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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Smelling the Breezes is an inspiring family adventure, a three-hundred-mile walk down the spine of the Lebanon with four children, two donkeys and Elias, the family's gardener, nursemaid and friend. The journey took them over towering passes, through immense gorges and into the lives of mountain villages and highland herdsmen. The presence of four small but redoubtable blonde children proved a passport at every door, whatever the politics, religion or ethnicity of the household. Smelling the Breezes is a magnificent portrait of Lebanon in all its rich complexity and easy charm: broken castles, hashish smugglers, clan feuds, festivals, forgotten temples, secretive headquarters and hospitable sheikhs.
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Smelling the Breezes
A Journey through the High Lebanon
RALPH AND MOLLY IZZARD
Contents
Author’s Note
The journey described in this book was made in the summer of 1957 prior to the uprising and disorders of the early part of 1958. Much of the territory we walked through then has now slipped back into the lawlessness common to the country in the last century, and it will be some time before a foreigner can venture with any confidence into the wild mountain regions of the northern Lebanon. The same applies to a great deal of the Beka’a, and the Druze country of the southern Lebanon.
Haphazard and improvised though our journey was, we could not have started without a certain amount of planning and forethought, and advice from the Lebanese Government Tourist Bureau. We should like to thank M Michel Touma, Director of Tourism, for his most useful letter of introduction, and our friend Sami Kerkabi, also of the Bureau of Tourism, for his assistance with maps, itineraries and practical advice.
We should also like to thank our friends Captain and Mrs Peter Norton, RN, of the British Embassy, Beirut, who provided an invaluable backstop in Beirut, and Gerry Stewart and Anthony Daniels, all of whom on separate occasions took the trouble to make long and arduous excursions into the mountains to meet us and bring us stores, money and news from our old life.
Finally, it would be impossible not to acknowledge our great debt to The Hon. Edward Gathorne-Hardy, recently of the British Embassy, Beirut. He it was who first taught us how to enjoy the Lebanon, and many of the places described in this book were first visited by us in his company or on his advice. It is also to him that we owe the acquisition of the invaluable Elias.
Preface
Lebanon is a small country on the Asiatic coast of the Eastern Mediterranean. It has an area of approximately 3,977 square miles, and is surrounded on two sides by Syria, in whose lap it lies, and on the third side by Israel. The actual length of its coastline is approximately 135 miles. Its dominant physical characteristic is a high and abrupt mountain range rising steeply from a narrow coastal plain. This mountain range is the Lebanon, which gives its name to the country. It is a limestone rock in its upper and lower strata, with a layer of sandstone between. The rock is porous, and the snow and the rain seep down into immense underground cisterns. The range is deeply scored by the gorges and chasms of the rivers carving their way through the soft rock to the sea, and it is these rivers, gushing from their caverns in the flanks of the mountains, that give identity and life to the different sections of the mountains. Behind the Lebanon lies a third factor in the composition of the modern Republic of Lebanon. This is the plain of the Beka’a, a long, level rift between the range of the Lebanon and its one-time component, the Anti-Lebanon. The Beka’a is about 110 miles in length, six to ten miles in width, and is 2,500 feet above sea level. The range of mountains known as the Anti-Lebanon is smaller, more arid and less inhabited than the Lebanon itself, and along its crest runs the frontier of Lebanon with Syria.
The coastal plain of Lebanon is of astonishing richness, and its narrow width is crowded with orange and banana groves, with olives and umbrella pines marking the first gentle swell of the foothills. The width of the plain varies. In the north, near Tripoli, it is four miles wide; lower down, near the bay of Jounieh, it is a mile wide. At several places the mountain itself comes right down to the sea, and the coastal road has to edge its way around or through towering cliffs.
The alternations of plain and mountain, valley and mountain, run roughly north to south. The mountain mass itself has two natural delimitations – in the north the River El Kebir, the Eleutherus of antiquity, carves its way through gorges to the sea, and provides a natural frontier for the state; in the south it is the River Litani which, running down the centre of the Beka’a, turns suddenly right-handed through the Lebanon, and enters the sea between Sidon and Tyre. The modern frontier, however, extends further southwards, beyond Tyre, and runs across the rolling upland of what was once Palestine, culminating in the frowning headland of the Ras Nakoura.
