Bullet torn buildings

The bullet showered 'Holiday Inn'. Located smack in the centre of Beirut, this highrise is now inhabited by pigeons.

The next morning I had breakfast with Jamil at 10 am. He introduced me to a delicious paste called Za’atar, a unique blend of sesame seeds, Middle Eastern herbs and salt. The black yellow substance, together with white creamy yoghurt- like sauce was then eaten on some bread, along with olives and strong Turkish coffee. 
Jamil and I talked for the following two hours about politics and life.  I must say it felt quite philosophical, a surprisingly deep conversation to have both in the morning and with someone I had only just met.
 It’s important to be happy, to follow your interests and to evade the artificial security that money brings. We talked about the people he had met, and those that I would soon meet while travelling, unhappy with their jobs, their lives, discovering that wealth and its false promises only acted as a temporary facade for their discontent.

Our conversation about politics was clearly more sensitive. I treaded carefully with my words and questions, weary of my naivety and of the general delicate nature of the subject. As we touched upon the Civil War, I know I had stepped on a sensitive chord. He spoke with resentment about the events, and also with genuine abhor for everything political.
“I don’t want anything to do with politics” he proclaimed. It was more than understandable, for many things political in Lebanon seemed to be structured around conflict, violence and corruption. What I had failed to realise is that what so fascinated me in my studies was for many locals a topic they wished to avoid; a reminder of the distressful modern history that plagued Lebanon. Jamil was not alone in my immediate surroundings to have witnessed the violence, the buildings too that encircled us carried with them a glimpse of the destruction and bloodshed that Lebanon had experienced. The bullet holes that I saw looking out of the balcony from the dining table were a sober reminder of the past that Lebanon had faced.

"Place des martyrs", located near the old 'Green line'. Look closely and you can see how the well-known statue has been sprayed by gunfire.

The view from the balcony. The building on the right in this picture shows feintly shows bullet holes.

The city that never sleeps

My worst fear of coming to Lebanon was not, as most people would think, a fear of “terrorists”, violence or safety, but instead of loneliness. I feared that I would miss the experience of getting to know the locals and the culture. So, that same evening, Jamil gave me directions to go to Rue Gourraud, in Gemmayzeh-the centre of Beirut nightlife. It’s a pleasant narrow street filled with live music, small cosy bars and restaurants lit up like fireplaces by orange-red neon lights. The whole area is packed with slow moving cars and a young enthusiastic crowd, walking underneath large white “I love Gemmayzeh” banners. I was eager but at the same time nervous to go out. When I arrived it was almost eleven o clock and the bars were only just starting to fill up, and to my amasement, the night had only just begun.
In a state of anxiousness I felt a certain familiarity with my surroundings. Beirut reminded me much of home: Bangkok, the city I grew up in. The hectic chaotic atmosphere and the random packed arrangement of bars and restaurants of Rue Gourraud reminded me of Khao Sarn road, a tourist packed street in the North of Bangkok. The parked chic Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s, on the other hand,  that appeared almost out of place with the disarranged muddle of bars, restaurants and shops in Gourraud seemed reminiscent of the more ‘upper class’ Bangkok nightlife of Royal City Avenue (RCA).
I finally decided on entering a bar called “Porto” where I could see some free places by the bar. It was a strange feeling, entering an unknown bar, in an unfamiliar city, by myself. I could see that the bartender looked a little surprised, most likely at my age and due to the fact that I had arrived alone.
Beside me sat a man in his early twenties with curly dark hair and a lip piercing, drinking a kamikaze. After ordering a Yeterev, one of the specials, I introduced myself to this man. I was dumbfounded at the openness and hospitality he showed towards me. Perhaps I was expecting to receive the same reticence and detachedness that one would likely face in a similar situation in a Western capital like London or Paris.   Mario was a student at the American University of Beirut (AUB). The pierced man was Lebanese but had spent most of his life in Abu Dhabi, now only moving to Beirut for university to study Engineering. I had caught him on his break from studying, as all AUB students were currently mid-exams. His time off soon turned into a pretty heavy night, as we drank cocktail after cocktail, pledging that every drink would be his last. After 7 or 8 cocktails, Mario finally dragged himself home; we exchanged numbers and planned to watch the soon-to-be-starting World Cup together.
Little did I know that my night was far from over. My next few drinks would be shared under the company of a middle-aged Iraqi man, on holiday in Beirut. He had a strong American accent from studying in New York, Washington D.C. and California. Interested in politics, I was eager but tentative to ask for his views on the Iraq war and the problems surrounding the Middle East.
His concerns were more individual, focused more on the local people than on the international issues that I was accustomed to discussing. It was a different approach to what I was used to, but one that would gradually make more and more sense as I talked to locals in the following two weeks.
Not long after we started talking, the man whose name I sadly never received left the bar. I finished my whiskey coke and asked for the bill. At that moment, I overheard four Western looking 30 or so year olds talk about Belgium.
“Did you say Belgium? I’m from Belgium!” I said introducing myself.
I stood up and turned around. With more than a few drinks behind me, my confidence was sky high. They all lived and worked in the United Kingdom, having a beer on their last night in Lebanon.
Charley had a Flemish girlfriend, which explained their interest in Belgium. They invited me to sit down, as we all ordered another Almaza, the local beer. 

