We are driven over the Lebanon mountains to Baalbek

After another wholesome breakfast this morning in our hotel (the Lebanese eat well), we are picked up at 8-30 am by our driver for today, Farhad Daou (same last name as Bassem our previous driver, whom he knows) in his dark blue Mercedes.

He will first take us to the famous Baalbek Temple ruins on the other side of the Lebanon Mountains, then on to grandfather's mountain town of Bcharre.

Farhad is 57, balding with grey hair, olive skin, and speaks a reasonable amount of English.

Soon we are being driven at breakneck speed up the mountain road overlooking Beirut. I can see now why Noel prefers the safer back seat.

Although I don’t say anything, Farhad seems to read my mind about slowing down and promptly does so. In fact all morning he seems to read my mind and answer nearly all of my questions before I ask them.

He smokes, but has all the car windows open, so it isn’t too bad.

We soon reached the top of the Lebanon mountain range and descend down into the hazy but greener inland Bekka Valley. This whole vast Bekka valley is flat with a patchwork of crop lands extending into the distance.

We drive along the valley for about two hours in sunshine and warmth. Lots of traffic and rural buildings.

Soon we came to ancient Baalbek, the town where my grandmother was raised and home of the most impressive temple ruins in the world.

The driver turns off the road and begins to drive us along a rough track so we can see the ruins without paying to get in. He seems a little incredulous that we want to pay to get in and also pay for a guide. I don’t think he is all that happy about having to wait for us either.

So he turns the car around and we bounce back along the track to the main road and park in the Baalbek ruins car park and buy tickets. There is a small, windowless museum nearby.

However there is a power cut and the soldiers on guard won’t let us inside. The tunnel leading in is delightfully cool but the museum is in pitch blackness.

So we walk through the main gates, into the ruins. A portly, older Lebanese guide, shielding himself with a sun umbrella comes towards us. Noel negotiates a guiding price with him.

I am amazed at his appearance. He looks just like a twin brother of an old Maori friend of mine in Tauranga who died about 15 years ago – Alfred Tarawa. He not only looks like him, but he speaks like him also and has a similar personality. He also reminds Noel of Uncle Lou Morris. His name is Gazi and his English is very good which is a relief to us.

He begins to show us over the vast Baalbek temple complex. There are three temples here and they cover about half a square km. The people would anciently go to them in succession.

First to the temple of the main god Jupiter, for sacrifice and worship,

Then to the temple of Baal (or Bacchus) for gluttony and drunkenness.

Then finally to the temple of Venus for immoral sexual gratification.

Only the first two temples are open to the public. The temple of Venus is still being restored.

These ruins are on a gigantic scale and very impressive. They date back to Roman times and earlier.

We spend about two hours walking around, admiring the skill of the builders and carvers and listening to Gazi’s interesting stories of long ago days.

At the end of the tour Noel gives Gazi a tip as well as his fee. He was worth it.

As we drive away from the Baalbek temple ruins we see this magnificent Mosque and stop and take a photo.

We drive through and out of the town of Baalbek. Like the rest of Lebanon it is full of old battered cars, mostly again Mercedes. Nice wide, spacious streets however and smooth road paving. No coarse chip, road noise problems when driving on Middle East roads.

We are soon out in the plains and heading towards the higher snow-capped part of the Lebanon mountain range in the distance. We have to go over this. Granddad's home town Bcharre is nestled in a valley on the other side.

We come across a head on car collision, but the damage doesn’t look too severe and nobody seems hurt.

I see a low, orange coloured, mud brick fence outside a farm house. This looks so unusual I ask Farhad our driver to stop for a photo.

Noel seems surprised that Granddad courted and married a girl so far away from Bcharre in Baalbek. But our driver doesn’t think it was unusual.

We were told later by the family, that my great, great grandfather Elishah Habib Coory, circa 1820-1910 still owns land in Baalbek. This is part of the land claim they want us to action through Dad’s rightful lineage. More about this later.

We soon begin climbing the winding mountain range road. There is a considerable amount of new home building going on the lower slopes.

We climb and climb and climb. This part of the Lebanon mountains is 3½ kms high (3500 meters or 12,000 ft).

