"Where are you from?"
"England. You?"
"Jerusalem."
I do an obvious and not very subtle double take. An Israeli, in Syria? Never!
"Jerusalem, Palestine".
Aha. That makes more sense. Omar is a 24 year old Palestinian Christian, who works in his family's "import-export" business, splitting his time between the West Bank, Dubai and Beirut. We're sharing a taxi from Damascus to Beirut, and he's very kindly helping me through the border formalities, which are complicated by the fact that visa fees must be paid in Lebanese Lira, unavailable outside the country itself. In effect, therefore, to obtain Lebanese currency to pay for my visa to enter Lebanon, I have to sneak accross the border into Lebanon, change some currency, then return to obtain my visa and enter legally.
Omar and I approach the smiling, heavily-armed border guard and explain my predicament.
"Where you from?", he asks me with a grin.
"Britain"
"And you"
"Palestine", Omar responds casually.
"Syria, or Lebanon?", the guard asks.
"Palestine."
"Yes, yes, but are you Syrian Palestinian or Lebanese Palestinian?"
"Jordanian Palestinian".
My confusion at this point aptly sums up the wretched plight of the Palestinians. Omar is Palestinian, lives in Israel, but has a Jordanian passport. The guard, however, is satisfied.
"Ok, you British. British are trustworthy and honest - I let you go. Don't run away now..."
And with a wink, he waves me across the border. Omar doesn't comment on the savage irony of British "honesty": the decades of betrayal, broken promises, and lies with which Britain damned his people to eviction, occupation, and persecution at the hands of the Israelis. No, instead Omar is much more interested in talking about Beirut's legendary nightlife, "the best in the Middle East", he calls it. While I'm saving that particular brand of hedonism for the coming weekend, I have to say that Beirut is something of a culture shock after 5 weeks in Syria.
My initial joy at finding cafes and restaurants not only open during daylight, but packed with customers actually eating and drinking, was tempered slightly by the discovery that prices here are even higher than in London. In fact in many respects downtown Beirut resembles London, Mayfair to be exact: its 19th Century architecture, plethora of ludicrously expensive designer boutiques, exquisitely dressed women tottering from cafe to cafe on their impossibly high heels, giant sunglasses protecting them from the Autumn sun. The large mosque at the end of the street seems rather incongruous amid its opulently Western surroundings; with conversations in French and English far more common (in this area at least) than Arabic it's easy to forget this is the Middle East.
Yet this is the Middle East; in many ways more so than anywhere I've been thus far. Beirut's mass of contradictions and confusions is a microcosm of the cultural schizophrenia that afflicts the region as a whole. For 17 long years those contradictions found expression in a brutal and bloody civil war in Lebanon, in which Beirut was both the symbolic heart of the conflict and the physical epicentre of the fighting. After 16 years of relative peace and stability, the Lebanese capital was once again turned into a warzone by the failed Israeli invasion of 2006. Tensions from that catastrophe and the ongoing campaign of political assassinations still simmer here; you don't have to walk more than a few blocks to find clear evidence that this is a city on edge. While Damascus has its fair share of armed soldiers on the streets, the young men with machine guns here seem a different proposition entirely. Unlike their poorly-equipped, lethargic Syrian counterparts, the soldiers here seem professional, well-trained, and ready for action. Unlike the Syrian youths and their rusting weaponry, the Lebanese have tanks, barbed wire, and roadblocks on the streets.
Yet while I may find it odd to see a couple of artillery pieces parked outside McDonalds, the locals don't seem to notice. Equally they appear to happily ignore the odd bombed out building that clutters the otherwise impressive skyline, picking their way past the rubble to get to their valet-parked BMWs, Porsches, and quite unbelievably, yellow Lamborghinis (of which I've seen two already). In the circumstances, there seems little else for it but to follow suit. For all its political turmoil and violent history, this seems a beautiful, engaging city populated by beautiful, engaging people; it's hard to believe that somewhere so chic, so consumerist, so Western is little more than a couple of hours from Damascus.
Of course not all of Lebanon, or its people, resemble Park Avenue or Belgravia; countless thousands of Omar's Palestinian kin live in squalid refugee camps outside Beirut, Tripoli and other major cities, while south Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley are home to mostly Shi'ia populations, natural supporters of the much-maligned Hizballah. I doubt Hassan Nasrallah will be joining us for an all-night rave at BO18 on Saturday, but you never know...
For those that are interested I have finally managed to upload my remaining photos of Turkey and the first batch from Syria. Al hamdu lillah for Lebanese computers.
