The Sahara: Day One

Getting to the desert would prove to be an adventure unto itself.

We parked our cars at the school, where we had arranged our airport transfer.

This would be our first time back to the airport since our first arrival, so it was oddly familiar, yet equally as chaotic as it was on that warm summer day in August.

Now in November, the north African sun had indeed mellowed over Tripoli, but everything else from that first day rushed back at us and swept over our senses.

Tripoli International Airport is itself a microcosm off Libya itself. The design and layout of the building makes me think of the 1970s, like if it had been frozen in time under sanctions that have only recently been lifted. But, with Libya's reentry in the modern global community, the demands of the international market have taken its toll on this place.

To handle to sudden influx of westerners, the majority of the airport has been designated for international travel. All people traffic for domestic flights has been redirected to a small corner of the airport, that only Libyans and few other westerns see in any one given day.

To match the heightened security measures that you find at most international airports, there are multiple checkpoints to pass through. However, the people manning those checkpoints are often distracted and display no reaction to the beeping of the metal detectors that go off with such regularity that they simply add the general buzz of the busy airport.

So, since our flight this time was not leaving the country, we had to find that hidden corner of the airport. Of course, if you can read Arabic, it's not so hidden, but there are very few signs in English, and what little written English there is are advertisements such as billboards.

We then set about to explore the airport, weighed down with our luggage, but eager to find our place in all the commotion. We soon learned that our 7pm flight had been canceled and joined with the 9pm flight.

So we waited.

All around us were hundreds of people. Some of them hurrying to their corresponding sections of the airport, but also many others just like us, waiting.

Lots and lots of families, some from our school, passed through the airport and walked straight into the international section and formed lines to check in.

Many others, mostly single men, made their way to the domestic flights. They went to check in, but they didn't form lines. Rather, they went and stood as close as they could to the counters, and pushed against others trying to do the same.

Periodically, one of us would stand up and walk over from the waiting area, around the corner and down the hallway to the small domestic flights area. Then that person would come back simply to report that nothing had changed. So we waited.

One of the most interesting groups of people that passed through the airport while we waited was an ever changing flow of young Black African men, some of them maybe even older teenagers. They showed up in large groups, talking very loudly, excited about something. They seemed as confused as most of us did upon entering the airport and trying to figure out how to proceed. But what was most interesting was that they all carried with them large 42inch TV boxes. I don't know if they all had television sets, or if they were just using the boxes as luggage, though most of them also had wheeled luggage or duffel bags too. Yet, almost every single one of them was lugging a huge cardboard TV box.

For every group that walked in, there seemed to be a leader, someone in charge, who knew what to do, or who held their flight info. Either way, this guy would tell them when to go up to the airline counters.

Most of them seemed to know each other, and it looked like some of them hadn't seen each other in a while, or they were all just excited to go back home. Some of them hugged each other hello, and some eye-balled each other from across the way. Obviously they didn't all get along.

Some of them were dressed with sharp style, like in an Express catalog, other less so.

They spoke to each other in some African language, and in thickly accented English. I think they didn't all speak the same language and used English to communicate with each other.

As interesting as it was to watch these guys, I was glad to learn that we were able to check in to our flight. We smiled to each other, grabbed our bags, and made our way past the crowds.

Mike, Ernie and I approached the mass of people with a strategy. Since we tried to stand what we thought was a line, others would simply fill in the gaps of space between people. At the counters, people simply bunched up and pressed against the counters, waving whatever documents that had in the faces of the attendants, hoping to be served next.

So, we formed a human barrier, along with our luggage, and made our way to the counter. When one of us made contact with the counter, we made sure no one go between us, until the attendant was forced to recognize one of us as his next customer.

We quickly showed our ticket voucher, which we had to purchase in person at the downtown office nearly a month earlier, and turned in our luggage and got our tickets.

We turned around and showed the girls our victory prize, 7 tickets to Sebha!

The flight itself was short and, thankfully, uneventful. Only two things are worth mentioning.

After the flight attendants mimicked the on-screen guides for what to do in the event of an emergency, the lights turned low and we all settled in for the flight. Then, the small screens came back down, with a display of moving white clouds against a blue sky. A man's deep voice then began chanting a prayer in Arabic while we waiting for take-off. Carolina and I traded smiles, we were both surprised, but at the same time not. Either way, it was another interesting remind of our outsider status.

The other interesting thing was pretty upsetting. One of our friends and co-workers, Lenore, found her assigned seat only to be rudely stared at by the man in the middle seat. He gawked at her with the look of restrained anger. The blatant racism that many Libyans display against Black people is discomforting, but familiar. Instead of taking the bait, Lenore simply traded seats with her husband Mike.

One of our Libyan friends described to us how Libyans are Arabs,  and call Blacks on the continent Africans. Most Black Africans in Libya are immigrants, or descendants of immigrants. Those with long family histories in northern Africa are still pushed aside and looked down upon, like most immigrant people around the world.