Lebanon has no desert, and no indigenous nomads. Its people are farmers and herders, growing citrus fruit and grain on the plains, fruit, vines and olives on the terraced slopes of the hills, and grazing their flocks of goats and sheep on the crests of the high mountain. The characteristic feature of the country is the Lebanon range, and it is this great mass of mountain, split and seamed by its rivers, and cutting off the inhabitants of the coastal strip from the steppe-lands of Syria, that has conditioned the temper of its people.
The long walk we took through the high Lebanon in the summer of 1957 was inspired by no other motive than pleasure. We had lived in Beirut since the autumn of 1954, and had formed the habit of walking about and exploring the countryside whenever we could. It is a very beautiful country, filled with objects of cultural and architectural interest, from the flint chipping of pre-historic man to the Corbusier-inspired constructions of modern architects. Few periods of history are unrepresented, and the reliefs carved on the rocks of the Dog River, where it runs into the sea, commemorate the passing of armies from the Egyptians of the thirteenth century bc warring against the Hittites, through Assyrians, Babylonians, Romans, Ottomans, to the last movement of French Mandatory troops leaving the country in 1946.
The people who inhabit the country are Arab-speaking, but are not Arabs of the pure Semitic strain. The physical structure of the country, with its alternations of plain and mountain, accounts in some measure for this. The mountains for many hundreds of years have served as a refuge for political and religious dissidents from the surrounding areas. Secure in the high, hidden valleys, people have lived their lives in their own way, separate communities existing in close proximity to each other, yet each retaining its own individual characteristics. The people of the plains, however, have been exposed to every influence which conquest and commerce can bring with them. The inland plain of the Beka’a has been a major trade route from time immemorial, linking the civilisations of Mesopotamia with the Nile basin. The coastal plain has been the commercial seaboard of the entire area, and its inhabitants today retain to a remarkable degree the trading instinct and energy which made their Phoenician ancestors the great middlemen of the ancient world. They are commercial adventurers in the purest sense of the word, adepts at trimming their sails to the winds of political change, shrewd, industrious, enterprising, ready to do business anywhere, and seeing all in terms of profit and loss.
The old life of the mountains is dying away, unable to withstand the expanding material prosperity of the towns and the pressures of modern political and social developments. Yet the old virtues of hardihood and independence still remain, the generosity, the unstinting acceptance of, and kindness towards, the stranger. To the people of the Mountain – the ahl el Jebel, as the Lebanese call themselves – their name is no empty distinction. It is a way of life that is still valid, and we were absorbed into it for the last summer of our time in the Lebanon.
PART ONE
ONE
We prepare our trip and arrive at Faraya
‘For god’s sake don’t take a gendarme with you. That’s asking for trouble. People won’t have any confidence in you at all, and you’ll find yourself being shot at on principle. Pin your faith on Arab hospitality, drink only spring water and watch out if you meet a man by himself high up in the mountains. He’s probably an outlaw, and what he’ll want is cigarettes, food and news, and if you give him those you should be all right.’
This was the considered opinion of our quarter in Beirut on the walk we proposed to take with our children through the high mountains of the Lebanon. Our servant Elias Aboujaoude was our channel of information, and we made our decision on the advice he passed on to us.
The walk started as a fancy which grew rapidly into a possibility. We had been living for three years in the Lebanon, and had been very happy there. The news that we were to be recalled to England that autumn had come as a great blow and we determined to use up the three months of leave due to us in enjoying all those things we had liked in the Lebanon to the full. These were the beauty of its landscape, the interest of its history and the friendliness of its inhabitants. Our family consists of four children, and the expense of moving us and keeping us anywhere as a group is one that has to be taken into account. The heat of summer on the coast is considerable and we decided to go up into the mountains. How to live cheaply was the problem. The experience of our excursions and picnics around the country came to our aid. Very frequently, when making for some point of interest, we had had to abandon our car and walk across country to our objective. On these occasions we sometimes hired a donkey from the peasants to carry our youngest child, a sturdy boy whose weight had to be taken into consideration when any long-distance porterage was in prospect.
The possession of donkeys was seen to be the key to the whole idea. Enquiries around the countryside showed us that for a sum of between ten pounds and fifteen pounds sterling we could acquire a young and sound animal, equipped with saddle and harness. The best place to buy donkeys was a district where the farmers depended on them, in default of other means, to carry the produce of the steeply terraced hillsides up and down to the roads. The best way for us to buy donkeys was to get some knowledgeable middleman to do it for us.
