Note: The south of Lebanon is the most politically unstable region in the country, and the main theatre of conflict with Israel. Tourists need a permit to enter, but no one offered or asked one from us. Maybe it’s because we could pass for Lebanese. Maybe we were just lucky. Anyone thinking of going should check with the authorities: policemen, soldiers, or tourism workers.

.

.

The gentleman at the sweet shop in Tyre helped us negotiate a good price for a taxi to Bint Jbeil. This is pure Lebanon: buy some sweets, befriend the owner over tea and you have a local fixer for life.

The road was smooth, but with more military checkpoints than usual. We were told to expect soldiers to inquire as to the purpose of our visit. We were to ask them for a visit permit. We were just waved through every time.

It’s common in Lebanon to see flags and posters with political party logos on each street, marking their territory like gang tags. But the further south you go, the more martial the posters get: young men with keffiyeh around their necks and rifles in their hands. The unmistakable bearded glower of Hassan Nasrallah.

After a certain point, the red-and-white markings of the Lebanese army were nowhere to be seen. Only green and yellow. We were in Hezbollah territory.

All around us were grassy hills flecked with white rocks. Some had traditional stone houses. It all looked very biblical. Our taxi had some engine trouble and the driver got out to check under the hood. I stepped out to take some pictures and the driver discreetly told me to stop.

This was the last picture I was able to take for two hours:

Bint Jbeil

The only sign that this town was flattened by Israel in 2006 is the frantic pace of construction. The main commercial street – just a dozen shops on each side, really – has brand new arabesque arches, giving it a neo-souk look. Everywhere you see large, impressive homes going up.

Instead of statues and monuments, parks and roundabouts had decommissioned pieces of heavy artillery, like anti-aircraft guns and clusters of Katyusha rockets.

We walked past the shops and toward a stone mosque. An old Ford with two young men stopped in front of us. The driver, who spoke respectable French, asked what we were doing there.

“Just going for a walk,” I said, introducing myself. “Is that ok?”

“Do you have a permit to be here?”

“No, no one asked us and no one offered one. But we have all our documents.” I showed him my passport.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” he answered. “But other people higher up are responsible for this. Do you have a camera?”

“Yes, but I’m not taking any pictures.”

He paused to think. “Don’t go any further,” he said. “Please turn around.”

We did as he said and stopped for a coffee on the main street. This is where interesting things happened.

“Welcome to Lebanon,” a gentleman in his fifties beamed when he saw us come in. He runs a shoe and bag shop two doors down when he is in town. The rest of the time he lives and works near Detroit, where he owns a gas station, and where his wife and three children live.

“I love American people,” he offered without any prompting. “They are so wonderful. I don’t care what anybody says.”

We sat outside the shop with him, the coffee shop owner, and his sister-in-law. Family members and friends would stop by, exchange a kind word, and leave.

“Do you like Lebanese women,” he asked me. “I love them. They are so clean. This is most important for us. First, they must be clean. Then beautiful.”

Like the gentleman in Tyre, he helped us negotiate a fair price for a taxi to Maroun el-Ras, Aytarun, and back. We agreed to 20,000 LBP, roughly $13.

Maroun el-Ras

This town that overlooks the Israeli border from a hilltop is just five km away from Bint Jbeil, but up on a steep climb. The street leading toward it is lined with Iranian flags.

A destroyed Israeli tank watched over Bint Jbeil. A tattered Hezbollah flag lazily waves from it. Not far from it a blocky stone statue has one foot over a green helmet with a star of David.

We arrive at the town’s brand new family park. The gate was decorated with Iranian symbols, and large posters of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei and president Mahmoud Ahmedinejad are clearly visible from the outside.

It looked like the entrance to a theme park: manicured shrubs lined cobblestone walkways. There were several thatched-rood shelters with picnic tables and barbecue pits. Wind turbines and solar panels were everywhere. A small mosque, finished on the outside, was still rough on the inside.

