Lebanese election spending was regulated under a law passed last year. In Tripoli, nobody appears to have noticed, Lucy Fielder reports Abdullah has just a few days to decide who to work for in the coming general elections: majority leader Saad Al-Hariri or opposition leader former Prime Minister Omar Karami. He supports the former, but that is irrelevant. It is all down to who pays the most. As a coffee shop owner in one of Tripoli's most deprived areas, he says he is offered up to $2,000 to hang posters and influence customers. "Then, a few weeks later, the other side pays me to take those down and put up their posters," he says in his flat, where he has agreed to speak anonymously about the dirty business of Lebanese elections. So far, he says, he has pocketed about $4,000 ahead of the 7 June poll. Clustered on a hill rising steeply from the Abu Ali River, the poor districts of Tripoli form a gallery for the battling billionaires. Thousands of posters of the zaims, or strongman leaders, cover balconies, roofs and walls; some are four storeys high. Inside the winding streets of Bab Al-Tabbaneh, one of Lebanon's most deprived areas where few state services reach, it is easy to see, amid the rotting piles of rubbish, why residents will accept $100 to hang a poster. "I call it the photography studio," says a woman who has allowed me onto her apartment block roof to take in the view. The ancient, feudal practice of clientelism is alive and well in all of Lebanon, nurtured by the sectarian system. But it is most stark amongst such poverty. Abdullah's coffee shop has become an "office", an informal centre for distributing services and free coffee and swaying voters with cash. About 10-15 youths work for him. "We work with the members of parliament," he says. "They pay us and we help them buy votes. This year, the price of a vote has reached $500." And that's just an individual vote. More commonly -- Tripolitans and observers say -- votes are bought in blocs. Nasir Warwar, a trader in Bab Al-Tebbaneh's vegetable market, says he supports Karami, and as a senior member of a fairly large family holds sway over about 100 votes. "Yesterday, another zaim 's people came to me and offered me $5,000 to switch sides and bring my votes with me," he says, in his flat in Tripoli. "But I won't sell my vote." Vote buyers say they expect the real work to start mid- afternoon on 7 June, about three hours before poll-stations close. That's when many of the undecided can be persuaded to auction their ballot to the highest bidder. "They pay more for the last voters," Abdullah says. Last year's election law, a cobbled-together compromise that was part of a deal hatched in Doha to end 18 months of violence, attempted to curb campaign spending, and with it corruption. But it encouraged voting along sectarian lines by creating small electoral districts, thereby increasing the likelihood that people vote mainly for seats reserved for their sect, given that co-religionists tend to live in clusters or dominate whole regions. Observers say it thereby fuelled clientelism and corruption, and undermined platform-based politics. And along with the difficulty of enforcing spending limits in lawless Lebanon, there were several loopholes. "The main loophole is bank secrecy," explains Ammar Abboud, policy advisor to the Lebanese Association for Democratic Elections, a Beirut-based non-government organisation. "A candidate now has to open an account that can be monitored, but his private accounts remain private." And campaigners lost the battle to push through another simple but crucial reform, the pre-printed ballot paper. Parties, zaims and the vote-buying mafia remain able to print, or even hand-write, their own ballots on any piece of white paper. So a "key voter", someone who can bring a bloc of votes with them, such as a community leader or family head, will be given a ballot printed with a particular font, say, or with the names in a particular order. "During vote-counting, the campaign machines of each candidate not only count votes, but also the different templates they distributed," Abboud says. "So they can track how everyone has voted and pay the exact sum. If there was a pre-printed ballot, those who want to buy votes would have to do so without having any guarantee that those they paid did actually vote for them." As is, if a vote-buyer like Abdullah is paid up front but fails to deliver the agreed votes to the right leader, he can be found out. Clientelism in Lebanon is not always in the form of outright vote buying. This year's vogue among political parties is buying plane tickets to bring expatriate Lebanese home, on condition of casting a favourable ballot. Most voters are swayed more subtly, through the provision of services where the state falls short. Mahmoud Al-Aswad runs another electoral "office" in Bab Al-Tebbaneh. Counting prayer beads, he describes how he works with deputies to "help" the people. "If there's an MP we trust, who we think will work with us throughout his four-year term, we cooperate with him on the basis of offering people services," he says. He explains that usually people bring hospital bills and he stumps up most of the sum on the politician's behalf. Local residents often save their requests, where possible, for election time, knowing they are much more likely to be answered. Above him, Najib Mikati smiles from a gilt frame. He is one of the richest of the city's leaders and widely seen as the most popular and influential zaim among Tripolitans, above even Al-Hariri. Many expect Mikati to be Lebanon's next prime minister if the opposition coalition led by Hizbullah wins the elections, which are expected to be close. Clientelism is common practice both among opposition forces and those who hold the current parliamentary majority, the pro-Western "14 March" movement. Al-Aswad refers to this arrangement as being "like a charity". But he is under no illusions concerning the city's strongmen. "We're the poor, the downtrodden, and we're just numbers in the elections," he says. "People don't want help, they want jobs, health services, education." But for politicians who profit from providing "charity" to the poor in the run up to the elections, there is little incentive to reform the system and improve people's lot. "Don't forget it's the politicians who corrupted the people, not the other way round," Al-Aswad says. "They've got us all used to running around chasing $100 bills."