As always happens once an idea takes hold, circumstances conspired to help us. A young Lebanese friend, Sami Kerkabi, worked in the Government Tourist Bureau. An enthusiastic speleologist, mountaineer and skier, he had walked over large areas of little-visited country, and understood immediately what we wanted to do. With his help we got maps and roughed out an itinerary, which was to take us northwards up the seaward flank of the Lebanon mountains to the Syrian frontier, over into the Beka’a and back by the lake of Yammoune and the Col des Cedres to our starting point, as yet undecided, in the Metn or Kesrouan districts of the central Lebanon. He also arranged for us to receive an invaluable letter of identification from the Director of Tourism, M Michel Touma.
Discreet enquiries and soundings out by Embassy friends among officials of the Ministry of the Interior and officers of the gendarmerie and security services produced very unfavourable reactions. The northern mountain and forest area was unsettled; it would be very inadvisable for foreigners to go beyond the usual summer-resort areas. Certain areas were quite impossible without escort, the inhabitants being notoriously turbulent and hostile to strangers. This reaction was so unpromising that we did not dare pursue it further, lest knowledge of our plans should impel the authorities to obstruct them. Many of our Beirut friends were equally discouraging. ‘You must be mad,’ they said, ‘to go trailing about in the mountains with all those children. Think of the discomfort, the dirt, the impracticability of it all.’ Bedouin, bandits and bugs were spoken of in equal terms and unsubstantiated accounts of outrage and extortion were called to mind. But other friends were more resolute, and demonstrated their sympathy by practical assistance. A tent was lent us, and arrangements made for contacting and financing us.
Our servant Elias, in the meantime, had been following the discussions and plans with the keenest interest. Nominally engaged as a cook in our first month in Beirut, he stayed with us our entire time in Lebanon as general factotum, gardener, nursemaid, adviser and friend. The son of a landowning peasant farmer, a Maronite of the Metn district, Elias had a quickness of wit and invention, a good humour and a capacity for complete absorption in the moment which made him an admirable companion. Brave, impetuous, improvident, agile, enquiring, optimistic, he was a friend and favourite of the children from the moment he entered our household. His English was erratic, but in the course of time we evolved a pidgin Anglo-Arabic which we all used with versatility, supplementing our varying command of Arabic and English.
Our life being lived on the open plan, he entered into the problems of the family with zest and sympathy. ‘My father used to have lots of donkeys,’ he said to us; ‘as a younger man he was well known as a pack-driver in the Metn and Kesrouan. I learned how to handle donkeys from him when I was a boy, and as I am a mountain man myself, I’d better come with you to give you a hand.’ This decision on Elias’ part was of inestimable value to us, and he amply fulfilled his promise as pack-driver. Unconvinced by the reaction to our oblique enquiries about our route, we confided the result to Elias and suggested he seek out in our quarter such people as he could find from the northern mountain area, and bring us what advice he could from them.
This was quickly done. The man who dug our garden, the shoemaker around the corner, the lodgekeeper’s uncle, Elias’ father, the grocer across the street, the man who sold fruit, were all passionately interested in our project and pleased and excited to give us their help and advice on it. The message Elias brought back was the one at the beginning of the chapter. It confirmed our own feelings and we decided to follow them.
* * *
The period from the inception of the idea to the putting of it into practice was a matter of only a few weeks. Our preparations were scanty and haphazard in the extreme, and we laid in the minimum of stores, being determined from the beginning to live off the country and to adjust ourselves to the conditions in which we found ourselves. The only concession we made to our alien status was a knapsack full of books and an old tea-chest filled with small necessities and luxuries such as a looking-glass, scissors, first-aid kit, cream, talcum powder, soap, toothpaste, lavatory paper, sweets, packs of cards and a set of dice. Our medicines consisted of a bottle of mercurochrome, a packet of elastoplast and tubes of aspirin and entero-vioform, in case of stomach upsets. As it transpired, we could have done without any of them. This treasure-trove was known as Pandora’s box, and was regarded with fascinated interest by the children.
We fixed on Tuesday, the 16th of July, as our starting date, and at ten o’clock that morning we were ready to go. Our bedding and gear was stuffed into three duffle-bags, relics of the War. We had two Lilos and a collapsible army cot, three sleeping-bags and a neat tent which packed into a canvas container. The kitchen gear and stores went into two cardboard cartons, and consisted of a few tins of sardines and meat, porridge, rice, sugar, some garlic, a box of salt, a bottle of oil, some plates, cups and glasses, coffee and the necessary apparatus to make it, a primus stove and a primitive charcoal grill made out of tin. Three aluminium pots, a kettle and two water-bottles and a jar made up our total. A length of nylon climbing rope, an old felt mat, two mosquito nets, a child’s pillow and two air cushions were added, and we were ready to go. Our clothes were the oldest we had, and the children wore jeans. Apart from a pair of climbing boots, the family footgear consisted of sandshoes, sandals and a pair of walking shoes each for the children and their mother. Everyone had a straw hat, but these proved impractical and were eventually abandoned for keffiyahs, the loose Arab headcloth, which is easily the best protection against the fierce rays of the sun.