It was a chilly, windy winter day, so the park was empty save for two young Lebanese men who live and work in West Africa, there on holiday. They warmly greeted us.

“So Iran helped build this place,” I asked one.

“No,” he smiled. “Iran built all of it.”

He said that families from all over south Lebanon come here on summer weekends. The park is still wrapping up contraction on a hotel, a swimming pool, and a paintball arena.

He led us to the edge of the park, where the hill drops sharply. “There’s our neighbour,” he said and pointed to the horizon. We could clearly see the fenced border and the Israeli town of Avivim. There were a lot more trees on the other side.

“Aren’t the people here afraid of being this close to Israel,” I asked him. He smiled. “We in the south aren’t afraid of anything.”

.

Aytarun and Aynata

Our taxi driver drove us around Aytarun, another border town with nothing remarkable about it. “Aytarun, nothing,” he said in his barely functional English.

Without us asking, he drove to nearby Aynata, where a memorial to fallen Hezbollah fighters stands:

Inside were several stones with Arabic engraving and the Hezbollah logo. Several of them had wreaths, photos of the soldiers, and leather-bound copies of the Koran. I ran outside to take a wide-angle shot of the monument and was intercepted by a Ford SUV driven by a beefy man with a leather jacket, sunglasses, and a Bluetooth earpiece. “Salaam aleykum,” he said flatly.

“Aleykum salaam,” I responded. “Ana min Brazil. Turisti. Afwan, ma behki arabi.” I’m from Brazil. A tourist. Sorry, I don’t speak Arabic.

He grinned. “Do you know what this is,” he asked in serviceable English. “It’s a monument for our martyrs.” He stepped out of the car, even though it was stopped in the middle of the street. “Come, I show you.” His passenger, a well-dressed woman with a hijab, followed him smiling politely. He led us back inside.

“These are for populi,” he said, pointing to the stones on the left side. “Mothers, bothers, and wives.” I assumed he meant civilians. “And these for the martyrs. Every stone is for 14 men.” Fifteen fighters from this town died is 2006, he told us.

“You are welcome here,” he said. “You can take photos here. But outside, no photos.” I nodded.

The graveyard

The taxi driver made one last stop before taking us back to Bint Jbeil. It was a graveyard. It was clear from the flags and photos it was made for Hezbollah fighters. He led us now a row of tombstones with little glass-enclosed shrines. He stopped at the second-to-last stone and pointed to a large photograph of a mature man clutching an AK-47. “My father,” he said.

The cost of visiting the Lebanese south as a day trip from Beirut:
(for two people. $1 = 1,500 Lebanese pounds)

Shared taxi from Beirut to Tyre: 15,000 LBP
Taxi from Tyre to Bint Jbeil: 12,000 LBP
Taxi to Maroun el Ras, Aytarun, and back : 20,000 LBP
Taxi from Bint Jbeil to Tyre: 25,000 LBP
Microbus from Tyre to Beirut: 10,000 LBP

.

He should suffer for warping my expectations in such an inhumane way.

This is what you get for $5 in the town of Kottayam, Kerala state.

The bed:
A colony of mildew is positioned to jump on your head in your sleep and take over your brain. The pillow case comes pre-soiled with one (1) pubic hair.

The sink

The bathroom
A 20-watt lightbulb provides mood lighting, casting a honeyed glow on the tile grime.

The spiders are complimentary.

Cairns isn’t just for the Great Barrier Reef. Just tow hours north is a rainforest with deadly crocodiles, virginal beaches, refreshing creeks and at least one bat.

We went up PNG’s second-highest mountain expecting a straightforward camping trip. What we found was the most challenging and rewarding bush walk of our lives.

In New Zealand, the MojoTrotters braved the world’s third-highest bungy jump so you don’t have to. Watch what it was like in this video.

Want to know more? Read about the experience here.

The A.J. Hackett Nevis Highwire Bungy Jump: 134 meters
Cost: $250 NZD (convert this)
Difficulty: must love fearing for your life

When the technician clips the bungy cord on your feet, you vaguely start to realize what you got yourself into.

