Entering Lebanon

Sitting on a balcony gazing across a lush valley of farms sitting between two mountain ranges running north-south, I eavesdropped over French-speaking tourists sipping chilled white wine from local vineyards. Breezy but warm with constant sun, I counted three Hummer H3's pass by on the main street below. I could have been in Napa, were it not for the yellow and green Kalishnikov-branded Hezbollah flags flapping everywhere, and pictures of martyrs hanging on all the street lamps. And in between my hotel balcony and the farms are ancient Roman ruins cut from some of the largest stones found anywhere on Earth. No, I'm not in Napa. I'm in the Bekaa Valley in eastern Lebanon, home to the Party of God, the Baalbek ruins, wine country, Lebanon's cannabis production, and frequent power outages. This place is quite a cocktail.

I entered Lebanon from Syria in the north, via one of the four possible border checkpoints between the two countries. The border crossing experience was similar to my previous experiences from years ago: suddenly there are extra fees and surcharges not mentioned in any guidebook or website. After about 15 minutes of arguing, complaining, flattering, outright lying, admonishing, reciting poetry, and declaiming in formal Arabic about how a guest must be treated as a gift of God and not a dog in the street, I went from paying $100 for a 2-week visa to paying nothing for a 1-month visa. I gave both sides about $2 in baksheesh and on we went.

The first image that gripped me as we rocketed southward through the Bekaa was the mountain ranges on each side: the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon ranges. To the west, high atop one of the peaks, I saw snow! The ancient taxi swayed from side to side as the constant strong wind from the West pushed us sideways. The northern part of the valley is fairly sparse, but every tree I saw slanted decidedly to the East. If I were a better writer, I suppose I would try to make a metaphor out of the effect of this relentless pressure from the West, but I won't beat that poor horse any further.

I arrived at the infamous Palmyra hotel, headquarters to the Germans in WWI, and the British in WWII. The place is enormous, grand, full of relics, faded, and certainly haunted. The theme song from "The Addams Family" popped into my head: "Their house is a museum: When people come to see 'em, it really is a scre-am, the Addams family!"

Even though Hezbollah is a bona fide political party here in Lebanon with seats in government and a local reputation for increasing social welfare, I am used to seeing either an Elephant or a Donkey on a political party's flag, not an assault rifle gripped in a fist. And I guess from whatever I've gotten out of newscasts and books, I associate Hezbollah with extremism and violence toward the West. I walked up to a guy selling Hezbollah T-shirts and after a few cups of tea and idle chitchat, I asked him point blank if I was going to run into any problems here in the Bekaa as an American wandering around snapping photos. I have since had the following conversation several times here in the Bekaa, and it goes like this:

(Translated from Arabic)

Me: Am I safe here in the Bekaa?

Hezbollah Dude: Absolutely. My house is your house. We have a huge problem with American policy toward Israel, but not with American people. We have Christians, Sunni, Shiite, and all kinds of foreigners here in the Bekaa, and everyone lives side by side and gets along fine.

Me: So it's safe for me here?

Hezbollah Dude: Sure. The place has been quiet and safe since Israel left two years ago. By the way, can you get me a visa to come live in America? And a job, too? I have a cousin in Detroit. I love Arnold the Terminator!

Me: You are of course aware that he is now governor of the State of California?

Hezbollah Dude: Yeah right! You Americans and your jokes!

By sheer serendipity, I happened to be in Baalbek at the time of their annual arts festival, hosted amidst the walls of the ruins. I'm reluctant to even call them ruins, since that usually implies a handful of stones spread across an acre of remote desolate land, accompanied by a plaque containing a sketch of what the place probably looked like back in the day, and a description that invariably begins with "Imagine the splendor that once was!". In Baalbek, imagination is not required. The place is epic and the stuff of legend, cut from blocks the size of a New York apartment. Last night it hosted a concert featuring the Tania Maria Quartet from Brazil. I had not heard of her, but when in Roman ruins....

Lots of Lebanese from this area fled to Brazil during Druze-Christian fighting a century ago, so about half-way through the concert, Brazilian flags came out in force, and the Temple of Jupiter rocked with Mas que Nada under the light of a full moon.

Last fall I was featured on GloboTV, Brazil's largest news channel, and at the time I thought it odd that Brazil would care so much about Arabic. Now I see why.