Until Next Time

I'm back in my spot of contemplation as I await my departure from Lebanon. Sitting at the same computer in the Centre d'Affaires in the Cedar Lounge at Beirut International Airport, I always like to take a minute to appreciate my time in Lebanon before boarding my flight to Frankfurt.

There really is nothing else like family. My cousin Raymond said it best this evening as we sat on his balcony looking out over Roumieh. He said that all of us may have different experiences and different viewpoints, but when we sit together we can see something special in each other that runs in our blood. Flatteringly, he remarked how special it is to have a cousin like me that three generations after leaving Lebanon can still feel the spirit of this country and our family. After about 10 days of hearing my cousins say less than loving words about my other country, it was a great feeling to hear Raymond raise a toast "to Lebanon, to the US, and to the greatest cousin in the world."

I don't know if his last comment was quite accurate, but maybe he was talking about someone else. Regardless, it is me that is unbelievably fortunate to have such a large group of distant relatives that so willingly welcome me as part of the family. I am even more fortunate to have an immediate family that is close and truly care for each other, but there is something particularly gratifying about returning to one's roots. The feeling grows stronger as one begins to understand those roots. It is as if the tiny frail ends of a tree root have suddenly found new nourishment and grow strong, wrapping themselves around the source of this nourishment.

My younger cousin, Jean Charbel, Raymond's son, asked me today if I would stay in Lebanon forever. "Why you have to go back? Stay here. We have many universities in Lebanon." I promised him that I would try to come back next summer, but he insisted that next month would be better. The prophetic youth then told me that someday I would live in Lebanon with a beautiful wife and a happy family. I told him that I would like that very much.

So here I am again with such mixed feelings, preparing to leave one home to return to another. Each time I visit Lebanon, I become a little more aware of the country's shortcomings and the difficulties of living in a place like this, but at the same time, I grow more and more attached to the people and the culture. There is no problem or defect that Lebanon could ever have that could sever my love for this country. It is a place like no other, and it will always be part of me.

For tonight, Lebanon, I say, "Until next time."

Home

Sitting by the old stone church surrounded by family and friends, I watched the sunset behind the alter as the choir sang the movingly melancholic songs of a Maronite mass honoring St. John. I feel a sense of peace in the midst of this chaotic land of conflict and prejudice. Why is it that I feel so comfortable in a place full of so many problems? I feel at home. I feel a sense of belonging that is somewhat inexplicable. Three generations before me, my great-grandfather left this land to find a better life. I am so far removed from this place, and yet it is a part of me that I can't escape. Whatever part of Lebanon flows through my blood, its influence over me grows stronger with every moment I am here.

Despite the innumerable problems that Lebanon faces on a daily basis, there is something enchanting about this country and its people. They are a people that find it so easy to hate, both others and themselves, and yet they are a people so warm and hospitable that it is often difficult for an outsider to comprehend. Lebanon is a country of constant contradictions, but that is part of the intrigue.

I am a very lucky person because I feel as if I have so many homes. I was born and raised in North Carolina, and it is clearly my home by definition, but I feel at home in so many other places. After four years living in Austria, it is easy to understand why I feel at home there; I know my way around, I understand the language perfectly, I sometimes speak the language well, I have great friends there, and I feel comfortable there. I am also at home in Lebanon, the land of my ancestors. My family's history in Lebanon has brought the country close to my heart, and I will always consider it one of my homes. I have also spent over 10 years traveling regularly to Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia & Hercegovina. Despite having no real connections there other than some of my best friends, I feel at home in those far off countries.

I recognize how lucky I am to feel at home in so many places because I have seen the pain of those that are forced to live somewhere that they don't feel at home. On this visit to Lebanon, I have been working with an organization helping to resettle Iraqi refugees. I had the honor of interviewing a young woman from Iraq that is living here in Lebanon while waiting to be resettled with her husband in the states. Her life and the lives of her family were threatened in Iraq, so she has a genuine fear that may prevent her from ever seeing her real home again. She lives in Lebanon, a country that she admits is beautiful, but she does not have a home here. Many factors keep her from feeling any comfort or sense of belonging here. I wish I could explain the sadness that this woman feels living here, separated from her husband by bureaucracy, but it is something you can only appreciate by seeing it in her eyes and hearing it in her voice.