So, as a petty act, I admit, I turned on my air vent and pointed it directly at the guy's head. He was sitting right in front of me. The small act of revenge served only to annoy him, at a level below that of a kidding kicking the seat, or a crying baby. Just my small act of resistance.

About an hour later, the darkness we flew over began to break up into small pebbles and shards of dull yellow lights. We had flown about 2 or 300 miles south, deeper into the desert, and now we had arrived at Sebha.

Sebha is the crossroads town of the Libyan Sahara. It serves as the starting and end point of most ventures in the surrounding sand seas. It's a town as sandy as most other places in Libya, but more isolated than the populations along the Mediterranean.

Upon exiting the plane we felt the cool winds of the November nights, the dark side of the desert.

We crossed the tarmac on foot and made our way into the terminal. Once inside, we hustled through the crowds of Libyans returning home for the Eid holiday and other tourist campers like ourselves. At one end of the room, just beyond the baggage carousel, was the third ingredient present in the salad bowl, the desert guides awaiting their clients.

It was to that third group that I set my eyes on. I scanned their faces, trying to find someone that look like Abdul, our contact in Tripoli; his brother was to be our guide. It didn't take long to spot him, he towered over the other guides. Tall and stoic-looking, he was leaner than Abdul, but had a patient face. He leaned against the back wall and just observed the crowd, while the other guides quickly approached the incoming crowd and to get started on their trips.

"Ibrahim?" I approached him after we gathered our bags.

Ibrahim's face lit up, and his smile seemed to break away the solid features of his face, like a statue coming to life and shedding away layers of clay and centuries.

We shook hands and I introduced myself and the rest of the group. He directed us to the exit, where another guard was checking travel documents. Ibrahim produced a copy of our travel permit, required for anyone traveling out to the desert, and our group passed through, almost without a hitch.

We got a little separated from each other, as we squeezed through the door with the rest of the crowd. Lenore fell behind, she was stuck with an "African" family, who the guard stopped to question. It seemed like another typical seen in Libya, Black Africans harassed by Libyan officials. But, because Lenore is also Black, he started questioning her. Ibrahim turned around and quickly straightened things out.

We started up again and moved through the airport, as we walked he greeted the other guides and some of the airport workers. Everyone seemed to know him, and maneuvered with ease. Dress in his traditional long robe and his head wrapped in a desert scarf, he seemed to glide across the floor with gentle grace and determined and focused urgency. I had a sudden feeling that we were indeed in good hands.

We left he airport and walked across the parking lot to the Land Cruisers. They were already packed with tents, water and other supplies, so we added our bags to the load. I ended up riding shotgun with Ibrahim, and he commented that he would like to practice his English. We got on the road and drove down the highway, under the watch of the military garrison housed with an ancient Turkish castle that overlooks the entire area for miles.

I made some small talk with Ibrahim, who asked how our flight was and a little bit about where we would spend our first night. Despite his stern look, he is a very friendly person, and easy to talk to.

We drove for about 15 minutes through the night around the outskirts of the town, and pulled into a dirt road. It was hard to make out exactly what was around us, the truck's headlamps were our only windows into the darkness.

We pulled up and parked next to other vehicles in front of our first camp. It was a permanent camp site of small cabins with toilets, showers, and a kitchen that served a simple but delicious dinner. Ibrahim went to find someone to get our keys while we unloaded our bags from the trucks.

The camp was made up of three two or three groupings of small round one-room cabins. the space within each one was smaller than a college dorm room. The walls were made of tied-together straw, lined with thick fabric on the inside, probably all around a metal frame. Inside were three small beds pushed up against the round walls, with lots of blankets that matched the interior walls.

Ibrahim made sure we were settled in and directed us to the kitchen where we had dinner waiting for us.  Before he left he told us he would return the next morning to start our journey into the desert.

That night we dinned on a feast of lentil soup, chicken and a mixed salad of vegetables, and plenty of bread. It was one of the best meals of the trip, but not by far.

After enjoying the food and the night, we all got ready for bed, and  put our heads on colorful mattresses and slept the night away inside our straw huts. The next day we would see our drive across the length of southwestern Libya, and we would spend the next night under the stars and in the dunes of the Akakus.

El Aeropuerto

¡Increíble! Estoy en una tienda de campaña en el desierto de Sahara, el desierto mas grande del mundo. No está tan frío como pensé que iba estar pero sí es necesario una sudadera grueza y gorro para aguantar las mañanas frias.

Nuestra aventura comenzó ayer cuando volamos de Tripoli  a la cuidad de Sebha en el sur de Libya. Un coche nos recogió en la escuela a las 3pm. Llegamos al aeropuerto a las 3:45, justo a tiempo para hacer todo para nuestro vuelo que estaba programado salir a las 5pm.  Pero cuando Usiel, Mike y Ernie fueron al mostrador les dieron las malas noticias que nuestro vuelo no iba salir hasta las 9pm.  No tuvimos otra opción mas que esperar.  El aeropuerto esta tan mal organizado que no sabes en donde formarte, ni donde están los vuelos locales o internacionales. Igual como todo Libya no hay ningún letrero en inglés y casi nadie a quien preguntar por ayuda.  Yo sentía que me ahogaba con tanta gente en un lugar tan pequeño.