Elias appeared in a startling new guise which colours all our subsequent recollections of him. During our Beirut life he had something of the dapper, spiv-like air of the city slicker – glossy hair, pointed shoes, an elegant long nail on the little finger of his clean, well-kept hands. Only his wild flashing eye and a certain deftness and agility in all he undertook, combined with his willingness to learn and experiment, distinguished him from the rest of the sleek, white-jacketed, well-trained manservants of the town. But with the prospect of a return to his earlier way of life before him, Elias shed his city-veneer like a suit of clothes, and emerged before us wiry, neat and hardy, clad in cord breeches and tall boots, an old GI windproof jacket on his back and a straw hat set at a rakish angle on his lustrous black locks.
Our family of four children consisted of Miles, aged nine; Anthea, aged eight; Sabrina, aged six; and Sebastian, aged four. All of us, except Anthea, became a year older in the course of the trip, Sebastian becoming five two days after our return to Beirut. The two youngest children had been born in the Levant; the elder two had been born in India and America respectively, but all had spent the greater part of their life in the Eastern Mediterranean area. Prior to living in Lebanon we had spent half of each year in Cyprus and from earliest childhood the children had been accustomed to make themselves understood in Greek, Turkish, Arabic and French, to eat what was offered to them and to take people on trust. We knew them to be our best passports, an immediately comprehensible affirmation of our confidence and trust in the people we were among. ‘A house without children is a house without light’, says an Arab proverb, and the possession of our children ensured us a warm and sympathetic welcome wherever we went. The question would never arise of our having to protect them; among a people kind and indulgent to children, they, at a pinch, would probably protect us. For the children themselves, the whole project seemed merely an extension of the picnics and excursions to which they were accustomed. Merry, uncomplaining, adaptable, they presented not the slightest problem, and moved from place to place without doubt or hesitation, entering into immediate contact with the people of wherever we found ourselves, and accumulating vast collections of bottle-tops, cartridge-cases, flints, fossils, caterpillars, beetles, small animals, flowers, sardine tins (used as make-believe cars), sticks and clasp-knives, all of which had to be carefully conveyed down to Beirut for safe-keeping. The only link with their past life that Sabrina and Sebastian retained was two teddy-bears, who went to sleep with them each night, and they were always most solicitous for news of Balthazar, our cat, when Elias went down to Beirut.
* * *
We had decided to start on our walk from Faraya, a small winter-sports resort 3,500 feet up in the Kesrouan, less than two hours’ drive from Beirut. Nothing in particular impelled us to choose it, except that the valleys leading up to it were devoted to fruit-growing and donkeys were presumably easy to obtain there, and beyond the village there was a fine spring with a very charming coffee-house beside it, which would serve as a base from which to purchase donkeys.
Ten o’clock saw us all piling into one of our neighbourhood taxis, a huge aquamarine-and-white Chrysler, driven by one Henri, an old friend. We sailed up out of the steaming heat and glare of summer-time Beirut with the radio blaring the latest song-hit and Elias and Henri excitedly discussing the best way to set about purchasing donkeys. Soon the pallid coastline fell away beneath us and we were climbing up through the pine-woods, turning our backs to the sparkling blue sea behind us and moving inland to a landscape of great chasm-like valleys, terraced hillsides and bare, tawny vistas of tumbled mountain peaks. The sun beat down remorselessly out of a pale blue sky but, as we got higher, the sharp mountain air was dry and stimulating after the humidity of the coast, and the breeze fanned us coolly as we sped along.
We were now in the hottest and driest season of the year, the season at which the vegetation god Tammuz, the Adonis of the Greeks, in one version of the great regional legend, descended into the underworld and all plant life languished and died in sympathy until the love-goddess Ishtar succeeded in ransoming him, and brought him back in triumph to the living world. His return coincided with the arrival of the first winter rains and the renewal of growth, and is the key to the understanding of the religious beliefs of the ancient Semitic people of this area. To a primitive agricultural and stock-raising people, control and propitiation of the forces of growth and reproduction by means of worship and magic is essential, and the drying-out of the land in the summer heat is an affliction only to be overcome by the hope of the rebirth and renewal of the next season.
