SOS Children’s Village – je suis un pamplemousse!

You couldn't really miss this one.

I can’t believe our trek is over and I’m really not ready to leave Lebanon yet.  I join everyone on the street level terrace for our final breakfast.  Karen and Lamisse are packed for an earlier departure, Joseph and Mustapha have already left, Gemma meeting us later;  just a week ago I was struggling to remember names now they all seem like old friends.  Everyone I’ve met through Gulf for Good has been the same; although different in outlook and interests, the common-denominator is that all have been motivated by doing something for the good of others – a cliché I know – but it means that there is a ‘niceness’ for want of a better word, about every individual; they are kind, warm people.

We loaded the bags on the bus for the last time and set off out of Beirut.  The streets were manic as ever with cars forming six lanes where there should be three then trying to barge into a two lane carriageway.  It was a long, slow journey mainly through small towns, which became less and less prosperous-looking the further we got from Beirut.  The scenery changed to a huge, flat plateau of green, the Bekaa valley – there were lots of brown signs pointing at side roads to ancient and holy sites.  It would have been pretty, but was trumped by the memory of yesterday’s incomparable views.  The election posters were prevalent in this area too and we passed one image that was hard to miss of a man with a tank.  Maybe Gordon Brown would have done better if he’d adopted this tactic.  There was a mix-up with the itinerary.  We arrived in Baalbek, visited the largest stone in the world (the Hajar el Hibla – the stone of the pregnant woman which is supposed to effect a woman’s fecundity if she touches it) and were given a coffee by Abdul Nabi Al-Afi whose life’s work has been to discover it, excavate it from a rubbish dump and save it from being re-engulfed by garbage, but then we were whisked back onto the bus to go to the SOS Children’s Village.

Some of the children from the kindergarten

Susie holding a new orphaned baby

One of the house mothers, and her adopted children, who welcomed us to her home

The bus was overheating so we limped through the increasingly poor-looking villages and then found the country lane leading to the charity.  Neat red-tiled rooves could be spotted behind immaculate green vineyards.  The SOS Children’s Village was possibly the neatest, cleanest and most finished place we had seen in Lebanon.  We entered an oasis of calm with a warm greeting from the staff and urged to enter the Kindergarten building a.s.a.p. as the children were waiting.  These tiny tots put on a little display in every classroom we entered.  The children in the French and English rooms wore a picture of a fruit on their heads and shouted out the name with great enthusiasm, “Je suis un pamplemousse!”  In the Arabic class there was another particularly confident little girl Zeinab who stood out (note – always a girl) and she went into the puppet theatre and delivered loud, precise instructions from it then led the class in actions.  One little boy had crashed out and was fast asleep – it had all been too much.  We were then welcomed into the garden where tables and chairs were laid out with pretty table-cloths and decorated with flowers.  Some more children emerged and did a little dance to Arabic music.  One girl was not very happy about doing it and after some gentle encouragement was scooped up into the arms of one of the ‘house mothers’.  The house mothers had also made the amazing spread that was laid out under a pagoda and we gratefully loaded our plates.  Sitting under the shade of the trees, with the children milling in and out, getting to know the people at the SOS Children’s Village while tasting some of the most delicious food we’d eaten was an immense pleasure.  SOS Children’s Villages are an Austrian concept and the founding principle is to give orphaned children a family environment.  Eight children live with a house mother in their own building.  Looking at these clean, well-fed, decently clothed children in this fantastic environment it’s easy to think all is well with the world.  Then you listen to the stories.  One happy, little boy was found when he was about 10 months old, living in the car of a street trader with a man who may or may not have been his father.  The child could only crawl with his arms as the muscles of his legs had not been able to develop.  The turbulent recent past that has affected Lebanon has resulted in orphaned children, but so too have economics and social mores.  A tiny baby (who rewarded Susie’s cuddles with a spew of milk down her top) was one of the many children abandoned by their mothers at birth, possibly for fear of violent reprisals if they are unmarried.  Children are brought up in the religion of their birth parents, “but what if you don’t know it?” we asked.  Then the area that they were found dictates it; the Christian and Muslim areas were quite apparent on our travels through Lebanon.

We all wanted to know more about the house mothers.  Obviously a long-continuity of care is ideal, but some do leave to get married or for other reasons.  However many stay for a long time as the pressure on brides to be perfect exclude many from entering the married state – a small deformity for instance, or even just getting past marriageable age.  It must be hard to bring up eight children but the camaraderie of the women, their gentleness, warmth and close relationship to the children and the almost idyllic village setting must make this a good choice for many.

A collage showing the names of all the children and their mothers

We visited the houses and the women were proud to welcome us as guests in their homes.  These children whose lives could have turned out so differently are truly blessed.  It would be easy to look at the pristine SOS Children’s Village and conclude that other charities need the money more.

Certainly it was miles away from the crumbling slums of the refugee camp in Beirut.  However, this charity is using the money so well to create a model that would be enviable in any country let alone one where the people (especially children) have seen so much conflict.  It deserves to be supported so it can extend this fantastic care to more children.  The charity looks after them through to adult hood, helping them with education and putting them together with sponsors to help them set up in business.  Often the children grow up and give back by joining the staff.  We visited the two new houses that our money would furnish and planted some trees. Ehab brought a tiny cedar sapling he had bought at The Cedars.  The school bus drew up and the older children got down carrying their school bags on their bags and all dispersed going into their individual homes – it was an everyday scene but the ordinariness of it was poignant.

Ehab planting his cedar sapling with audience

We chatted with some of the teachers for a while then it was time for us to go.  Charbel had taken the bus for a quick check at a local garage and it sounded much better as we drove back to Baalbek, through towns with signs solely in Arabic and pictures of Muslim clerics adorning the streets.  Many of the group were keen to get back home and felt that we had done what we had come to do by visiting the charities and successfully completing our trek.  I was pleased that we were able to squeeze in a quick visit to the Roman ruins as I’ve grown to love them since being in the Middle East and had been told many times that the ones at Baalbek were unmissable.  The catalyst for this interest was Jerash in Jordan which had me captivated by its scale and grandeur.  This inspired me to drive into the desert in Syria to the remote and beautiful Palmyra. A privileged visit to Libya in 2009 took in Sabratha (and the extraordinary museum of mosaics), Leptis Magna and Villa Celine (which is closed to the general public and we explored by torchlight).  Baalbek is the largest Roman site dedicated to religious worship originally founded by the Phoenecians in the 1st Millenium BC when they built a temple dedicated to the God Baal.