Después de esperar 5 horas en bancas muy duras los esposos tuvieron que empujar igual que todos para llegar al mostrador para obtener nuestros boletos de avión.  Ya teniendo los boletos de avión subimos a donde pensamos que era la sala de espera.  No se porque me sorprendí al ver que no era así.  Cuando subimos nos encontramos con un grupo de gente de como 40 personas esperando que los dejaran pasar por las maquinas de seguridad.  Al los 15 minutos de esperar abrieron las puertas y para ese entonces ya había el doble de personas esperando.  Todos pero todos empezaron a empujar.  Sentía que me iban a atropellar de tan fuerte que empujaban sin importar quien estaba al frente. Deben de recordar que ahora había cerca de 80 personas y la mayoría hombres.  Sí, hombres empujando para ser primeros en pasar a la sala de espera donde de todos modos iban a tener que esperar otros 40 minutos.  Tuve que sacar los codos y también empujar para no salir lastimada.

Después los empujones  finalmente llegamos a nuestra sala de espera cuando me di cuenta que los baños estaban ANTES de las maquinas de seguridad.  No tuve otra opción y regrese a convencer al hombre de seguridad que me dejara pasar de nuevo. Ya lo había convencido cuando un hombre en traje negro y con más autoridad me negó el paso.  Casi suelto las lagrimas de frustración y desesperación de poder hacer algo tan simple como ir al baño sin que sea una gran problema.  Estoy segura que el hombre de traje negro vio el pánico en mi cara y se sintió mal por mi porque al final me dejo pasar. 

Al sentarme en mi asiento en el avión lo único que podía pensar era espero que todo este relajo valga la pena.

Al llegar a la cuidad de Sebha, una de las ciudades mas grandes en el sur de Libya, bajamos del al avión con los mismos empujones hasta llegar donde estaban saliendo nuestras maletas.  De inmediato empece a buscar a alguien que se pareciera a Abdoul, el señor con quien hicimos los arreglos del viaje. El hermano de Abdoul iba ser nuestro chofer/guía el resto del viaje. 

En mirar por todo el cuarto mire a un hombre que se parecía a Abdoul y me dije a mi misma debe ser Ibrahim.  El tenia la misma elegancia y presencia que su hermano Abdoul.  Ibrahim estaba en un rincón del cuarto con brazos cruzados y con una mirada seria, relajada y misteriosa toda en una.  Ibrahim es un hombre muy alto, me imagino que mide mas de 6'5" pies y muy delgado. El estaba vestido con la blusa/bata larga tradicional que usan en Libya y su cabeza estaba cubierta con un pedazo de tela envuelta en la forma que los Tuareg los usan. ¡De inmediato senti que estábamos en buenas manos!

     -Carolina

The Sahara: The Planning - from November 2010

Great expanses of desolation.

Vast fields of emptiness and pure loneliness.

Overwhelming isolation.

An abundance of nothingness.

It's a challenge to try to sit and write about great experience, camping in the sands of the Sahara Desert. How does one describe the desert that looks like it lacks life while at the same times is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen on Earth?

While it is so desolate, there is life forcing its way through the rock and sand.

When one looks close at the empty fields, you see the footprints of foxes and snakes that call this place home.

When moving through a lonely valley, you can suddenly come across a settle of the Tuareg people, who defiantly hold on to their nomadic culture and use the desert to protect them from the ever intrusive modern world.

What certainly does overwhelm you is the the fact that you become so small in comparison to it all. There are few other places in the world where you can feel so small and so far away from everything that you know. The Sahara is such a place.

Before going diving into the details of the trip, I'll start from the beginning, from our planning stages. Perhaps this will be useful for anyone else who reads this and hopes to make the trip themselves, someday.

Carolina and I didn't go on this trip alone, far from it. Since so many new teachers where hired this year to work at the American School, there were plenty of us eager to go to the desert. Caro and I have become friends with some of the teachers, and together we decided to plan the trip for mid-November.

So our small party consisted of Carolina and myself; Ernie and BJ Diller; and Mike and Lenore Baldwin with their daughter Katyann.

Though it is still a growing industry, desert tourism is huge in Libya. Libya holds more of the Sahara desert within its borders than any other Saharan nation, and there are many desert guides and touring agencies that can arrange to take you out there to explore it all.

We found some groups online, and where given tips by some of the other teachers here that had traveled out to the desert already. We made contact with one guide, whose name I've forgotten, but I won't forget the day we did meet him.