As we neared our destination, the donkey quest started in earnest. The taxi would squeal to a stop and Elias and Henri would leap out to tackle some startled peasant, and a variety of dusty-looking animals would be inspected. No one seemed unduly surprised to be asked if they wanted to sell their beast, and everyone entered into the negotiations with the greatest zest. We ourselves kept modestly in the background, and it never crossed the villagers’ minds that we were anything other than harmless foreign tourists. After sundry stops and starts of this nature, we eventually reached Faraya, a village straggling along a tree-hung stream, in a green amphitheatre enclosed by high, tawny rock walls. The road continued on upwards for about a mile, to where the Nebaa el Asel – the spring of honey – gushed out of a rocky cleft and ran turbulently down in a series of small falls and cascades to the village below. Just below the source of the stream is a ford, and a track leads off over the brow of the hill. Beside the ford is a built-up terrace, shady with willows and poplars, and here is the coffee shop.
We unloaded the taxi, and ordered food and beer. This soon came in the shape of skewers of hot grilled kebabs folded in flaps of Arab bread, with a bowl of mint-sprinkled tomato salad and dishes of yoghurt and hommos – pounded chick-peas mixed with garlic and oil – to support it. Over cups of coffee we discussed our next moves, assisted by the waiter Shafik, a pleasant young man who spoke good English, having worked with the British Army during the War. The patrons of the coffee shop, a fat man playing tric-trac with a priest, another man talking business with the proprietor, were full of advice and encouragement. The upshot was that Elias went off with Henri, who was returning to Beirut, and we moved our gear into two small rooms above the terrace where we proposed to sleep that night.
The fresh, cool air was a delight after the damp, exhausting heat of Beirut, and the coffee shop, with its rows of small tables and chairs, and the water rushing past in artificial runnels channelled through the terrace, was simple and adequate for all our needs. The pollarded willows and tall, leafy poplars sheltered the terrace from the sun, and the quick, brown stream hurrying among the rocks and boulders of its bed added a soothing background of sound to the drowsy heat of the afternoon. As the afternoon wore on, a clattering of hooves and shouted Arabic roused us from our idleness. The children came running to bid us come down to the ford and, following them, we saw a party of wild-looking Bedouin loading glistening goatskins of water on to the backs of their mares. We watched these harsh-faced, angry-looking men with interest as, with their robes girded up around their waists, they strove and sweated to heave the heavy skins on the racy-looking brood mares. A pretty little foal flirted about madly on the outskirts of the group, and the mares, their eyes starting nervously in their small heads, shifted restlessly among the stones of the pool above the ford. At last the skins were filled and loaded, and with a prodigious shouting and trampling the riders swung themselves up on to their beasts, and rode off up the flank of the mountain. The sight of these people stirred and encouraged us, and we were confirmed in our determination to get off as soon as we could.
Late that evening Elias returned, leading a large milk-white donkey. Everyone flocked out to inspect the new purchase, who cost one hundred and sixty lira (approximately eighteen pounds sterling) complete with his gear. His size and colour showed that he was bred in Cyprus, whose donkeys, like its mules, are famous in the Levant for their strength and endurance. Everyone congratulated us on our acquisition, and we were gratified to discover that he came with a certificate in Arabic to the effect that ‘this gentleman has paid his taxes’. Elias was very proud of his purchase and swore he was strong enough to carry two hundred kilos, but we decided to wait over another day and buy a second animal.
The night air was cold up in the mountains, and we were all huddled into pullovers and woollen socks. The events of the day had worn us all out, and we went to bed at half-past eight, the children bundling up into two beds, and ourselves lying awake for a while listening to the shrieks and ululations of the radio in the coffee shop and the slap of the wooden counters on the tric-trac board below.
We awoke at dawn after a marvellously refreshing sleep and lay drowsing until seven o’clock. The terrace was still fresh and damp from the night, and the trees glistened in the early sunlight as we ate our breakfast. Elias was off early to the Bedouin encampment hidden in the fold of the hills and returned eventually with a diminutive grey donkey, a shaggy creature like an animated doormat, but with a hopeless, resigned air of patience that won the children’s hearts immediately. The two little ones were delighted with him. The big white donkey had a certain wary aggressiveness about him which was rather daunting, but this new acquisition seemed no more alarming than a stuffed toy. ‘He very good donkey,’ said Elias, defending the undistinguished appearance of his choice, ‘he only need little stick.’ This caught the children’s fancy, and Little Stick became the small donkey’s name, and as a natural consequence the white one was known as Big Stick. Little Stick came to us with very makeshift gear, and cost seventy-five lira, about nine pounds sterling. Elias’ immediate concern was to find him a decent saddle of sorts, and he took Miles off with him down to the village, to help with the donkeys while he negotiated a purchase.