We had just watched six other people do the jump, billed as the third highest in the world. As thousands have done in the past, they jump, the cord stretches, they bounce. When they’re reeled back to the platform, they look stunned and thrilled, probably wondering what to call the neurochemical sucker punch they just took.

No big deal, you think. I can do this. And you were thinking this when you forked over an absurd $250 for the jump, when you boarded the 40-minute bus to the Nevis site, and when you stepped on the cable car that carries six people to the platform, a metallic cabin dangling over a crevice by steel cables.

You’re all harnessed and buckled. The technician sits you on a reclining chair that looks like it was made for dental torture and clips on the right bungy cord for your weight.

“This is the release cord,” he says, and tucks a red strap into the padded harness around your ankles. “When you finish bouncing, pull on this. It’ll release your feet and you’ll be held by your chest harness.”

That way, you can be reeled back up while sitting upright rather than staring at the rocks that were coming at you 50 meters per second.

Bianca waits her turn as a jumper is reeled back in.

He helps you to your feet and points you to the jump ledge. You see the river below, so dry it’s a trickle. You see the tiny pebbles and presume them huge boulders. There’s nothing between you and the hard, sharp ground.

That’s when you realize exactly what you got yourself into.

“I … I can’t,” I muttered. The numerous safe jumps you witnessed up close meant nothing. They no longer factor in. Self-preservation overrides any higher faculty of reasoning.

Which is exactly why the technician stands right behind you, giving you no choice but forward.

“Oh Jesus,” I said with each step forward, invoking my saviour, like any half-assed Catholic, only when I’m completely fucked. “Oh Jesus.”

“Come on, buddy, you can do it,” the technician said with practiced calm.

My toes were past the edge of the ledge. The technician counted: 3! 2! 1!

Every jumper before me jumped on 1. Every time. No one wavered, and this obedience baffled me. Until, that is, it was my turn.

In seduction theory, there’s something called the three second rule: when you see a woman that interests you, you should approach her within a count of three. Any longer and self-doubt will take command. You’ll start imagining everything that could go wrong, defense mechanisms invoke excuses to back away.

Standing on that ledge, looking down on that lifeless abyss, feeling raw ice in my throat, my thoughts stacked up like pancakes over a small opening, too narrow to go through. There’s nothing that will give you any comfort, any encouragement. You don’t have the luxury to think the fear away. And so you grasp on to the numbers coming from the technician’s mouth, the familiarity of a countdown your only lifeline to something resembling faith.

You jump on 1.

At first, there’s complete silence. Even your scream feels muffled, like it never leaves your lips. A black hole suddenly forms inside your chest and you don’t know if it’s the speed or the sight of the ground racing towards you. You flap your arms as if that will give you any stability, or, at best, slow the fall.

To some people the free fall lasts longer than the advertised 8.3 seconds. To me, it was far less than that. By the time I felt the tug around my ankles and the rocks below reversed direction, not a second had gone by.

I pulled on the release cord but it wouldn’t release. I tried six times. The rope that comes down, hooks on to the bungy tip and reels you back up was fast approaching. You’re supposed to be upright by the time it arrives. It clasped and I began to ascend upside-down.

I began to panic about this, too. But, just as I had disobeyed by most primal instinct when I jumped, here, too, I saw the opportunity to rebel. I dropped by arms, relaxed my abs, and let the machine do its job.

Like in the jump, I had to let the panic speak before shoving it aside and taking the leap. Like every important decision I ever took, I had to entertain every doomsday scenario to finally plunge into the blue emptiness.

I was gently lowered back into the dangling cabin and the technician asked, “How was it?” I wonder if he actually knows, or cares to know. How could I explain this to him? Every jump and every reaction is an assembly line piece, perhaps different in size or colour, but essentially the same.

These guys, they are pros. These guys are bungy technicians.

To these guys, I was just scared.