by Walter Isaacson, and as I finished the closing chapters, I came
across a passage about Jobs reflecting on the world during a stay in Turkey:
I had a real
revelation. We were all in robes, and they made some Turkish coffee for us. The
professor explained how the coffee was made very different from anywhere else,
and I realized, “So fucking what?” Which kids even in Turkey give a shit about
Turkish coffee? All day I had looked at young people in Istanbul. They were
drinking what every other kid in the world drinks, and they were wearing
clothes that look like they were bought at the Gap, and they are all using cell
phones. They were like kids everywhere else. It hit me that, for young people,
this whole world is the same now.
It didn’t take much looking around to see how true this
statement held for Lebanon as well (where, coincidentally, Lebanese coffee is
almost identical to Turkish coffee). The cafes all around Hamra were not
traditional Lebanese cafes, but Starbucks, Peets, and Caribou; everyone was
drinking cappuccinos, lattes, and mocha chinos.
Admittedly this is happening in every country of the world
to some extent, but because of the rapidity of this change in Lebanon it felt
so much more pronounced, and that for Beirut the underlying mandate was bigger,
newer, nicer, no matter the cost. I had enjoyed my time in Beirut quite a bit,
but would I be able to say the same thing in 10 years again? I had my doubts.
None of that mattered as we strolled back to the bus
station, through the winding streets and alleyways of the souk, the last
glimpses of sunlight barely illuminating the way. We heard the muezzin call the
faithful to evening prayer, those who were in no hurry lingered at the cafes,
finishing their card games, drinking tea and smoking hookah. Here and there
young children scattered about kicking soccer balls, their day of rest over and
the week coming up ahead. This was the moment I would take back with me. This
was the Lebanon that I wanted to remember.
I nodded over to Austin and we stopped by a stand to purchase one last
pastry, a delicious confection of phyllo dough and a creamy cheese that we
couldn’t read the name of. I knew he felt the same.
We headed back to Mantis for one final drink before my plane
departed, a final farewell to Selim and the others who had welcomed us into the
country. They did not represent your average Lebanese in any way, but through them
we were able to glimpse into the psyche of the people and gather the pulse of
this small but prominent country. This
was a nation where people were eager to forget the past, happy to live in the
present, yet worried about the future.
A common phrase written in travel books about nearly
developing nation goes something along the lines of “they might not be rich,
but these are some of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet”. I’ve always
hated that phrase. Overused and underdeveloped, it just seems like lazy
writing. Yet, I found myself almost thinking these exact thoughts word for word
about Lebanon, much to my own chagrin. These were truly some of the nicest
people I had ever met in all my travels. Some of their gregariousness was most
likely fed out of a desire to demonstrate to Americans another side of their
country than the one that is often seen on TV, but regardless, it still felt
genuine.
I bid my goodbyes to the crew at Mantis, knowing sadly that
I would probably never see them again in life. After grabbing my pack then bid
goodbye to Austin and headed to catch a taxi to the airport. True to form, my
cab driver was friendly and happy to hear of my vacation to his country. As he
dropped me off at the airport for my departing flight, he again welcomed me to
Lebanon.
Lufthansa
Twenty minutes or so after takeoff, the Lufthansa flight
crew began making their rounds of the cabin, the blonde flight attendants in
neatly pressed clothing efficiently distributing drinks and hot meals,
responding to question in English and maintaining order throughout the entire
cabin; and just like that, I felt a million miles away from Lebanon again.
Pictures
Pictures