There are so many people in this world that have no home or have been forced out of their homes. I am thankful in so many ways that I have been blessed with so many homes.

A Treatise on Middle Eastern Driving Habits

The following text deals primarily with the norms of traffic and driving in the Republic of Lebanon, however, examples are also taken from Iraq, Syria and Jordan where noted. Driving in the Middle East requires a select set of skills, the most important of which is awareness. Traffic functions differently in this region, and one should take note of some of the many differences explained herein.

- Most roads do not have painted lines, and when they do, they are merely suggestions of lanes, not regulatory markings meant to be followed. Two lane roads can easily become three or even four lane roads with a little precision driving. This is particularly important to note during heavy traffic when extra lanes are most likely to appear in order to increase the slow yet smooth movement of vehicles.

- Much like painted lines on the highway, most regulatory signs are also merely placed for encouragement. One-way roads are two way as long as there is room for two cars to fit. Going the wrong direction on major highways is perfectly acceptable if it is the closest route to your destination - stay as far to the left as possible and flash your lights at every passing car just to ensure their awareness of your position.

- The use of car horns is obligatory as an aid to other drivers. If someone is nearing your position on the road, give two gentle toots to alert the approaching driver. When driving past the home or workplace of a friend or family member, give a toot as a friendly greeting. On blind curves, it is advisable to honk once, especially if you are towards the center of the road or even completely within your own ‘lane’ - this is a warning for opposing drivers to merge slightly to the correct side of the road. Short blasts of the horn are always helpful tones with no negative or confrontational connotation whatsoever. One long loud honk, however, is a sign of anger and frustration - you are advised to remedy the situation immediately.

- Speed bumps can appear with little or no marking at the most random of locations. Always be prepared to brake suddenly or gain some minor degree of air time. In the case of Iraq, pay attention to other drivers for signs of an approaching speed bump - any speed less than 160 kph (100 mph) probably means there is either traffic or a speed bump.

- Military checkpoints should not be frightening, and they certainly don’t indicate a significant delay in your journey. Approach the soldier slowly with your window down and interior lights on if driving at night. A general greeting, wave of the hand and a thank you are all that are required of you for a quick pass through the checkpoint. Only prepare your ID or documents if asked. Even if your hosts demonstrate otherwise, it is always inadvisable to threaten to run over a soldier at a checkpoint. If the checkpoint has no barricades, no flags and no uniforms, it is probably not a checkpoint at all, rather militia members offering propaganda in exchange for donations - feel free to engage in conversation and/or negotiation.

- In Jordan, it is perfectly normal to see a smiling camel riding in the back of a pick-up truck.

- Popular opinion, or at least that of my cousin Mounira, suggests that having to stop for a herd of sheep or goats crossing the road is good luck, and one should unroll the window and inhale the scent of real life.

- Do NOT, however, inhale the air from any tunnels. Air circulation is not common and fumes can be noxious.

- Most cars in the Middle East are programmed to start an electronic beeping from the dashboard when the speed of the vehicle reaches 120 kph (75 mph). This appears to be more for the annoyance of all passengers than a warning to the driver of dangerous speeds. The exception to this appears to be in Jordan, where traffic police are abundant, and speed limits appear to be strictly enforced. If renting a car in the region, avoid Volvos if you have a lead foot, the high pitched tone of the warning is loud and ear-piercing - damn Swedes.

- One must always watch for the heads of customs officers popping out of the ground at border crossings. At the Syrian-Jordanian border in Jaber, customs agents stand in holes in the ground in order to tap the bottoms of automobiles as they pass over head to make sure nothing is hidden in one of the underside tanks. Don’t drive too fast through the border, lest you inadvertently decapitate a state official (something that certainly can’t be good). It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it… I guess.

- If a road appears to be just wide enough for a golf cart to pass through, it is probably still meant for two way traffic, unless it is located in a city, in which case there will probably be too many cars parked on the sidewalk to allow two way traffic.

- The following are the expected best practices for crossing through an intersection with a traffic light. Green means slow down and check for people running red lights. Yellow is just a color added to the signal for excitement and has no real meaning. Red means slow to an almost complete stop but accelerate again if there is no cross traffic. When turning right on a red light, it is possible that you will cause an accident if you stop completely; proceed slowly into the oncoming traffic.

