“Yes, you’re quite right,” said my cousin Walid when I complained about the unsightly, black, plastic water pipe that he had strung over the entrance to my drive and strategically run through the branches of a tree at the end of my garden. “I’m sorry. It was only temporary. I’ll take it down tomorrow.”
I had spotted the beginning of the pipe at the border of my fruit orchard near the upper road, and with more than a little of that ugly indignation that middle age can so easily summon up, I began pulling it up to see where it led, feeling like Alec Guinness at the moment he discovers the explosives in the final scene of The Bridge on the River Kwai. I followed it through the trees, over my garden, across the lower road and down to a plot of land where Walid, recently returned from years of working in West Africa, had built a greenhouse.
I’d had a vague idea he was up to something but wasn’t sure what exactly. People told me he was preparing charcoal, others that he was growing exotic fruits. Now I was going to find out.
But any confrontation over the errant pipe was defused by his unreserved apology. So much so that I felt now that I was there I should at least show some interest in his new venture. “Take a seat,” he said motioning to a wooden bench, and we both sat down in front of the centrepiece of the greenhouse, a steel frame loaded with an irrigation system of plastic pipes bored through with multiple holes, each one holding a mini-flowerpot, out of which sprouted magnificent lettuces of various shapes and sizes.
“I’m growing three kinds at the moment,” he said, staring at the mass of leaves. “When I finish, I reckon I will have nine of these frames and in total I can grow 100,000 lettuces a year. They are organic, so I can hopefully sell them at a premium. If I can sell them to the market at a $0.80 or even $1.00 each, I’m happy. If it works then I’ll expand,” he said gesturing to the unused land around his greenhouse. “With two more of these then I can really begin to do something interesting.”
We sat in silence, as if willing vegetables to grow. He lit a cigarette, taking in a very deep and unorganic drag. “People thought I was crazy,” he said exhaling. “Not that I care what they think, but now they are slowly becoming more curious and seeing the potential.”
Admittedly when it comes to that famous Lebanese entrepreneurial flair, the village does lack vision. A few years ago, I encouraged the creation of a properly branded cooperative for all sorts of village produce but the idea was shot down amid hoots of laughter and the amazement that I could, even for a moment, entertain the idea that the good folk of Zabbougha could ever work together.
Walid laughed. “All they want to do is sit around all day and smoke shisha.” He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. “I can’t afford to do that. I have to work, and let’s face it there are no job opportunities these days so I figured why not start something for myself. I don’t need that much to live on but there are always bills to pay. I’ve had it with Nigeria and Ghana; one can only spend a certain amount of time there. Now I have peace and quiet and when I come down here and look at my lettuces I’m happy.”
I asked if anyone had called the police, suspecting he didn’t have a permit. “At least three times, but I know what I can and can’t do when it comes to the law. The cops come, we have a friendly chat and then they go. It’s all silly and a waste of time.”
I stood up to go. “Here, let me give you a lettuce,” Walid said, picking out one from the rack. “This is a good one. Tell me what you think. Can I just ask that you to give me back the pot? I have to send off to China for them.”
Michael Karam is a freelance writer based in Beirut
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