Since in Libya, there are no street addresses, for many rumored reasons, it is difficult for two strangers to arrange a meeting unless at a very well known landmark. In our neighborhood of Janzour, that landmark is the Dubai Market. Luckily, Mike and Lenore live right by it, so we decided to meet our guide there and have the meeting at the Baldwin's house.

We waited around for him but didn't see him. Of course, we didn't know what he looked like either, so that made it more difficult to spot him. Mike had been the one in contact with him, so he called him up and tried to understand his limited English, while the guide tried to understand Mikes zero Arabic and fluent English. Mike actually handed his phone to a young man sitting outside a mosque and asked him to translate. I don't know how successful that was, but eventually the man showed up, and even though we hadn't met him before, we knew immediately who he was when we saw him.

Now, Tripoli is a modern city, and Janzour is a modern suburb of that city. Though there is sand everywhere, the streets are paved and the buildings are made of brick and cement. No, the Middle East doesn't look like Agraba in Aladdin, it looks more like Tijuana or Guadalajara. But when our potential desert guide walk through the busy crowd, infront of the mosque, he alone carried with him the image of an oasis town of medieval Islam.

Adburahman ( I just remembered his name) wore a green velvet robe that flowed through the air as he walked. He walked at a slower pace than most other people on the street, either because he was uncomfortable in the city, or because he was never in a rush, anywhere. He was calm and confident and approached us with a kindly. His hair was short and curly, his skin dark, but his eyes as bright as his smile. Mike, Ernie and I introduced ourselves and escorted back to the house.

He arrived an hour late, and the rush of people infront of the mosque was there in response to the call to prayer. So, Abdurahman let us know that we had little time to talk because he need to go pray.

We told him that we could wait, that he could go to mosque and that we could meet afterward.

He said that he had somewhere else to be after, so our time was limited.

That annoyed us some, because, he had initially set the meeting for 11am, then called that same morning to reschedule for 1pm. He showed up at around 2pm, just in time for prayer.

We had some drinks and snacks at sat and talked. He told us about a potential itinerary for the trip, and we asked questions about supplies, details about the trip, and the costs. Unfortunately, he couldn't really answer any of our questions. When we asked about an estimate price, he refused to give us one. We ended the meeting when he had to go to mosque, and we said we would keep in contact.

When he left, we all looked at each other with doubt. Though he seemed like the man you would want to be with in the desert, there was just too much he couldn't tell us for us to even feel excited about the trip.

Our search for a desert guide continued.

About another week passed by before we made anymore progress on planning for our trip. With our November break approaching, we were eager to finalize our plans.

I went back online to search for local guides. I emailed a few people, and the replies were mostly inconsistent. Finally, I got a reply from the company, Badran Tours. Abdoul Awidat emailed me a complete itinerary and final cost of the trip for the days we requested. He suggested a meeting and we went from there.

We set up a meeting, again at Mikes house, and Abdoul was right on time. I went out to meet him, and called him on the phone. It was classic, I was on the phone talking to him, he was describing where he was, and we both turned to each other at the same moment, and smiled. We hung up our phones and shook hands.

If Abdurahman stood out for his dress and demeanor, Abdul stood out for his sheer size. Definatly the tallest Libyan I've seen, he was a few heads taller than me. He walked and talked like a gentle giant, you felt at ease with him. He was very soft spoken, but very sharp, spoke good English, and knew the answers to our questions before we even asked.

We sat in Mike and Lenore's living room when we talked about the trip. On a map of Libya, he traced the journey we would take.

From Tripoli, we would fly to the desert town of Sebha, known as Libya's gateway to the Sahara. Most desert journeys start and end here, and so would ours.

From there, we would meet his brother, Ibrahim, who would be our guide. We would spend the first night there, just outside of town, at a camp, which he described as also having a zoo. I'll describe that later.

From there, we would drive to the Akakus region, camp a few nights there, then make our way back, spending a couple of nights in the actual sand dunes.

He told us what else we needed to bring, the exact cost, and how to get our plane tickets.

We thanked him and agreed to have another meeting closer to the date of the trip.

When he left, we all looked at each other, and we knew, we had found our guy.

Gharyan

Our new life in Libya has centered around adjusting to a new school and all that comes along with that, getting accustomed to this country and its culture,, and taking advantage of the many historical sites that abound in this country. Our short visit to Gharyan was a mix of the all three.

One of the obvious characteristics of working at an international school is meeting people from all over the world. While many of our students are from the United States, most are from other countries or are originally from the U.S. but have lived elsewhere for most of their lives. However, as what tends to happen when traveling abroad, people of the same culture tend to attract each other. So, part of teaching at a new school means meeting new students and their parents. And one of the few Mexican families invited us to their home for a barbecue over the Eid Al Fitr holiday, the end of the month of Ramadan.

We where happy to be invited and to spend time with other latinos. Lorena and Cesar live in a nice 2-story home about 10 minutes away from our house. They both work in the oil industry, which is one of the main reasons so many foreigners live in Libya. Their daughter, Ximena, is in the pre-school at our school.

