Open Writing

The Lebanon is surely one of the loveliest countries. Bathed in hot sunshine, it stretches along a wide coastal plain, liberally sprinkled with numerous olive groves and small, white-coloured villages between the deep blue Mediterranean and a background of majestic, rambling, pine-covered mountains, rising to 4000 feet.

During the winter, snow comes to the famed Cedars of Lebanon (alas, reduced now to a few clumps of trees) and covers the pines and slopes of the mountains. The enthusiasts bring out their skis, and it is claimed that it is possible to enjoy a morning's skiing in the mountains and then to enjoy an afternoon's swim in the sea. A popular myth, I think. I never met anyone hardy enough to swim in the sea in winter, for it can become very cold.

In the summer one can spend hours in the warm Mediterranean, and the only thing to make you stop is the salty water causing your eyes to sting.

The Lebanon that I was coming to live in was the 'old Lebanon', a Lebanon of friendly, hospitable people, who wanted to work hard and also relax to enjoy life. It was a peaceful Lebanon, long before the tragic internecine mayhem tore it apart. It was a time when nobody cared whether a Moslem was a Sunii or a Shiite Moslem, least of all the Moslems themselves.

At the same time they mixed socially with Maronites, or Greek Orthodox or other Christian denominations with the amiability and good will of friendship. It was a Lebanon of happier times, and that is how I enjoyed and will describe it, because for me, in the time-encrusted cobwebs of my antiquated mind, that is how the Lebanon will always be remembered.

Beirut, its capital, was known as 'the Paris of the Middle East' because of its bright night life and its chic, attractive womenfolk. The atmosphere of Beirut differed from that of Cairo. Years of French occupation, until World War 2, were evidenced by a strong French influence in culture, customs, and language, for French was widely spoken just as English was in Palestine. Beirut was even more cosmopolitan than Cairo, less Arab in its ways and peopled by astute Levantine businessmen. The average Lebanese was more tolerant, more rational and more European in outlook and appearance than his Egyptian equivalent, some of whom were more nationalistic in attitude, bordering sometimes on xenophobia, although this may well have been engendered by the presence of the occupying British Army for so many years.

But the Lebanese and the Egyptian were similar in temper when both were quick to anger, with loud shouts and gesticulation of arms, which would then just as quickly disappear, to be replaced by infectious roars of laughter as though there had never been any disagreement.

The country is beautiful; it always pleased me to ride up the coast to Tripoli. Passing through villages, they all looked so clean. Some appeared poor, but nowhere could I see evidence of the extreme poverty and pitiful squalor that I saw in the Egyptian countryside, where the squat, squalid, village dwellings were so evident.

To the left of the Tripoli road is the Mediterranean, dark blue in colour, yet, when passing through the small bay of Juneh, with shoals visible below the surface, the dark blue gradually surrenders to the paler shades of the most beautiful aquamarine. Passing on, the road continues for the remaining hour's drive to Tripoli.

Not far from the town, the road seems to be blocked by an impassable cliff, hugging the water's edge. Then a tunnel becomes apparent. Emerging from the other end, the road hugs the edge of the precipitous cliff, towering high above it on one side with a sheer drop to the royal blue seas below on the other.

Yet again, the beautiful Mediterranean changes colour from a dark blue to the very palest of blue shades as the shallow waters stretch before my eyes across the bay of Shekka. There I can see a number of small fishing boats, sparklingly white in the blazing sun, pulling at their anchor ropes as they lazily roll and gently pitch in the leisurely, undulating swell that flows to the shoreline to end in white-capped breakers on the sandy beach.

Tripoli, smaller than Beirut, was without the latter's grandeur or sophistication, yet throbbed with life and movement. From the main town square with its clock tower, municipal buildings and gardens, Tel Street, (the high street), sent its tributaries out to the sprawling suburbs. The main, northern road passes through a tree lined promontory to the harbour, el Mina, cluttered with fishing boats and nets.

Tripoli is still a noisy Arab town, reminding me of a pocket edition of Cairo, with the same blaring car horns, vainly trying to blast a passage through the numerous horse-drawn 'gharries', which compete hopefully with their opposition in modern American cars for the limited taxi trade. Newspaper boys shout the news headlines from the English newspaper - fantastic news, news that sends hands to pockets in frantic haste to buy the paper. "Extra! Extra! King of England murdered...Extra! King of England murdered!" while the King of England sits sedately in Buckingham Palace, completely oblivious of the dastardly termination of his life.

Tripoli, or ‘Trablus' as the locals call it, had the usual raucous army of shouting hawkers and shoeshine boys, while radios blared Arabic music in competition with each other in decibel warfare. Shady open air cafes were always crowded. Many customers were unemployed, whiling away the time playing cards, backgammon, discussing, arguing and laughing.

In both Tripoli and Beirut during the hot summer months there is always an exodus at the first opportunity to the cool mountains. In both towns, a twenty minute taxi ride enables you to escape the heat. The Lebanese taxi drivers are very skilled driving their American cars. They drive at breakneck speed, usually with one hand on the steering wheel while the other is used to gesticulate as they turn round and converse with the passengers in the back. They take a quick look at the road as they overtake another vehicle, then turn round again to continue with the conversation. In all my time in the Lebanon, while a passenger in a taxi, I was never overtaken by another vehicle. My taxi was always the one that did the overtaking, often as we sped up the twisting and turning mountain roads with a sheer drop into oblivion on one side.

They love speed. The normal, easy-going time for a taxi from Beirut to Tripoli was about one hour. Once I was travelling in a rakib, or a shared taxi, on this trip. I kept telling the driver to slow down. We did the journey in 50 minutes, and on arriving (by a miracle) the driver apologised to the other five passengers for taking so long. "If it had not been for this terrified Englishman here, we could have easily arrived in 45 minutes or less," he complained.

"Yes," I replied, "But we wanted to arrive in Trablus and not in heaven."

The driver threw his arms upwards in complete despair.