Notes from the Beqaa Valley
By the third day, our plan had originally been simple: visit the Beqaa Valley — specifically the ruins of Baalbek — and then continue on to the Ksara winery. On paper, it sounded almost civilized, almost European. A structured excursion after the intensity of the previous days.
The valley itself is blessed with extraordinary natural conditions: fertile soil, wide plains, embraced by the mountains of Lebanon. Vegetables, fruit, vineyards — everything required for a peaceful agricultural utopia. The only problem was that we had scheduled all of this after a Beirut night that had gone slightly too well.
This was the low point of the journey.
We were exhausted — physically and mentally. The Middle Eastern bacterial ecosystem was beginning to assert itself. The constant adaptation, the heat, the flood of overlapping impressions — all of it started to weigh on us. And there was another pressure in the background: we did not know when, or if, we would ever have the chance to return. In light of current events, that uncertainty felt even sharper.
At moments like this, you do not set out to conquer. You set out to endure.
And yet, we had to go.
Here, the route does not wait for you — you must arrive at it yourself. Even if, along the way, you are learning how to let go of control.
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Notes from the Beqaa Valley
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Beirut – With Side Effects
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The Driver Who Didn’t Arrive
We had wisely decided to skip another day of driving ourselves and instead ordered a driver. Or at least, that was the plan.
At the agreed time, no one arrived.
So we waited. Sat. Relaxed in the lobby as if this, too, were part of the itinerary — a compulsory paragraph in the Middle Eastern handbook. Phone calls followed one another at an unmistakably eastern rhythm: he’s not coming, but he is coming, he’s already there, just not here. The information contradicted itself, yet somehow all versions felt equally plausible.
Eventually we learned that our driver was calmly waiting at a different hotel, entirely untroubled by the fact that his understanding of the map differed from ours. For him, the coordinates made sense. Just not in the same way.
Meanwhile, we became intimately familiar with the ergonomics of the lobby sofas, the rhythm of the air conditioning, and the quiet realization that here, waiting is not failure — it is simply a state of being.
Two hours later, we finally set off.
No one was angry. There was no reason to be.
This is the Middle East: time does not work against you — it works on you. And if you are patient enough, what you are waiting for eventually arrives.
Jason Statham, 60-Year-Old Edition
The large black car finally arrived, and the driver stepped out.
Our collective first thought was immediate and unanimous: Jason Statham — just an older edition, with a Lebanese DLC, less rage, more experience.
The car was immaculate. The interior radiated sterile order. His outfit was so impeccably put together that he looked less prepared for dusty Middle Eastern roads and more for a high-level business meeting.
The road itself, however, was far from sterile.
The Beqaa Valley stretches north to south, its main routes running close to the Syrian border — as if even the map prefers to skirt the center cautiously. As the kilometers passed, the driver began to talk, and the journey transformed from simple transport into something more layered.
He spoke about inflation. About how something worth $1,400 before the Beirut port explosion is now worth seventy. He didn’t complain. He stated it as fact.
Then he offered advice: if we ever found ourselves in trouble, look for a house with flowers in the garden. That means it’s Christian. They will help you.
At the entrance to the valley, he pointed to old roadside huts. Syrian soldiers had once been stationed there — still on Lebanese soil — collecting “fees” from passing shipments. He did not elaborate.
He didn’t have to.
We all understood what he meant.
Baalbek – Where Scale Is Not Human
In the predominantly Muslim northern region, in Baalbek, the air suddenly grew heavier. Not only because of the heat.
As we stepped into the archaeological complex — home to some of the largest Roman temple structures ever built — we instinctively slowed down. Our voices dropped, as if entering a space where even sound carries weight. The stones did not behave like ruins. They possessed presence.
They were so monumental that we reflexively tried to compare them to something familiar. Greece? Italy? It didn’t fit. There, ruins are beautiful. Here, they dominate. They do not invite — they declare.
After the first steps, one of our companions was overtaken by what can only politely be called a sudden digestive crisis and disappeared at high speed to manage his own survival scenario. The rest of us remained, wandering among the ancient columns and walls, lost both literally and metaphorically.
