"Where are your Arab travel papers?!"

“I don’t have my Arab travel papers. I don’t know what they are!”

This scene is unfolding between a mean official at passport control, and a man pleading to gain entry to Lebanon for whatever business he is here to attend to.

The man explaining his lack of “Arab travel papers” sounds like he is earnestly denying having an affair to his wife.

But the immigration officer possesses a heart of iron, and remains steadfast in his cross-examination.

Sceptical about the legitimacy of this visitor's reasons for landing in Lebanon, the official sequesters him to an office so he can continue to plead his case in private.

In the visitor’s defence, I haven’t heard of Arab travel papers—Lebanon offers a one-month tourist visa on arrival.

With a smile and a “merci beaucoup,” I’m allowed in.

The Lebanese tourist visa is now indelibly stamped in my passport, dashing my chances of ever visiting Israel.

Rafic Hariri. The assassinated Prime Minister with a complicated legacy

Beirut–Rafic Hariri International Airport is Lebanon’s only commercial airport.

As of 2025, you can fly directly to Beirut from London Heathrow and Paris Charles de Gaulle.

This is a credit to Middle East Airlines, a plucky carrier that hasn’t stopped flying to Lebanon despite a ghastly war in nearby Gaza and the entire country existing for a short while in two time zones in 2023.

Rafic Hariri airport is named after a former Lebanese Prime Minister, revered by a vast proportion of the population for helping to end the Lebanese civil war by ushering in the Taif agreement.

Ratified in 1989, the Taif agreement:

• Redistributed political power among sects, granting equal representation for Christians and Muslims in parliament.
• Mandated the disarmament of all militias except Hezbollah, which retained its weapons to serve as a resistance force against Israel in southern Lebanon.
• Legitimized Syria’s military and political presence in Lebanon by having Syria serve as the guarantor of the agreement.

Lebanon’s transformative reconstruction after the civil war helped Rafic Hariri acquire a fortune

He was estimated to be worth several billion US dollars because construction companies that he had a stake in (e.g., Solidere) won many of the major reconstruction contracts.

Rafic Hariri was killed in Beirut (along with 21 other people) in 2005 by a massive bomb.

The killings have been widely attributed to Hezbollah, likely supported (and perhaps authorised) by the Syrian regime under Bashar al-Assad.

The public outcry against his assassination was so strong it triggered the so-called Cedar Revolution, forcing Syria to withdraw its troops, which had been present in Lebanon as an occupying force since 1976.

A ginger couple loitering in the Middle East

Outside arrivals, a tall Arab with scarily perfect and scarily big teeth is waving at us.

I’m in Lebanon with my girlfriend because she is a bridesmaid at a wedding between her friend, the bride, who works for a local council in the UK, and the groom, a liver doctor of Syrian descent who also lives in the UK.

He has close relatives in Syria, and he would like them to be able to attend his wedding. The choices of destination boiled down to Lebanon or Türkiye, so here we are.

My girlfriend and I are booked to stay at the Damask Rose, a guest house in Jounieh, just north of Beirut.

Our host said he would pick us up from the airport.

I’m trying to connect to the Wi-Fi to contact him and find out where exactly he is—somehow, we know the waving man with the big teeth isn’t him.

Already, being six feet three inches tall with shoulder-length red hair is making me feel self-conscious.

My girlfriend, not quite as tall, equally red-headed, and significantly bustier than me, is feeling uncomfortable too.

We decide to walk outside, since it’s gloriously sunny and warm for 5am.

The waving man senses our discomfort and follows us, not so much offering, but insisting on taking us anywhere in Lebanon for ten US dollars.

We tell him that we have someone coming to pick us up, which amuses him greatly.

He shouts something to another waiting taxi driver, who lets out a conspiratorial laugh.

“Maybe he no come,” the tall man grins.

His teeth are dazzling.

I’m trying to search for our host, monitor WhatsApp, reassure my girlfriend, and dismiss this guy, but he won’t go away.

He just says, “okay, maybe I’ll lie here in case he no come,” and goes into a full pantomime lounge on the yellowing grass.

A car pulls up beside the three of us.

“Are you Thomas?”

Our host must have been parked up the road and seen us trying unsuccessfully to dismiss the taxi tout.

Make that a win for being tall and ginger in the Middle East, although I’m certain there were very few people named “Thomas” at arrivals.

Lebanon's economic situation

The economic situation in Lebanon is dire.