We can see a distinctive, circular patch of snow, high up the slopes.

Two thirds of the way up the mountain the road dips down into a little valley. We see a family out in their ripe cherry orchard. The driver stops the car and we walk down to see them. The dark cherries look very nice.

The father and the elderly grandmother are wearing Muslim headdress, but the younger woman who appears to be the mother is not. That could be what she is holding in her hand.

The father offers us some cherries to taste. They taste sweet and nice, so the driver bargains for us and Noel pays the man about five American dollars for a huge heap of them. He wraps them in newspaper for us.

We put them on the back seat next to Noel and eat them as we drive on upward. Farhad obviously loves cherries as he eats about 50 of them.

As we near the top of the mountain we pass through patches of snowy ice and it becomes quite cool, but there is no wind. We can see for hundreds of miles to the north, east and south.

Our driver stops near the top so I can get a picture of one of the spectacular ice sheets that over-hang the road.

We reach the top and begin to descend. I feel excited and apprehensive. We will soon be in Bcharre, the home town of our forbears.

Not far from the top of the mountain we see a shepherd boy and a his flock of black and fawn mountain goats.

The mountain slopes are very steep on this seaward side of the mountain range.

Soon we see the town of Bcharre in the distance. In the foreground (middle of the picture) is the famous grove of the Cedars of Lebanon.

The driver calls the town ‘Shari’ (with a rolled rrr, just like Maoris do) but it seems to be just an affectionate nickname, like Palmy for Palmerston North. Bcharre has about 9000 people.

As we drive down the steep, narrow road leading into the town, a road lined with old cars, I am amazed at all the new building going on. Everywhere there seems to be cranes, concrete trucks and half-built houses.

This high mountain road into the town is rarely used because of the long climb over the mountain. Also it is closed by snow during much of the winter.

There seem to be a lot of churches for a town of 9,000. There are actually about 35,000 people in the whole valley (or ravine), which stretches downhill for many kms and contains several towns. Bcharre is the largest.

The driver finds our hotel which is called Hotel Chabat, named after the family who have run it for two generations. We meet our host Wittier Chabat, who appears to be a wise and sincere man. He is a large man, in his mid-60’s I would think and about as tall as Noel but heavier. He speaks Arabic, French and reasonable English.

The hotel is rather old, but has character. It has a ski lodge type atmosphere about the place, with large rooms, dark stained timber interior walls and floors and red fabric furnishings. It seems well run and we would find the food to be exceptionally good.

It is almost empty of guests this time of the year. Evidently it fills up during the winter ski season.

There is just Wittier and two quiet, humble, women staff members at present, Sohaad and Laura.

I thought I had taken a picture of the outside of the hotel but I can’t seem to find one.

In our conversation with Wittier, I comment on the number of churches in Bcharre, and ask him what percentage of the people of Bcharre would go to church.

He gives me a look as if to say, ‘What a heathen’, and then replies earnestly saying, "Everybody in Bcharre go to church." His sincerity makes me feel ashamed to have asked such a question.

I am slowly beginning to realise just how Godless New Zealand and Australia are. Without the Polynesian of New Zealand we would perhaps be the worst on earth.

After settling in our hotel room we decide to walk the approx 1 km distance to the family homestead. Noel is not 100% certain of the location, so Wittier our hotelier gives him directions. Wittier also says, "If you need to ask somebody, do not ask for Tony Fakhry, ask for the son of Nakhle Fakhry (Tony’s deceased father). That the way it is done here."

So off we go. I find the walk totally fascinating. Bcharre is such a mixture of very old and very new. Some of the new buildings are 4 or 5 storey apartments. Some are single mansions, perhaps built by wealthy men as holiday homes.

We come across an old snow mobile on the street, which reminds us that despite the 26°C summer warmth and sunshine, Bcharre is often snow bound during the winter. Noel remembers Tony saying in a letter, that when his father Nakhle died, Bcharre was covered in two metres of snow, above head level.

The Fakhry homestead and other Fakhry homes are through a short tunnel off the main road, beneath an old building. We walk through the tunnel and see some cheerful children playing.