When we arrived we were introduced to their co-workers/friends. We drank some homemade Sangria and snacked on cheese and crackers while the conversation covered the many different aspects of living in Libya. We, of course, were the newbies, they have all lived in Libya for about 5 years, more or less. They all shared their advice with us and talked about their experiences, joking about each other and themselves the whole while.

So we sat there, drinking Sangria and munching on snacks, and eventually the on the delicious grilled steak and green salsa that Lorena's dad, visiting from Mexico, made from local chiles. What struck us as we sat there was the amazing theme of the day. One couple was made of two columbians, another couple was made up of an Argentinian woman and her British husband. There was another pair was from Spain and Venezuela, Lorena and Cesar from Mexico, and Carolina and I. All of these people from different countries and what united us was a common language, Spanish. Yes, even the British guy was speaking in Spanish, I assume that's how he got his wife to marry him.

Over lunch and laughs we gained some insights into life in Libya. One was that everyone is certain that we'll leave Libya with a baby in tow, but Carolina and I are certain that that won't be the case. However, they all subscribe to the same theory, you enter Libya as one person, and you leave as three. These families began as singles, they got hitched and had children all in the few years that they've lived here, so they see themselves as living proof of the theory.

A couple of weeks later Lorena and Cesar invited us to go with them to the nearby town of Gharyan, which is about 30 -45 minutes south of Tripoli. Gharyan is known for two things, ceramics and troglodyte homes. I'll explain more about the  troglodyte homes in a bit. First comes the 3-hour drive to the town that's only 30-45 minutes away . . . yeah, 3 hours.

So, we arrive at Lorena & Cesar's home early in the morning, about 9am. We talk a bit and wait for them to be ready, then we load up the cars. In their car goes Cesar, who's driving, Lorena, their son Alonso, and Lorena's father. In our car goes Carolina and I, Ximena, their daughter, and Saida, a Morrocan woman about our age who works as Lorena's house cleaning help / baby-sitter.

So, we get on the freeway and start heading west, towards Sabratha, even though Gharyan lies to the south. Carolina and I both notice the discrepancy, but since we didn't really know our way around too well yet, and they had lived here for about 5 years, we trusted in their judgement.

As we continue to drive, west, not south, we strike up a conversation about Saida. We learn that she's been living in Libya for about 15 years, but she really misses Morocco. Even though she's Arab and Muslim, she doesn't really like living in Libya and wishes she could go home. But she moved here with her family and now has a family of her own and can't really afford to move back. She reminds me of most immigrant families back home, living in one place while longing to return 'home'.

Saida talked to us about Morocco and offered her family's house there for us if we ever wanted to visit. She was very nice and Caro and I were really glad to have met here.

After a while of talking, we noticed that we had passed a couple of freeway junctions where we could have turned south toward Gharyan. But we continued west, not south.

"Are they lost?"

"Are we going somewhere else first?"

"Are we picking someone else up?"

We tried to make sense of it, being cautious not to admit that we're following someone who doesn't know where he's going.

We eventually drove past the town of Sabratha, the location of the Roman ruins we visited our second weekend here. Sabratha is about 1 hour west of Tripoli, as opposed to Gharyan which is about 30-45 minutes south.

If this sounds drawn out and repetitive it's only because I'm trying to recreate the sensation of taking a long time to get to a point that should be a lot closer and take less time to get to.

So, we drive past Sabratha for about another 20 minutes and then pull over at a gas station. Lorena walks out of the car and approaches us.

So they weren't lost, and we weren't going to pick someone else up.

He did not know where he was going.

Well, we turn around at a point about 30 minutes from the Tunisian border. I would have liked to have seen Tunisia, but without my passport I wouldn't have gotten far. Besides, Gharyan was only about 90 - 120 minutes away at this point, no passport required, all we needed to do now was point the cars in the right direction and go.

So we did, and Saida called up a friend of her's for directions on how to get to Gharyan from where we were instead of heading all the way back to Tripoli. So, we took the lead and Cesar followed us as we cut across new (to us) roads on the outskirts of Tripoli. I drove while Saida read the signs and checked in with her friend on the phone.

Soon the mountains atop which lies the city of Gharyan rose into view. Cesar would later comment that he was suspicious that he was going the wrong way because he didn't see the mountains. We began to drive up the windy road to the top and behind us was one of the most breathtaking sights I've seen in Libya. You could almost see clear to the ocean. You could see sandy plains, farm fields and the city in the distance. The mountain itself rose up sharply from the flat dry plain and you could feel the winds trying to knock you down.

We got to the top Cesar took the lead again. We turned off the main road and into a neighborhood of houses built close to each other. We meandered through the narrow streets until we came out into the open, to a clearing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the plains below. We got out of the cars and the full view was in front of us.