Views of Baalbek

As we arrived quite late in the afternoon the lowering sunlight on the stones was particularly beautiful and we were practically the only visitors.  There were lots of little stalls on the approach road and a man asked if we would like to buy a Hezbollah t-shirt or cap (how many tourists actually say yes?).  I think the beauty of the place and the unaccustomed inactivity of sitting down for most of the day had an effect on Susie and me and we went into overdrive eager to see as much as we could as quickly as possible, scaling the steps up into the central area as if we were following Chamoun up a slope.  It’s not a large site but the restoration seems well done and the assembled parts demonstrate very clearly the intricacies of the carvings and the elegance that was dedicated to praising pagan gods and then the Christian one – the Temple of Jupiter took over 120 years to complete.  As always when admiring the achievements of the Romans I reminded myself that it was all built with slave labour and the human cost of this beauty would have been in lives.  It was soon time to go and as we walked back to the bus a man approached us trying to sell worry beads.  When I politely refused he dug into his pocket and brought out a handful of real Roman coins.  I was quite taken backm “they should be in a museum”.  He looked at me wryly and shrugged, “no jobs madam.”  We walked on but it’s an awful dilemma.  Secretly I would love to have a Roman coin and the money would help support the man and his family.  We took the road back to Beirut and said goodbye to Chamoun when we reached his village.  He had helped us, through his unconventional approach and love of the countryside, to witness a really different perspective.  I felt we were honoured to have had him as our guide.

At the edge of the Palestinian camp near the airport

We passed another Palestinian refugee camp of appalling decrepitude near the airport.  I looked into the tiny alleyways and imagined all the lives being played out there.  We found a nice restaurant in the airport and I had an excellent roast beef sandwich – the food in Lebanon had been fresh and delicious but none of us wanted to eat humous for a while!  Meeting up at the departure gate Ehab and Iman showed us their purchases of fruit and vegetables from Goodies in duty-free.  Where else in the world could you buy cherries inside the airport?  Joseph, who is an expert shopper, had found some interesting books and I doubled back to by a copy of a Million Steps by Hana El-Hieri which documents her exploration of the entire Lebanon Mountain Trail. It has some beautiful photography of the trail (to supplement over 900 photographs that I had taken during the week) and one of the guides featured in the book is our own Chamoun (he’s also in pictures of the book signing on their Facebook page).  Joseph and Mustapha are planning to follow in their footsteps.  The book is a great momento of a rewarding, educational, eye-opening, challenging  and life-enhancing trip.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

PS A great article published in Emirates Business where Ehab, Naghma and Mustapha express their feelings about visiting the charities.

On the trail of the lost cedars – Bcharre to Hasroun

The Phoenician tomb and burial chamber from 750 BC

I woke before 6am once again, this time to church bells, and tried to switch off the internal monologue that was still berating me from not doing the extra walk.  I resolved to learn from it and not to be as cautious about my physical abilities in the future.  I read a bit of Khalil Gibran to prepare for the museum visit today and then got up and dressed and began the ritual  ‘putting on of the boots’ one last time.

Shrines are everywhere in the Qaddisha Valley (known as Valley of Saints or Holy Valley)

This involved putting a small Compeed plaster (the best type – trust me) on my little toe to protect my single, tiny blister, slathering a large layer of Vaseline (petroleum jelly) all over my foot and in between my toes, smoothing Bodyglide on my ankles and then (a clever tip from Jo) plunging my sticky hand into my sock, wiping all the Vaseline off inside it and then smoothing the sock over my foot.  Foot inserted in boot, laces tied, I was ready to go once more, refreshed and full of energy with not a trace of the lassitude that infected me yesterday (apart from a residual heaviness in my heart for opportunities lost and that it was our last day of trekking).  Iman and Ehab had risen early, followed the church bells and sat in at the back of mass, soaking in the atmosphere and watching children go into pray before school.

Thanks to all my supporters including Rexona

We arrived at the Khalil Gibran Museum, a pretty former monastery and waited for its 9am opening – it was soon apparent that this was not going to happen.  A quick call revealed that it was still on off-season opening and we could choose to stay or walk on.  No prizes for guessing what I did this time!  I joined the walking group for a fairly steep climb up the hill.  It wasn’t the most interesting of surroundings except for a Phoenician tomb shaped like a Chimnea but the views straight down the valley were ‘awesome’.  I mentioned to Chamoun that I regretted not joining the group yesterday.  He explained that there was a very dangerous bit where you had to cling to the rock and he didn’t want to take anyone whose muscles were tired for safety reasons.  I felt happier now I understood why he didn’t encourage me one way or the other.

Carved dead cedars by artist Roudy Rahmeh

We reached the Cedars, Lebanon’s oldest ski resort, dotted with wooden chalet-style buildings and headed towards the central souvenir stalls – our first retail-therapy all trip.  The group that had stayed to visit the museum arrived on the bus and we compared purchases.  I bought some little cedar boxes with brass fittings which I felt a twinge of guilt about when we entered the cedar reserve where only a clutch of old trees remain (some with lopped branches) due to the almost complete deforestation of the Cedar of Lebanon.  Sarcophagi in ancient Egypt were often made of cedar wood that came from Lebanon shipped via Byblos.  Some of the cedars in the reserve are over 1000 years old.  There is a long-term programme to replant the cedar forests and eco-warrior Chamoun showed us an area the next day where he had planted over 4000 trees.  One dead tree had been carved into striking depictions of Christ – a group of  Christians from Asia were reading out loud from the Bible in Chinese and praying below it.  We soon struck out into open countryside on our route on the opposite side of the valley of Bcharre towards Hasroun.  You could spot the Gulf for Good governors a mile off as they were wearing sequined cowboys hats they’d just bought.  The mountains flanking us on the left, bare and grey with patches of residual snow, seemed tantalisingly close especially as it was another warm day.  Our group had all got on very well including the Red Cross volunteers, Rani and Michel.  Rani told me about his pentathlons which involved swimming, cycling from Byblos to The Cedars, archery and a run up one of the mountains we could see (can’t remember the fifth sport!).  They were like supermen.

