Beirut or Bust, Or, There have been six power outages while I have been writing this piece…

Normally, travelers and trade between Damascus and Beirut flow over the anti-Lebanon Range, through the Bekaa valley and down to the Mediterranean. However, the Israeli Air Force has bombarded the road and border crossing along this route. As a result, it has been impassable since approximately August 2nd.

The alternative, and now only, route follows the coast northward through Tripoli to Daboussiyeh in Western Syria. On August 4th we traveled upstream on this road, against the heavy ebb of traffic escaping the war.

Despite a sign with an arrow and the word “Lebanon” in English and Arabic script, the turn off the Syrian highway is easy to miss. It seems too small and too poorly maintained to be the road to Lebanon. Instead of an artery capable of conveying a country’s lifeblood, we find a capillary.

A short distance from the highway, where the road begins in earnest, the track in a state of severe disrepair – or has it been bombed? Just beyond this rough patch, three piles of earth have been mounded up in the middle of the road. There is no difficulty circumventing them on a motorcycle; automobile traffic has also been passing. The northbound heavy trucks and buses, however, cannot pass.

Dozens of trucks are parked between the dirt mounds and the Syrian Border, a space of about 5 kilometres. Many have containers or are tarped over, concealing their contents. Are these weapons awaiting transshipment?

Further down the line of trucks is a series of three eighteen wheelers with flatbed trailers. Three large metal boxes are loaded on each. They appear to be unused diesel generators. Industrial equipment is not weaponry, but so far the smuggling paradigm still essentially fits.

Then, two large yellowish water pumps; piping; more generators. Next is a series of automobile lorries loaded with new cars of various makes and models, covered in dust from the trip. Now these clearly are not weapons.

It becomes apparent that the trucks are being used to evacuate movable assets to avoid their destruction. Once the trucks arrive in Syria, the earth mounds on the road prevent them from traveling any further. (Perhaps the road has been blocked precisely to prevent the goods from being sold in Syria). As a result, the trucks have been parked just a few miles north of the border, their drivers apparently having returned to Lebanon to ferry up more trucks. The trucks continue in a long line. There are 40 or more in total.

Exiting Syria is relatively painless. They allow photographs of the large line-up of northbound traffic while we wait to have our passports stamped. One other group of foreign eccentrics is also trying to enter the country. A skinny, older chain-smoker; a chubby man with a greasy pony-tail wearing a vest with 23 pockets; a pretty and unusually tall young girl with too much makeup, fifteen bracelets and Syrian colours draped around her: journalists.

After clearing Syria we cross a river on a still-intact bridge. A massive line of trucks is backed up across it. We stop to take pictures at a small shack flying a Lebanese flag, but are told to stop by the Lebanese guards.

An Arab man approaches wearing a golf shirt embroidered with the words “Sydney, Australia.” He asks where we are from. I reply, then return the question, offering as a joking reply “Australia?”

“Yes, how did you guess?” He replies. I point to the shirt and he smiles, seeming to have forgotten that he was wearing it. He tells us that the river marks the border. We are now on Lebanese soil. He adds that the Israelis have been thinking of destroying the bridge. Probably this is a guess based on the air traffic in the past days.

I look back. The bridge is long enough that two or three trucks are stopped on it in the unmoving line of traffic. Even with a fly-by prior to the bombing run, the trucks would not have time to move. The drivers might try to flee on foot, but I doubted they would make it before the fighter returned on its bombing run. Anyway, with targeted weapons, I’m not certain pilots make “passes” any longer. Many of the strikes have also been carried out by unmanned drone, probably flown by remote control from Israel.

Is the shack with Lebanese soldiers the “border control” I wonder? These are times of war after all, and the usual formalities and controls on life disintegrate. It is partly for that reason that I have come. Who cares about a few extra bottles of whisky in my bag when the country is facing destruction?

In fact, we find the border crossing a few kilometers ahead, functioning quite as usual. The Lebanese are accustomed to war, and things must get far worse before life as usual shuts down. Disappointingly, the only question the border guard asks is whether I would like a 15 day visa for 25,000 Lebanese Lira, or a 30 day visa for 50,000. There is no suggestion that this is an unusual time to travel, nor any interrogatories about the purpose of our visit.

The final step for entry is to clear the motorcycle. This requires the purchase of insurance, followed by a stamp of the carnet de passage en douanes, a kind of special passport for vehicles that controls their import and export. While it is impossible to be certain, the insurance appears to be selling at the usual price. I am reassured that those who live by assessing risk have not yet placed a premium on us. Then I remember contracts: probably there is an exclusionary clause for Acts of War. Anyway, they’re not selling life insurance.

While Jon, the owner of the bike, takes care of papers, I sit in the area where vehicles pass and are inspected, writing in my journal. My writing is in fits and starts as I am distracted by the faces of the people in the vehicles passing through. One after another, they pull up with windows down and hand over their papers. Most of the drivers are men, and most smoke cigarettes.

The children, more than the adults, make eye contact. The adults don’t seem curious to see the redhead writing in his journal in such an improbable place. Something else must be on their minds – or they have seen much stranger sights. The children do seem curious. They look neither happy nor sad. They are serene, and far too serious for their age. Without understanding it, they know that something important is happening, and that very likely their lives while not again be the same.

As we leave I ask the customs officer how many foreigners have crossed today and he says: “Two,” which I understand to mean one Texan, and one Yukonner.

Lebanon is beautiful. The first stretch of road after crossing the border is overhung by tall, old trees that form a solid canopy, like those to be found in peaceful, rural places where people have been living for a long time. Their shade is soft and soothing.

