Fish in Yamouneh

He dug the fishnet into the pool and pulled out four.  We told him that three fish would do, so Hussein, his nine-year-old son, tried to return one to the pool.  It was stubborn, sliding out of his hands and flapping its tail in the dirt, but he pulled a head grab and victoriously tossed it back into the fresh water spring.

Mia, the psychologist who works with children in the post-July war South, told us that a fresh water mountain spring feeds Yamouneh.  On the road from Beirut, we passed goat herds and climbed above and over crumbly, rocky mountains--some of them still with birthmarks of snow.  Accented with yellow Hizbullah banners, the Bekaa valley lies like a basin, nestled between parallel mountain ranges in the Northeast.

Ammo shook our hands--ahlen wa sehlen--and quickly served us araq.  Out back, it's like a lagoon: there are ten or so long tables clustered around a fountain pool surrounded by trees.  We sat on the long table with the yellow cushioned chairs, but he told us to move next to the spring source so that we could listen to the water.  All the while, the wind was swishing through the leaves.

I've never tasted better fish.  We ate it with our hands, stripping the meat from the bones and wrapping it up with two french fries in some Arabic bread.  Dip it in tartar and enjoy.

Hussein was reserved and intensely absorbant.  The second our carafe of water became lukewarm, he'd empty it into the pool, rinse it out, and refill it with cool mountain water from the spout.  He brought out the food on a tray that was about as tall as he was and wiped the table after dinner.

His mother Miriam came out in pink plaid with a Gauloise in hand.  She was elegance and warmth incarnate.  She sat down next to us, and we poured her a cup of water.  Her husband, Ammo, joined us too.  His fingers were cycling through a necklace of beads.

We're lucky nothing happens to us out here, they said.  No civil war, no July war, no bombings, no traffic, just clean air and healthy fish from our farm.  Though, we finally have cellphone reception now.

We drove back through Zahle and Chtoura, and I saw the bridge that the Israelis blasted last summer.  Like a chainsaw cutting through a limb.