A horse-drawn plough in action

We found a shady tree near a stream for lunch and then did our final stretches with Karen, a really invaluable part of the trek; it was so peaceful and zen-like.  Our path took us by fields and orchards and we waved to men at work.  We saw a horse-drawn plough in action, the animal in sleek relief against the mountains and blue sky.  Chamoun flagged down a stripped-bare VW Beetle (we saw quite a few in the town) that appeared on a track and we clambered on for a photo.  There was a holiday spirit and lots of chatting and laughter.  We passed goats crowded in a stable, a lone, black and white cow with a pretty face and neat crops in rich, red soil.  Wild flowers were everywhere.  Farmers diverted the many gushing streams (from the molten snow and springs in the mountains) by making a  temporary mud dam so it poured onto the land.

The snow seemed so close and so tempting to us on the hot lower slopes

I walked on my own for a bit, relishing my surroundings, conscious that these were the last few hours of this amazing trek.

The descent was long and slow taking us into the pretty, old town of Hasroun – shrines at every junction. The views over to Bcharre were fabulous in the late afternoon light; villagers were sitting outside working, a group of men took time out from sorting seed potatoes to greet us. We had walked about 20 km.  We posed for photos with the Gulf for Good sign to the amusement of passersby including a young couple in a Mini with a Union Jack on the roof.  The bus took us round snaking roads looking down on valley after valley of mesmerizing beauty with magnificent rock formations and soon we were parallel to the coast and passing Tripoli and Byblos as the sun set over the sea.   Mustapha and Joseph urged us to stop at a special bakery for kaak (or handbag bread as my friend Sally calls it due to its shape) – it was slightly sweet, salty and absolutely delicious.

The end of our trek - marking our achievements

We sadly bade farewell to Michel and Rani and drove into central Beirut, passing the Hariri mosque lit up at night with its enormous blue dome.  It was a subdued party that assembled for supper in a lack-lustre restaurant.  Several of the group had already rushed off to meet up with friends and the younger crew were planning to make the most of their last night.  It was great to see some Lebanese friends who dropped by to see me.  It is seemingly impossible to order small quantities of food in Lebanon and as the waiters brought dish after dish once more, no one had the appetite to appreciate it.  The exhilaration of completing our physical challenge successfully had abated – we were sad our journey was almost at an end.  If someone had offered me the chance to do it all again right then, I would have jumped at the chance.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The Valley of Saints

One of the chalets at La Reserve Horsh Ehden

I woke up at about 5am to the light streaming through the uncurtained, windows in the eaves of our log cabin and the dawn chorus.  It was very pleasant to doze under the warm covers and I finally emerged when I heard voices.  It was very nippy – my guess is no-one showered that morning – but soon warmed up as the sun hit the patio.  The brazier was relit for good measure.  Breakfast was a lively affair; the Lebanese men all shared a table and tucked into fried eggs with gusto.  The eggs were served in little terracotta dishes and liberally coated in butter and salt – the guys kept asking for more and more.  On our table it was the appearance of tea bags and hot water that had us excited.  Iman, who had skipped supper to retire early with some painkillers the night before. emerged looking immaculate as usual.  We constantly marvelled how anyone could look that stylish in hiking gear and she earned her nickname ‘the style guru’.  We were all pleased to hear that her knee had recovered enough for the day’s trek, as had Gemma’s.  After lugging our bags down to the bus, filling up our hydration packs and swiping some cherries from the tree on the way, we were soon leaving Ehden and being driven on mountain paths around the most incredible scenery we’d seen to date – and that was saying something.  We were thankful that Charbel was such a good driver due to the hairy hairpin bends.

Entrance to the chapel at the Monastery

The villages looked very prosperous in this area – we even saw some houses that were finished (the lack of completion and the amount of buildings which were concrete shells had intrigued us).  Passing some stations of the cross we followed a small, road that zig-zagged down to the  Deir Mar Antonios Qozhaya monastery.

The Qadisha valley has plunging sides of stone calcified in swirling patterns of ochre, terraces carved out for planting and deep green forests.  Its remoteness meant that it was the perfect place for monasteries and hermits wanting to remove themselves from the world or religious persecution, particularly the Maronites in the 5th Century.  The view from this  monastery built into the cliff would inspire anyone to prayer to its creator.  We visited a cave where the mentally ill were chained to wait for a miracle cure and petitions for prayers were made to the monks.  A food offering was made in return for the holy intercession and the empty pots were stored on the rocks.  The amount of pots indicated that those monks rarely went hungry.  The little chapel built into a cave was peaceful and we wandered off around various parts of the monastery, including a museum with the first printing press in the Middle East.  Some of the party met a monk who took them into the wine cellar; my group conducted a conversation in very bad French with a lady from the little cafe  and had a tour of the very lovely rooms that you can stay in there.

Calcified cliffs in the Qadisha Valley

We started our trek in a village with yet more shrines.  A lady waved from her upstairs terrace covered with vines – she was hard at work on her sewing machine.  The way into the valley was via 400 steps built by many volunteers – Chamoun described how everyone had taken the materials down in sacks.  Many of the group with knee twinges were a bit apprehensive about going down them but imagine the descent prior to the building of the steps; no wonder the valley was cut off.  We stopped on a plateau under a lone olive tree and marvelled at the view; when we continued, Michel ran ahead going helter-skelter down the rocky steps while we continued to plod down carefully.  Even speedy Chamoun thought he was mad.

We were going to visit Father Dario Escobar, a hermit from Columbia who is now in his 70s.  We made a few attempts at questioning Chamoun, “Aren’t hermits supposed to shut themselves away from people?” but the answer was lost in translation.  Intrigued we entered his simple hermitage built into the rock – climbing upstairs through a central courtyard with a lemon tree.  Chamoun didn’t think he was at home and reached in to turn the light on in the chapel, so it gave Karen quite a shock when she went in to see him sitting there in silence, staring ahead, dressed in black with a long, grey beard.  We sat on the balcony and overlooked Father Escobar’s neat little vegetable garden.  He eats one meal a day, is self-sufficient and has no heating in winter according to Chamoun (although we spotted evidence of an electic heater in the second chapel!).

