Meeting the Senator

I'm developing a travel routine - come back to Nairobi after flying all night only to find that your bags haven't flown with you. It's the third time this has happened, and this time I had the coolest head of any of the irate people at the Kenya Airways luggage counter on Sunday morning. One guy looked like he was about to rip a phone from a female clerk's hand; a bridesmaid whose dress was in her missing bag was close to tears. The only valuable thing I was missing was body armor, and I was hoping not to need that again for a while.

 

I celebrated my return to Nairobi after six weeks on the road by sleeping until 2 p.m., then an early dinner with friends J. and E., who graciously caught me up on all the gossip of the Nairobi media world. That took about two minutes. Fortunately, there was also E.'s new car to talk about, as well as the visit of Senator Barack Obama to Nairobi, which included a reception for journalists on Monday night.

 

With a mountain of paperwork to catch up on and a story to file about a speech Obama gave Monday afternoon, a cocktail party with a roomful of reporters - Obama or not - was not my idea of a great evening. But having been away for so long it was good to remind people, especially people at the U.S. Embassy, that I still work here. Plus, I didn't have time to get groceries today, and I figured there'd be food. So about 20 min. before E. arrived in the new car, I looked up from my desk at home, put on my least wrinkled "nice" shirt and went.

 

The reception didn't disappoint, as receptions go. Caught up with some fellow journalists, met others from the States who were traveling with Obama. Also ate my fill of appetizers. I had just put a piece of chicken skewer in my mouth when in walks the Senator. I'm standing right by the door with a friend, X., and Obama comes straight for us. He's very personable, and I'm acutely aware of the skewer in my hand. X. and I introduce ourselves, and Obama puts his hand on my shoulder, very Clintonesque. The press attache calls his name, and Obama looks up to address the room, his hand still on my shoulder and mine still holding a chicken skewer. I actually found myself edging away from him, like you would from a weird relative, fearing he would introduce me to the room, in his style of speaking that's at once erudite and at ease, as someone who talks with his mouth full. I wriggled free, Obama's hand fell to his side and E. grabbed the skewer from my hand and discarded it.

 

The lesson is: Eat beforehand.

The war's over

The Israeli-Hezbollah ceasefire took effect Monday, Lebanese troops deployed to the south on Wednesday and displaced Lebanese returned to their homes in droves all week. But in my mind the five-week war wasn't officially over until Friday morning, when the Starbucks and Body Shop stores in Beirut's Hamra district reopened. They were the last of the chain stores to reopen in one of Beirut's major commercial districts.

It seemed the right day for me to leave Lebanon. Two colleagues are staying, so we'll have people in place in case the ceasefire doesn't hold - and people in Beirut are betting that it won't. Since Monday, I've been asking people whether they're relieved that the fighting is over. Almost uniformly, the response is that they're happy for a reprieve from the destruction and uncertainty, but they know it's only temporary. Neither Israel nor Hezbollah came close to accomplishing their goals during the nasty, short conflict. So the feeling is that it's just a matter of months or weeks before things flare up again, and it shows on the faces of people throughout the city.

It's painful to see, because - as I've been telling everyone who asks about our safety, comfort, etc. - Beirut is an amazing city. You rarely see in one city such a vibrant mixture of history, cultural diversity, natural beauty and flat-out bacchanalian excess. As a Lebanese guy I knew in Cambridge wrote in an e-mail: "Lebanese have their own way of dealing with stress and bad days, and that is with partying." It shows in the attention to detail: There are multi-story clubs designed by world-class architects and bars with massive pieces of plane fuselage adorning the interior.

We had dinner with a few other journalists on Friday, my last night, at a great restaurant called Abdel Wahab, which serves traditional Lebanese fare on a beautiful terrace overlooking the Ashrafieh district, with its old, narrow streets and shiny new bars and restaurants. Over mezze and good Lebanese wine we traded stories of our favorite war souvenirs (morbid, but true) - who'd been able to snag the Israeli leaflet featuring Hassan Nasrallah as a snake, or the poster of Nasrallah and Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad smiling next to each other, or (jackpot) a Hezbollah flag.

We also talked about Hezbollah's political coup of the day - covered extensively on CNN - of handing out $12,000 lump-sum payments to people who'd lost their homes in the war Hezbollah triggered. It was a bold move, financed by Iran in crisp American $100 bills, but with Hezbollah written all over it. This group takes care of its own. In the days since the ceasefire took hold, they've cemented their support among Lebanon's Shiite community and further angered those who think Hezbollah usurps the power of the Lebanese government.