Living in the city, you can feel like the world is small. You only see a small street at a time with only hints of a larger world around the corner. It is in sights like the view from the cliff at Gharyan that the vastness of the world is truly revealed. It's not the worlds highest peak, by far, nor is it the world's best view. But from Gharyan you can see from the sandy interior of Libya to the shores of Tripoli, and there is no other place in the world where you can do that.

There at the edge of the cliffs we took pictures and toasted to the end of our 30-45 minute drive, which took us 3 hours to complete. We all gave Cesar a tough time about it, but soon hunger took center stage and moved on.

If you've ever seen Star Wars, the first one, the real first one that came out before I was born, then you'll appreciate this next piece.

We walked towards a nearby house, a modern looking cement brick building that enjoys the same view we were taking in. Lorena and Cesar had made reservations to eat lunch here. But instead of going into the house, we begin walking down a path that lead us underground. There was an entrance that was hidden from the view of anyone standing up top, and we walked into a tunnel. The tunnel lead us towards a small room, decorated with local carpeting and quilts, souvenirs, and baskets. Then the tunnel opened up to a large room open to the sky. We where standing about 20-25 feet below the surface in what seemed like an older living room, with straw and wooden furniture and cactus as decoration. It was a square room that itself was about 30 x 30 feet.

Welcome to the Troglodyte houses of Gharyan.

The Berber people, one of the original inhabitants of Libya before the Arab conquest, used to live in houses that they dug out from the ground. These homes protected them from the heat, the sandstorms, and their enemies.

In the case of this particular house, 300 years later, it's still here. The families that lived here have moved to the surface, and they have converted their old family home into a museum and restaurant.

Mohammad is the name of the young guy who showed us around and was our host. He's dark skinned, shaved head, and carries himself with confidence when showing us around the house, but is shy with his English. He's very friendly.

Each side of the the center square has two or three round doorways that lead to the different rooms. As he described it, between 4-8 different families lived together in these types of homes. Each family had a large room where they slept, and the families shared the duties of the house.

The center room is completely open to the sky, and around the edge of the wall are wholes dug out for birds to make their nests. Mohammad said that they were dug intentionally so that the birds could provide music.

The family rooms are kept just as they were when people used to live here. Woolen blankets, pillows, and carpets line the walls and floors, as well as straw woven mats.

Inside one room, we took off our shoes and rested on the ground. Mohammad sat behind a small stove and a set up of what looked like shot glasses, mugs and a tea kettle. His confidence returned to his face as he sat comfortably crossed legged. He turned on the stove and sat the tea kettle to boil. We chatted for a bit and talked about where we were from and he gave us a few quick lessons in Arabic.

As we talked, he took the kettle and poured the boiling water into a tin mug. He grabbed another mug and began an almost ritualistic movement with the tea and the mugs. He raised one hand up high, and let the tea pour down into the other mug. Then, even before the last drop was out, his hands changed places and the pour it back into the first mug just as he did before. The tea moved back and forth like a slinky. With every movement, the cascading liquid began to foam up.

He separated the foam from the tea, using both mugs. He then poured the foam into the shot glasses, enough for everyone there. Then, he poured the tea into the foam-filled glasses. He served us all and toasted. The tea was a great green tea.

After a while we were told that our lunch was ready. We moved into another large room where our food was set up picnic style on the floor. We sat around a large blanket filled with food. There was a place setting for each of us. A ceramic bowl and a plate, with fork and spoon. The bowl was filled with lentil soup. There was bread and fruit, and a large bowl filled with couscous and lamb meat. There was way too much food, and we all ate way too much.

After eating, we settled the bill and took more pictures. We thanked our hosts and said goodbye. Before we left though, I learned from Mohammad that I would see him again. Our school had a field trip scheduled to come to the house later that month, and I did see him again and had more tea and again way too much food.

We walked out of the tunnel and back out into the open. We got back in the cars and made our way back to the main road. We headed to the ceramic shops which line the highway with their colorful designs and intricate patterns.

We stopped on the side of the road were a lot of shops are clustered together. We walked along and eyed the bowls and vases and candle holders and piggy banks. There were lots of tea sets and souvenirs, plates and spoons and animal figures. All of it is made by hand in the local pottery factories, which are usually small family owned set ups, with a few pottery wheels and skilled artisans.

We spent about an hour looking around and even bought a few things. I won't go into what we bought because some of it is for some of you reading this. Until we go back home, what we bought currently is decorating our home.

After some shopping we began our journey home, which took only about 30-45 minutes, not 3 hours, because this time we headed  north, not east along the Tripoli Gharyan highway. Of course, I joked with Cesar before we said goodbye that day, if I ever want to come back to Gharyan, I might just have to go to Sabratha first because I don't know how else to get there now.

Life in Libya

It's been a while since our last entry. We've learned that part of working abroad means everything else that comes with that comes abroad along with you; long hours at work, being tired from your day, short weekends, and for teachers, planning and grading.

