The main thoroughfare into Beirut's southern suburbs is Hadi Nasrallah Avenue, named after the eldest son of Hizbullah secretary general Hassan Nasrallah. The youth was slain in the 1990s fighting Israel in the south; his brother survived at the front in the four-week war which Israel believed would be a three-day operation.
Beirutis of all sects and stations are driving the length of this road from Shiyyah through Bir Abed to Haret Hreik, the quarter designated the "Dahiyeh", or the neighbourhood. They perform the horror tour in rattletrap cars, shiny Mercedes and BMWs, in buses and lorries and on motorbikes.
At the edge of the road is rubbish, rubble and shattered glass. Dust hangs in the heavy, warm air suffused with the acrid smell of burning. There is moderate damage in Shiyyah - the Israelis brought down only a few blocks of flats here.
At the border of Bir Abed, two men are clearing large pieces of broken glass from the balcony on the third floor of a building blasted when a bomb brought down a block further along the street.
Blasts leave curious patterns on built-up areas. Sometimes all the windows around a bomb site are gone, sometimes none.
At the two-storey shop called Big Sale, plate glass continues to protect the mannequins, while a few buildings along the way householders were slain and injured by flying shards of glass.
Three women in headscarves and kaftans ask for a lift to the turning to the airport highway. They are returning to their refuge in the mountains after inspecting their flat.
"Half our house is gone, half is okay," shrugged the eldest, who refused to give her name or to say where they are going. They are suspicious of strangers and soon get out of the taxi.
There are few vehicles piled with the bedding and household goods of returnees. Most of the inhabitants of the Dahiyeh want to see what has happened to their homes before they return.
Unlike villagers, they cannot camp out on top of the rubble, as did the people of Jenin when Israel destroyed part of the town in 2002.
Hizbullah is promising to pay rent for a year until apartment blocks and houses can be rebuilt. Aid agencies estimate that 15,000 houses have been destroyed and 100,000 of the 900,000 displaced made homeless.
Cars and motorcycles flying Hizbullah flags swing round the ruined bridge at the junction of Hadi Nasrallah Boulevard and the airport road, the heart of the Dahiyeh. One square kilometre of buildings has been pancaked, smashed and reduced to rubble here.
Workers digging out the dead wear masks over nose and mouth. A crane is lifting large chunks of concrete from the block bombed by Israel on the afternoon before the ceasefire took effect. Six families made the mistake of going home too early.
The apartment block where 50 lived and died is a heap of concrete beams and rubble wrapped in yellow police tape bearing the words in English: "The Divine Victim Restricted Area No Trespassing."
Ruins here, in the south, in Baalbek, and along the frontier are littered with unexploded munitions, breached cooking gas cannisters, dangerous chemicals. People ignore the tape to climb onto piles of rubble and take photos or search for belongings in collapsed buildings.
As we turn around, a young woman enveloped in black asks for a ride. Fatmeh has been here throughout the bombing.
"My house is okay," she says, "but nine of my friends died." She points to a tall, pink building where the top storeys were crumbled by a huge bomb.
Kamal Abbas is sweeping up window glass at Organza, a shop selling lengths of cloth. He and his family have also stayed. "I will start work again in a few days." Fadi Brahim, a baker, is cleaning his ovens to bake bread. "I have everything I need - flour, fuel for the generator. All the people are coming back. They must have bread."
A sign on the side of the road reads: "Merci Pour Votre Visite - Haret Hreik". There is no government presence here or in most of the villages in the south, where local councils are spearheading the relief effort. Not even in towns which Israel has flattened like Bint Jbeil, where 7,000 people are homeless.
Although Israel and the US speak of eradicating Hizbullah's "state within a state", this will not happen until Beirut gets its act together and provides the services Hizbullah and the non-governmental organisations of civil society offer.
The Milhem family is fixing a flat tyre on the road to Sidon as car after car whizzes past. We stop and lend a hand. They have been staying at a school in Ashrafiyeh. "Five families decided to to Majdal Slim, so we are also going home. We've had no news from the village," says Aliya. "We want to go today. We can't wait any longer."
I ask if they are related to Hussein Milhem from Tibnin, the base of the Irish contingent when it served with the UN force. I met him at another school. "He's our cousin."
Hussein, his parents, and seven brothers are also on the road. Hussein hopes their house is standing and his computer and schoolbooks are safe. "Without them I have no future because I cannot study."
Looters have been at work in the south - Israelis and others.
Janet Symes of Christian Aid is disappointed because the ceasefire came so late. She warns that some returnees will need to go to "reception centres, schools and mosques" until shelter can be arranged while reconstruction of their homes takes place.
Aid agencies are opening courses in construction. Builders are already in great demand.
The ceasefire now in place must hold. Aid workers say the international community must ensure it sticks and must insist Israel lift its air and sea blockade, which is preventing fuel and aid from flowing into the country.
UN sources claim that "representations" over the blockade are being made "at the highest level" - whatever that means.
The blockade is still in place.