We moved through the colonnades and open courtyards, attempting to comprehend the scale. It was impossible. In Baalbek, you do not measure — you accept. The stones do not explain themselves. They do not ask questions. They simply are.
At some point, we stopped taking photos.
We stood there, looking upward, trying to process the fact that a past of this magnitude truly exists. Not as theory. Not as textbook illustration.
But here.
Identities for Sale
After the ruins, our driver was already waiting for us — as if he had arrived from another dimension: functioning air conditioning, menthol wipes, ice-cold water with condensation running down the bottle. It was a brief transitional zone after the stone and dust, a place where you could feel human again.
But at the exit, reality pulled us back instantly.
The vendors descended on us almost physically. There was no gentle approach, no testing the waters. They decided for us: this is what you want, this is what you need, you will try this on. Everything was for sale — even identity.
One of our companions was quite literally dressed up as a Hezbollah fighter, complete with accessories, ready to pose for a photo. It felt like standing in the middle of a costume party — except we were at the edge of a real conflict zone, where these symbols carry far heavier meanings than tourist irony.
At first, it was absurd. Then it became unsettling.
Their determination had no limits. Behind the smiles, there was pressure. Not aggression exactly — but insistence layered with necessity.
That was when our driver intervened.
He said something in Arabic that we did not understand, but its effect was immediate. The vendors dispersed as if they had never been there.
For the first time, it occurred to us that perhaps he was not earning his living solely as a driver.
And perhaps he was not transporting only us.
Wine That Remembers
On the way back, somewhere in the middle of the valley, the scenery shifted again — as if someone had changed the stage set. A modern, orderly, almost European town appeared before us: tended gardens, flowers, clean streets, a predictable rhythm.
Here, there was no ambiguity about where we were. This was Christian territory — the heart of Lebanese winemaking — where the land not only produces, but remembers.
At Ksara Winery, we were not disappointed. The place carried a calm confidence, as if it had nothing to prove. They spoke of ancient clay-vessel techniques, of wines shaped by centuries of practice, and of arak — the anise-flavored spirit often called the “national drink” of Lebanon — with a natural ease that required no explanation.
The flavors were good. Distinct. Different from what we were used to, raised on Hungarian wines. Not better, not worse — simply guided by a different internal logic.
The grape names, however, sounded surprisingly familiar. Later we learned that several traditional Hungarian grape varieties trace their roots back to this broader Levantine region. It felt as though the wine was telling an old story — one we had heard before, just in a different accent.
The restaurant itself was another surprise: serious cuisine, carefully composed dishes. This is not a place you visit only to taste.
It is a place where you stop for lunch — and finally allow time to slow down.
A Wedding Where We Meant to Rest
We set off back to Beirut in the early afternoon, convinced that the rest of the day would be a gentle descent. Poolside recovery, quiet preparation for the evening — that was the plan.
Our bodies, however, had other ideas.
The accumulated weight of the previous days — the heat, the long drives, the constant alertness — had slowly worn us down. All we wanted was to lie flat and process the contradictory impressions swirling in our heads: ruins and stories, tension and beauty, all layered together.
And then came something we had not anticipated at all.
The previously quiet hotel suddenly filled with sound. Drums. Singing. Rhythmic shouts echoing through the corridors. A Muslim wedding had taken over the space — not discreetly, not in the background, but fully present, as it was meant to be.
Celebration. Community. Joy.
What we had imagined as silence became vibrant presence.
It did not annoy us — it surprised us. Another cultural layer settled over the day, one we had not prepared for, yet instinctively accepted.
Eventually, the noise softened. And when we finally reached our beds, sleep came within seconds.
The day had left no room for negotiation.
Where next?
Continue the series – pick the next stop.
Now: Experience
Notes from the Beqaa Valley
Next: Experience
Beirut – With Side Effects
Show contents
Prologue
Quick post
Experience
Itinerary
Epilogue
Sources
- Based on personal experiences and first-hand impressions.
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Part of the Tales from the Middle East series by Absurd Empire.
