The mosquitoes in Tripoli are brutal. They whined in my ears all night and when I woke up my arms were itchy, swollen testaments to their thirst. Bartek and I rustled out of bed, got dressed and headed for Byblos, an ancient ruin dramatically poised on a headland overlooking the Mediterranean. The ruins there date back thousands of years and include an amphitheatre and several temples and houses layered on top of each other. The Phoenicians, the Romans and the Babylonians apparently all laid their mark on Byblos at one time or another.
We took a minibus from Tripoli centre to Byblos, but of course we forgot that the Arabic name for Byblos is Jbail, so when they called it, we sat there like lemons and missed our stop. It all worked out for the best though, because the two kilometre or so walk back along the highway allowed us a sneaky little detour. The beaches on either side of Byblos are owned predominantly by private resorts that cater to a very pampered clientele. Bartek, who, by the way, will heretofore be referred to as Captain Libya or CL, and I strolled up to the reception of one of these resorts and I informed them in my best adamant but nice tone that we intended to walk along the beach. This prompted much consternation among the drones behind the counter and climaxed with one of them telling us that under no circumstances could we do such a thing exactly three seconds before an older woman in a uniform said we could go ahead but remember that usually they charge for access.
We walked along a pristine sandy beach, soaking up the rays, feeling the ocean spray on our skin, wriggling our toes in the sand. About a kilometre and a half down the beach, we reached a fence. On one side of the fence was a beautifully kept beach with pasty gwai-los sunning themselves on lounge chairs. On the other side of the fence was a mess of stones, litter, plastic bags, clothes, detritus and general crap. This fence delineated the private resort beach from the public beach.
I decided that I wanted to go swimming. However, I had brought no trunks. As my wife can attest to, this has never stopped me before, and by God, Muslim country or not, I was going for a dip in my birthday suit.
A finger of rock jutted out into the spray and on it stood several men of obviously Lebanese provenance but indeterminate purpose. They all seemed to just be hanging out, but in an uncomfortable way. CL and I noticed this but thought nothing of it. After all, other than on the filthy rocks of the public beach, there was nowhere to sit. Perhaps their shiftlessness was a result of insufficient seating.
I hung my trousers and shirt on the fence and tiptoed over the jagged rocks to the waterline. I looked around. Several moustachioed men looked on hungrily. CL waved at me from the fence.
"Are you really going in?"
By way of a response, I appropriated an abandoned plastic water bottle, stuck it into the sand, whipped off my keks and hung them from it triumphantly. I then ran, flesh ahoy, into the welcoming spray of the sea. I had underestimated both the quantity and sharpness of the rocks, which resulted in several cuts to my hands and feet and an incredibly close call involving my rear.
The water was awesome. I splashed around, happy as Larry, for about ten minutes or so. The men on the rock promontory had the facial expressions of fat children at a candy store window. It still hadn't sunk in though. I was having way too much fun. CL decided to join me. He exposed his skinny Polish corpse to the sun and ran, giggling like a schoolgirl, into the sea. We swam for a while longer and then decided to take pictures of me leaping through the spray, naked, with the luxury resort beach in the background. We took several photos. They will make their way onto this public record shortly, when I have access to a computer with USB action.
By the way, as an aside, I think I need to answer those of you who are asking me why there aren't more pics. The answer is simple. Either the computer I am using has no USB, the connection is too slow to upload or I stumbled across the internet without having the connecting cable for my camera. That is why some posts have pics and others don't. In time I will fix that. Please bear with me.
After taking several pictures of yours truly in various alluringly aquarian poses, CL and I repaired to the shore where I drip-dried agonisingly slowly under the scrutiny of the hungry-eyed men. Then we got dressed and continued on our way.
The beach came to a dead end at a sheer cliff face, round the side of which was a field of high grass. We walked through the high grass and climbed the path at the side of the cliff until we entered an abandoned Armenian graveyard. We knew it was Armenian because of the alphabet and the crosses.
From the graveyard we entered an Armenian boarding school through the back way. Surprising a cheerful and chubby lunch lady who spoke excellent English, we found the way to the main road and got to Byblos.
