Middle East - Anthony Ham [13]
Amelia Thomas
Waxing Lyrical in Deir al-Qamar
Waxworks have never really been my cup of tea, so it seemed unfortunate that one of Lebanon’s favourite national pastimes appeared to be traipsing around musty halls filled with the slightly skewed features of long-dead politicians, national heroes, and the odd tragic British princess or George Bush Sr. Everywhere I went in Lebanon, there was yet another waxworks – big, small, or downright bizarre – just waiting for me to step intrepidly inside, and Deir al-Qamar was no different.
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Lebanon’s contradictory nature – a place overshadowed by the threat of extreme violence, but offering relentlessly warm hospitality – is captured in all its tragic humanity in Robert Fisk’s Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War, though unlike my morning in the mountains, he was often dodging real bullets.
* * *
We arrived back in the small, picturesque town – Lebanon’s prettiest – after a long day trekking the trails of the vast Chouf Cedar Reserve. The late afternoon light was fading from pink to russet and bats were emerging from the eaves of ancient buildings surrounding the town square. The small grocery stores were closing their doors for the night, the café on the square was full of locals and tourists winding down over ice-cold beers, and yet, to my chagrin, the waxworks was still open, with reception lights blazing.
‘Come in, come in!’ the ticket clerk cried, as I peered reluctantly into the lobby.
‘I wouldn’t want to bother you if you’re about to…’
‘Nonsense! Our guide is honoured to show you our collection.’ On cue, an ancient, near-deaf man in a dirty baseball cap stepped grinning eagerly from the shadows, ‘Come in!’
I took a deep breath, assumed my most fascinated expression and put my best foot forward.
‘Jumblatt…Jumblatt Junior…Senior…Senior’s Father…Headless Jumblatt!’ the old guide barked, in English and then in French, as he frogmarched us into our third long gallery, this one filled with weird wax renditions of the powerful Druze chieftain clan.
‘Why is he headless?’ I ventured.
‘Quoi?’ he yelled, cupping a hand to his ears and continued on regardless.
A full and excruciating 30 minutes later, the tour concluded with a final quick-fire bilingual round of 20 obscure historical figures and one hoarse old tour guide. We applauded with relief as he came to the end of his spiel. He bowed proudly.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he confided, leaning forward, ‘it has been a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates beauty.’
‘Well, I…’ I began.
‘So much so,’ he seemed not to hear me, ‘that there’s a little something extra you might be interested to see.’
My heart sank. Visions of a hidden Albert Hall of wax dummies filled my mind.
‘Allons-y,’ he shuffled off, ‘follow, please.’
Outside, night had closed in and bright strings of fairy lights illuminated the town square. I looked over with envy at the terrace café, where crowds sat listening to a local musician. The old man beckoned, producing a fistful of keys and fumbling with the lock in a heavy wooden door. I sighed and followed.
Up on the roof of the once-grand, abandoned summer palace, the view of the town was something from a dream. Low clouds rolled gently across the rooftops, mingling with woodsmoke from crooked chimneys. The lights on the square below twinkled. An owl hooted and swept by in a feathery hush. I surveyed the fairytale rooftop scene, reflected a thousand times in the broken window panes of the once-grand hall of the summer palace. This was well worth 30 minutes of morose, melting mannequins.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered to myself.
‘Oui, mademoiselle,’ the old man’s hearing was suddenly sharp as a shard of broken window, ‘almost as beautiful as the waxworks.’
Amelia Thomas