From under the Lebanese sky

I am in an odd get-up. I am sitting in an open pick-up truck – which is serving as the media truck - surrounded by photographers and film-crews, with a Lebanese flag draped over my head and computer, held in place by the kind Italian cameraman’s cap (photo coming up).

It might seem a waste to be completely covered, given that I’m driving slowly through the Beqaa valley, surely on of the most beautiful anywhere, luscious, fertile and green, surrounded by snow-capped mountains under the sun, but this leg of the journey has been going on for a while and we’re going really rather slowly (accompanying the cyclists), so I feel that I’ve seen quite a lot of it already. It’s an opportunity to write…at first I did think that the scenery would be an idyllic inspiration for writing, but it proved impossible to see the screen…well done the Italian for fixing it for me.

I can’t believe I spent yesterday travelling on the bus when I could have been on the media truck, open air, travelling slowly right among the cyclists. Silly Hussam from PYO – “you’ll be much more comfortable on the Pullman” yeah right.

We started in Qublas this morning, arriving to yet another spectacular welcome, with traditional musicians and dancers guiding us to the speech area. After interminable speeches not translated from Arabic (except for sweet and moving ones from school-children who spoke in Arabic, English and French), there was general mingling and attempts at communication. The whole village was there for us: school was out, men were giving out roses, women flags, and during the speeches saj manqoosh (flat bread stuffed with zatar or yoghurt) and water was handed around.

And then the cycling started. I didn’t appreciate this wonder at all yesterday. Crawling along the road winding through the valley, I can see cyclists strung out from as far as the eye can see, back and front. They’re in good spirits for the most part, although it is hot. Not much in the way of uphill…maybe I’ll go for it soon. But I’m kind of enjoying my role as observer rather than participant, and I like having time to speak: to the other journalists, to the banished men, to the girls who get off the bikes.

The first pit-stop was at the Kefraya vineyard, and yes, hospitality did include wine-tasting, and it was lovely dry white. I shouldn’t have had it though, as it probably contributed to a horrible headache I developed with the help of the sun; I spent the rest of the cycling day in the cab of the huge bike truck, asleep.

And then: onto Damascus.