When we visited in 2023, inflation was over 200%.

One British pound was equal to 0.000053 Lebanese pounds.

That is, one British pound purchased about nineteen-thousand Lebanese ones.

The result was (and still is) a cash economy that obviously preferred foreign currency, ideally US dollars, and explains the keenness of our never-to-be taxi driver.

The Lebanese banks, whose high street outlets were no more than raided vacant lots, maintained an outdated and punishing official exchange rate for US dollars into local currency—a rate that was far lower than the actual market rate.

In fact, withdrawing cash in local currency from among the few working ATMs would instantly devalue it by about 18-fold.

This inaccurate exchange rate has slowly eroded people’s savings, resulting in regular citizens raiding banks, demanding to have their savings cashed out at their true value.

Needless to say, the citizens avoid banks as far as possible, preferring to manage their money using a digital currency exchange app called, hilariously, Whish Money.

“You wish you still had some.”

"It's worth nothing"

Our host at Damask Rose, Hicham, is a sweet and gentle Maronite Christian.

When he packs our luggage into his SUV outside arrivals, he fails to notice that wads of Lebanese cash have just fallen from his shorts.

"Ah, it's worth nothing anyway," is his reply when I point it out.

It flutters into the bushes as we drive past the tank guarding the airport.

A country with huge potential

Lebanon has huge potential, both as a small democracy in the Middle East and an attractive tourist destination drenched in culture.

But economic decay and political deadlock undermine its potential.

The state supply of electricity is unreliable and insufficient. Lebanese citizens must often pay two electricity bills to keep their lights on:

• One to the state
• One to privateers who lend small diesel generators

Apart from casting a dull haze of diesel fumes over Lebanon’s gorgeous hinterland, this arrangement further punishes a population whose wealth has been eroded by inflation.

It also makes it extremely difficult to run appealing visitor accommodation—the obvious way of earning foreign currency.

In 2022, parliamentary elections failed to appoint a new cabinet.

Once Michel Aoun’s presidential term ended in October 2022, Prime Minister Najib Mikati’s government stayed on in a caretaker capacity without any elected successor.

Without full legislative power and working amidst terrible economic collapse, this skeletal government was ineffective and unable to resolve any of the country’s deepening issues.

The resourceful Lebanese were left to organize among themselves the day-to-day responsibilities usually managed by local authorities, such as municipal rubbish collections.

Small organizations and volunteer groups are restoring broken traffic lights and patching potholes to keep roads passable.

Relying on themselves to keep the country functional is, at least, having one major positive effect in the rise of young social entrepreneurs.

Zero Waste Community is a recycling centre founded by Nibal Daouq and a group of her friends.

It aims to recycle as much of Lebanon’s trash as it can into raw materials, while helping promote sustainable activities among businesses and local communities.

Hopefully, Lebanon’s political deadlock is over.

In 2025, the recently-elected president Joseph Aoun announced the formation of a new cabinet, ending two years of caretaker government.

It has an enormous amount of work ahead of it if it’s serious about reversing Lebanon’s economic and political prospects.

"What government?"

After a day hiking and exploring Lebanon's famous caves, my girlfriend and I are in a taxi heading back to Damask Rose. Our driver is cheerful and has a dark sense of humour.

“It’s sleeping!” he says, pointing out the hulking power station on the coast.

“What government?!” is his answer to my question about what he thinks of the incumbent government.

When we pass the remains of the port, the site of a devastating explosion in 2020 that was caused by sheer negligence, he’s silent.

Back at the guest house, we soak in the sumptuous courtyard. Hand-painted murals of azaleas and songbirds beautify the pillars and arches.

A fragrant herb garden is alive with exotic smells.

Some fish nibble at moss growing inside the water fountain they call home.

Realising we have returned, Hicham turns the water supply back on so we can use the bathroom and freshen up.

The following morning, his wife serves us a Levantine banquet for breakfast that we enjoy outside on a table dressed in a bright pink cloth.

By the time their family has finished serving us, the dining table is completely full and we’re speechless.

Leaving a generous tip and a perfect review seems impossibly inadequate, but it’s all we can do.

Back in the UK, on the coach home from Heathrow, Hicham sends me a text:

“Dear Rebecca and Thomas. Thank you for the review, and for leaving behind your goodness. I wish you goodness in the rest of your life.”

Likewise, Hicham. Likewise.