Documentary : Life in a Time of Chaos: Past the Bullets in Beirut : In a city often crippled by violence, the beach clubs flourish and the golf course is green and groomed. The evidence of the Lebanese as survivors is everywhere.

“Mitterrand or Bush?” a Syrian intelligence officer asked the blonde woman waiting to cross the so-called Green Line that divides war-torn Beirut.

French or American? The question implied that anything else would be unacceptable.

“Bush,” the woman replied, producing a smile, a salute and no further questions.

But the next person in line, a Lebanese, was asked for his papers. There was no smile, no salute. His papers were carefully scrutinized.

Being an American may be helpful in getting past checkpoints manned by the Syrian military, but given the six American hostages still held by one faction or another, Lebanese friends think that an American who stays on here must have a death wish.

“Dye your hair,” they urge. “Never let on that you’re a journalist.”

True, Beirut is chaotic. After more than a decade of civil war, and despite the presence of Syrian troops who were brought in to keep the peace, there is still an occasional gunfight in the street, a car bomb, an exchange of artillery fire.

People go about their lives as best they can. Every morning, as early as 5:30, joggers and walkers appear on West Beirut’s seaside corniche, among them Khalil Dayya, a security expert trained in Canada, and Father Germanos el Hage, a Greek Orthodox priest.

Most are gone by 7 o’clock. This gives them time to stop at the baker’s on the way home. And the men with children have to escort them to school.

About this time the hanging baskets begin to appear. This is an old practice here, and it was widely adopted in January, when the city’s main electric power grid was knocked out by artillery fire.

Apartment-house dwellers tie a wicker basket to a length of laundry line and dangle it from the balcony. Seven-story drops are common. The practiced resident can place the basket at just the right height for the men who deliver newspapers and groceries.

An Italian restaurant, the Moreno, has recently taken to making deliveries in this manner.

Reuters, the British news agency, is using the basket. Reuters’ building has its own electric power generators, but they won’t run the elevator up to the agency’s fifth-floor offices. So the basket brings up sandwiches and fruit from shops nearby, along with an occasional statement from one of the gangs that hold the hostages. A long buzz on the battery-operated signal downstairs means lower the basket.

Resourceful Lebanese have worked out more up-to-date communications systems. When the power went out in January, the government telephone service went with it. So opportunists arranged to have international lines brought in from Cyprus. In addition to telephone service, they offer telex and facsimile, or fax.

With their help, you can reach out and touch someone in the United States for $4 a minute; $3 to Europe. Their offices open early and close late.

One of the first to provide this service was Patrick Smith, a Lebanese/British businessman and proprietor of Smith’s supermarket, where West Beirut’s 50 American residents stop regularly each Saturday to shop and socialize.

Some supermarkets have installed diesel-powered generators, and they offer their neighbors electricity for 10 hours a day for about $75 a month.

The stores’ shelves are not always full, but you can usually find adequate supplies of breakfast cereal--Kellogg’s, Post and General Mills--Whiskas cat food, Paul Masson wines, frozen shrimp from the Persian Gulf and Danish bacon.

You read and hear a great deal about the down-and-out Lebanese, but evidence of the Lebanese as survivor par excellence is everywhere in West Beirut. Beach clubs flourish; the private, 18-hole golf course is green and groomed.

The latest Paris fashions are available at Kookai, which has branches on both sides of the city. The other day, Vivien Bayoud, a fashion-conscious, single businesswoman, was joking about the importance of wearing epaulets, as shoulder pads are called here. A friend had commented that they are too hot in summer, and Bayoud countered: “But we must look good for all those men from East Beirut.”

Some women, Bayoud apparently among them, have found a silver lining in the plight of East Beirut Christians who have sought safety in the western sector.

Along Hamra Street you see women in epaulets picking their way among vendors and beggars en route to shops with names like Transparent Lingerie, Caviar, Groovy.

A lottery-ticket vendor will bellow out over the roar of generators, “If you buy my tickets you will win 25 million Lebanese pounds ($38,000).” But this is qualified with a barely audible “ inshallah “--if God wills it.

Pedestrian traffic bunches up at sidewalk displays, perhaps a bargain in Cartier watches at $6. Jeans, perfume, fresh fish--all are available from hatchback vehicles parked along the way.

To cross the street, it is best to wait in the shade for a break in the traffic. But not long ago a Syrian soldier carrying a rifle stepped out without even looking, certain that his uniform would get him safely to the other side.

There was a squeal of tires, and a car grazed him. The car stood stock-still, as did the people around. No one would have changed places with the driver for all the lottery tickets in Lebanon.

The soldier peered in, saw a woman at the wheel, and delivered a heavy-booted kick that bent back the license plate. The driver had been saved by her gender.

Stories like this are told and retold at cocktail parties. A good story is as welcome as a bottle of gin. But not as welcome as a bag of ice cubes. Many people have installed generators, but few have the capacity to keep a refrigerator going.

Then there’s the water problem. The pumping station went out with the power. You can buy ice cubes at supermarkets, but the purity is questionable.

An alternative water system was completed in March, and the water supply is fairly regular now, but the pressure doesn’t get it above the ground floor.

Still, if there is a problem in Beirut there is generally someone with a solution. For $10 an hour, a man with a pump will get water to the rooftop reservoir that is a fixture on most Beirut buildings.

The movie houses have generators, too, and the marquees are advertising “Lambada--the Forbidden Dance,” “Revenge of Samson,” “Raw Deal” and “Family Business.”

But the recently completed World Cup soccer tournament was the best show in town. When there was a game, the streets of Beirut were all but empty. People crowded around any convenient television set.

At times, even a journalist is safe. Armed men at a checkpoint asked the blonde woman why she was carrying two bags. They could see cameras in one, notebooks and folders in the other.

“Where are you from?” they demanded to know. “What do you do?”

Was this the time to take the friends’ advice and lie? Impulsively, the truth popped out.

They grinned and posed for a picture.

“ Allah maa’ik ,” they chorused. God be with you.