The Dahr al-Baydar Road and the Marjayoun Road

It is the habit of writing folk to win their meals free of charge, when the host reckons that in his generosity lies an inducement to advertise his establishment. One consequence of this article may be that the owners of restaurants and hotels cut off this Hatim-like generosity, or bribery; for these lines are no promotion for a stay at the “Massabki” Hotel, Chtaura, where I have eaten and drunk many a time, and each time I paid with a word of thanks addressed to the khawaja, the hotel's owner, by way of the waiter who carried my generous message to him.

We reached “Chtaura” in a snowstorm, on our way back to Beirut, and on the road we were met by the gendarme's rifle, his guffaw, and his orders, announcing that the road was closed and that it was “wisdom” for us to remain in Chtaura.

I do not know why the gendarme guffawed; it may have been out of joy at our misfortune. Perhaps the first thing registered in a man's soul when he hears of the death of a friend is his joy — that death came down upon his friend and not upon him. Was it for this reason, I wonder, that the gendarme laughed?

We entered the hotel — the locanda, that is — and found it crowded with guests, and crowded with refugees. If I were asked to name this age, I would say it is the age of anecdote and drollery. Everyone you meet reaches his hand into his pouch and draws out stories to tell you. And it seemed natural, with the world all snow and winds and rain, that memories should bend in nature's direction — and the story would end, of course, with the heroism of its teller. I remember one of the refugees in the hotel recounting to us how he was crossing the snows of Dahr al-Baydar one winter when two packs of wolves attacked him, one from the right and another from the left; whereupon our hero narrator would seize the tail of the wolf attacking from the right and hurl it at the wolf attacking from the left, felling the two together.

And we hunkered down in the hotel, while the snows and the tales piled up, and the winds blew — and so did the smoke of the narghiles; the snow rose higher on Dahr al-Baydar with the entrance of every new “refugee,” and the calamities multiplied whenever someone came seeking warmth and safety in the halls of the locanda, until we reckoned that to step one pace outside the hotel was a gamble and a plunge.

Then came “the hour of desolation,” in the early evening, while we were in the euphoria that possesses one who is in a safe place amid the fearful storm — when suddenly a traveler appeared, his figure filling the doorway and his smile filling the hotel. He entered and asked for a large piece of meat, which he swallowed, then set about washing it down inside him with a glass of whisky.

And the traveler raised his voice, singing of nature and the beauty of the night, announcing that he would continue on his way to Beirut by the Marjayoun road — a dangerous and long road, but the passable road, the unblocked one — and that the moon would rise in a little while, and that traveling that evening would be splendid, and that he would reach Beirut.

The tones of his voice, his confident, optimistic accent, and his insistence on arriving where he was bound, were a breath of fresh, pure breeze in the belly of the fear and the smoke and the anecdotes that filled the rooms of the locanda.

I leaped with the daring traveler into his car — and there was the moon in the sky, and there we were, reaching Beirut by way of Marjayoun; and there seemed something of adventure in it, especially when some of the bends wrapped around us. “But we reached Beirut, while our companions at “Chtaura” have remained until this very hour — four days later.

In our country today there is a prevailing mentality that takes shelter, while the storm rages around it, in a “hotel” where there is safety and warmth, and talk of imaginary and real heroisms gone by. People who talk of the impossibility of crossing by the Dahr al-Baydar road, where the snows block the way and where the cars tumble down — and a few, like that daring traveler, who resolved to reach the goal — Beirut — knowing that the “Marjayoun” road is passable, though long and dangerous.

But you will not reach Beirut until you resolve, and set out toward Beirut. And the snows of Dahr al-Baydar will not be removed by the talk of those crouching in the “Chtaura” hotel, who have convinced themselves, and try to convince you, that reaching Beirut is impossible. And when you resolve to reach Beirut through the storm, let not the appearance of a gendarme surprise you — brandishing his rifle, giving orders, and guffawing!