I am sitting in my well-appointed room at the Phoenicia InterContinental in Beirut where, on my equally well-appointed desk, sits a smart metal plaque reminding me that, according to Lebanese legal decree 174, I cannot smoke in my room. If I do, I risk a minimum fine of US$90.
All very correct – as things should be in Lebanon’s finest hotel – but across the country in marginally less glamorous establishments, no one appears to care about law 174, and the state appears to have given up trying to enforce it.
The Phoenicia is the third Lebanese hotel I have stayed in this week. The other two, the Byblos Sur Mer in Jbeil and the Massabki in Chtaura, both allowed guests to smoke in their restaurants.
Not very nice at breakfast as you can imagine, but when I pointed this out to the staff, I was merely ushered to a table the other end of the dining area, “so you won’t be bothered Sir”. I was the difficult one.
Now, the Lebanese aren’t totally stupid. They know smoking isn’t very clever and that those who choose not to should have the right not to be exposed to second-hand smoke, but they live in a country where the government has forced them to live with dirty electricity and even dirtier water for decades.
The good people of the Bekaa Valley have told me about barrels of chemical waste from eastern Europe that were allegedly buried in the famed farming region after the civil war, and which have allegedly been responsible for an increase in the incidences of cancer in the area. What’s a harmless ciggie going to do?
The health minister, Wael Abu Faour, who waited two months to assure us that Lebanon was in tip-top condition to cope with any cases of the Ebola virus, turned his attention to the issue of contaminated food and last week instructed the stout officers of the ministry of interior to close a handful of restaurants and supermarkets identified as selling dodgy meat, mostly chicken and beef.
He also publicly named and shamed a dozen more establishments that failed to impress health officials and promised to shut down half a dozen chicken farms. “The food we eat,” he said at a press conference last week, “is dipped in sweat and covered with diseases and microbes..
It was, on the face of it, an extraordinary comment devoid of any scientific rigour or measured evaluation and served only to create panic among the public and resentment from the private sector, which felt, given the difficult times in which we live, he could have handled it a bit more discreetly.
We were not told the source of the contaminations or what they were contaminated with; we don’t know who conducted the tests on behalf of the ministry or what criteria they used. More importantly, it is not clear whether the contamination happened on the premises or pre-existed in the food.
I’m not saying he is wrong. There have been rumours that cheap food, mostly meat on the cusp of its sell-by date, is now being widely sourced from Europe by organised crime gangs and sold to willing buyers in Lebanon. It is apparently as profitable a business as drugs and much less dangerous.
But did he have to be so sensational? Mr Abu Faour has been heavy handed and he dealt yet another body blow to a hospitality and retail sector already on the canvas. The economy is in a tailspin and tourism is down an average of 30 per cent on last year, and 705 per cent on 2010.
In any case, apart from anything else, casting aspersions on our hygiene standards is insulting to a nation that not only takes pride in its cuisine but which is also fanatical about cleanliness. You see the one thing that is guaranteed to get the Lebanese all in lather is suspect food. I have never known a cleaner nation when it comes to the kitchen. They wash everything, even chicken.
It’s a matter of national pride.
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton
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