Ghazi al-Ali is Lebanese, but his 15 children go to school in Syria. His mobile phone is Syrian. He buys food and fuel from Syria. He has a Syrian wife and a photo of the Syrian president in his house.
Damascus may have pulled its troops out of Lebanon a year ago amid world pressure after the murder of former prime minister Rafik al-Hariri, but ties between Syria and Wadi Khaled, on Lebanon's remote northern border, long predated their arrival in 1976 and remain strong.
"In this area, we live off Syria. We eat Syrian bread. This is a tribal area and family ties unite people on both sides of the border," said Ali, who worked in Syria for 13 years and is a member of its ruling Baath Party.
"This area was deprived. There were no schools and that's why people started sending their children to Syria to study. The reason now is that schools in Syria are free and books are free. Not everyone can afford to send their children to schools here."
Separated from socialist Syria by the Kabir river, which dwindles to a trickle in the summer, Wadi Khaled, a valley of around 18 villages, has long been overlooked by the state.
Its people are originally Bedouins who travelled around the region before the creation of Lebanon and Syria as separate states in 1920. They eventually settled in this verdant Akkar valley but were only granted Lebanese citizenship in 1994.
A year after Syria ended its 29-year military presence in Lebanon, roads here are rutted and there is no running water.
Lebanese goods are too pricey for poor families, driving many to look to Syria, where many industries are subsidised. Locals often quote prices in Syrian pounds and their pockets are as likely to contain Syrian notes as Lebanese.
Inhabitants of northern Lebanon complain that the promises made during the last elections by Saad al-Hariri's anti-Syrian bloc have so far proven empty.
"It is far from Beirut and Tripoli is not thriving. It was semi-feudal until the 1970s and the state had hardly done anything there in terms of water, roads, power."
At the far end of the Lebanese village of Arida is a short bridge that links it to Syria but is now cut off by a wall.
A couple swing around the wall, which is not an official customs point, and pass their baby through a small hole.
A man carrying a box of goods swings himself around the precarious ledge in full view of Syrian plainclothed security officials. Ali's daughters said they went to school that way.
It has become harder to make the trip since the Syrians left. Syrian troops patrol on the other side and while they may let people through, the fact that they could stop them acts as a deterrent for some locals.
With no Lebanese security forces in sight, it is no surprise some have raised concern that the Sunni Muslim area may become a gateway for Islamic militants running guns or fighters.
Far closer to the Syrian city of Homs than the nearest Lebanese city, Tripoli, locals have long traversed the border.
In a place with some of the highest illiteracy and unemployment rates in the country, smuggling is major earner: some say the villas that stand out among the oil-stained workshops were built by people who got rich off Syria.
"We live off smuggling here," said one young man outside a shop selling smuggled diesel in large barrels fitted with taps.
"If people didn't smuggle here they would freeze to death in the winter, and with the Syrians stopping crossings from time to time now, it strangles us," he said, declining to give his name.
For many in this town - where men often have two or three wives and a dozen children - Syria offers a cheaper lifestyle.
"Our bread, oil, juice, gas, diesel all come from Syria. To clothe our family with Lebanese clothes would cost $1,000. If you buy Syrian it costs $100," said Maliha Bakkour, one of two women married to a restaurant-owner in Wadi Khaled.
"We have 11 children in our household. If we had to feed them Lebanese bread they would starve."
A clinic that began to operate fully in 2003 with funds from USAID and others had trouble attracting patients before the Syrians left, as locals went to doctors over the border.
"They used to rely on Syria for 90 percent of their medical care. Pregnant women used to cross the river on foot to get to a clinic in Syria if they were having complications because it was cheaper," said Alaa Dinnawi, co-ordinator of the public clinic, which is run by Al-Makassed Islamic charity.
"That ratio has probably fallen by about half since the Syrian withdrawal because people think twice about making such a trip now and we are offering free delivery and vaccinations."
Cross-border marriages can complicate matters.
Ahmed al-Sheikh is Syrian, but his wife is Lebanese and they live in Wadi Khaled. When she went into labour, a nearby hospital refused to deliver the child, because the father is Syrian, so he took his wife to Homs.
As he headed off, Lebanese trucks trundled towards an illegal crossing, laden with what locals say is cement.
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