Traditional drinking vessels in the Hawka Hermitage

He showed us how to drink from the traditional terracotta water vessel which was very funny so I hope the noise of our laugher didn’t test the hermits concentration too much .  On leaving we met another group of walkers coming in and tried once again to get an answer to our question, “Chamoun, doesn’t the hermit mind people coming into his house?”  He answered as though this was no problem, “He can’t mind, he has to let them in as it’s an open monastery.”  It revealed as much about the local community as it did about the hermit!

Walking along a path, although narrow and winding, was a completely different trekking experience and although, as always, we bowled along at a swift pace it meant you could really take in the magnificent surroundings.  It was the hottest day so far and the less-demanding terrain was welcome.  The dynamics of the group order changed – Chamoun chatted to people at the back, there were different leaders.  Unable to stop taking pictures I became distanced from the front-runners but ahead of the rest, meaning I had some solitary walking time.  Finding my own pace, keeping my own thoughts and absorbing the dramatic view gave me such a warm feeling of contentment.

Altar and frescoes in the Monastery of Our Lady of Qannoubine

We passed more shrines and visited the Santa Maria Sanctuary and the Monastery of Our Lady of Qannoubine where we stopped to eat our packed lunch.  What luxury – benches to sit on and a loo!  The churches were each beautiful in a simple, homespun way with peeling frescoes on the walls, their jewelled colours still bright.  I was glad of the rest, I couldn’t find my usual “umph”, maybe it was because of the heat.  I couldn’t face eating much lunch but enjoyed listening to everyone’s chatter especially when Karen phoned her 6-year-old daughter to wish her happy birthday.

Back to the path and the view – this was a place I could imagine coming back to with my family.  Looking out at the cliffs across the gorge revealed many caves – Chamoun said there were about 800 in total.  He had found a secret cave on one of his journeys crisscrossing the trail where he discovered the bones of a forgotten hermit which he gave to a museum.

It was nice to catch up for a chat with a few people as it was something I hadn’t been able to do when tackling the slopes on earlier days.  I then felt I had to push myself a bit more and caught up with the dynamic duo of Karen and Susie and became their shadow once again.  We came to a waterfall and Chamoun told us to look up – hundreds of metres up the cliffs was a hole in the rock through which you could see a white cascade – a glimpse of its source.

The source of the waterfall glimpsed through a window in the cliffs

We reached a small cafe by a stream near where the bus was parked.  We had a choice to either get on the bus or to tackle the hardest challenge of the trip – by all accounts a near vertical scaling of the cliffs up to the village.  It had not been a really, demanding day’s hiking but from early morning I felt I had no reserves of energy.  Maybe it was lack of sleep, the heat, misplacing my dried fruit rations (great portable fuel) or not eating lunch.  I wanted so much to join the “up” group but felt I just didn’t have it in me.  I told Karen that I was thinking of going on the bus.  “Of course you can do it Sally” she said and gave me a dried apricot.  I took superfluous things out of my backpack and got ready.  Then there was a potential change of plan meaning no one would go – relief in a way.  Then we were back onto the original plan.  I just didn’t know what to do – I was not confident in my energy levels and didn’t want to let the group down.  Rani was advising strongly that it was a really tough climb and under no circumstances to do it.  This swayed Jo.  I was so torn.  I put my backpack on and it felt like a stone.  I asked Chamoun “do you think I can do it?” he was non-committal.  I made the decision to stay and felt stupid as I turned away to wipe the tears that had sprung to my eyes.

It was a jolly band on the coach and they were handing out delicious manouche from a little hut where it was freshly made.  I regretted my decision already and looked back – the group had gone.  “We’re the losers on the bus” joked Michelle – I tried to laugh but my spirits fell a little further.

View across to Bcharre

The road up in the bus was narrow and I once again blessed Charbel’s fantastic driving abilities.  We could see the route that the other group would take – it looked impossible.  Charbel laughed, “I have taken over 200 groups to this place, not one has ever taken that route.  Crazy.”  As we climbed higher we could see the group reaching the monastery.  We could see across to our hotel in Bcharre, pretty red roofed houses and a church clinging to the mountainside and got out of the bus to take pictures.  What views were the others seeing? I was so despondent – my own stupid fault.

Bcharre had an instant charm – a bit haphazard but radiating life.  We unloaded the bags and then went out to explore finding the Kangaroo supermarket for supplies.  I love exploring food shops in other countries so had a good snoop round.  We soon found out that lots of people have emigrated from Bcharre to Australia so there is a strong familial link – Sandra was soon comparing notes with the friendly, lady owner.

Sitting outdoors next to the rose beds and, of course a shrine, sipping some cold drinks with the sun lowering over the valley casting a pink light, we were astonished as the intrepid group came into view.

A sign in Bcharre

My heart sank like a stone and Jo exclaimed “they only took 1 hour 20 minutes.”  In England we have one word for how I felt – “gutted”!

We went to a restaurant by a waterfall for our evening meal (the hotel didn’t serve food outside the ski season) and all sat at one long table.  The usual feast arrived and the realisation that only one more day’s trekking remained had an effect on everyone.  ‘What happens on tour, stays on tour’ suffice to say there was quite a lot of exuberant merry-making led from the front by the male Lebanese contingent.  I was sad that another day had ended but glad that my bed was so supremely comfortable as I sank into it.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

On the goat trail to Ehden

Labneh and dry zaatar

The days of hard trekking were beginning to take their toll, from causing sore feet and blisters to exacerbating more serious injuries.  The worst affected was Gemma whose weak knee was made even worse when she fell in the stream and knocked it hard on a stone.  She had to stay with Charbel while we embarked on our long day three trail and was missing from the lively conversations conducted at the back of the bus by the large contingent of Arabic speakers (including Michel and Rani our local Red Cross volunteers who gave up a week’s holiday to look after us).  This foreign chatter and generous translation added a great extra dimension to our experience as well as the spontaneous singing of traditional songs that Mustapha, Joseph and the other guys often burst into especially on the really difficult bits of the trail.

