9. Up and Down the Damour River

The boys were looking intently at the water, standing up to their calves in it and holding large stones over their heads. Suddenly, they threw the stones down on top of boulders in the river, then waited, poised. A few small fish floated side-up near the surface, dazed momentarily by the percussion of the rocks smashing against each other. The practiced young men scooped up the fish before they recovered their equilibrium and added them to their pile.

Dad offered the fishermen some lira for their catch, which they gladly accepted. We were then able to cook up a midday meal as we rested before continuing on the next leg of our hike from Jisr-el-Khadi to Naba’ Safa. We had seen the group of village boys near the river earlier and had asked them whether there were any fish in it. They answered in the affirmative and offered to catch some for us. We had invited them to share our meal, but they were much more interested in spending the money we gave them on what they seemed to feel was more essential than food – probably sweets in the nearby village shop.

The night before we started our hike, I was intrigued to find Dad lining up camping equipment and various items for our journey. Putting all the camping equipment into the bag was like completing a multi-dimensional puzzle. My canvas bag with shoulder straps was much smaller and contained the lighter items like blankets, extra clothing and a water bottle. By the time I went to bed, both backpacks were compactly stuffed and ready for the upcoming journey.

We went along the south bank of the river in an easterly direction. The source of the Damour river, a large spring, was called Naba’a Safa and we were hoping to get there in three days.

I was elated to have Dad to myself, just him and me, and I was wide-eyed as well as alert to all he said, did and instructed or observed. I was extremely open to listen and learn all I could from him. It was a new and exhilarating experience for me to be treated exclusively without fear of interruption from others. I savoured it as something valuable and meaningful to me as his first-born son.

Jumping from boulder to boulder as we travelled up the river, listening to its murmur and rush, feeling the wind in our faces and hearing the rustling of the leaves in the trees along with the birdsong around, was magic. Then there was Dad chattering away about the different kinds of things we passed, filling my mind with his descriptions. Heaven seemed to come very close and my delight only grew as I became enthralled, experiencing the surrounding reality in a free and unencumbered way as we ambled along. So different from what had been true for me and one or two other kinds of older friends I had connected with in the village.

Now and again we stopped for a swim in some of the deeper parts of the river but kept going steadily until the evening of that first day. More discoveries were made as I watched Dad make a fire, put the saucepan on it with some oil in the base, crack a few eggs into the pan and then whisk it all around with a stick to make scrambled eggs. Scooping the eggs into pita bread with a bit of cheese, made a delicious meal. As the light began to fade, I crawled into the tent, which Dad had erected so efficiently and slept solidly till the morning.

Dad was always an early riser and I woke up to the smell and sound of porridge cooking. After breakfast, we folded up the tent, washed and dried utensils and faces, re-packed the rucksacks and wended our way further up the river.

By mid-morning we had covered a good distance and by midday had passed the fork in the river to begin heading upwards in a more south-easterly direction. As we did so, I saw on the ground in front of us my first hoepoe. The crest and the orange colours of the bird enchanted me; what made it so special was that I had seen it before Dad had. We followed it for a way but then it must have got wind of us and scooped its way off into the distance. After a bully-beef lunch followed by an apple, we had some good strong tea. Hiking tea tasted so much better than tea-room tea somehow.

As evening of our second day approached, we came to a Quince orchard and met the farmer. As Dad talked with him he offered a few quinces and gave some sage advice on the difference between enjoying fruit while standing in the orchard under the trees and stealing it away. One was wrong and the other was right. That evening I learned that Dad could make excellent stewed quince and adding a small amount of condensed milk perfected it.

On the morning of the third day we were close to the source of the river but still had to have breakfast, break camp and walk up to Naba’a Safa and then beyond, up the hill to the Ain Zhalta mission school. With the impending end of our hike, I felt reluctant to start walking too soon and wanted to savour the activities I had enjoyed learning about and doing more and more efficiently. The final walk beyond the source and up the hill was quite tiring but it was good to walk through the village and talk to some of the aunties who knew my Dad. One family gave us a glass of cold water with toot (mulberry concentrate).

Later in the day we returned to Shemlan through Aley and Souk el Gharb. Completing our circlular route, we walked down the steps from the upper Shemlan road, past the Evangelical Church building where Dad and Mom had been married, and home through the kitchen door. It was great to be home again and recount all the things that we had seen and done.

Many years later, I came across one of Dad’s notebooks, and under the heading, “Music 1955”, he wrote:

“Brian and I walked from Shemlan to Ain Zhalta in the summer, but after we left Jisr-el-Khadi, we soon came to the end of the road and continued along bits of paths until we dropped down to the river bank. Here we camped for the night and next morning set off along the river itself, winding our way from bank to bank, jumping from boulder to boulder, wading here, and following the trace of a path there. The stream presented an infinity of variety and yet, if at any point we paused to listen, the notes of the scene and sound were familiar. Here were shallows were the water murmured and grumbled in contended fashion. There was a placid pool where shoals of small fish could be seen swimming with excellent convoy discipline – and an occasional larger independent would break the glass-like surface of the pool as it snapped at an insect, sending the ripples circling to the shores. Then again, we came to a waterfall where the water drummed into the pool below and hissed out between imprisoning rocks. Further on was a gentle drop where the water gurgles and circled and then sped on tunefully and with happy zest. As we rested by the way the sound of running water was broken only by the chirp of birds or the twitch of a fish on the surface of the pool. Then we climbed up the mountainside away from the river and camped for the night in a field.

