Two Saturdays ago, as thousands of Lebanese environmental campaigners, anti-corruption activists and those simply sick to the back teeth of Lebanon’s shameful seven-week rubbish crisis, besieged the seat of government in downtown Beirut in a bid to bring down the government of Tamam Salam, I was in the Bekaa town of Baalbek watching the latest incarnation of 70s and 80s disco band Earth, Wind and Fire.
No, it wasn’t my “let them eat cake” moment. On the contrary, I felt I was also doing my bit for the real Lebanon – and by “real” I mean a private sector with innate talent, innovation and energy that nonetheless has to swim against an often very strong political tide to get things done.
EW& F were playing at the Baalbek International Festival, the main stage of which, depending on the artist, is set against the backdrop of either the enormous pillars of the Temple of Jupiter or the entrance to the even more stunning Temple of Bacchus. The most prestigious of all Lebanon’s summer festivals, in the 60s and early 70s, the Baalbek Festival was once seriously glamorous, attracting members of what was then called the jet set, who could be often be found picking their way through the ruins in the early morning still in dinner jackets and gowns having just returned from an after-show party in Damascus.
The Gatsby-esque glamour has long gone, but the festival enjoyed something of a revival in the late 90s and early noughties. The Bekaa, however, has since developed a reputation as bandit country (wasn’t it always?) and many Lebanese were surprised the festival was going ahead at all. The organisers clearly had that bloody-minded can-do attitude that the Lebanese often summon up and held it anyway, although security was seriously tight.
Along with EW& F were Richard Bona, Mayada El Hennawy, Quatuor Modigliani and the Lebanese Philharmonic Orchestra (I never knew we had one). OK they aren’t Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis or Margot Fonteyn, but these are difficult times for Lebanon and convincing them to come, let alone to the bad lands of the Bekaa must have taken some doing. So kudos there.
The evening in Baalbek was an opportunity to take in another light that Lebanon keeps hidden under its bushel. The town’s famous Hotel Palmyra, which has hosted emperors, presidents, actors, singers, artists and writers, is still going strong and resonates with the distressed gentility of another era. The Burj Al Arab it ain’t and those looking for his and her robes, a butler service and a petal strewn wellness centre will be disappointed. But what the three-floor Palmyra, situated across the road from the famous ruins, does offer is charm by the bucket-load.
The walls are lined with lithographs by Jean Cocteau and framed, gushing letters penned by the Frenchman on just how much he loved the place. The manager doubles as the receptionist. He doesn’t have a computer and fills out everything in meticulous triplicate. The room keys are actual keys and need to be handed in before going out if you don’t want to ruin the cut of your jacket or trousers.
But it is the staff, many of whom are well into their 80s, and who probably remember Charles De Gaulle, that are a total joy and remind us just why Lebanon’s service industry was once the envy of the Arab world. One old boy swore blind that he remembered me from my last visit and when I confessed that I’d never actually stayed the night and he must be getting me mixed up with someone else, he simply said that he never forgot a face and it was good to have me back. Brilliant.
Did I get a good night’s sleep? Well, let’s put it this way – in one of the basic rooms, which set me back the princely sum of $40, I was never going to get a Savoir bed. But then again, given what my fellow Lebanese were enduring in Beirut in the name of democracy and governance, I could hardly complain.
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton.
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