This is the first country where we’ve hitchhiked, and we’ve hitchhiked several times while here—in the snow-capped mountains of north and in the dry hills of the south. Muslims and Christians alike often seem to be offering a taste of baklava, a loaf of bread, or a lift up the street. One young Lebanese gave us a ride to our hotel, then picked us up an hour later with his girlfriend and treated us to mezze and local wine at a Lebanese vineyard.
Another day, we were in the mountains touring the mosaic-covered Beittedine Palace, built by the secretive Druze sect of Shiite Muslims. It overlooked a red and brown valley. A Druze man working at Beittedine Palace explained the faith’s refusal to proselytize and holistic approach to belief, incorporating aspects of Christianity and Islam. Many of the church’s ancient mosaic tiles depicted scenes from nature, like an elegant female deer or two fighting male bucks.
Afterward, as we walked down the winding mountain road toward the highway for the 20-mile ride north to Beirut, a red car stopped beside us. A tall, tanned, hairy Lebanese man sat at the wheel. “Where to?” he asked in so many words. “Up that way,” we replied, and off we three sped.
He insisted on bringing us to a nearby lookout point where, across the valley, we could see the dark outline of Lebanon’s iconic Cedar forest. This is the only Middle Eastern country where the tree grows, and it’s become a symbol of the nation. A green Cedar is on Lebanon’s flag, flanked above and below by red stripes: green and red, the thematic colors of Christmas, birthday of a man revered by both Muslims and Christians—the former believes he was a prophet, while the latter believes he was the messiah.
Looking out over the valley caused us to miss our ride to Beirut. So our Lebanese friend stepped on the gas, zoomed down the hillside, weaved between lanes of traffic, and waved down the bus. He was a typical Lebanese driver, like our taxi or minibus drivers, disregarding speed limits and lane lines.
But we always felt safe while traveling here, even in areas controlled by Hezbollah—a terrorist organization, according to Washington, D.C. Yellow Hezbollah flags waved from light poles in the eastern town of Baalbek and in the southern city of Tyre—from where rockets are periodically launched into Israel—and Hezbollah president Hassan Nassrallah’s face adorned posters everywhere.
Street vendors sold yellow t-shirts bearing Roman colonnades and also the Hezbollah emblem: an upraised arm holding an automatic rifle. A giant cardboard cutout of Nassrallah stood atop a real tank at the entrance to Baalbek—site of arguably the most impressive Roman ruins in the Middle East.
One of Hezbollah’s goals is the foundation of a Palestinian state. An estimated 500,000 Palestinians live in refugee camps in Lebanon. In Beirut, with a Frenchman who lives there, we visited one of the camps and smoked nargileh with the Palestinians, down the street from a small park dedicated to the 1982 Sebreneca massacre when the Israeli military and Lebanese Christians killed thousands of Palestinians. Posters of Yasser Arafat hung between rundown tenement buildings.
Aside those in the Palestinian refugee camp, nobody in Lebanon appeared poor. I hadn’t expected such a modern, wealthy country. The cities were tidy and filled with luxury cars and restaurants. In less than two weeks here, we spent as much as we spent during four weeks in India. Basic coffee cost $2 (compared to $0.25 in India), cheap hotels cost $30 (compared to $5 in India), and the average backpacker meal cost $10 (compared to $3 in India). The average citizen owns a Mercedes, Volvo or BMW. We noticed them everywhere as we drove into Beirut from the airport on arrival. And then we noticed another symbol of Western opulence: a toilet seat, and unlimited toilet paper.
Back in China and Cambodia, a hose (affectionately called “the butt gun”) was installed beside most squat toilets, used to spray waste away. In Nepal and India, however, the bathrooms lacked even a butt gun. At best, a bucket sat on the floor, used to splash water over the anus and to remove any residue. Soap, or a bathroom sink, was rare. As a result, we think, we suffered stomach problems.
“I’m happy to be back in a place where the people wipe,” Claire said when we arrived in Beirut. And I was happy to be in the promised land of olive groves, falafel, shawarma, hummus, babbaganouj, and strong coffee brewed Turkish style—the grinds boiled over a flame and then poured into a small cup.
Like strong coffee, ancient ruins are ubiquitous in the region. Centuries-old acropolises and Roman baths poke out in every city. Acres of prime land in the middle of Beirut are roped off because construction crews have found new archeological sites. The Biblical Road to Damascus, the same road the Apostle Paul walked, runs straight through the middle of the city. It was the dividing line between Muslim and Christian neighborhoods during Lebanon’s 15-year civil war, which only ended in 1992.
Evidence of the fighting was easiest seen in what you could not see. Souqs, or old, covered markets, are central fixture’s in Lebanon’s cities. But downtown Beirut was devastated during the war, and today there are no signs of the original souq that once vibrated with grocers and traders. The area has been rebuilt as a luxury shopping center with Louis Vuitton and Starbucks.
We spent an afternoon with a family who lived through that bloody period. In Zhgarta, in northern Lebanon, which is renowned for sweets such as baklava and kanafe (a warm breaded cheese dripping with sugar), we ate lunch with Hanna and his American wife Charlotte. Their three children live in the United States, and one attended Boston University with a high school friend of mine, which is how we all met. Once in the 1980s, Charlotte was driving home from a friend’s backyard swimming pool. Her daughter sat in the passengers’ seat, her two sons sat in the back. A bomb screeched down and exploded in the field next to the road. Charlotte said her daughter was at first unfazed, but then started crying when she saw her mother’s shock.
Despite all the devastation, I said to Hanna, people here seem so generous. I told him how we’d hitchhiked a bit, and even how the famous owner of Hallab Brothers patisserie in Tripoli refused to let us pay for our orders of baklava and coffee. (Here are two photos from Hallab Brothers.)
“The people seem to like Americans,” I said.
“No, actually they all hate Americans,” Hanna said.
“What? But they’re so nice to us!” I said. “And when we say we’re American, they reply, ‘You are welcome.’”
“They’re lying.”
Then Hanna sent us to Syria with three dozen pistachio-stuffed baklava.