It was going to be a long-haul walking from Bqaa Sefrine to the Ehden Nature Reserve and we were warned that the remoteness meant that once we were committed we had to keep going to the end.  Breakfast was a serious matter (fuel for the journey) and we tucked in labneh, bread, scrambled eggs and dry zaatar (dried thyme, oregano and sesame) which we mixed with olive oil.  Picking our way through farmland and orchards made a very different start and we found two tortoises along the way (the first one carried off by Chamoun to safety, “people round here will kill anything.”) We all linked hands around a big tree to measure its girth (5 people) but soon left its welcome shade to clamber up and down the rocky sides of deep chasms.

Seeking shade

The scenes became more bleak and dramatic and after trudging up a really hot, slow, steep gravel path round a valley we reached the top of a round peak, relaxing under a couple of lonely trees to enjoy our lunch and the view.  We found shells – mine the perfect fossil of a sea-shell in a rock and Michel’s a spent Kalashnikov bullet.

Gulf for Good stress that everyone finds their own personal challenge and I quickly discovered that my best approach was to push myself to the limit on the really hard bits and then recover.  I found that staying nearer the back and doing it slower demoralised me and made it harder.  This meant I was the shadow of Karen and Susie whose aerobic fitness was unbelievable – they seemed to levitate up the slopes managing to keep up a conversation.  I did a good impression of Thomas the Tank Engine and they knew I was behind them from the extreme huffing and puffing.  Mustapha and Ehab were often in the front gang – both appeared to manage effortlessly (although I’m sure they’d say that appearances can be deceptive).

A herd of over 400 goats

Jo was more my level of fitness and tackled the trail with obvious determination which I admired hugely as she claimed she was not a fan of walking and scenery.  I delighted in every twist and turn of the view and we left the barren hillside going into soft, sweet-smelling, green pasture (Susie’s least favourite as she was convinced it was riddled with snakes) followed by a landscape that, to me, was reminiscent of Dartmoor – stony outcrops with bright yellow bushes and stunted trees.

I had entered hiking heaven and  loved picking my way down the next steep valley following the trails made by the enormous herd of silky, black and white goats we could see in the distance, although my enthusiasm for this sort of clambering wasn’t shared by everyone.  Chamoun and Michel gathered the wild thyme that grew on the hillside and filled a large bag with tiny leaves.

The dry river bed

A sublime panorama of dark green, forested mountains and valleys, fading mistily into the distance greeted us next; Susie and I were in raptures.  Crosses adorned every summit and we could see across to our destination – the Horsh Ehden Nature Reserve; it seemed so close.  The path we had to follow looked ominous – a bare, yellow gravel trawl upwards.  I gritted my teeth and followed Chamoun and the others and tried not to look up too often as the trail seemed to go on and on.  The heat seemed to radiate from the bare stone – this was the hardest point for me yet and I kept walking and gasping.  Towards the end of the climb, unbelievably, Chamoun and Michel  ran on ahead around the top of the gorge to check the way was clear for us.  It was bad news, the path was still iced over and too treacherous to pass – it was very hard to imagine this in our overheated condition!  We had to go all the way back down the hard-won slope but at least we got to enjoy the view and I noticed pretty terraces and a tiny house which I’d missed completely on the gruelling way up.

Glimpsing the view on the tree-lined path up to Horsh Ehden Nature Reserve

Chamoun disappeared over the edge of a chasm but as we followed I realised that scrambling around Dartmoor had prepared me well for the steep rocky traverse which led us down to a beautiful, dry river bed.  There was little evidence of the torrents that had shaped and smoothed the rocks apart from a few pools – it was blissfully pretty.  We climbed up the bank and waited in a shady knoll for our group to all come together giving a deserved round of applause as everyone appeared.  The very personal nature of a challenge was highlighted as the descent I had enjoyed so much was deeply scary to others who had to fight their fear.  It was apparent when Iman reached us that she was in severe pain – her knee had swollen up.  The frustration at seeing her body sabotage her efforts became overwhelming and she was brave but upset.  Chamoun called up to the reserve and she was soon overtaking us up the wide dirt track as a passenger on a large quad bike.

A cold beer never tasted so good

The sun was lowering through the trees where you could glimpse snatches of the dramatic view of plunging wooded valleys.  The speedy crew took off and finding a comfortable stride I was soon walking on my own, loving the tranquility and solitude.  We’d covered at least 25km of breath-taking terrain and the little wooden cabins of Ehden were so welcoming as well as Gemma’s infectious laugh – but not as much as the cold bottles of beer that were being handed out from the bar outside.

Our fleeces were needed for the first time that night and a hot, bean soup was a comforting addition to the supper table (as well as the usual hummous etc).  The guys had prepared the wild thyme leaves – mixing them with lemon juice, olive oil, salt and some onion as a salad for each table – delicious.  I fell asleep quickly, under heaped covers, listening to the distant chatter of a small group huddled round a roaring brazier.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Hell valley – excruciatingly beautiful

The butterflies were still with me the next morning.  Yes I had completed the first day’s trek but it had been a real test of my fitness.  Chamoun had warned us that the second day was the toughest of all.  Yikes!

Chammoun with his village in the background

A bit more about Chamoun Mouannes, our guide.  He grew up in a small village called Chebanyeh outside Beirut. He was always drawn to the countryside and has an intense love of nature.  He told me he was always considered a bit of a nutter by his village as, from early teens, he headed up in the hills to run.  He started to go further afield exploring and clearing paths throughout the rural areas of Lebanon which linked remote villages and has now covered thousands of kilometres (including one 8000 km trip) building up a seemingly photographic memory of the trails.  He’s a marathon runner, keeping fit by doing 15-20 km most days before breakfast, and ran from Damascus to Beirut (among other things).  You can read a post here from a guy who met him straight after we left Lebanon – he refers to a second group of Gulf for Good trekkers.   Charmoun has a ridiculously long stride and looks like he is strolling up the mountains when in fact he travels at great speed, often breaking off an offending twig to clear the path on the way.  He did most of our trails twice as he ran on ahead to check that the path was clear.  On our way out of Beirut he quizzed us on how, as women, we felt about the proliferation of provocative lingerie ads on billboards (he advocated modesty and respect).  In Byblos he found out the whole story of a small boy who approached him to beg and sent him away with some money and a lesson on what to do with his life.  A lot of the trails were littered with spent cartridges from hunters who shoot anything that moves especially small birds.  Chamoun’s outspokenness against this practise has led to threats and a near miss with a bullet. He’s a bit of a loner, verging on eccentric but genuinely kind.  He was very concerned about our safety and comfort and later revealed that he let some hikers from the UK who were stranded by the ash cloud stay in his house until they could get a flight.