- In most countries, traffic circles are used instead of traffic lights to allow smooth transit through an intersection for traffic approaching from all directions with the simple rule of yielding to traffic already in the circle. In the Middle East, however, traffic circles are often an excuse to install even more traffic lights, as lights are needed for entering the circle as well as proceeding around the circle.

- Pedestrian crossings are few and far between, so pedestrians seldom use them and cars seldom respect them. Always watch for pedestrians in the road. If you see an outstretched palm facing you with a slight incline, this is a polite request to slow or stop for the crossing pedestrian.

- To signal another driver to slow down or stop, clinch the finger tips of one hand together with your palm facing upwards and move your hand slightly in a downward direction.

- Turn signals are a sign of earnest desire or necessity to move in a particular direction. They should not be used in occasions when you should be able to proceed with little hindrance, but will generally earn you either a warning toot or space to proceed with caution when used properly. If other vehicles do not seem to be respecting your turn signal, open your window and start flopping your hand up and down - this is a signal to other drivers that something drastic is about to occur.

- Beware of flopping hands.

Taxi to another planet

I spent my last days in Lebanon enjoying life in Roumieh, talking and eating with family and hanging out a bit with some of the local couchsurfers. My birthday was on the 8th, and there was a bit of confusion around the whole thing, but it ended up being a couple great days of celebrating. Originally, I thought that we might do a dinner at Jean's place, but I later found out that Jean didn't know it was my birthday and was having poker night at his place. The girls all knew about my birthday and wanted to take me down to Beirut for Chinese food, but I had already invited a few Couchsurfers up to Roumieh, so I aked if they would join us at Jeddo Mike's restaurant. Unfortunately, a friend of the family had passed away a couple days earlier, and no one wanted to be seen at a restaurant in the village on the day of the funeral. When all was said and done, four couchsurfers came to join me for dinner, and we had a nice quiet evening.

Thursday night, I went down to Chopstix for Chinese with the girls. The restaurant had relocated and was very nice, and I enjoyed the food, but Mounira wasn't so easily pleased. I agree that the restaurant was a little chilly when we came in, but Mounira insisted that it was colder than her refridgerator inside, and that she was going to need Panadol all night long. She also didn't like the food, but that's no surprise. The last time I went to Chopstix with her, she said she hated Chinese food, Lebanese food was the best and she was never going back to that restaurant again. The story goes much the same way this time around. She said, "In 10 years, when Chris is 50, maybe I will come back." I don't know when she decided I was 40, but we had a good laugh and made bets on how many days Mounira would be saying the same things about the restaurant.

On Friday, I stayed in Roumieh all day, and then I went down to say hi to Raymond, Rita and whoever else might be around before heading to Beirut for the evening. The couchsurfers had arranged an evening out in Ashrafieh for my last day in Lebanon, and we had a great time. Several of the Lebanese CSers showed up, along with a girl from Italy, her boyfriend from Denmark and about 4 or 5 Germans. I decided that the Charlotte CS group needs to up their productivity when the Lebanese started posting for their next events while still sipping beers at the current event. It was a fantastic evening, and Mazen gave me a ride home and offered a lullaby for the price of a taxi - I forgot to pay him, so no song for me.

Louis joined Jean, the girls and me for lunch on Saturday, and then we waited along with some more cousins for my taxi to Damascus to show up. A round of goodbyes, and I was off with my driver Emile to Syria. I helped Emile with directions to the top of the mountain, and then he took over saying he knew a faster way to the border. Emile didn't speak any English, but we managed just fine in Arabic. There was a wedding in Fallugha that afternoon, and it took us a while to get through the traffic, but eventually we made it down to the valley, past Aanjar and to the border. On our way down the curvy mountain roads, however, Emile already had me filling out my exit card for Lebanon and entry card for Syria, which is probably the closest I have ever come to getting car sick. I managed though.