But I think that's that real treasure about transplanting your life from one world to another, while we've gotten into some routines, as the weeks go by, our lives become intertwined with the community around us.

 That's the big difference between traveling as tourists and actually living in another country. When we first arrived, everything was new, everything was something to discover, it was all exciting. Life in a new relationship, we were in a honeymoon period with Libya. When you travel as a tourist on vacation, it's all the honeymoon period, you leave before that wears off, and your left with the sweetest memories of the time you spent there. But now, some of that initial excitement has worn off and we're getting to see life in Tripoli not as an outsider passing by, but as outsiders stepping in, trying to find our space to call our own.

While we still have big plans in the works, a whole country to explore, I wanted to document just some snapshots of our daily life here. While I use the word routine, life in Libya, we have found, cannot be defined as routine, unless you can call it life with routine elements of surprise. So, I'll be posting a few short pieces from our time here, until our next big trip. Hope you enjoy.


The Gas Station Guy

So, we received our cars with a full tank of gas. With really good mileage, we didn't really have to fill up too often, even after our trip to Sabratha. But soon enough it was time for us to figure out how to get our tank full again.

So, we pull in to the gas station nearest to our home. While there are plenty of pumps, cars line to pump gas from only two pumps. The stations are set up just like at home, two sets of pumps at the island, with a mechanic shop or small store off to the side. It seems that most gas stations have a guy to pump the gas for you. The cars are lined up waiting to pull up to the pump next to the guy holding the money. So, while there are four pumps, each with two hoses, only two pumps are being used. We wait in line for a while, trying to follow what seems like routine to everyone else.

The guy operating the pump in our line was a young boy, maybe 15 years old. There was another guy, older, maybe 30-35 years, taller and heavier, with a big smile. He was going between the two pumps and the store. I get out of the car after we pulled in for our turn. Now the fun begins.

boy - Something in Arabic

me - full - I put my palms together, vertically, then separate them while I say this. In my mind, at that moment, that was suppose to signal that I want my tank full.

The big guy comes over - Something in Arabic - he smiles while he says this

me - full - I make the same motion with my hand.

big guy - Ah Ah, full!

Success!

He tells the kid to pump the gas. I look at the numbers and try to make sense of them as two sets of numbers start counting upwards. I realize that the price of gas is about .20 dinars a liter. I don't know exactly how to convert that, but I'm pretty sure a liter is less than a gallon, and .20 dinars is about 14 cents. 

So, as the gas is pumping, the big gas station guy and I try to make conversation. I figure out that he's asking me about where I work.

Big Guy - company? company?

I tell him I work at the American School, in Seraj, which is one of the suburbs of Tripoli.

Big Guy - house?

I tell him we live not to far away, right here in Janzour.

What might seem like a 2 second conversation took up most of the time since we spoke with more hand signals than words. But he seemed pretty excited about talking with us about anything.

Soon we were done, I paid the guy about 8 dinars, like $5.60, for our full tank of gas, and said good bye, and shukran, which is thank you in Arabic.

Now, the best part of this story happens a few days later. No, the gas didn't mess up our car. But we ran into Big Guy again. We were driving home from work one day when we saw a car behind us get really close. Now, back home, tailgating can be pretty aggressive and dangerous. Here in Libya, tailgating is pretty routine. And by tailgating, I don't mean just staying close behind, Libyans don't really see a need to keep more than just a couple of inches between you and the next car. In my rearview mirror, I can't even see the guy's hood behind me, much less his front bumper.

So, we see this guy tailgating, and just wait for him to pass us up. When he does, he slows down next to us and honks. We turn to see the Big Gas Station Guy waving and smiling at us, honking his horn. We wave and honk back, then he almost cuts us off. He pulls of to the side of the road, then makes a u turn, waving and honking as he goes back the way we came.

He basically drove out of his way, drove dangerously close and around us, simply to say hello because he recognized us on the road. Thats how nice people are around here. That's how eager they are to welcome folks from outside. So, we always go back to that gas station, hoping to be able to say hi to our local gas station guy.


Ordering Meat

We went about three weeks without eating red meat. Now, it wasn't a health conscious decision. It wasn't really a decision at all. It came out of the fact that in order to buy meat we would have to go into one of the many butcher shops around town.

Now, if you grew up watching tv like I did, you know that butcher shops are supposed to be clean, with a fat jolly guy with a mustache behind the counter that kind of resembles Super Mario. Maybe it's just me, but I don't remember the cow carcasses hanging in the windows and the blood on the floor. It's kind of hard to walk into a butcher shop when the cow's eyes seems to follow you as you walk by the shop, like a creepy old painting in a Scooby Doo episode.

After almost a month of eat chicken and potatoes and pasta and rice, we decided we had to grab the bull by the horns and order a nice chunk of cow. And we failed miserably.

The first time we walked into a butcher shop we were chased out by the thick stench of blood. That and the utter helplessness of not knowing how to order meat from a butcher. The smell and sight overwhelmed our senses and soon we were back in the street. We would have to try again another time.