During the war, you didn't often hear people speak ill of Hezbollah, because they were fighting the Israeli enemy, and even the Sunnis and Christians who despise the group for its militancy said, at least in public, that they hoped Hezbollah would deal Israel a blow. Now that the war is over and its cost is becoming clear, you hear some of those same people wishing that Israel had finished Hezbollah off, i.e., assassinated Nasrallah, who's becoming a legendary figure in the region. The country seems, to many, more polarized now than at the beginning of the war, which doesn't bode well at all.

It was a tragic and incredibly interesting time to be here, and part of me will miss the place, the people and the chance to work on such a big and important story. But it's time to get back to Africa, after nearly five weeks away. While I was gone, Darfur got worse, Congo had its first free elections since 1960 and Somalia continued teetering toward civil war - I have some catching up to do.

A fragile truce

The ceasefire in Lebanon has been in effect for about seven hours, and so far so good. News reports from both sides of the border say - in the overwrought militaryspeak that journalists tend to trot out in wartime - the guns have gone quiet. The Hamra district of Beirut where I've been staying for much of the past three weeks is more vibrant today - there are more people on the streets, more cars, more conversations, more life. The contrast is palpable. It's still early, and plenty of things can go wrong, but it's clear that people are hopeful that the truce will hold.

 

I've obviously waited far too long to post. My only excuse is that it's been terribly busy here, with lots of long hours and late nights and days running together. The war is now in its fifth week and today is my 29th consecutive day of work, starting from the day I traveled to the Middle East from Nairobi.

 

But there are other ways I know I've been here a long time. I've tried nearly everything on the room service menu - the best thing, surprisingly, is a Mexican salad - and I've had to go shopping to replenish notebooks and razorblades. I have favorite coffee shops and favorite restaurants. I've made friends and I've appeared on at least one local blog. In many ways, I now feel like I live here and not in Nairobi, where over the last 12 weeks I've spent about two.

 

Part of this feeling is a product of the Lebanese people, who have almost uniformly been warm and welcoming. The brief looks of disappointment that flash on their faces when they realize I don't speak Arabic quickly disappear - and they don't even return when I tell them I'm American. Many people here feel profoundly betrayed by the Bush administration's almost unquestioning support for Israel in this war. Caricatures of Condi Rice looking like the devil-woman or carrying a purseful of missiles are plastered all over town. But the Lebanese tend not to share those feelings with you unless you ask.

 

I can't say the same for Yatin, who had to cut his vacation in Africa short because I'm still here covering the war and don't know when I'll be back home. In his most recent blog post, Yatin, who I have to say is becoming quite the little writer, described me as "an ass-kissing glory hog who can only say no to his girlfriend and his friends, but not his boss." For the record, I prefer the term "brown-nosing," for obvious reasons. (I was somewhat relieved to read on Seth's blog that he, too, has had to leave visiting friends in the dust because of a news story - see, it's not just me.)

 

I've now been in Lebanon for 2 1/2 weeks. I spent four days last week in southern Lebanon, but due to the travel restrictions I've spent most of the time in Beirut. Despite the massive damage to the southern suburbs and the exodus of thousands of people to safety either overseas or in the mountains to the north, which I think has given people in the West the impression that Beirut is crumbling, most of the city is functioning normally. 

 

The south of the country is a different story. In Tyre, the base for journalists covering the region, electricity last week was spotty and most of the city was deserted. Driving anywhere outside the city is risky, so most cars have the giant letters "TV" taped all over them in the hopes of convincing Israeli jets not to use them for target practice. (Naturally, it didn't take long for Lebanese to start using this tactic on their cars too.)

 

In our trip along the border, we did the same, but we had bigger problems - our car actually broke down. I mean completely crapped out. The radiator busted and scalding hot water gushed into the front passenger seat and directly onto my foot, giving me a first-degree burn. Then the car stopped moving altogether and the strong smell of smoke emanated from the engine.

 

I suppose it could have been worse. Where we broke down was right in front of the U.N. base, which is probably the safest place you can be if you have to be stuck on the border. Naturally, the U.N., which had a mechanic on staff inside the base, said it couldn't help us (no further comment on that, but the word "metaphor" comes to mind). There were about five families still living in the town, and fortunately we found a 15-year-old in flip-flops who got under the car and tweaked something well enough that we could get moving again. So yeah - I love the Lebanese.