Crossing land borders in the Middle East is very different from what I am used to in Europe. There was a lot of traffic at the border, so Emile told me to jump out and go inside to have my passport stamped. Apparently, I'm not quite Lebanese enough to know how to get my passport to the front of the foreigners line at the border, so when he found a parking space, Emile ran in and pushed me forward until my passport was stamped. Back in the car, we had our IDs checked one last time before we officially left Lebanese territory.

In the past, I've always left Lebanon by plane, and I missed my opportunity at the airport to sit in the Cedar Lounge and reminisce about my time in the country of my ancestors. I still feel a special connection with Lebanon, and it was just as emotional leaving by the road over the anti-Lebanon mountain range as it is flying over the lights of Beirut in the early morning. The longest border crossing I have ever seen by far, they give you a good 2-3 miles to reconsider before officially entering Syria. I kept looking around, and Emile told me, "No more Lebanon," and I told him simply that I love Lebanon.

Just in case you were wondering, there is, in fact, a Dunkin Donuts between Lebanon and Syria, and they must do a decent business because every taxi that crosses the border stops there to shop at the adjacent duty free store. When Emile asked me if I wanted to stop at the Duty Free store, I said no, but he stopped anyway and left me in the car. He came back with multiple bags full of cigarettes and a smile.

Up the road at the Syrian border office, I went inside to wait in another ridiculously long and unorganized line. This time though, my Lebanese heritage stepped forward, and I squeezed past all the Kuwaitis that kept jumping pointlessly from line to line, and I forced myself up to the window where held my passport firmly in place on the counter until the border officer finished with the six other passports that had already been shoved in his face. The Syrian entry card is the length of a short story, and I had filled it out in detail. Rather than read this obnoxious piece of bureaucracy, the border guard asked me every question on the card again, double checked my Syrian visa and then sent me on my way. Emile was relieved that I had a visa because he said recently the Syrians have been holding Americans trying to get a visa at the border for 6 or more hours, and then you still only have a chance of getting through.

Across the border, Syrian flags fluttered wildly in the fresh breeze from the mountains of Lebanon. The angular faces of Assad, senior and junior, stared into the distance frequently from billboards and signposts. It was immediately obvious that the roads in Syria were better than in Lebanon, but I guess that's the benefit of not having to endure 30 years of war. I pulled up to the Four Seasons in Damascus and was almost pathetically excited. Life in the village is fantastic, but it's no Four Seasons. Emile overcharged me for the taxi ride by $40, but I pointed out the discrepancy to him, he said I was wrong, and I dropped the issue. He was a very nice guy, so I just wrote off the extra charge as three hours of conversational Arabic lessons.

"Chillout" Party in the Mountains

Last night, I was invited to a couchsurfing party at someone's home up in the mountains above Jbeil (Byblos). I am always impressed by the grandiose interpretations the Lebanese choose when planning a party. This particular affair was dubbed a "Chillout Saj Night", Saj being a typical Lebanese bread used to make sandwiches. Before heading north, I made a quick stop in Beirut to pick up a Dutch couchsurfer, Jip, whom I had met a week or so earlier. Together we headed towards Jab el Dib with the intention of meeting some other Couchsurfers so that we could follow each other to the party.

Despite being sure of where we were headed, I managed to drive right past the meeting point, and traffic on the other side of the highway was far too bad to turn around. Instead, we called Roy and arranged another meeting point. I only noticed Roy's car at first, so I kept passing this little green car that for some annoying reason insisted on being behind Roy. After being a bit of a jerk for a while, I finally realized that he was with our group. Ooops.

We picked up another car along the way, and eventually arrived at a beautiful home in the mountains completely decked out for an incredible evening under the stars. The food was excellent, our hosts even better. The music was a bit loud for conversation, but it was perfect for dancing, so the group danced the night away. The American in me would never dream of calling such a gathering a "Chillout" party, but I suppose by Lebanese standards, it was pretty relaxing.

It was on the way home, late in the evening, that I realized just how great some of the Lebanese signs are. Two of my favorites belong to the chain of crepe restaurants "Crepaway", which you must pronounce with a French accent but with an English mind to really enjoy.

- "Right here, Crepaway"
- "Come as you are, Crepaway"

But last night, I became partial to the sign for Roadside Diner:

"Roadside Diner - There goes your heart."

What's not to love about this country?