We, in the meantime, decided to walk over the mountain in the direction of the Jisr el Hadjar, a natural bridge spanning the narrow gorge of the Nahr el Leben – the river of milk – not far below where the river wells up from the base of a cliff. The small pool it forms at its source is of the clearest, coldest water imaginable, green as an emerald, and the solitude and remoteness of its surroundings give a quality of mystery to its silent emergence. The gorge through which it runs is narrow and tumbled with rocks, and the river works its way down through channels and crevices. On either hand the rounded hillside is terraced by man, and it is surprising to look down from the cliffs above and see the cultivation extending in a narrow bridge from one side to the other, while underneath gapes the dark, shadowy cleft of the gorge.
The sun was hot, and the children soon decided to give up, and ran back across the stony hillside to play under the trees of the coffee shop, and paddle in the stream. We walked on slowly up the contours of the mountain flank, until the swell of the land hid the spring from us. All was dried up and desiccated, only thistles and spurge and a handsome blue teazle still survived among the stones and yellowed bents of the hillside. Above towered the shimmering limestone cliffs of the amphitheatre and we seemed to be alone in a world of rock and shale and bare, burnt-out earth. A sudden distant hail caused us to look sharply to our right, and down below on a sunburnt knoll we saw the black tents of a Bedouin encampment. We turned off across the hillside towards them and found there the horsemen of the previous day. Around the encampment grazed the mares and their foals; donkeys, goats and sheep straggled over the hillside and were discernible high up on the rocky walls of the cliffs.
The chief of the encampment was a lean, grizzled old man in a long grey robe, belted around in his middle with a leather belt. He it was who had hailed us with a cry of invitation and he welcomed us with a warm smile and strong handshake. ‘Be welcome,’ he said, ‘sit and join us in our tent.’ Half a dozen other men clustered around him in the shadow of the tent – shaggy, villainous-looking creatures in coarse, yellow-dyed robes and rough sheepskin jackets. Their white keffiyahs fell over their shoulders and the long, tangled curls of the young men gave a somewhat effeminate appearance to their sunburnt, rosy-cheeked faces. They all shook hands with us in turn, their downy lips parting to reveal flashing white teeth, the eye-teeth gleaming with gold. We sat down beside the open charcoal hearth, with the beaked coffee-pots standing in the coals, cushions and bolsters at our back, and our feet tucked up tidily beneath us. The tent was pitched north to south and a pleasant cool air fanned us lightly as we sat looking out over the tawny hillside. Our hosts were very affable. They were Syrians from Homs, the great horse breeding district of Syria, and were taking their beasts down to Beirut, presumably to sell the colts to the racing stables there. The goats and sheep helped supply them on their slow march southwards, and what remained would be sold off to the butchers at the end of the journey.
We drank hot, bitter coffee spiced with cardamom from little cups produced from a neat travelling case, and then we had glasses of sweet tea. Cigarettes were exchanged, and paper and tobacco were manipulated for us into the required shape. Conversation was a little halting, owing to our uncertain Arabic, but it went on well enough on the question-and-answer level. There were no women; the group was a party travelling down to the coast on business. Two round-faced, rosy-cheeked little hobbledehoys of thirteen were the youngest there, and they hung bright-eyed and alert on the conversation of their elders. The older men were a hard-bitten, jovial crew, but the young men had a dandified, languishing manner which accorded well with their quick, glancing looks and graceful gestures. The rear of the tent was piled with great sacks of stores, and before we left the Sheikh’s brother, a corpulent, good-humoured fellow, disappeared behind the screen and reappeared with a tray of yoghurt, fresh bread, tahina and a plate of sticky sweetmeats made of ground peanuts, mixed with honey and rose-water. This we were pressed to eat and the assembled company watched us carefully and encouraged us to further effort. The meal finished, we were free to go, having spent about an hour in their company. We again shook hands all round and amid many expressions of friendliness and goodwill, we thanked our hosts for their hospitality and walked off in the direction of the natural bridge.