A killer climb

Chamoun’s warning about the day was correct – the trail, starting in Al Qemmamine (or Hell Valley as it is known) went up almost vertically through the forest-clad sides of a deep gorge, and up and up and up – lung, heart and calf-straining agony. It was hot again too and the trees gave little respite with dappled shade rather than cool protection.  We climbed, stopped, caught our breath again and again and at last made the summit and all posed for a photo on a cliff overhanging the dramatic gorge which had little but wooded slopes and rivers as far as the eye could see.

After this the trail was relatively easier but no picnic, the scenery changing at every turn from Tuscan-like terraces of olive groves to flower strewn meadows and stony hillsides – all supremely beautiful.  Charmoun kept up a swift pace but many of the group were tired from the heat and the killer climb.  Some sections were lush and green and we waded through grass, others were very rocky and I realised how invaluable the poles were as I negotiated a really steep and shingley downward section seeing two of our group suddenly descend on their bottoms.  We were well into mid-afternoon and many were tired and hungry but there was no shade. The group was really spread out and Richard was suddenly overcome with the heat.   I know it was a scary moment for him and his trekking companions reacted swiftly to get him back on his feet, but I couldn’t help smiling afterwards when told he was revived with some Kendal Mint Cake!

A rest and a spectacular view

A cool spring leading to a stream with shady trees in a pretty, green valley was the perfect place for our late lunch.  Sore feet were bathed in the ice-cold water and we refilled our hydration packs.  The other thing that took a quick dip was my camera – I fished it out immediately and Jo gave great advice to take out the battery and memory card straight away – so no more pics from this point onwards today.  Charmoun amended the route so I’m not sure if the village we ended in was actually Kfar Bnine but we hiked swiftly along and, at times through (and for poor Gemma in) the stream. We passed neat conical mounds of wood – ready for making charcoal – and a couple of boys trying to encourage a reluctant cow into a field.  Karen, Susie and I were close behind Charmoun who raced on down a path to great someone while we admired some lovely fat hens in a deserted yard.

Refilling our hydration packs from the spring

Suddenly people appeared from nowhere and within minutes we were all sitting on plastic chairs surrounded by several men all sporting the traditional heavy mustache, and the head of the household’s family including his 14 children. We all scoured our backpacks for things to give to the children and Lamisse actually had lollipops (for travel sickness!) which were well received. I think they all had a sweet tooth if the tea we were served was any indication plus the empty smile of a couple of the women.  It was a fantastic end to a magnificent and challenging day’s trekking.

The drive to our hotel was around hair-pin bends through more jaw-dropping scenery.  The remoteness of the villages mean that lots of the children do not go to school.  We played our new game of spot the Mercedes (or should it have been spot the car that wasn’t a Merc) none less than 20 years old and were glad to reach the Sir Palace Hotel in Sir Al Dineyeh. It’s heyday must have been the 1930s – which is probably the last time the piano was tuned (even Gemma’s expert playing couldn’t coax more than a plinky plonky sound out of it).  Despite serious decay – especially in the electrics and plumbing – it worked its charm on us all but we couldn’t toast its past with an elegant cocktail as this was a Muslim area and alcohol-free zone.  We women had to adopt conservative dress for our meal out that evening – hummous, mutabal, flatbreads and grilled meats – deja vu.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Heading North to start our trek

Fading and decaying grandeur in Beirut

When we reached our hotel in Beirut after our visit to the refugee camp I was itching to explore, so relishing the freedom just to head out the door without telling anyone (fellow Mum’s will know what I mean) I walked down towards the sea.  There were many buildings that told of the past glories of Beirut when it was known as the Paris of the Middle East; 1920s style with sleek, elegant lines and shutters with fabulous views of the Med.  They were all in various states of disrepair or actually collapsing.  I had expected bullet holes in a few places but the extent was shocking making the impact of the 25 year civil war very real. The corniche had shades of Miami, lined with palm trees, with people strolling and jogging in the early evening sun.  Crossing the road was pretty difficult due to the crazy driving and purely ornamental function of the traffic lights.  Next morning we joined that traffic and visited downtown Beirut (that’s the city centre for UK English speakers).  The monument in Place des Martyrs was riddled with bullet holes, evidence of it being on the Green line during the war.

The grave of Rafik Hariri - Prime Minister who was killed along with his bodyguards in 2005

An incredible mosque – the Mohammed Al-Amin, dominates the area now, built by Rafik Hariri, a magnificent building and we donned abayas (the girls) to experience the equally splendid interior.   A shrine to Hariri is next door adorned with huge wreaths and displays of white flowers, it’s hard to guess how many thousand, which are changed every day.  St George’s cathedral is next to the mosque, its outer walls still bearing scars but peaceful within and the retail area adjacent has been meticulously restored.  We went past an armed checkpoint to enter and strolled down empty streets lined with pavement cafes towards the Place d’Etoile – very French.  It was luxurious, elegant, peaceful but strangely soul-less.  After marvelling at the gleaming icons in the Orthodox church we were keen to be on our way; everyone was impatient to get nearer to the start of our trek (but who could refuse a doughnut courtesy of Joseph).  Our driver, Charbel, chose an interesting ‘zig-zag’ route to beat the traffic – sort of two steps forward, one step back.  As well as street hawkers approaching the cars, fresh-faced Lebanese youths were out in force in Red Cross t-shirts.  They stood in the middle of the traffic and stopped cars for donations – this even happened on the motorway – it was a chicken and egg situation!  We stopped in a supermarket to get our water supplies for the week but couldn’t resist the fresh fruit and vegetables including sweet cherries, peaches, peas in the pod and sour, green plums which Mustapha and Gemma said are called jenEric (not sure of spelling, see them here).