The ruins were beautiful. I mainly lazed in the sun admiring the vistas as CL tramped faithfully across every inch of ground taking pictures of everything. We met a couple who had lived in America for twenty years and just come back to Lebanon. We chatted on the steps of the amphitheatre
and before leaving they told us to have a good time and stay away from Beirut. Until they mentioned Beirut, CL and I had completely forgotten the current situation in the country. With the warm breeze coming in off the ocean, the quiet stateliness of the ruins, the beach, the distant cries of children running around in the boarding school playground, it was almost impossible to believe that somewhere in the country people were being killed.
CL and I left the ruins at Byblos and walked to the highway. We tried hitchhiking back to Tripoli. The Lebanese, perhaps due to the security situation or maybe as a cultural result of years of war, do not stop for hitchhikers. We waited the best part of an hour for a 14km ride from Byblos to Batroun. I asked our driver, a young lady who had learned English in America, what she thought of the war. She said that it flares up every once in a while and all the locals do is just ignore it until it dies back down. She was coming from Beirut herself and was on her way to drink and dance at one of the many fabled nightspots in Batroun. Her response to the outbreak of hostilities in Beirut was extremely common.
In the service taxi on the way to Tripoli from Lattakia, the guy riding shotgun was a hacker namer Ahmad. Ahmad, when I asked about the situation, said that to him they were all just children playing war games and pointing the finger at each other. To him there was no right or wrong in the situation, just idiots wanting to swing their guns around for a bit before settling down again. Just as he said that, the radio news broadcast statements from Hezbollah and the Future party run by Sah al-Hariri. Hariri blamed the fighting on Hezbollah being agitated and funded by Iran and Syria, Hezbollah blamed the fighting on interference in the region by the US and Israel. Ahmad pointed at the radio.
"You see?" he said. "They are just little kids, fighting and blaming each other. It's all bullshit."
As we had our passports processed, I found out that one of Ahmad's bread-and-butter gigs was hacking Facebook poker, getting loads of chips and selling them to people who wanted to play. He told me that whenever there was trouble in Lebanon, he went from Syria back to his home in Tripoli and worked there because nobody would bother him for hacking when there was fighting. When the fighting settles down, he goes back to his flat in Syria and works from there.
"So the fighting is good for your business," I said.
Ahmad shrugged. "That's life," he replied. "They want to fight, I sell poker chips."
CL and I were dropped by our benefactor at the exit ramp for Batroun just in time to catch a connecting minibus back to Tripoli.
We took a minibus from Tripoli centre to Byblos, but of course we forgot that the Arabic name for Byblos is Jbail, so when they called it, we sat there like lemons and missed our stop. It all worked out for the best though, because the two kilometre or so walk back along the highway allowed us a sneaky little detour. The beaches on either side of Byblos are owned predominantly by private resorts that cater to a very pampered clientele. Bartek, who, by the way, will heretofore be referred to as Captain Libya or CL, and I strolled up to the reception of one of these resorts and I informed them in my best adamant but nice tone that we intended to walk along the beach. This prompted much consternation among the drones behind the counter and climaxed with one of them telling us that under no circumstances could we do such a thing exactly three seconds before an older woman in a uniform said we could go ahead but remember that usually they charge for access.
We walked along a pristine sandy beach, soaking up the rays, feeling the ocean spray on our skin, wriggling our toes in the sand. About a kilometre and a half down the beach, we reached a fence. On one side of the fence was a beautifully kept beach with pasty gwai-los sunning themselves on lounge chairs. On the other side of the fence was a mess of stones, litter, plastic bags, clothes, detritus and general crap. This fence delineated the private resort beach from the public beach.
I decided that I wanted to go swimming. However, I had brought no trunks. As my wife can attest to, this has never stopped me before, and by God, Muslim country or not, I was going for a dip in my birthday suit.A finger of rock jutted out into the spray and on it stood several men of obviously Lebanese provenance but indeterminate purpose. They all seemed to just be hanging out, but in an uncomfortable way. CL and I noticed this but thought nothing of it. After all, other than on the filthy rocks of the public beach, there was nowhere to sit. Perhaps their shiftlessness was a result of insufficient seating.
I hung my trousers and shirt on the fence and tiptoed over the jagged rocks to the waterline. I looked around. Several moustachioed men looked on hungrily. CL waved at me from the fence.
"Are you really going in?"