The feeling of familiarity, warmth and security had by now far surpassed my anxiety. I walked down the half lit side-street towards Le Mikado, it was 3 am and the four friendly strangers had just gone home. I felt safe, like a tortoise hiding in its rock-hard shell; untouchable and secure. Only my shell was composed of my new experiences, of the irradiating generosity of the local people, of Jamil, Mario, and the Iraqi. I felt safer than I had ever done in London, a city that has one CCTV for every twenty or so people, a city that stands as a beacon of Western capitalism and success. The West was wrong, I thought. This country no longer deserved a reputation of violence and aggression, it was unwarranted, unjust, simply plain wrong-I had witnessed what it was really like, I felt. I wanted to shout out, to instantly share what I had just experienced, to export what to me felt like my discovery.

A hazy Gemmayzeh photo... I guess it reflects my experiences there :)

I call this one the surprise shot. Blurry and out of focus to avoid looking like a complete idiot taking pictures of bottles in a bar

The lads...Don't remember any of their names.

Finding Jamil

We eventually found the car hiding at the back of the parking. I opened the back door and but down my bag.
“You can sit in front with me” said the driver. Soon we were on the highway heading towards central Beirut, passing countless high-rises, the car filled with the sound of Western hip hop. I felt faintly uncomfortable at first, not knowing how to react to his almost comical mood.

“Do you have a map?” He asked persistently, “You must have a map”.
I nodded and from my bag produced my Lonely Planet Guidebook. In it I retrieved the single page that revealed a map of Beirut. It wasn’t much and I felt a little embarrassed as I pointed it out to him, producing a faint smile as if to cover up my diffidence.
“Do you know where you are going?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the road. It struck me that I actually didn’t. I had forgotten the name of the area, and only knew that L’hote Libanais had arranged for the taxi and the Lebanese family I would be staying with.
He smiled and laughed, “Show me where we have to go!”
I could see the man was having fun at my growing confusion as my squinting eyes struggled to find in the dark the whereabouts of our destination. My finger brushed across the page, every once in a while slowing down at a street name that sounded vaguely familiar to a confirmation email I had received weeks before of the address of my hotel.
“Is it by...Rue Hamra?”
“No” he replied bluntly.
“Is it by Rue Charles Helou?”
No answer, so I assumed it was wrong.
I went on recalling a long list of street names and areas, in the end picking them out almost from across the map.
Charles Malek, Downtown, Mar Mitr, Rue Gourraud, Saifi, Achrafiye?! ”
It was like a quiz, our little game to pass the little time we had together. Another guess, another street, another mispronunciation; I was completely clueless.

We soon arrived in a little street just off Charles Malek, and parked the car just next to a little flower shop called “Le Mikado”. It was a fairly narrow street enclosed by apartments at either side, a residential area known as Achrafiyeh. Across the street, at the opening of a large blue painted iron gate stood a small old friendly looking man. His name was Jamil Azar and it was in his home, on the third floor of the apartment block, that I would be staying for the next four days. As we walked up the stairs, he introduced himself and asked about my trip. He was a welcoming and inviting man, with an acute grasp of the English language.