View from the Crusader castle in Byblos

We had lunch in a restaurant called Cookery in Byblos. I always wondered if people actually ate the enormous plate of whole vegetables that are usually served in Lebanese restaurants or if they just go in and out of the kitchen.  I got my answer when Gemma grabbed a knife and chopped it all up, offering it round the table.  Byblos (known as Giblet by the crusaders!) is a(nother) town that claims to be the longest inhabited, with a port that was crucial to Phoenician trade.  The Phoenician and Roman ruins and Crusader castle (complete with cannon balls embedded in the walls) were extensive and picturesque, right by the sea.  A French archeologist, Ernest Renon discovered the ruins and set about excavating them in 1860, digging a huge area and clearing many people’s houses in the process.  Now as much as I like ruins, I couldn’t help feeling he’d got his priorities askew.

Driving through Tripoli was a contrast – a sprawling town of apartment blocks crowded together; people air their carpets on the balcony wedged on with plastic chairs and I saw some geometric-patterned, brown ones worthy of the mid 70s.  We passed the Nahr-al-Bared refugee camp when many people lost their lives in 2007.  Up and coming elections meant that posters were displayed all over the towns and changed from area to area, ranging from pictures of bearded, Muslim clerics to chubby-cheeked, slicked-haired, smiling politicians.  Finally we entered country lanes and the bus climbed steeper and steeper.

View from our chalet over the hills to the sea

Passing yet another checkpoint with bored looking soldiers in camouflage and a row of ancient tanks we reached the “welcome to Baino” sign. My ‘chalet’, shared with Sandra, was a concrete structure on blocks overlooking the chicken run, countryside reminiscent of Tuscany and, in the distance, the pink gleam of the sun setting on the sea.  A feast, that would become very familiar to us, was quickly delivered to the long supper table.  I ate enthusiastically except for the kibbeh naye (raw lamb with herbs and burghul) and the waiter was genuinely aghast when we asked him to take it away. It was Friday night so the entertainment started – a very enthusiastic and loud drummer who pounded along to the backing music.  Did I mention it was loud?  Thank goodness I could retire to a distance; not so those with rooms under the restaurant and a few were bleary-eyed when we met at breakfast (which overlooked that fantastic view).

Meeting Joseph's father

Now we were on the brink of starting the trek, I was suddenly really nervous.  Would I have the stamina to cope with the distance, duration and terrain?  We drove into Qoubaiyat in the Akkar region and Joseph, whose home town it is, proudly pointed out various landmarks.  He said there are 16 churches and if you live there and don’t go to church nobody will talk to you!  We took a detour to visit his centegenarian father – who didn’t look a day over 70.  It was a special moment but we couldn’t stay to drink coffee on his terrace as invited.  We started out from a small monastery built with the stones of a Roman building and strode out into a sunny meadow full of white and yellow flowers and red poppies.  It was soon apparent that this was no stroll in the countryside though and Charmoun led at a very swift pace, doing a detour only to avoid a bee swarm.

Enjoying the view after steep ascent

We started to ascend steeply up the hillside, it was very warm and there was no shade, this was going to be tough.  Paths and fields took us higher and higher – the reward being the view.  We passed people working in the fields and a goat-herd.  We had our packed lunch by a spring and hiked through the glorious greenery for the rest of the afternoon, ending at Qammoua plain which acted as a recreation area for local children and youths (some driving across it on a clapped-out motorbikes).

Near the end of day one of trekking

Karen had instructed us in group stretching exercises in the morning and suggested we do a cool down one.  We positioned ourselves down a lane much to the amusement of a farmer on a tractor and passing motorists.  They weren’t as amazed as we were when, approaching a small checkpoint down the road, our bus had to give way to a Mercedes weaving along driven by a girl who was about 6, her head-scarved mother sitting in the passenger seat holding another small child on her lap.  She had actually driven through the checkpoint and the soldiers were all laughing.  Apart from the bus getting stuck, quite dramatically, at the bottom of the hill, there was a quiet end to the day.  It had been a demanding trek of about 21km in hot and humid conditions but we’d all made it through day one.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Beginning in Beirut

Packed and ready to go.

All my kit packed.  Check.  Currency exchanged. Check.  Day by day itinerary written for my husband and children.  Check.  100% fit.  Well I hope so.  The day finally arrived, the taxi took me to the airport in the early hours and I joined my merry band of Gulf for Good trekkers; some I knew from the training sessions but many were strangers.  We were all introduced – argh, how would I remember all those new names?  My window seat gave me a great view and as we flew over Syria I looked down on the road that ran along the bare, sand-coloured mountain range and remembered driving along that dusty road and looking at their inhospitable barren splendour.  Then suddenly we were over the mountains and staring down at verdant countryside with pretty dwellings clinging onto the sides of a magnificent gorge.  Lebanon, after Dubai city-life, was a sight for sore eyes; and just as suddenly there was the aqua blue of the Mediterranean lapping along coves and harbours.  As we made our descent we flew parallel to the coast and the beach front housing was slum-like, crumbling and crowded.

Chamoun meets us at the airport

Chamoun Mouannes, our guide for the week, was there to meet us and we clambered onto the coach to go straight to the Shatila refugee camp.  Parking was difficult at the airport so we pulled over to get out the gifts we’d brought for the children.  Reema quipped that we could’ve set up a street-side stall.  We went past the Kuwaiti embassy, heavily guarded with rolls of razor-wire on its walls and very soon we were getting out in a chaotic street to be greeted by the ladies from the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund.  After a severe warning to be extra careful when crossing the road and to leave all valuables on the bus we scuttled across the kamikaze traffic and gingerly entered the Shatila area, eyes wide at the stalls lining the streets, the signs, sights and sounds.  Picking our way through blankets spread on the ground covered with, frankly, ancient junk for sale, we entered a bare piece of ground behind a fence with a small memorial in its centre.  It was strangely peaceful in contrast to the street behind us.  The marble epitaph remembers at least 2000 men, women and children brutally killed during the Sabra-Shatila massacres in 1982.   We would discover that the people who live in the camp have learned to live with violence repeatedly delivered against them throughout their lives.