By way of a response, I appropriated an abandoned plastic water bottle, stuck it into the sand, whipped off my keks and hung them from it triumphantly. I then ran, flesh ahoy, into the welcoming spray of the sea. I had underestimated both the quantity and sharpness of the rocks, which resulted in several cuts to my hands and feet and an incredibly close call involving my rear.
The water was awesome. I splashed around, happy as Larry, for about ten minutes or so. The men on the rock promontory had the facial expressions of fat children at a candy store window. It still hadn't sunk in though. I was having way too much fun. CL decided to join me. He exposed his skinny Polish corpse to the sun and ran, giggling like a schoolgirl, into the sea. We swam for a while longer and then decided to take pictures of me leaping through the spray, naked, with the luxury resort beach in the background. We took several photos. They will make their way onto this public record shortly, when I have access to a computer with USB action.
By the way, as an aside, I think I need to answer those of you who are asking me why there aren't more pics. The answer is simple. Either the computer I am using has no USB, the connection is too slow to upload or I stumbled across the internet without having the connecting cable for my camera. That is why some posts have pics and others don't. In time I will fix that. Please bear with me.
After taking several pictures of yours truly in various alluringly aquarian poses, CL and I repaired to the shore where I drip-dried agonisingly slowly under the scrutiny of the hungry-eyed men. Then we got dressed and continued on our way.
The beach came to a dead end at a sheer cliff face, round the side of which was a field of high grass. We walked through the high grass and climbed the path at the side of the cliff until we entered an abandoned Armenian graveyard. We knew it was Armenian because of the alphabet and the crosses.
From the graveyard we entered an Armenian boarding school through the back way. Surprising a cheerful and chubby lunch lady who spoke excellent English, we found the way to the main road and got to Byblos.The ruins were beautiful. I mainly lazed in the sun admiring the vistas as CL tramped faithfully across every inch of ground taking pictures of everything. We met a couple who had lived in America for twenty years and just come back to Lebanon. We chatted on the steps of the amphitheatre
and before leaving they told us to have a good time and stay away from Beirut. Until they mentioned Beirut, CL and I had completely forgotten the current situation in the country. With the warm breeze coming in off the ocean, the quiet stateliness of the ruins, the beach, the distant cries of children running around in the boarding school playground, it was almost impossible to believe that somewhere in the country people were being killed.CL and I left the ruins at Byblos and walked to the highway. We tried hitchhiking back to Tripoli. The Lebanese, perhaps due to the security situation or maybe as a cultural result of years of war, do not stop for hitchhikers. We waited the best part of an hour for a 14km ride from Byblos to Batroun. I asked our driver, a young lady who had learned English in America, what she thought of the war. She said that it flares up every once in a while and all the locals do is just ignore it until it dies back down. She was coming from Beirut herself and was on her way to drink and dance at one of the many fabled nightspots in Batroun. Her response to the outbreak of hostilities in Beirut was extremely common.
In the service taxi on the way to Tripoli from Lattakia, the guy riding shotgun was a hacker namer Ahmad. Ahmad, when I asked about the situation, said that to him they were all just children playing war games and pointing the finger at each other. To him there was no right or wrong in the situation, just idiots wanting to swing their guns around for a bit before settling down again. Just as he said that, the radio news broadcast statements from Hezbollah and the Future party run by Sah al-Hariri. Hariri blamed the fighting on Hezbollah being agitated and funded by Iran and Syria, Hezbollah blamed the fighting on interference in the region by the US and Israel. Ahmad pointed at the radio.
"You see?" he said. "They are just little kids, fighting and blaming each other. It's all bullshit."
As we had our passports processed, I found out that one of Ahmad's bread-and-butter gigs was hacking Facebook poker, getting loads of chips and selling them to people who wanted to play. He told me that whenever there was trouble in Lebanon, he went from Syria back to his home in Tripoli and worked there because nobody would bother him for hacking when there was fighting. When the fighting settles down, he goes back to his flat in Syria and works from there.
"So the fighting is good for your business," I said.
Ahmad shrugged. "That's life," he replied. "They want to fight, I sell poker chips."
CL and I were dropped by our benefactor at the exit ramp for Batroun just in time to catch a connecting minibus back to Tripoli.
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