Byblos by the sea

Beirut, Lebanon—Last night I fell asleep waiting for S.S. to call. I awoke at midnight, unable to fall back asleep. Once I did I dreamed; I woke not remembering them.

The manager at the guest house suggested I take a service taxi to Charles Helou. I had told him the night before I wanted to visit Byblos. He looked at his watch; it was past eight. "Tonight, too late," he said. No, I assured him. Tomorrow. We had talked in the car from the airport. I asked him how long he had been in Beirut. "Nine years," he told me. Before that he had spent over two years in Australia. He had gone on vacation when the war broke out, and he chose to stay.

Before the war, his father owned a number of guesthouses. Now they have only the one. But, Sami tells me, they are opening another floor. "Rooms with bathrooms." He beams when he tells me this. They will open next month.

I found a service taxi outside the building. Yesterday it seemed all but impossible, but today the first driver agreed. At the station, drivers asked me if I were bound for Damascus. Not yet. I walked to the Tripoli buses and told the ticket taker my destination. O.K., he said. The bus was almost empty. I asked when the bus would leave. "Five minutes," he told me. To my surprise, five minutes later it did.

Lulled by the guidebook's estimated one hour travel time and by the bad made-for-tv sci-fi video, I stopped paying attention to the road. As an hour approached, I looked out the window. "Bienvenue a Chekka," it said. I looked at my map. Biblos had passed and we were near Tripoli.

I walked up to the driver and asked after my stop. He sighed apologetically. "Byblos," he said, then sighed again. He held his hand, palm up, his fingers together. He stopped the bus on the highway and told me to cross the street to flag down another bus. I thanked him. He held his head to the side and raised his eyebrows in apology.

Not ten minutes later a minivan beeped. "Byblos?" I asked. The driver nodded. After he picked up two more passengers he asked again my destination. A woman behind me translated. "You been to Byblos," she asked? No, I told her. I want to go there. She translated. "Where do you want to go to Byblos?" she asked. The old city, I hazarded. She translated. The van stopped and the driver and the woman pointed down a side road. "Get off here," she said. "Walk around. See everything." She pointed. I thanked them both and alighted.

Byblos lies by the sea, protected by two natural harbors. Once a main port, its fortunes waned with the loss of control of Homs and the subsequent trade route. The city was named by the Greeks after the word for papyrus for the papyrus shipped from Egypt to Greece via its port, which was famed through the Greek world.

A renovated souk leads the way to the Crusader castle. The market has a bit of the flavor of Lijiang; the renovation creates a Disney-esque quality. The stores cater mainly to tourists, selling antiques, pipes, inlaid boxes, and fosselized fish.

The ruins of the Crusader castle dominates the medieval ramparts. I wandered around the remnants of the town first, climbing up to the theatre, with the Mediterranean its stunning blue backdrop. Tourist boats left the harbor for the sea. Passengers screamed as they crashed through the waves; their voices rose from below.

The castle itself houses an impressive museum. I wandered through its renovated parts, before climbing up along its fortress wall for its view over the site out to the horizon.

I hailed a minibus for the ride back to Beirut. Once at the Dora station I found another service taxi to take me to the center of town. The driver asked where I was from. I told him I was Chinese. "You know karate?" he asked. He sliced the air in front of him with his palms. No, I replied, grinning. "You not know karate?" He sliced the air again. I shook my head. "Everybody in China knows karate," he said. No, not everyone, I told him. Then I relented. Maybe Tai Chi, I said. He smiled and nodded, seemingly pleased with my response. Posted by eku at April 30, 2004 8:29 AM