Northern Lebanon Adventure
We might have rested after the exhaustion of the previous day… but instead, the morning had already begun.
Inspired by the legends, the plan was simple: rent a car and explore Northern Lebanon. We set out with routine confidence, not expecting any particular surprises.
We could not have been more wrong.
Series
This post is part of a larger series. Here you can see where you are – and what’s already done.
Now: Experience
Northern Lebanon Adventure
Next: Experience
Notes from the Beqaa Valley
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Prologue
Quick post
Experience
Itinerary
Epilogue
Car Rental and Traffic as a State of Mind
The first task seemed straightforward: rent a car. At first, they tried to upsell us a Porsche. We declined. We didn’t need scenery — we needed something functional. We ended up with a Toyota SUV (far better suited to Lebanese roads than any sports car), and that decision quickly proved wise.
In Lebanon, you soon realize that traffic is not a system of rules — it’s a condition of existence. Traffic laws feel more like philosophical suggestions than binding norms. Red lights are negotiable. Lane directions are flexible. Vehicles can appear from anywhere, at any time.
Within a few hours, you understand something essential: if you are too rigidly rule-following, you will simply never move. The rhythm, however, can be learned — especially if you’ve ever played a bit of Grand Theft Auto and understand that the real question isn’t “Is it allowed?” but “Does it fit?”
The basic rule is simple: flow at 30–40 km/h (20–25 mph), move wherever there is space, and if there is half a lane free, that’s already a road. Honking is its own language. One short honk: taxi? Two: careful, I’m changing direction. Three: I’m in a hurry — adjust.
Google Maps feels less like navigation and more like an opinion.
And yet, somehow, it works.
There are surprisingly few accidents.
Because here, everyone is paying attention.
Logical on Paper, a Bad Idea in Reality
As we approached Tripoli, the atmosphere shifted — almost imperceptibly at first, yet unmistakably present. The first sign came from the election posters. The smiling, suit-wearing candidates we had seen further south disappeared. In their place: stern faces, turbans, long beards. The city announced through imagery alone that different rules applied here.
The highway led, without warning or transition, straight into the heart of the Tripoli market, right at the foot of the citadel. That was where the illusion finally broke. The place was not ruined. Not picturesque. It was intensely, oppressively alive.
Children threw rotten fruit at the car. Men sitting in front of shops immediately began watching us — who was inside, where we were from, what we were doing there. There was no open aggression. Rather a collective, concentrated curiosity that instinctively makes you tighten your grip on the steering wheel.
At that moment, the group established its only real rule: if anything happens, no brakes — only acceleration.
Naturally, Google Maps hesitated again and repeatedly guided us back into the same area, until we realized that the citadel’s official parking lot truly was located beside the market.
Logical on paper.
A questionable decision in practice.
The cityscape felt as if it had been frozen in an 1980s spy thriller. Even James Bond might have paused and wondered whether this was really the right set for the scene.
The Last Fortress
At the entrance to the Tripoli Citadel, we realized that the fortress still functions as an active military site. Armored personnel carriers and armed soldiers guarded the gate. In that moment, the mental set design shifted completely: the spy-movie atmosphere was replaced by the feeling of standing at the final stronghold in a Resident Evil film.
The soldiers, however, were unexpectedly friendly. Smiling, they let us enter, explaining in broken English that tourists were welcome to look around and take photos. “We are not here against tourists,” one of them added, gesturing toward the city below. “We are here because of that.”
Inside, any lingering romanticism quickly dissolved.
Next to a command post draped with the Lebanese flag stood makeshift barracks assembled from canvas sheets and fragments of stone ruins. There was no exhibition space, no museum narrative. Only a few carved stones hinted that a different life had once unfolded here. History was not interpreted — it was simply layered over.
After exploring the fortress, someone suggested we might take a short walk in the surrounding neighborhood, immerse ourselves a bit, experience local life more directly.
The proposal survived for roughly three seconds.
A quick vote. Unanimous rejection.
Not out of fear — more out of sober self-awareness. We sensed this was not the kind of place where casual curiosity ends well. So we returned to the car and headed toward the mountains instead.
Among Cedars, in the Shadow of the Alps
As we left Tripoli behind, the landscape shifted almost immediately. The oppressive density of the city dissolved, the road began to climb, and the scenery turned rugged and dramatic. Wide mountain passes opened before us, and in the distance pale streaks of lingering snow traced the ridgelines — as if we had somehow crossed into the edge of Europe rather than remained in Lebanon.
Arriving at the Cedars of God grove — the ancient cedar forest that appears on the Lebanese flag — the sensation only intensified. Cool mountain air, ski lifts, alpine slopes: it felt far more like an Austrian mountain village than the Middle East. In this setting, it became completely understandable what captivated the Hungarian painter Tivadar Csontváry Kosztka, who famously depicted the Lebanese cedars in one of his most monumental works. Here, the cedar is not exotic. It is the natural protagonist of the landscape.