We soon make Tripoli. The port was hit, but we bypass it and follow the coastal road for a few kilometers beyond the city, then climb onto the highway. The highway is almost entirely free of traffic, and Jon opens up the throttle a bit, enjoying two lanes all of our own. It is not far, however, before we reach the first of four detours.

Between 7 and 8 a.m. in the morning the Israeli Air Force struck three or perhaps four main bridges on the northern highway. At the last exit before each hit, people have placed tires, barricades and tape to signal that the road ahead is impassable. At the first of these we take the detour. At the second, third, and fourth, however, we slip under the tape and drive out to the scene of the destruction.

We are not the only ones who want a look: at each bridge we find many Lebanese photographing the destruction with digital cameras and cell phones. Most look very calm, and some even amused or cheerful. Some are throwing rocks over the edge to see how long they take to hit the valley floor below; a few cover their mouths in shock; I see only one woman fighting back tears.

The first exploded bridge to which we come (the second detour) is a scene of massive destruction. The span was approximately 200 yards. The entire surface of the road now lies in a twisted mess at the bottom of the valley, perhaps 150 feet below. On the seaward side just off the edge of the roadway, smoke is still rising from the wreckage of a small flatbed truck. It is not immediately recognizable as such: the bed has been separated from the cab, like an ant whose abdomen has been severed from its head.

Not knowing that the bridges had been struck that morning, I wonder if the wreckage of the truck has already been reclaimed as a kind of shelter for refugees. Perhaps the smoke is from a cooking fire. However, speaking to a woman in French (this is a Christian district) I learn that this truck was crossing the bridge as the missiles struck only hours before. The vehicle is still smoldering. The driver, of course, is dead. There may also have been one passenger.

On the north side of the collapsed bridge is a billboard quite common in Lebanon. It depicts a person eating a massive bacon, cheese and mushroom burger from the Hardee’s fast-food restaurants. The slogan reads “Don’t bother me, I’m eating.” The sign is riddled with holes.

I assume the holes they are shrapnel. However, on closer examination, one can make out distinct, relatively small holes in the north side of the sign. On the south side, a single large chunk has been torn out at each place where the sign was hit. Bullet holes are always larger at the point of exit than entry. If this is true of shrapnel too then the sign could not have been damaged by shrapnel from the bridge, which would have flown northward. It appears that the pilot laid down machine gun fire in a north to south direction before bombarding the bridge. However, I was not able to find any eyewitnesses to verify this conjecture.

The second bridge to be hit is near Casino du Liban. The damage is much less severe. The bridge is still sound. Only the southbound lane has been hit, seemingly only damaging the roadway. The rebar and concrete around have exploded upward and stand like frozen splashes of water from the surface of a swimming pool just after someone has canon-balled off the diving board. We are able to pass on right shoulder with the motorcycle.

The third bridge has also only been hit in the southward lane. The missile struck just in front of an unfortunate van that plunged into the crater. Its front wheels now hang in the void underneath the bridge; its rear end protrudes up. Sky News has a satellite uplink and is broadcasting live with the van in the background. I hear the anchor say that the driver later died of injuries in hospital. They go to a retired Israeli military commander in Tel Aviv and I listen to the half of a debate/interview between the anchor and the Israeli military man. The broadcast wraps up just in time: a tow-truck has arrived to extricate the vehicle.

The strikes in the southbound lane are consistent with a desire to destroy only Hizbullah’s capacity to import weapons, and not the ability of the Lebanese to flee danger. Of course, the premise itself is flawed: borders are porous and there is almost always another road. With the highway damaged, the Lebanese have merely resorted to the coastal roads. We passed six or eight large liners transporting unwitting cattle southward on these roads, so there is no trouble with heavy traffic. In any case, where there are mountains there will always be smugglers.

The bombardment does add to the cost of doing business. It adds time, danger and difficulty premiums. This can be an effective strategy insofar as it diverts resources and effort toward mere survival rather than aggression, and it may diminish the return on terrorist investment and the rate of flow of weapons.

Even in the conventional battlefield, victory rarely comes in the form of a checkmate. It is normally conceded once the outcome is made clear. A fortiori, social movements and guerilla fighters are rarely if ever defeated by direct confrontation resulting in defeat. They must be convinced ideologically, militarily or economically, or by a combination of all three, to surrender. Indeed, destroying these bridges was clearly not capable of placing Hizbullah in checkmate. Nor did it appear to bring the movement any closer to capitulating. The strikes took place in Christian areas, generating Christian casualties. The principle effect is to damage the Lebanese economy during and after the war (by creating massive reconstruction costs), and perhaps to foment solidarity between the Christians and Muslims.

Before leaving the last bridge, we meet a retired British military commander who is a security consultant for Sky News. We learn that they are staying at the Movenpick resort. Lovely place, apparently. He has just finished two years in Iraq and this is a holiday in comparison.

“How much is beer here?” Asks Jon.

“To be honest I don’t know – Sky News picks up the tab on everything. We just charge it.”

We begin talking about the war.

“I don’t know why they don’t just stop this thing. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think Hizbullah are good, but the whole goddam thing is so fucking stupid. I don’t know why Bush and Blair don’t at least say that this fighting should fucking stop.”

We exchange a few more thoughts before the conversation ends as such conversations always do, without any kind of resolution. The security consultant then puts his finger on the preposterousness of his (our?) presence in a war zone, although I am not sure if he understands his words quite as I do:

“But hey, it’s room service for me tonight. [Pause] He said caringly.”

We laugh. The sun is setting over the Mediterranean and the light has been perfect for pictures this evening.

(Check bloggingbeirut.com for photos -- I'll try to post some here later)