The next morning I once again caught a service taxi to Cola and was herded immediately onto a minibus bound for Baalbek, on the other side of the Mt. Lebanon range in the Bekaa Valley region of Lebanon. We scoured the streets for potential customers – Baalbek, shibi Baalbek shouted the tout from the passenger seat at everyone we passed. A old man sitting at a café, smoking a sheesha water pipe, looked up startled and waved us on. Two women crossing a side street shook their heads, soldiers on duty smiled no. But somehow we filled the van and set off into the mountains in what I was beginning to realise was typical Lebanese style – squealing tyres, on the wrong side of double yellow lines, speeding along at over 100 km/h in a 50 km/h zone, ignoring red lights. We passed through 4 or 5 checkpoints along the way, 2 of which were manned by Syrian soldiers. In and around Beirut there was no sign of the occupying power but once we had crossed the range they became much more visible.
I chose to stay at the Hotel Palmyra in Baalbek, once an opulent port of call for the rich and famous of another era. It has a faded charm today, hanging on to its former glories in the face of change, dank and silent and overwhelmingly empty. Baalbek was for centuries, spanning a number of different eras, a place of great religious significance. The ruins are colossal, monumental, impossible to capture with anything other than wide open eyes. I spent a day amongst them, the first few hours of which were alone. As the day progressed, groups of tourists joined me, many of them Middle Eastern. I sat for some time in the Temple of Bacchus watching people shuffle through, surrounded by its intricately carved walls. In a number of places were inscriptions in what looked like Arabic but I discovered later that they were actually in Turkish. Not until Ataturks reforms in the 1920s was the Latin script adopted for that language. The Germans excavated Baalbek in the 19th century – thanks to a contract with the Turks, the then overlords of this region. It took me some time to guess the language I was hearing one group of tourists speaking – the former imperial overlords now sending tourists to their lost domains. I wonder when Lebanon was last completely self-governing, not having to "cooperate" with some much more powerful nation. It seems this tiny scrap of land is simply too important to be left alone in peace.
A little later, a young man and his betrothed came in hand-in-hand, cuddling. She was wearing a silken scarf on her head. A friend took a photo of them sitting on the high altar.
The saying "a woman’s glory is her hair" can be confirmed in only a few minutes in Lebanon. even by many of those who wear some sort of head covering.
Another group walking amongst the ruins consisted of Arabs and Americans. It was nice to see and hear. One young woman, speaking only English, looked at me quickly as they entered the temple. She had long, silken black hair and dark eyes. I suppose she was part of the family that had emigrated and were returning now to their homeland for a visit. I was sitting, alone of course, in a corner, looking up and around at the walls, the delicate stucco work in the stone, the soaring columns. I caught her eye briefly but then looked away. When she returned from looking outside, she looked at me again, this time for much longer. I looked away again but caught her eye before doing so, just to let her know I’d noticed.
Now, every time I’ve ever followed up a spark like that, my hunch has turned out to be correct. Somehow though, I have no real desire to chase these things anymore. What’s the point? Unless there is a real, deeper connection, a woman can be as physically beautiful as she wants to be, I’d still never be happy together with her. And the only way to find that connection is by spending time together – something that cannot happen normally with a chance encounter, even if it’s in the Temple of Bacchus.
Later on, I sat opposite the 6 giant columns of Jupiter. A group of local lads came by and insisted on having their photos taken with me. Due to the altitude (about 1000m), it was noticeable cooler sitting there than what it had been on the coast in Beirut. To the north and west was the Mt. Lebanon range, behind me the Anti-Lebanon range and Syria. Outside of the walls of the ruins was a small cypress forest. For most of the afternoon, fireworks exploded on the streets of Baalbek. I couldn’t help thinking that some of the locals perhaps like exploding noises, whatever the cause may be. The main street of the town was ablaze with Hizbollah banners – the telephone pole outside my hotel window was shared by such a banner and some Christmas lights.
I ate that evening at the hotel, in the company of a mostly French tour group with a few Norwegians (speaking English) thrown in for good measure. I retired to my room afterwards and considered making a start on the Dostoyevsky I had brought with me but decided against it. Somehow I didn’t want to be distracted from where I was.
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