“The next morning we arrived in Ain Zhalta, where we were able to relax and listen to some recorded music, including “Schubert’s Quintet in A Major for Piano and Strings,” which includes the famous song “The Trout”. As I listened, it seemed to me that I was hearing again the music of that stream as we had heard it all through the previous day. In that music, I relived the journey and joys of yesterday even to seeing and hearing the fish in their activities. Now whenever I hear this Quintet, I am at once transported to the river Safa, and Brian is by my side as we tramp from pool to waterfall to shallow rapids and rest beneath the trees and watch the darting trees.”

The following year Dad took me down the river from Jisr-el-Khadi to Damour on the coast. This time we walked from the road at the top of the valley, down to the bridge. We caught a bus through ‘Ainaab and on towards ‘Abey but at the crossroads near Kabarshmoun, we alighted and started walking left down the valley on the zigzag road towards Jisr-el-Khadi. The walk took a while and we enjoyed going through some pine tree outcrops with the scent of resin surrounding us as we wended our way down to our connection with the Damour river at the bridge. 

It took us three days and followed the established daily routine, which I had learned surprisingly well. Our first night was spent on a raised part of the riverbed, which backed onto a sandstone cliff. We had our evening meal and then put the butter in a protected hole with cold river water running through it to keep it from melting overnight. As we were about to start breakfast, Dad went down to get the butter and found that it had completely gone in spite of the rocks and stones we had built up around it. The water level of the river had risen overnight and had carried off our precious butter.

I remember the sense of loss and disappointment at the fickleness of life and reality but I also remember being quite philosophical about it and decided to spend longer soaking up the morning sun before we ventured on.

Further down the river, on the second day, we came across some phenomena, which I found interesting. The first was a canal running parallel to the river which had been put in place to take the water to irrigate fields a small distance from the main body of the river. A Lebanese villager had had the skill and foresight to put that channel in place so that he could be sure of a constant supply of water. I know Dad, as an engineer, was impressed and explained some of the intricacies of such a feat with admiration.

As we followed the water conduit, we came to a grove of olives and found the farmer ploughing the soil between the olive trees. In conversation with him, Dad found out that he had made his way as an engineer in the USA for a number of years, but he finally realized what his Lebanese inheritance meant to him and returned to his roots with resulting joy and satisfaction. That conversation stimulated a lengthy discussion between Dad and me about the riches of life in Lebanon.

We followed the path to a place where we had to traverse a fairly high sandstone cliff, which overlooked the river as it flowed through a gorge. At the end of the climb we came across a deep hole, which had been worn away by the river, allowing for someone to jump from the rock into the depths of the pothole. It seemed so high at the time but after Dad had done it, I followed suit and then he could not stop me from going on and on. Eventually, with some impatience, he felt we should continue with our walk.

A little further on down there was a set of smooth rocks over which the river ran to make a set of rapids. I thought it might be used by me to slide down, but tested out the idea with a bit of wood first. Assured that it would be acceptable to try, I started slowly down the chute under Dad’s watchful eye. Once the main body of water got hold of me I started going down faster and whooshed down to the bottom into a deep pool. While it was not a smooth ride, it was exhilarating and I became engrossed with doing it as many times as energy would allow. I was quite bruised but what a memorable activity it turned out to be.

We arrived at the coast road in Damour on the morning of the third day and caught a bus to Beirut and then a bus from Bourj back up to Shemlan.

The following year Graham joined us as we hiked down the river to the sea again. It became my willingly accepted task to accompany Graham, under Dad’s watchful gaze, and to extol the virtues of the various experiences we went through as well as chatter away about observations which could be made. Later we realized how much Graham had taken in as he remembered so much more than expected.

Over the following years Howard and Joan, under Graham’s tutelage, continued the tradition and the hike became a regular ritual. Mom and Brenda were the listeners and audience when the various dramas were described. Brenda describes an instance relating to Jisr-el-Khadi which helped her accept her perceived privations. It goes like this:

 “I remember, at the age of about eleven, being rather disgruntled about the fact that I had only one party dress and my school friends, whose fathers earned a whole lot more than mine did, had several. These same friends would tell me how they would eat out at restaurants on the weekends and we never did. I complained about that too.

“Then, on one occasion, my Dad took us kids for an overnight camp out by the River Safa in a beautiful valley where Jisr el Qadi (The Judge’s Bridge) was, on a sandy patch surrounded by rocks.

“We made a fire and heated up hot dogs for supper with tinned fruit and ideal milk for pudding. It was delicious! As darkness descended Dad began to tell us stories. He was an excellent storyteller and we were enthralled with the adventures of one ‘Blackshirt.’

“We slept under the stars, which shone through the overhanging branches of the trees nearby and then we woke the next morning to another beautiful day. Before we broke camp, Dad lay in the morning sun with his hands behind his head, looking out at the river and said, ‘I wouldn’t trade places with a king!’

“That’s all it took. I never again complained about not having multiple party dresses and not going to restaurants.”

There were many occasions over the years when we returned to that bridge for a picnic, a time to meditate and consolidate thinking, to swim, plunge, float, sit on the rocks, allow the water to fall on our backs, to pose for pictures and to watch the potter at work down the road. It came to represent for me a place along the river of life where it was possible to reset perspective and describe more clearly the stages of growth that had been accomplished. In doing that it became a little easier to go forward into the future positively.