Norma, who is Tony’s wife, is home with her young twins Arita and Johnmichael, her older girl Marienoel and two of their childhood friends, Raneen and Elinor.

They recognise Noel who made a brief visit about eight years ago.

Tony is up at his apple orchard about 15 kms away. He stays there for several days at a time during the busy season, as he doesn’t drive and hasn’t got a car.

The original small house that Granddad lived in has had a living room added on to it by Tony. This new room is quite large, with a 9 ft stud and is somewhat stark by New Zealand standards. There are vinyl tiles on the floor and four long couches line each wall. On the walls are lots of pictures, mostly religious. There is a large screen TV in one corner.

It is hard to make ourselves understood. Only the older children understand a little English. They are happy and normal children, just like children everywhere.

Norma calls her husband Tony on the phone, and then phones her brother George, to bring his car and take us out to him. Norma is a shy, quiet woman and does not seem robust in health. She is a little stooped and smokes.

Norma is the first woman I have seen smoking in Lebanon.

While we are waiting, Norma serves us red coloured drinks that taste like mango. Then comes an answer to a prayer. The older girls bring Miriam in from the house next door to translate for us.

Miriam looks to be about 30 and is visiting Bcharre from Australia. She speaks fluent Arabic and English. She is the sister-in-law of Milaad Abraham Fakhry, the artist and sculptor who lives next door and who is also a relative of ours. More about him later.

Miriam is a cheerful and likable girl, very outgoing, and makes a tremendous difference to our awkward language situation.

George soon arrives in an old battered black Honda Accord. He is a soldier and unlike the rest of the family, looks the classic Arab terrorist type. He is quiet and intense with close knit eyebrows. Noel notices that he has "born to kill" tattooed on his wrist in English, although he speaks no English.

So Norma and her three children, and Noel and I squeeze into George’s black car. We drive up a steep side street leading out of the town and then into the side hills. For about 40 minutes we bounce along narrow mountain tracks with apple orchards in the flatter areas.

Miriam follows us in a van driven by her brother-in-law Milaad Fakhry the artist, a personable handsome man of about 40.

We eventually arrive at Tony’s orchard, which has an impressively heavy crop of young apples. We see Tony, a solidly built man in his early 50’s, propping up the heavy laden apple branches with long forked poles to prevent breakage. We wait until he has finished what he is doing.

Then Tony comes over to Noel and I, hugs us, and gives us three bristly kisses each on our cheeks. First on one cheek, then the other, then the other side again.

He looks a bit grim and uncomfortable at first, but soon relaxes somewhat as Norma puts out some food and drinks for us. We then all sit outside the little house-shed on the orchard, around a table and talk. Miriam and Milaad translate for us. Milaad lived in Australia for a few years before coming back to Bcharre as an artist and speaks reasonably good English. It is a beautiful setting.

There are 13 of us altogether, and we speak directly about our Lebanese family links and the family land. I ask a lot of questions to try and clarify the situation. It turns out to be quite different from what I had thought. Milaad was most helpful and seems a very nice person.

The first thing we clarified was that we are all Fakhry’s. Although Coory sounds similar to Fakhry (Farcoory) it has a totally different meaning.

The name Coory (or Hoorie as they seem to pronounce it, rolling and trilling the ‘r’) means ‘Priest’ and is an honourable title that a family may use as an inheritance when they have a Maronite Catholic priest as a direct ancestor. A little like English royalty perhaps when they hand down titles such as the Duke of Edinburgh or Prince of Wales.

However the family name, or tribal name, still remains Fakhry, which means ‘proud’ in Arabic.

The Fakhry’s, who are all Maronite Christians (named after Saint Maron) originally came from Cyrrhus in Syria (near Antioch) in 632 AD. Cyrrhus is now part of Turkey.

A brief history of the Maronites runs as follows, taken from a book on the subject written by a Catholic Priest:

Saint Maron lived 350 AD to 423 AD. He was the disciple of the hermit Zebinas, who was known for his greatness in prayer, spending day and night at it. Under his influence, Maron also chose to follow the hermit’s life. Finding a pagan temple on the mountain near Cyrrhus, Syria where he sought his solitude, Maron destroyed its idols and consecrated it as a church to the true God.