Having scrambled down through the gorge to the terraced hillside beyond, we came back towards the coffee shop through terraces of beans and tomatoes, whose owners were busy irrigating them from little channels carried off from the tumbling stream. It was hot and empty on the hillside and we startled two small shepherdesses who, in mauve dresses and straw hats, were idling in the shade of a solitary tree while their goats dozed in the shadows about them.
Our business in Faraya was now done and we were ready to start in the morning. Our first objective was Afka, over the wall of mountain beyond the valley, at the source of the Nahr Ibrahim, the river Adonis of antiquity and legend. The rivers of the Lebanon range run roughly east to west and consequently on our northward progress we should be going against the grain of the country, moving from one river valley to the next, but crossing the ribs of the mountain system as near the central spine as we could. In this way we were to find ourselves constantly alternating between the abundant water and fruit cultivation of the river basins and the bare, harsh uplands of the grazing areas.
Our last afternoon in Faraya was enlivened by a violent fusillade from the terrace below which brought us all out of bed, where we had been dozing through the heat. Two sportsmen and two gendarmes, after a convivial luncheon assisted by plenty of arak, were having a shooting competition, firing at the stones on the opposite bank of the stream. The children were very excited by this and rushed out to collect the shell cases. We ate supper quietly on the shadowy terrace, settled our bill and went to bed early – our gear piled up in a store beside the terrace and our spirits high in anticipation of the morning.
TWO
Faraya to Afka and the source of the Adonis River
We were up just after four o’clock, shivering in our pullovers in the grey pre-dawn light. Everyone was very silent and excited and as Elias loaded the two donkeys with the aid of Shafik the waiter, the children sat huddled on chairs drinking little cups of strong coffee. At last we were ready and with warm handshakes and farewells to Shafik, we crossed the bridge and started up the winding road into the hills. As we rounded the first bend we could look back and see him standing at the end of the terrace watching us and waving vigorously, and we all waved back for as long as we could see him.
Sebastian and Sabrina were travelling slung in sacks on either side of the small donkey, Anthea perched on the top of the white one’s load. The sun had not yet struck over the eastern cliff, and we walked on through uplands of ripe corn, with the valley cleaving its way seaward on our left-hand side. After a while our track turned up into a subsidiary valley and led through plum orchards where the fruit was still ripening on the boughs, and past occasional scattered houses. We were all very pleased with ourselves: ‘This is the life,’ we thought, as we walked easily along the beaten earth track and breathed the sweet, fresh mountain air.
The track deteriorated and began to wind up through a desolate, stony valley. We were leaving the area of cultivation behind and the landscape became increasingly empty and severe. We drank at a spring which welled out among the stones beside our path, now a boulder-strewn gully in a deserted glen, and continued upward until we came out on a small plateau where two glens ran into each other. Here there was a stone hovel with two women scalding milk over a smoky fire. They appeared very poor and ragged in comparison with the peasants inhabiting the orchards around Faraya. In answer to Elias’ queries they indicated the left-hand fork – ‘Our men always go that way over to Afka’ – and gave us some sour milk to drink, which was very refreshing.
The sun was now striking over the tops of the mountains and the day was beginning to warm up. The right-hand fork led desolately up into nothing, but the left-hand one went up in a series of rocky ridges to what appeared to be a pass. It looked a fairly steep pitch, but we could see goat-tracks leading up the rocky shelves and the women were insistent that this was the right route. The small donkey went up confidently, setting his feet down neatly and scrambling from one level to another. We took the children off the donkeys and, taking the little ones on our backs, made a series of sharp, exhausting pushes to the shelter of an overhang of rocks evidently used by shepherds and goats as a refuge from the heat of the sun.
Meanwhile, Elias was having trouble with Big Stick. At the first shelf he jibbed, slipped his load and sat down. Consternation from above, and a volley of oaths from Elias. The load adjusted – and part taken by the two men – another anxious scramble began, while far below the women gaped up, open-mouthed, at the activities of the strangers. It was a hideous ascent, for we were going up the edge of a dried watercourse and at one point had to cross over its tumbled boulders. It was so steep we could only go a few yards at a time, then we would subside, heaving and panting, on to a boulder. Elias whacked and heaved and shouted like ten men, now coaxing, now shoving, now roaring in an access of rage, and gradually we worked up towards a great mass of boulders we could see right above us and which we felt must be the top of the pass. At last, after an hour, we lay exhausted on a patch of green turf just below these rocks, feeling limp after the arduous climb, but smiling and pleased with ourselves for having been undefeated by this first obstacle. Elias produced some sweets from his pocket and we lay there blissfully for a quarter of an hour, recovering, and trying to get our bearings in the tumbled grey mountain mass before us. The children did not seem put out by the turn of events. The elder two had come up very gamely through the rocks and scree, and the two little ones had done part of the scramble on their own, aided by encouraging advice and porterages from their mother.
