The Long Route to Beirut

You're Going to Lebanon? That Ship has Sailed...

I used to enjoy occasional stints working at the Reuters United Nations Bureau. The U.N. struck me as being overstocked with terminally self-important people, but it was kind of sweet how they took themselves so seriously and observed civilized traditions. I would probably like it even more today, now that polite behavior is considered so passé elsewhere.

It was August, 1982. There was a lot going on in the looming glass tower on the East River, including a multinational effort to bring peace to Lebanon. There had been a seemingly endless civil war in that sad country, followed by an Israeli invasion.

Now, the U.N. was sending a peacekeeping force from three countries – Italy, France and the U.S. – to enforce a peace agreement. You couldn’t really count the Italians troops, though, because they wore funny plumed helmets and everybody laughed behind their backs.

Late one Thursday afternoon, I made one final check of the dedicated message wire that Reuters bureaus used to communicate with each other. I saw something from a senior Reuters editor at our London headquarters. It said the U.S. Ambassador was allowing only American journalists into his important daily briefings, so perhaps New York could spare a Yank to supplement our Beirut bureau.

Later that night, in bed, I related the story to my wife as an amazing sign that perhaps Reuters was finally recognizing the value of its many American reporters. Barbara, herself a journalist for the New York Times, perked up instantly.

“So, what did Evelyn say?”

“About what?”

“About you going to Beirut!”

“I didn’t talk to her. I’m sure she’s already filled the request with one of the senior people.”

“Shouldn’t you at least express an interest? So she knows you want in on the action if something like this comes up again?”

“Sweetie, they’re shooting people over there,” I mansplained to her.

“I can read, Bob. There’s a cease-fire.”

“It’s a very fragile cease-fire. It could collapse at any moment.”

She had me cornered. I dialed Evelyn’s home number and held my breath. Click. I got her machine. Yes! Evelyn owned what I’m pretty sure was the first telephone answering machine in New York City.

“Hey, it’s Basler,” I said in the odd voice we all adopted back then when leaving a message on one of those newfangled things. “I just wanted to say I’m sure you’ve already filled the Beirut thing, but if you need me, I’m available.”

This was great. I gave a big, smug stretch and rolled over in bed. Two minutes later, the phone rang.  It seemed, surprisingly, that nobody else had volunteered to go over there to get shot at. I was the lucky winner!  Would I be able to leave for Beirut tomorrow, Evelyn asked?

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

This was just the start of the hilarity that was to ensue. The Beirut airport was nothing but a pile of rubble, so nobody was flying into it. There were only two ways to get there. I could fly to Tel Aviv and hitch an overland ride with the Israelis, but that would be a lot like them doing us a favor, and we didn’t like  to owe anybody.

The only other way, the home office said, was to get to Cyprus and take one of the numerous small boats going back and forth from Larnaca, Cyprus, to Jouniah, Lebanon. 

First, I needed a Lebanese visa. I went to the consulate, but it was closed for some Lebanese holiday. Too bad, guess I’ll have to wait until Monday? Oh, I see. The new plan is for me to fly to Zurich, then on to Cyprus, then get a Lebanese visa in Nicosia, then take one of those boats to Beirut? Okie-dokie!

It very quickly got much worse. Nobody realized that the Cypriot government had just cracked down on those ferries, making it almost impossible for them to keep operating. They said the trip was too dangerous.

At this point, there was only one apparently batshit crazy Australian couple carrying folks on the 14-hour overnight trip, and they were booked up for weeks. Unfortunately, I only learned this when I got to Nicosia.

Here I was, about to miss the boat - literally - to my first big foreign story. It wasn’t going to happen. I had come too far for that. If you want to seriously mess with journalists, just find a place they don’t really want to go, and then tell them they can’t go there. I believe it’s called reverse psychology.

I went down to Larnaca’s docks and quickly found the only vessel still making the trip, a converted luxury yacht called the Sea Victory. I also found the lunatic couple who owned it, Nick and Annabelle Head. I’m not making those names up.

Nick was rugged, tanned and lanky. Annabelle was saucy, plucky and self-assured. I gathered she didn’t own a bra.

After a brief chat, Nick gave me the bad news. He was seriously restricted in the number of passengers the Cypriot authorities would allow him to carry per trip, and it would be weeks until he had an opening.

I thanked him, turned around and slowly began the walk of shame back to my taxi. Nick called out to me.

“Hey, come back, mate!” Nick looked very peeved. “I’m getting seriously fed up with just filling the Sea Victory with nuns and money-grubbing French businessmen. Let me ask you. Have you ever been on a boat?”

“Sure, I’ve done a lot of sailing.”

He handed me a line and ordered me to tie a bowline knot. I did it before he finished asking. I could tie a bowline even if I were drunk. In fact, I’m sureI have.

“Okay, mate, the Cypriots can tell me how many passengers I can take, but my crew is my own business. If you show up at 10 p.m. and stand over there in the crew area, you can come. Once we’re at sea, you’re a passenger, and you pay me the $300 fare.”

Suddenly, I was beyond thrilled to be heading for Beirut. I went back to Nicosia, checked out of my hotel, and showed up an hour early. Nick was as good as his word. I stood with the crew, trying to look as swarthy as I could. I yam what I yam.

A Cypriot official looked us over and carefully counted the passengers. When he left, Nick let us board the yacht, and I scrambled up to the top deck, to get as far away from official  scrutiny as I could.

Shortly after 10 p.m. we shoved off, and within a few minutes Cyprus was only a memory. It was just me and a Mediterranean sky festooned with a billion bright stars. You didn’t get a view like this one in Manhattan. This was going to be great.

The Sea Victory was full of surprises. About midnight, someone shouted up that dinner was ready. I figured it probably wouldn’t be worth climbing down to the main deck, but what I found was a dazzling warm buffet. Prime rib, pasta salads, chocolate mousse. Beer and wine. All you could eat.

In the bar, passengers were watching a pirated video of “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” which had only recently been released in theaters. Slumber came easily in the cool Mediterranean night – soft blankets wherever we could find some empty deck space.

We awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee, a full breakfast buffet, and a hazy view of the approaching Lebanese coast. As we got closer, Nick and Annabelle said they were relieved that nobody was shooting rocket-propelled grenades at us today. I had to agree with them on that one.

It was a $100 taxi ride from Jouniah to Beirut. I would soon learn that pretty much everything in Lebanon costed out in even $100 bills, so that was all I really needed to carry.

The taxi dropped me off precisely at the entrance of the Hotel Alexandre Achrafieh, in East Beirut, and my jaw sagged. There had been a car bombing targeting the hotel. Much of the window glass was missing and in the windows that still did have glass, the curtains had been blown off. Newspapers were taped there to help block the searing August sun. The hotel’s elevator hadn’t worked since the blast. At least the air-conditioning wasn’t harmed, because, you know, there wasn’t any to begin with.

Welcome to Beirut, Bob.

I have remembered snippets and snapshots of my few weeks in that pitiful city all my life, but none so vividly as the story of how hard it was just to show up for the party. You know what they say about travel. Getting there is half the fun.