Right into the Danger Zone

My friend Patrick just left Lebanon last night after a solid week of exploring the country. I had a great time going all over the place and enjoying the beauty of this amazing country, but I'm happy to sit back and relax again in the village.

On Saturday, we started the morning with a drive up to Beit Meri and the ruins at Deir el Qalaa. I had signed us both up for a walking tour of Beirut, which was a little more of an undertaking than I had anticipated. We met our guide, Ronnie, at the entrance of AUB, and then started what turned out to be a 5.5 hour tour of the city. Quite possibly the longest walking tour I have ever taken, it was well worth it, and I finally feel like I really know the different neighborhoods of Beirut. While walking, everyone kept asking about a very distinct popping noise echoing through the city. I just said "probably" when Paddy asked if it was construction going on. Ronnie, however, revealed the truth when one of the Solidere security guards in town told the group, "Watch out for falling metal." The parliament had confirmed the election of Saad Hariri as Prime Minister that afternoon, and March 14th supporters were shooting guns in the air in celebratory fashion. I suppose it just adds to the atmosphere.

A little more than half-way through the tour, we stopped for a drink in Saifi Village, and I ran into my friend Mohamad, confirming that Beirut really is a small place. It was very interesting checking out the old Beirut Synagogue downtown. It is in dire need of maintenance, but it made it through all of the wars and conflicts largely unscathed (ironically, the Israelis actually destroyed the roof while shelling in 1982), and it sits in quiet witness of the historical openness and diversity of Lebanon.

One of our fellow walkers was a young lady from Ireland that managed to improve on the commentary in almost every stop. In front of the newly opened Syrian embassy in Beirut, she said, "That's the cleanest Syrian flag I've ever seen. They don't make 'em that clean in Syria - must be a Lebanese thing."

Standing in Martyrs Square looking over at the burial site of Hariri outside the massive mosque his money built, our Irish friend said, "They killed the man and put him in a tent! I don't want a tent. Seems they could do better than that."

Even in front of the statue of an assasinated journalist, her honesty brought on some laughter. "What was this fellow's name?"
"Samir Assir"
"Well that's a stupid name."

Having enjoyed each other's company for almost half of the day, the whole group decided to go out to dinner together in a small restaurant in Hamra, and it was a great meal with great conversation.

Sunday was an easy day with lunch at Isabelle's and then a quick jaunt up to Harissa and Notre Dame du Liban. Paddy, Mounira and I even stuck around for mass in the Basilica before heading home. On Monday, I had intended to take Paddy to the Jeita Grotto and the Khalil Gibran museum, but it turns out that both of those sites are closed on Mondays. I suppose I failed the tour guide test on that one, but we still packed a lot into one day. We visited the convent at Sayedti an-Nouriyeh, the Monestary of St. Antoine Qozhaya, had lunch in Bscharre and then made our way to the Cedars. It was a bit cloudy in Wadi Qadisha and up at the Cedars, so the views weren't as stunning as they could have been. Feeling a bit adventurous, I decided that instead of backtracking to the highway, we would take the small road over the second highest peak in the Middle East and into the Bekaa. As we climbed to almost 3,000 meters in altitude, we made it above the cloudline and had an incredible view of the Bekaa valley on one side and the fluffy white clouds on the other. The cool crisp fresh air and the patches of snow were too much to resist, and we spent quite a while enjoying the peak. After a couple of hours of dodging holes in the roads of the Bekaa, we got a little lost in Zahle looking for the road back over the mountain to Roumieh, but eventually we found it and made it to dinner a couple hours late.

The next day, we took it easy in the morning and then went to Jeita and Byblos in the afternoon. I became an unofficial guide at the caves not only for Paddy, but also for the two other Americans there that afternoon. In the evening, we had dinner at a Japanese-Italian restaurant in downtown Beirut. I think Paddy got it right when he said, "Look, they're already apologizing, the restaurant's name is Scoozi." The food was fine, but nothing more - I just couldn't turn down a chance to eat at such a random establishment. After dinner, we had a drink at El Gardel in the Gemmayze neighborhood, known for their bars and pubs. Once we realized that we were there on French music night, we moved down the street to a very traditional little coffee house/restaurant where we smoked Arguileh and listened to some live music. The performers played classic songs from the Arab world as the audience clapped and/or danced along.

