Guns and bloody serious moustaches, welcome to Lebanon.
If you had been asleep for the past 100 years and had no knowledge of the tensions in the middle east, you would realise that all was not daffodils and bunny rabbits when you handed over your UK passport at Istanbul airport and in answer to the prompt, ‘destination’, answered Beirut!
To be honest I expected a reaction of some sort, I was the only person not wearing some form of traditional Arab dress, travelling on a British passport about to board a flight to a country firmly on the UK government’s, black list.
And I was equipped for hiking.
Thankfully, whilst in Şalniurfa, I had been advised by a member of the banned Kurdistan Worker’s Party, PKK, that I should arrive at the airport at least three hours earlier than planned, and should be prepared to answer lots of questions.
Ah yes! I haven't mentioned the PKK yet have I? I'll tell you all about that in another chapter!
I chuckled as I was shown towards the, what was beginning to become familiar, aluminium sheeting clad, windowless door that I was learning, led to a similarly shopfitted room.
Aluminium sheeting clad, windowless, 1 x stainless steel table, 2 x stainless steel chairs.
I was asked to unpack my kit, explain what many of the items were and satisfy my interviewer that I was exactly what I climbed to be. A harmless adventurer, collecting memories and stories, to be told later in a book.
The poor chap was bored shitless and more interested in the different t-shirts that I’d had made for the trip. In all honesty he was never going to be a belligerent interviewer. His moustache told me as much the second I met him.
Full? Yes.
Neat? Yes.
Where it was lacking was bristleability.
Unlike his counterpart at Şanliurfa airport, this man’s moustache hadn’t yet become self aware!
This was possibly due to the fact that, as I was beginning to notice, he can’t have been older than 22.
Old enough to take his job relatively seriously, but young enough to still be dreaming of performing heroics for his country on the battlefield!
He wouldn't be producing the thumb screws and car battery today.
Result!
We actually had a really interesting conversation about a few of the places on my itinerary. Apart from speaking excellent English, the young man had a genuine interest in the world we live in and told me that he had always wanted to visit the Great Pyramid.
As he helped me load my kit onto an airport trolley, he confirmed that my Facebook page was named The South African!
The transit area at Istanbul is fairly basic so I grabbed a coffee, settled back into a comfy seat and pulled out my copy of Meditations, by Marcus Aurealius, a bon voyage gift from my son and started to read The Emperor's thoughts on leaving a legacy.
A collective groan made me look up and straight away I realised the reason for my fellow travellers exasperation;
-the departure board had turned red.
-we all knew what this meant.
The two Turkish airlines staff who as if by magic appeared with a complimentary refreshments trolley that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a trendy Covent Garden tea room, confirmed what we already, sadly, suspected. Airspace across the entire region was closed due the ongoing events in the area.
Some humans were trying to kill some other humans. No doubt for the same ridiculous reasons as usual. Either;
Made up lines on a map.
Whose ‘invisible man in the sky’ was best
War is profitable.
Maybe Marcus Auraelius is right? He frequently uses the analogy of warfare to describe the human condition. Regarding life as a continuous struggle against internal and external obstacles, requiring constant vigilance and effort.
Perhaps we are programmed for perpetual war.
Fuck that!
It's time to break the cycle.
Simunye! We are One.
I’ll have the pistachio and coffee cake please.
I was the object of keen interest on the less than half empty flight into Beirut International and spent the, roughly, next two hours chatting to my fellow passengers, hoping I would remember all the incredible sounding places they told me about.
Whether I would or not, my first impressions of Lebanese people were friendly and welcoming.
Lets see how friendly and welcoming the customs and immigration officials are?
Turns out.
Very friendly and welcoming!
At least the welcome team were and as I approached the desk under the foreigners sign. (Arabic and English are both official languages in Lebanon and the airport signs are dual language) I was in a good mood.
Guns.
Moustaches.
Bloody serious moustaches.
I was beginning to sense another aluminium sheeting clad, windowless room containing a stainless steel table and two matching stainless steel chairs.
Guns and bloody serious moustaches, welcome to Lebanon.
Which is exactly what the moustachioed, gun toting, Lebanese immigration staff stood behind the desk’s first words to me were. Minus the bit about guns and moustaches, serious, lighthearted or otherwise.
You’ve all seen the movie right?
A packed airport in an unnamed middle eastern country. Hot, sweating, angry looking officials,ceiling fans whirring, guns everywhere and nervous looking westerners, being interrogated by menacing looking men wearing aviator style sunglasses.