His spirituality made Maron an instrument through whom God worked numerous miracles and his fame spread throughout the area. He lived entirely in the open air, unsheltered from the elements. And as for cures, he cured not only infirmities of the body, but of the spirit as well. He put demons to flight, healed this man's greed and that man's anger, to other men he gave self-control, and corrected intemperance or sloth.

Many men and women became his followers. The village (no longer in existence) was near Cyrrhus, Syria (now Turkey) along the banks of the Orontes River. Cyrrhus was where his holy remains lay after his death, and the town built a church in his honour.

Not long afterwards a monastery was also established nearby and called the House of Maron. It grew quickly. In 445 AD it had over 400 monks and became the principal monastery in that province. The monks of the House of Maron were responsible for the education of the people in the surrounding areas. From this developed a close spiritual community, following the example and teachings of Saint. Maron. Thus they came to be called Maronites.

(The name of this monastery community town was Ara according to Milaad Fakhry.)

However in 632 AD, as the result of the Moslem conquest of Syria, many of the Maronites fled south into the rugged mountain valleys of Lebanon for safety. (Seven families according to Milaad.)

450 years later, in 1098 AD with the coming of the Crusaders to Moslem-controlled Lebanon, the Crusaders were delighted to find fellow Christians willing to help in their fight against the Moslems. The Maronites supplied a fighting force of 40,000 men, described as being "astute and prone to fighting and battling. They are good archers using the Italian style of cross-bow."

As the centuries rolled by, there was continuous contention between Christians and Moslems in the Lebanon region, which was then still part of Syria.

In the mid 1800's, with Lebanon now under Turkish rule, the situation became extremely tense. Lebanon became a theatre of intrigues, revolts, and battles. In 1860 it came to a head and Moslem factions led a series of massacres. 12,000 Christians were killed, 360 villages destroyed. Also 500 churches were torn down, 23 schools demolished and 42 monasteries burned. Families were dispossessed of their lands and the mass immigration of Christian Lebanese began.

Evidently our great, great grandfather Elisha Habib Coory (Fakhry), circa 1820-1910 also lost his land holdings in this uprising. His land holdings are believed to be located in Baalbek, Bcharre, and other parts of the Kadisha Valley in which Bcharre is located.

According to the family, these lands are currently "squatted on" and can now, since the wresting of the country from Turkish rule after World War I, be legally reclaimed by a direct male descendant of Elisha Habib Coory (Fakhry) from exile. This is where my Dad, Elias (Alex) Coory comes into the picture. He is a direct descendant of Elisha Habib Coory.

Whether he is the only, or oldest (age 90) descendant is not clear.

It seems unlikely that Dad would be the only one with the legal right, as Dad’s father, Joseph Coory was the younger of the two sons of Habib Coory, and he was in turn the younger of the two sons of Elishah Coory. If you can follow all that.

However, the Fakhry family in Lebanon seem in no doubt that Dad has the authority to give Tony Fakhry power of attorney to act on Dad’s behalf in reclaiming the lands.

I say to Tony, that if we are successful in reclaiming the land, we would not be happy to see families evicted off the land, but would have no objection to the family charging them rent. He seems to reluctantly assent to this.

Tony, real name Antonio is evidently not a direct descendant of Elishah Coory. He seems somehow linked with a female side of the family. The apple orchard we are now on was inherited through his mother.

We were to find throughout our stay in Bcharre, that Tony Fakhry is spoken of very highly by all concerned. His integrity seems beyond question. Although he looks a bit of a rough diamond, he is a traditionalist and is very proud of the way he has looked after grandad’s home and possessions. He also seems very religious, like all of the Fakhrys and his letters reflect this. Our ancestor Elisha Coory is also highly respected.

Tony tells us that he is happy for the land to remain in Dad’s name, or in my name, being the eldest son. All he wants is the land rightfully reclaimed.

I sense a strong emotional attachment to the land, similar to that of the Maori spiritual attachment to ancestral land.

We are invited back to Tony and Norma’s house for another visit tonight, and for an evening meal tomorrow night. We are then driven back to Bcharre and our hotel by George.