Yesterday, we ended up going down to the South to check out the Roman ruins in Tyre. We ate some Knefe at Al Baba sweets in Saida on the way down, and then continued into Hizbollah territory. As we were exiting the highway into Tyre, I stopped for some guys handing out propoganda on the street. They were offering commemorative booklets on Hizbollah's victory in the 2006 war with Israel in exchange for donations. It was a small booklet, but it was full of photos and information from the conflict, and I was really curious to get a chance to look through it. Unfortunately, the USD$2 I was willing to offer for it was not enough for the guy I was negotiating with, and my Arabic skills were too limited to push the issue further. When he was trying to get me to give him $5 and offering to give me change for larger bills, I was having difficulty understanding, and instead of saying "I don't understand," I kept repeating to him, "You don't understand, you don't understand." He was a little confused but thought he didn't understand how much I wanted the book. Finally, I gave up, and drove off without my book. Just as well, I suppose; making donations to Hizbollah is frowned upon where I come from.

As we were leaving Tyre, we managed to catch the song "Danger Zone" from Top Gun on the radio, and we couldn't resist turning it up to add to the atmosphere of the UN tanks and Lebanese Army checkpoints along with the larger than life cardboard cutouts of Hassan Nasrallah and Hizbollah flags. Passing through Saida again, we stopped for a sandwich and to load up on sweets before returning to Roumieh. We ended the day with a great dinner at Jeddo Mike's, and enjoyed his stories.

This really is a spectacular place, and some day, I hope, they will find a way to live in peace and prosperity.

Feast of St. John

I'm still enjoying a relaxing week in Roumieh with very little activity, and I have embraced it knowing that my friend Patrick is arriving on Friday night, so we'll have lots of touring to do together. Yesterday, I did make it down to Beirut for coffee with a classmate from the LFB program at IMD in Switzerland, which was great. We got caught up a little bit, discussed business and family, enjoyed some refreshing drinks and agreed to meet up again before I leave Lebanon.

Today is the feast of St. John the Baptist (Mar Youhanna), and he happens to be one of the patron saints of Roumieh, so every year they have a big mass down at the old Mar Youhanna church down the mountain. I went down with some of the cousins to celebrate the mass, and it was a beautiful way to spend the evening. People native to Roumieh from near and far came for the mass, and the choir had practiced for weeks for the occasion. Nassif and his fiancee were the star performers, and their voices were exquisite. Hearing the old style music, while the sun was setting in the distance and the priest honored St. John, was wonderful.

Following mass, everyone gathered to enjoy freshly baked cakes, sweets and manoushe. After a while, Mounira and I decided to walk back up to her place, which was a more intense hike than I had anticipated, but I suppose I had to make some sort of pilgrimage in reverence to St. John. Of course, half of the village stopped their cars on the way up to offer us a ride, but I, perhaps stupidly, insisted on walking. By the time we made it to Mounira's, I stopped for a glass of water and then continued home because I was in dire need of an ice cold shower. Only moments away from heat stroke, I was home, cooling off and preparing for an early night.

Relaxing in the Village

After a month of traveling, it's nice to just sit back and relax for a bit. I keep saying that I'm going to go somewhere, but I haven't left Roumieh since I got here on Friday. It's just too easy to sit outside in the mountain breeze, sip some Turkish coffee and enjoy the simple things in life. Besides, time with family is never dull.

One of the funniest things I think I have ever heard was said over coffee yesterday afternoon. The usual conversational twists and turns that start with domestic Lebanese politics, then lead to the Palestinians and eventually Israel and the West, ended up with a mention of the holocaust. Someone said, "Hitler not only wanted to kill the Jews; he also didn't like Gypsies, Muslims and short people."

"Yes, akeed, during the war, we were very afraid of Hitler in Roumieh because we have too many short people."

You never know what you're going to hear next in this place.

Natasa, Borut and Grega all were hoping to come to Lebanon while I am here, but for various reasons, none of them could make it. Another friend, Patrick, decided to come next weekend though, so I get to do some touring afterall. With that guarantee of being forced out of the village coming up, for now, I'm going to take advantage of some quality relaxation.