The local souvenir stalls made sure we understood that as well. Cedar oil, cedar carvings, cedar-scented everything — they tried to sell us anything remotely connected to the tree. At one point, a member of our group suddenly vanished. No explanation, no visible direction — and unfortunately, he was carrying the GPS hotspot device. We could only track him through signal strength and hope he was still nearby. After a few minutes of searching, we found him: deeply engaged in serious bargaining.
Back in the car, we continued toward one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities: Byblos. As we descended toward the coast, the brake discs were nearly glowing. The Mediterranean lay barely thirty kilometers away, yet before reaching it we had climbed nearly two thousand meters into the mountains.
That was one of Lebanon’s greatest tricks: everything is close — and yet astonishingly far.
Byblos – Where History Does Not Hurry
Arriving in Byblos, it is hard to believe that you are standing in one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities. Stepping out of the car, the first impression was not ancient — it was disarmingly familiar. It felt like entering a picturesque Italian coastal town: narrow streets, stone walls, colorful shutters, oleanders in bloom.
Down by the harbor, market stalls offered postcards and small souvenirs, cafés lined the waterfront, and time itself seemed to slow down. Byblos (known in Arabic as Jbeil) did not feel like a ruin frozen in the past, but like a living stage set where history coexists peacefully with tourism. After Tripoli, the contrast was striking: orderly, maintained, calm.
After a short break, we continued toward the cable car leading up to Harissa — home to the famous Our Lady of Lebanon statue overlooking the coast. From there, we climbed by gondola into the mountains. My fear of heights had plenty to work with: in a short span of time, we ascended roughly six hundred meters. The cabin glided between buildings, sometimes passing only a few meters from balconies. We could glimpse into apartments — kitchens, laundry lines, daily life unfolding almost within reach.
At the top, the reward was undeniable: city, sea, and centuries stretching out in a single, tranquil panorama.
On the way down, however, my smile remained only partially convincing.
It was the kind of view that resists description.
The Art of Flexibility
Before returning the rental car, there was one final mandatory task: refueling. A minor complication arose — we had no idea what the car actually ran on. Petrol? Diesel?
Our first move was to pull out the registration papers and attack them with Google Translate. A mix of Arabic and French terms, technical abbreviations — but no clear answer. Next, we circled the vehicle like an enthusiastic but underqualified detective team, hoping to find a sticker, a label, anything that might give us a clue.
Nothing.
At that point, the gas station attendant appeared, watching our confusion with mild curiosity. We explained the situation. He joined the investigation. For a while, we all stood there scratching our heads together. Then, in a moment of inspired desperation, he leaned down, opened the fuel cap, sniffed the tank — and smiled.
“Diesel.”
Relief.
Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the nozzle marked “95” and started fueling. We froze and quickly pointed out that the car was diesel. He laughed.
“Ohhh. I only have diesel. Every pump here is diesel.”
And suddenly, everything made sense.
In Lebanon, what matters is not what the label says — but whether it works.
No More Lanes, Only Direction
The day was far from over.
On the way back to Beirut, we managed to hit full afternoon rush hour — and we still had to return the car. The rental office was located at the very end of a one-way, four-lane road. On paper, that sounds simple enough.
In reality, of course, it wasn’t.
We circled the area repeatedly, only to discover that the military had meanwhile blocked the entrance to the street. Traffic was flowing through — but entering was impossible. Google Maps had by this point become purely decorative.
After the third lap around the neighborhood, a decision was made. If we had been following local logic all day, we would continue to do so.
We turned onto the four-lane road — against the traffic — and drove forward as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No honking. No outrage. No dramatic reactions.
And just like that, we successfully returned the car.
In Lebanon, this too is a solution.
Afterward, we allowed ourselves a short recovery session by the hotel pool, washing off the dust and noise of the day. Then we headed back into the night — this time more relaxed, more open, even striking up conversations with locals.
A friendly Jordanian refugee offered to take us to where the “real” Lebanese party. We were almost ready to follow him — slightly influenced by alcohol — when, collectively, an internal alarm went off.
No. Definitely not.
So we turned back toward the hotel.
Rest was no longer optional.
It was necessary.
We returned at the end of the day exhausted — but undeniably richer in experience. Lebanon had revealed yet another face. Not the one we expected, and certainly not the one we had prepared for.
We could never have imagined encountering places like these, contrasts this sharp, or living through the journey with such intensity. This was not a day that simply “happened” and closed. It pressed something into us. It became an experience that works inward, not outward.
We knew it would stay with us. Not as photographs. Not as stories. But as memory.
And as we fell asleep, one thing was clear:
Lebanon cannot truly be told.
It can only be lived.
Where next?
Continue the series – pick the next stop.
Now: Experience
Northern Lebanon Adventure
Next: Experience
Notes from the Beqaa Valley
Show contents
Prologue
Quick post
Experience
Itinerary
Epilogue
Sources
- Based on personal experiences, observations, and lived impressions
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Part of the Tales from the Middle East series by Absurd Empire.