Noel has often talked to me about how good the food was at our hotel when he last visited.

As we go in to the dining room and sit down for our evening meal, I see that he was not exaggerating. The food variety on our table is huge. Sohaad our food server has placed about 12 introductory food choices – egg plant, olives, tomatoes, hummus, salads, mini sausages, potato salad, yoghurt, rice and other dishes. This is called mezza.

Then she brings in the main courses, chicken casserole, meat balls in gravy and onion, and some other foods I have never seen before. It is not expected that you eat everything.

The Lebanese deserve their world famous reputation for cuisine. No sweets, apart from diced fruit and thick, unsweetened yoghurt.

After our meal it is dark outside and we decide to walk downhill to the town centre about a km away, to the internet café and send an email to our families back home. We come across another Virgin Mary grotto. They are all over Bcharre.

The town centre turns out to be a street of shops, cafes and offices about half a km long. The traffic is busy for a small town on a Monday evening, mostly high spirited young hoons in old cars with the inevitable tooting of horns.

We find the internet café which has about 10 computers. It is half full of young people. Most of the girls look like sisters to my sister Barbara, and the young men like brothers to my son Michael.

We try and send an email home to Marie, Rana and Mary. Due to our ignorance we lose the first one when we run over our time allowance, so we have to start all over again.

We then walk a different way back, uphill to the Fakhry house. We pass through scruffy, untidy back streets and past very old, run down buildings. I suppose these could be described as comfortable and homely in a sense, but both Noel and I would find it hard to live here permanently, having got used to the comparative cleanness and elegance of New Zealand cities.

It is all relative, I remember coming back from California and Utah in the 1980’s and thinking that New Zealand looked comparatively scruffy.

We visit the Fakhry family and find our third translator, another relative, Evet Fakhry, a widow about 60 who lives in the last house on the left hand side of the tunnel that leads through to Tony’s house from the road.

Evet is a loud, somewhat bossy, loving, gossipy Aunty Mary Morris type. Every inch a people person, who knows everybody and everything that goes on. I take an instant liking to her.

As soon as she sees me she says, "Now he’s a Fakhry!" insinuating I suppose, that Noel does not quite look the part, which is correct. His tallness, sandy hair, and lack of any olive colouring in his complexion don’t make him look like a local. Yet his natural personality, love of good food, dining out and socialising, is more Lebanese than mine. However I do seem to take more after the mystical, hermit type Lebanese that this region is noted for.

Evet is quite a stroppy woman and insists that we speak as much Arabic as possible. She teaches me the Arabic word for good night, which I remembered and used for weeks, but as I write this now, I’ve forgotten. How easy it is to lose language that we do not constantly hear or use.

We first look at some photos that Noel and I have brought with us, then Tony wants to run over the whole land question again. We spend a long time doing this, and with Evet’s quite good command of English and her extensive local knowledge, we learn a great deal and obtain a clearer picture.

Evet also warns darkly of mafia-like influences in the region and indicates that the land will not be given up easily. I sense that she has a fondness for the melodramatic and is probably exaggerating.

Evet helps me write out the exact wording I will need to use if I get power of attorney from Dad and in turn hand it over to Tony. My name on the document must include that of all my forefathers going back to Elisha; ie, David, Elias, Joseph, Habib, Elisha Fakhry of Bcharre, North Lebanon.

She also gives me Tony’s full name, Antonious Nakhle Fakhry and his land registration number.

I take a photo of the old lounge of the house interior which has an unusual log ceiling.

Then we visit the large underground cellar of the house, where there is an old still. Tony gives me a large bottle of Arak for Dad. Arak is a triple-distilled spirit of grapes and is famous throughout the Middle East. It is colourless like water and tastes of aniseed which is introduced at the third distillation.

He also presents Noel a bottle of his home made wine.

Tony also shows us other possessions of our grandfather which he proudly protects in the basement. We can look up at the roof of the basement and again see whole raw tree trunks supporting the floor of the old house above us. The house was built by Elisha during the 19th century.

Noel and I walk home at midnight. The streetlights are now off to save power. The stars are very clear.

We see an orangey-brown checkered frog outside our hotel back door.