The house itself was beautiful. It was a Lebanese traditional house, spacious and welcoming with large paintings and decorations clinging to the walls of a bright colourful living room, overlooked by two large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. My own room consisted of two single beds with light green sheets, a large cupboard and a little nightstand next to my door, on top of which stood a stunning small Phoenician glass-blown water jug. This had be one of the souvenirs I would take home from Lebanon.

The living room... I know what you're thinking... but sadly no, I am not extremely rich...
I had a budget, and you'll notice how small it was when you see my next hotel.

The jug (which I am now a proud owner of) and my room.

The journalist and the hiding car

Partially disguised by a collection of photocopies and a slim grey Apple laptop, the friendly smile appeared again. Karen was a journalist from London, heading to Beirut for Business. I spent the four hour plane journey discussing Middle Eastern politics with someone that had experienced it firsthand.
“So why exactly has Israel captured and even killed some of the aid workers on the aid ship?” I asked. The flotilla raid was just hot news and I was eager to find out more on the crisis. The mainstream media outlets had far from provided me with a firm understanding of what exactly was happening.
“Well, the Israeli’s claimed that their actions had been in self defence” she began, “that they had performed their actions in Israeli waters”. She carefully chose her words, pausing now and then, attempting to maintain a level of objectivity and balance that respected all sides of the argument.
“But the humanitarian situation in Gaza is a desperate one, and the Israeli blockade and actions are simply unjustified”. She went on explaining the situation, every once in a while interrupted by my questions. About her own job she kept fairly distant, maintaining a certain degree of secrecy, as if sworn by her journalistic instincts not to reveal any details of the mission she was on.

As the automatic doors slid open, I was surprisingly not confronted with a wave of humid thick air I had expected from the Middle East. Beirut stood in front of me, invitingly fresh and hillier than I had anticipated.
I caught sight of a relatively large man, somewhat bald and holding a cardboard sign with my surname on it. I introduced myself and stuck out my hand.
“Only you?” The man looked surprised. This would be the first of many stunned locals at the sight of an eighteen year old tourist wandering the streets of Lebanon by himself. It seemed my friends weren’t the only ones taken back by my holiday choice.
“Where is my car?” He asked. “I’ve lost my car. She’s hiding”. The driver had a funny sense of humour. We spent the next ten minutes searching the car park where his car must have been ‘hiding’... Playing hide and seek with an inanimate object, I could already see this holiday was going to be interesting.

The Dip

“You’ve got four months of holiday this summer. Do something, go somewhere, travel. You’ll never get an opportunity like this again in your life.”
These were the words my father told me, April 2010, Thailand. Four months, 120 days...I thought. A boundless pool of freedom.

I felt a rush of excitement, a distinctive sort of happiness, a mood I only recall feeling as a little boy, opening presents on Christmas day. I’m standing at the gate as a queue slowly starts to form, the plane is boarding. A friendly middle aged white woman smiles at me from the corner of the room. I wonder, is she as eager as I am, what is her reason for boarding this plane, what is her story? I’m curious.
Middle Eastern Airways Flight: ME202
departing to Beirut 13:00 June 2 2010


“What? You’re going to Lebanon? Why?”
“Alone?!”
This was probably the reaction I most frequently faced from friends and family. But who could blame them. It was both random and spontaneous; completely out of the blue.
It was in April that I had decided to go to Lebanon, a place that to me seemed the perfect introduction to the Middle East. The capital, a place full of contradictions, would be the base for my travels. An inviting city with a mix of Western and Eastern cultures and a lively night scene, but also a place with a dark past that could still be seen along the bullet torn buildings scattered around the city. The consoling familiarity of Beirut’s liberal values acted as a portal through which I carefully dipped my toes into an ocean of alien cultures and customs, skimming the surface of a historic yet by no means static civilisation.

Thus it would be from Beirut that I would head north to trek in the Bekaa valley, south to dip in the Mediterranean Sea, and east to explore the archaeological ruins of Baalbek. This was not to say I wouldn’t pit stop at Jeitta Grotto, Byblos and Tripoli, all places I consider major highlights of my trip.