Byblos

Byblos (Jbail or, its older name, Gebel) is a charming and unnervingly pristine town for anyone who’s just come from Syria. The drive down the coast was also enlightening – miles and miles of tent-camps on either side of the road, housing refugees either political or economic. Probably mostly economic. Syrians seem to lose their charm and humanity when they come into contact with rich Lebanon.

That evening, I went to Pépé’s “Byblos Fishing Club”, which has played host to every imaginable celebrity over the decades since Pépé (originally from Mexico) first moved to Lebanon. I ate dinner alone, including some fine red wine, Cuvée Reserve from the Bakaa Valley – strong but light with a mead-like, honey quality. I finished it off with a coffee and as I was waiting for the bill, the younger woman on the other table of three (they had arrived perhaps 15 minutes earlier) came over and invited me, on behalf of her mother, to join them, which I promptly did. Zena, her mother Mona and their friend Thierry from Geneva had been speaking French but switched mostly to English to accommodate me. Mona and Zena were Maronites from Jbail/Byblos, very wealthy no doubt, and full of warmth and openness. Thierry too. It goes to show that one can be rich and good! Mona lost her husband and her son (a genius she said) – I didn’t ask how but one must not wonder too long in this place. Zena, 40, looked 30, studying education in Joumeih but has never worked. Thierry a masseur – saved Mona’s legs once in Geneva! Just here for 24 hours to visit his friends. Byblos/Jbail is the St.Tropez or Portofino of “Liban”. And this is the Middle East as well – gentile, wealthy, quiet. Walking down to the tiny harbour for dinner, I was met by the sickly-sweet perfume of mandarins rotting under the trees, of clematis flowers and frangipani. Beirut lies within view just across the water and looks much more New World, American than European. Pépé greeted us personally as we sat chatting – he must be well over 80. On the walls were photos of him with all of the beautiful people. Especially prominent were the Miss Europe 2002 photos – the contestants must have been billeted here. I suppose Miss Israel would’ve been asked politely to stay at home in “occupied Palestine” thank you. I felt distinctly underdressed for most of the evening – a roughneck traveller, just blown in from the desert, the wild frontier further east. Zena had never been to Syria – only once to Arwed island near Tartus on a private yacht.

The next morning, I sat alone on the terrace of the Abi-Chmou restaurant run by the owner of the room I had found to stay in. There was a mass being held in the tiny “Our Lady of the Gate” church opposite. Lovely chants in unison, lead by the priest, wafted across to me. Other than that there was nothing stirring in the old town except for the distant sound of traffic from the motorway to Beirut. It was warm enough that I felt no chill even in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts.

I spent the day wandering the ruins of old Gebel, alone and with time to take in everything around me. I sat for a long time in the tiny Roman theatre, thinking that a performance there would have been very intimate. In contrast to the previous few days, it was nice to have a day free of travel. I sat looking at the worn stones of the amphitheatre, the Middle Eastern sun warming my back, the sea stretching out before me into the endless West, the breeze ruffling the thorn trees. Looking out to sea, especially in a place as ancient as old Gebel, inevitably encourages one to consider questions of meaning and purpose. Is this what the rest of my life will consist of? I asked myself. Travelling alone to all sorts of exotic places, taking a few photos, scribbling a few words, gazing at the horizon and asking myself what it all means? Perhaps – and there would be nothing wrong with that, it just feels rather lonely thinking of it. But what would I rather have? Companionship? Not always and certainly not just for the sake of not being alone. Tintin comics, Al Stewart lyrics and a myriad other romantic influences – that’s what shaped me as a child and as a teen and gave me an unquenchable desire to strike out, explore the world, have adventures.

I walked later through a cypress grove, fragrant, alongside the wall of a Bronze Age temple (2300 BCE). What did the Bronze Age people of Gebel believe? How did they attempt to come to grips with their mortality? What belief systems did they develop to attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible? Eternal life and reincarnation are both just limited attempts to understand and explain something beyond our grasp. The basic convictions, that we surely cannot cease to exist entirely and that we are all somehow connected, seem to be shared by all humanity.

Fossils in the rocks made a mockery of the human history built from them. The wind-whipped waves continued breaking on the rocks below. Dark clouds started gathering across the sea to the West.

The 4300 year old temple was dedicated to our old friend of the outstretched wings, Baal.

I spent some time that evening sitting in the kitchen of the restaurant chatting to the maid Linda. 58, widowed 16 years ago by the “troubles”, 3 sons, 3 chickens, a rooster and a small dog in the mountains behind Byblos in Bchelé. She asked me for help at one stage for her son who was in need of medical treatment so I gave her LL3000 ($2). What if she was lying? What if her son wasn’t sick? What if she didn’t have a son? What if she actually earned three times the $200 a month she claimed? It was all irrelevant: I am by her standards (and those of most of the world’s population), exceedingly rich. She is, in comparison to me, exceedingly poor. Giving her something is a flow of money in what I consider to be the right direction. A Saudi man last night gave her LL40’000: a Muslim, she said. The Muslims here look after each other, she continued. She is a Maronite, but so is the tight-fisted owner of the restaurant and guest rooms. I paid $40 for a tiny room with no hot water, plus $10 for a meagre breakfast that Linda in part supplied with fresh eggs from her chickens. The Christians just look out for themselves she said. She had asked a few people here for help but they all found excuses – just paid the bills, why didn’t you ask sooner, etc. etc. Having wealth makes me uncomfortable – I am often possessed by an urge to divest myself of it. None of my heroes were wealthy.

Before I left the following morning, I gave Linda $50 – a small amount for me but enough for her to pay for the medical treatment for her son. She was of course very touched by my gift and told me to come and stay with her family next time I was in Lebanon. I will, if I return one day.