Beirut international airport is nothing like that!
Yes there were guns.
A lot of guns.
Ask yourself the reason.
They were being carried,not brandished.
I’d soon learn the distinction!
The two men were neither hot and sweaty nor menacing looking.
They looked suave.
Suave and beautiful.
Suave and beautiful and smiling.
I’ll take that any day!
Now whether it was because, on my entry form, in the box marked, occupation I’d written journalist / author, or whether it was due to the obviously heightened state of alert in the country or simply that the two young men were incredibly diligent, we spent 2 hours together in the room they ushered me into.
An aluminium sheeting panelled, windowless room containing 1x stainless steel table and 2x matching stainless steel chairs.
I was also given bottled water, I'd learnt to check the seal every time by now, and asked whether I was hungry! They even offered to escort me to a smoking area. A tempting offer that I however declined, all I wanted to do was get to the beach campsite I’d read about online. Apparently bookings were not required. Makes sense. Tourists were being warned against travelling to Beirut.
The interview involved the usual kit inspection, explanation of my reasons for visiting Lebanon and the dreaded warning that I was not going to be walking from Beirut to Baalbek. Nor was I going to be camping on the beach.
Or anywhere else for that matter.
In fact what the hell was I thinking?
As I look back, it seems ridiculous I know.
This was a war zone.
The regular skirmishes, rocket and missile strikes that are a fact of life in Lebanon, don't make the news in the west and perhaps in a way I was still in that western mind set of, “oh its OK, its over there, its them, its got nothing to do with me”.
As the two, professional, polite and nonetheless welcoming Lebanese soldiers made clear, “ a missile doesn't know anything about you”.
They were right.
I, was over there.
By my own choice, it now had something to do with me.
Each piece of electrical / digital or vaguely suspicious looking piece of my kit was photographed, checked online and a record made of serial numbers. (Did I mention that if you are travelling, it’s a good idea to list the serial numbers of your devices.
And carry the instructions.
And have a list of your vaccinations.)
I was advised that without a confirmed place to stay I could not leave the airport so I opened a well known booking app and booked myself into the WH hotel in downtown Beirut.
There were no other options.
That was the only hotel listed.
To make absolutely certain that I was aware of the rules, I was asked to sign a written statement confirming that I was aware that although travel throughout Lebanon was, mostly, unrestricted, should I wish to leave Beirut, I would have to make use of public transport or hire a driver and that sleeping outside was illegal for foreign visitors.
All of this was done in a concerned for your safety, more than a don’t you bloody dare mate, sort of way and as the two military men walked me through the airport and negotiated what they assured me was a fair rate for the 40 minute or so cab ride into the city, I was feeling good about the day. It was still early, around 10AM, the sun was shining, surprise surprise, and the taxi driver Ali, happily informed me that we were just going to stop at his mother’s house so that I could taste her homemade pistachio loaf.
Who was I to complain!
As soon as we left the airport gates, signs of Lebanon's violent past, and present, were visible.
The home made bread was delicious, as was the coffee Ali bought us at a road side stall.
All around me were reminders of Lebanon’s war filled past.
Buildings destroyed by rockets.
Walls riddled with bullet holes.
Cars burnt out.
Checkpoints every KM or so. Some manned by the army, some by the police and some by men wearing fatigues with no insignia.
I asked Ali who they were and for the first time he spoke hesitantly.
“They help with security and things”, he answered.
I didn’t push it.
As soon as I had a local SIM card I planned to go exploring.
I’d already decided to approach one of the unmarked checkpoints and speak to the guards.
On the way into downtown Beirut Ali stopped at the stunning Raouche rock formation where I could admire the azure Mediterranean sea and pristine white beaches.
Twenty minutes later Ali dropped me in downtown Beirut and explained that he couldn't get any closer to the hotel and that I would have to walk the last 200 meters.
As I got out of the cab the humidity of the city hit me and it was a sweaty Scouse African that arrived five minutes later at the WH Hotel.
WH?
I wonder what that stands for?
Let’s check the sign.
Oh White House!
Great. In a time of war and hostility across the region, with anti western and especially anti American sentiment at an all time high, I am going to be asking people for directions to the White House hotel.
I’d spotted a coffee shop opposite the hotel. I’d make that my rendezvous point!
The young man and lady at reception looked like they came from the planet supermodel.
As does half of Lebanon.
I’ve never witnessed so many selfies.