Standing silently on the rocks above us, we were surprised to discover a black-clad shepherd who had been wonderingly observing us as we lay laughing below him on the springy turf. Coming up to him, we found that the rocks were not the crest as we had thought, but the edge of a broad, undulating, enclosed grazing area. Another shepherd was perched some distance away, upright on a rock, idly fingering his reed flute. All around were goats, black and brown; apart from them the solitude was intense. The shallow cup-like depression lay open and exposed to the pale sky; only the tinkle of the goat-bells and the occasional long hallooing calls of the shepherds broke the silence. They controlled their flocks by pitching stones. An accurately shied stone was sufficient to turn a beast in the direction wanted and to keep the different flocks from trespassing on another’s grazing area, whose boundaries were marked by small cairns.
These shepherds would spend all day up on the deserted mountain-tops with just a twist of hard goat cheese and a flap of bread for sustenance until their return at night for the milking. They wore the usual black baggy shewals of the Lebanese mountaineers, a trouser made with a tight-fitting leg like a jodhpur, but so full at the top that the seat falls in folds between the legs, making it a garment giving great ease of movement and providing a comfortable pad on which to sit. On their feet were heavy boots and on their heads a twisted black headcloth wrapped round a stiff pointed felt skull-cap. Their jackets were short and braided, and were open over a collarless pleated shirt. This is a costume worn by almost all the mountain people, varied from district to district by different headcloths and ways of tying them. Occasionally their jackets are navy blue, with black braiding, but mostly they seem to prefer black, reserving any colour they wear for their round-necked shirts.
Directed by the shepherds, we set off across the upland. The ground rose gradually and we began to labour as we dragged on over the grassy slopes. At last a cool, fresh breeze blowing into our faces told us the pass was near and with a final effort we thrust ourselves up. A magnificent prospect spread out beneath us. We were standing at last on the crest of the range, about 6,000 feet up; below us the mountain swooped down in wide, yellow shelves, intersected at intervals by bands of precipitous rock to a point where, far, far beneath us, it suddenly broke off into the deep blue and purple valley of the Adonis. It was an astonishing sight, and beyond the wide gash of the valley we could see fold upon fold of mountain stretching away into the distance. We all stood silent and astonished, so many strangers upon our peak in Darien, and for the first time some concept of the scale of the country entered into our minds. Yet the children seemed completely undaunted, and flopped down in the long, dry grass, then gradually started gathering the few campions and scabious still growing among the rocks, drank some water, and wondered about lunch.
It was now mid-morning, and though the sun beat down, the air was fresh and cool and the donkeys, despite their efforts, plucked at thistle heads and browsed among the bents without any sign of distress. We seemed to have crossed the mountain further down than we had intended; looking towards the right we could see where Afka should be, far up at the top of the enormous mile-wide valley in front of us. Down below, almost on the lip of the chasm, we could see tiny rectangular black objects, like so many matchboxes on the vast tablecloth of mountain. These were the tents of a settlement of graziers, and around them we could see little dots which indicated cattle and livestock. They were a long way away, but so steep was the fall of the mountain that they seemed almost at our feet.
We started off slowly, seeking a way down to the tents so far beneath us. As long as we remained near the crest the going was good, but jutting falls of rock compelled us to traverse downwards across a series of narrow, turfy ledges. The further we descended, the more shaly and uncertain became our footing and the fall of the land so acute that from above it looked as if we were on the edge of a precipice. In fact this was not so, but we were not to know it. The small donkey seemed surefooted and at ease on this difficult terrain, and had probably come this way before with his Bedouin owners; he certainly seemed to know the direction in which he wanted to go. The big one was less happy, and much more heavily burdened, and as we straggled down across the mountainside, the inevitable happened. Stuck on a ledge that had petered out, he lunged desperately upwards in an attempt to cut across diagonally to one further up. His load slipped and, losing his balance, he tipped slowly down the shaly slope in a series of somersaults. We were all aghast, and pressed back, shaken, against the sides of the mountain, while bits and pieces of the load came crashing off and Pandora’s box sailed off into the blue in a cloud of soap-powder, sweets and lavatory paper.
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