The alleyway leading to Beit Atfal Assumoud

We made our way to the Beit Atfal Assumoud by ducking down a tiny alleyway, power cables and washing hanging above our heads, crumbling masonry to both sides.  We were welcomed by the General Manager, Kassem Aina who founded the centre in 1976 after the Tal El Zaatar seige which resulted in many orphans.  I noticed a boy had just gone into the dentist’s room and we were encouraged to go in.  He was already in the dentist’s chair and gave a huge smile, not fazed at all by the sudden audience of strangers.  The money we have raised will buy portable x-ray equipment so that disabled children who need an anaesthetic for dental work can be treated.  It’s difficult not to get into politics about why these people are in the camp and find life so hard but Mr Aina went out of his way to talk about the humanitarian efforts and their inclusion of all nationalities and religions.  The people who live in Shatila are stateless, cannot own land where they are, have no land to return to, are prevented from entering many qualified professions and have limited access to state education and health care.  While there may be a debate about the causes, there is no doubt that women and children have particularly borne the brunt and just want to live a decent life.  As Fema, one of the teachers said with a smile, “My house was bombed seven times, but we build again.” She also told the tale of hiding her 12-year-old brother in a cupboard so he wasn’t taken away with the rest of the men – it saved his life.”

Amal (which means Hope) on her balcony

We split into groups and were invited into people’s homes.  Amal showed us her apartment (her kitchen did not have any glass windows and was open to the street.  She had lost her husband to cancer and is raising money working as a seamstress to support herself and her son as well as pay off a loan she took out for chemotherapy as she had breast cancer.  She urged us to stay longer and have food and drink but we had to return to the centre.  We passed a sort of cupboard in one tiny corner of an alleyway.  Iman, laughed and chatted with a girl who stood by it.  She had written “supermarket” on the door of her tiny shop.

Beit Atfal Assumoud provides services for orphaned children and those from families classed as hardship cases (often without a main breadwinner).   The children treated us to a lovely display of dancing and then we all painted our hands,  printed them on paper and signed our names.  I noticed one little girl who stood out as a very forceful character – she knew all the moves and sang all the words very loudly.  Her name was Mariam.   A huge spread of food, prepared by the staff of the centre, was laid out on a table.  I felt very humbled and guilty to take it from people with so little, but it was really welcome as we were all very hungry and the food was delicious.  We were given gifts embroidered by ladies of the camp.  Time was running short, but we had promised to contribute our collective labour in some useful way.  We were asked to help put a fresh coat of paint on the wall outside and we all pitched in with scrapers and rollers.

The children's enthusiasm was infectious

Several boys suddenly appeared and were keen to join in and we had a great time together, even though there was a language barrier for the non-Arab speakers.

We said our farewells and were given goodbye hugs from several of the staff.  We strolled back along the road through the Shatila camp (Susie stopped to buy a pair of ‘Raydan’ sunglasses) relaxed and happy not apprehensive and wary the way we entered.  What a difference a couple of hours there had made – we had been given such a warm and genuine welcome by the community.  And what great motivation for our trek…details of which I will post day by day.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

How to get fit for a ‘hard’ challenge

Today was my last stair climb before I go to Lebanon this Friday.  I scaled 41 floors of  Rimal, Jumeirah Beach Residence (with no air conditioning) and then did it again and again.  All before breakfast!  Looking back on what I’ve done since January, I’m amazed at the amount of new things I’ve participated in – all in the name of fitness.   Here’s a gallery of the things I’ve done over the past few months – most of which I never thought I’d do in a million years.

Hiking in Mushrif Park

Daily dog walk with Rosie and Hazel

Off over the sand with the dogs to pound the pavements.

Beach circuit contortions

Beach circuit relaxation – there wasn’t much of this!

Beach hike in a sand storm

End of beach hike in a sandstorm.

Walking on the beach at Jumeirah Beach Residences

On the bike – note the blurred legs.

More bike – a rare smile.

On the summit trainer – ouch.

The summit trainer – I will never learn to like this one.

Climbing hills on the treadmill

Climbing more hills on the treadmill

Beautiful view, great podcast on the ipod, climbing more hills on the treadmill.

Jogging on a bouncy board at Shape Express

Bicep and tricep work at Shape Express

A very hard circuit session at Fitness First

At the summit of the Marriot Harbour Hotel – my first tortuous stair climb

Stairclimbing

More stair climbing

Yet more stair climbing

and even more stair climbing.

Now I know I’ve got a nerve giving advice on fitness, but if you are starting from a base level of fairly unfit like I did you might find this useful.  My top tips for preparing for this trip (classified by Gulf for Good as hard) are:

1. Do something everyday.   For me that means walking the dogs.
2. Do something that makes you get out of breath and sweaty (i.e. raises your heart-rate) every other day or at least 3 times a week.  I went to the gym (using the hill setting on the treadmill, the bike, the cross trainer and summit trainer) and did the weekly Gulf for Good fitness session.
3. Try to increase the difficulty of what you do week by week.  Walk quicker and longer.  In the gym try to set the machine to the next level up or spend longer on it.
4. Push yourself but listen to your body and rest when you need to.  Most of the time I had more energy but occasionally I felt absolutely drained and dog-tired.  That’s when I just did a shorter walk and went to bed early.
5. Get help!  Having  a training buddy or a personal trainer is really worthwhile.  They give you a boost when you need it and keep you on track.  Thanks to Anne Harrington for being my inspiration.  I found blogging about it gave a focus too, as well as the great support from the team at Gulf for Good.

So I’m going to stick to walking the dogs for the next few days (in high temperatures and high humidity – yeuch) and get some early nights.  I can’t wait to feel the cool breeze on my face in the mountains of Lebanon.  Special thanks to my family who have adapted to a new schedule so I could fit in the training.  My 2 daughters never missed a beach circuit class with me and have been really supportive.  And for my husband who’s in charge next week – thanks and good luck!  And was this training enough?  I’ll let you know in a week and a half’s time.