Reflecting the area’s perennial prominence at the core of civilization, another distinguished archeological site in the Beqaa Valley is the city of Anjar: one of the most notable assets of cultural heritage bequeathed to humanity by the Umayyad Caliphate. Since its foundation in the early 8th century AD, at the dawn of the Islamic Golden Age, the city gradually lost its significance and faded to oblivion. It got resettled in the 20th century by Armenian refugees fleeing the genocide further north and regrew to become one of the most important centers of the Armenian diaspora in Lebanon… It sounded like an interesting next destination for my trip.
That morning’s bus driver was quite a character. A beefy, boorish, boisterous man, he was bickering with every passenger about the fare. And after everyone, in contempt of his persistence, gave him what they knew they should, he was letting them go with a radiant smile and affectionate words. Since he had no qualms about trying to overcharge his fellow townspeople, I expected nothing less than an ambitious fleecing attempt at me.
The last passengers got off at the same junction where I’d changed buses two days ago. When I started to follow them out, the driver requested me to wait. I thought he might fill the car up again and continue to Anjar, or drop me off at the right bus. But he only drove around the corner, pulled over, and pitched a private-taxi fare to drive me to Anjar alone. I declined and, out of mere curiosity, I asked him what I owed for the ride thus far. As expected, he asked for something like twenty times over the normal fee. I handed him the same amount I had providently noticed the others paying and stepped off, side-glancing for his reaction. Momentary bafflement gave way to a fond grin and an adieu.
I stopped the first van heading in my desired direction. This driver also tried to rip me off, despite that he didn’t even enter Anjar but unloaded me in its purlieu, along the main road on his way to the nearby Syrian border. I figured out the fair rate with the help of a co-passenger, got off, and began walking. A couple of uphill kilometers later, I arrived at my accommodation.
This story is an excerpt from my book "Backpacking Lebanon", wherein I recount my one-month journey around this fascinating country. Check it out if you like what you're reading.
It was a casual local family house. The adolescent, English-speaking son showed me to the outbuilding that housed my apartment. I dropped my luggage and went out straight away to explore.
Anjar was a quiet and well-planned little town. Its layout resembled a crescent grandstand with wide but vacant, straight streets dividing it in rectangular and rhombic sections. It contained a few neat parks, several Armenian churches, and a memorial to Musa Dagh: the ancestral homeland of its inhabitants.
The only nuance that differentiated Anjar from Armenia proper, in my experience, was that people here were a bit more reserved and less outgoing. Whereas in Armenia they greeted me with a fanfare wherever I passed through, here people hardly even looked at me. Throughout the whole day, I only exchanged a few words with two teenage boys. They inquired whether I needed help after noticing me combing the streets for a shop. They directed me to the nearest one and then asked me where I come from. “Greece” brought about the same jubilant reaction it invariably did in Armenia: “We are brothers! We must get together and take on Turkey!”
After a thorough stroll around town and a kebab in a poky eatery run by a grandad with his grandson, I visited the archeological site. That wasn’t anywhere nearly as impressive as Baalbek, but it had its charm, too. The ancient city was of a square shape surrounded by bulky, largely intact stone walls. That was divided into quadrants by two intersecting central avenues. I had expected the architecture to exhibit some more exotic, oriental qualities, but it didn’t look any different from a Roman or Byzantine city. The several surviving arches were of the boring, rounded Roman style instead of the elaborate, horseshoe or multifoil Arabic kinds. The columns bore Greek Corinthian capitals.
By late afternoon, I continued my walk on the town’s outskirts. Far-reaching views opened up to the softly lit mountains beyond farmland expanses with laboring Syrian refugees. I then had a pizza at a restaurant by the town’s main entrance, which enjoyed a practical monopoly of the local catering business. And I concluded my day with a bottle of cold juice on the swing couch in the peaceful garden of my place.
Photos
View (and if you want use) all my photographs from Anjar.
Accommodation and Activities in Lebanon
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