 So, we found another butcher here in the Janzour area that didn't have as much blood on the floor. We walked in, took a breath, and were fine. No foul stench of death in the air, just a bunch of guys behind the counter and a bunch of guys ordering meat. No Super Mario, but we could handle it.

So, now to order. We waited for some of the crowd to thin out before approaching one of the butchers. Meanwhile we looked around and tried to guess as to what exactly we were going to order. We decided we would start by asking for some ground meat, even though we saw none around. So, one of the guys asked what we wanted, and we started again with the hand signals. We noticed that they had a machine to ground up the meat, so we asked for a kilo, which is pretty universal, and pointed to the grinder, and to make sure he understood I made a motion with my hands like one would signal for 'movie' when playing charades , to signal the grinder.

We went back a forth before we completely understood each other. Luckily there was a man there, also a customer, who spoke English and helped us translate.

The best part of trying to talk to shop owners is the fact that the eyes of everyone else in the room converge on you. The simple act of ordering meat becomes an event that the rest will talk about with their friends, about how a couple of foreigners made the strangest hand motions to do the simplest task.

Finally, we got our order, then he asked what kind of meat we wanted.

Libyano o Braziliano?

eh?

I thought I understood, but our friendly translator helped to clarify. The Brazilian meat was frozen, since it was imported from Brazil. The Libyan meat was fresh and from local ranches. So, we ordered the Libyan meat. Thats when the butcher came out from behind the counter, with a large knife, and walked over to one of the skinned cows carcasses hanging in the window and began to cut off our order of meat. He then walked it over to the grinder to complete our order.

While our meat was being ground and packaged, our butcher asked our translator where we were from. We told him we were from the United States. Next, they burst into an argument about World Cup soccer and the role of the U.S. team in the tournament. That's all we could catch in the argument as it was all in Arabic. But, we would soon discover that soccer is not only a universal sport, but a universal language which would help us in our attempts to make friends here.

Soon we were on our way home with lots of meat to cook for dinner. We've gone back once since then, and will probably be going back more often.

Slowly, we're getting to know the people in our neighborhood, and  as they become part of our routine, we'll feel more at home as the days and weeks and months come and go.

Sabratha

The city of Tripoli has a long history. Just south of Italy, Libya sits right between the western and eastern Mediterranean. The ancient Phoenicians, and later Romans, established three main colonies here, Leptis Magna, Oea, and Sabratha, hence the name Tri (3) poli (city). Tripoli sits directly over the ruins of Oea;  Sabratha and Leptis lie directly to the west and east of here.

When our first work week came to an end we were ready to rest, but also eager to explore. Our first adventure outside of Tripoli was to the ruins of Sabratha, about 45 miles away. We got some simple directions from Terri, one of the few other teachers here that wasn't new. She said it was pretty much a straight shot on the main road, and it was, almost.

We woke up that first Friday morning and got on the road. Fridays here are like Sundays back home, it's the Muslim day of worship, and because of Ramadan, the streets were completely empty. We navigated our way to throughout the Seraj circle, a roundabout, counted the exits until we got the one for the freeway, and we were off.

Right away we began to look around for markers to be able to recognize our exit on the way back home. The freeway, a two lane road, is more like a mix between the 99 and Highway 1 in California. It's two lanes both ways, but with multiple side streets and stop lights as it works its way through the suburbs of Tripoli and the cities beyond. There are really no freeway exits; just pull off to the side of the road if you see a place where you want to stop. And often people traveling on one side of the road will pull over then cross the freeway on foot to go to whatever shop they need to go to; so you gotta watch for pedestrians.

We were on the road for about 30 minutes when it began to curve as it entered the next town. We made a wrong turn and ended up driving into the city. We stopped after a few minutes. I got out of the car and approached some men sitting on a couple of benches. After they accepted the fact that I didn't speak Arabic, despite my Arabic face, they understood that we were lost. I just repeated 'Sabratha, Sabratha,' and they pointed the way back to the freeway. We got back on and about 15 minutes later we saw the turn out for Sabratha.

The was nothing special about the street leading to Sabratha, so even though we were pretty sure that we were getting close, it was until we saw the massive theater that we finally let go of our breath.

I don't know what words to use to describe the scene or what we felt upon resting our eyes on the sight before us. As we drove up to the parking lot, a 2,000 year old theater dominated the land and sky. When you think of ancient ruins, you might imagine piles of stone and marble thrown about kind of like what's left behind when a child plays with lego blocks. But the theater at Sabratha stands almost completely intact and does not stand delicately at all but rather with all the permanence of the pyramids themselves.

I've been to other ancient sites, and some are either piles of rock with signs and drawings of what used to stand there. Or, they are intact structures like the Colosseum in Rome which is there to testify for itself. Sabratha is one such sight.

We paid the entry fee and once we left behind the security guards at the gate, we were happy to discover that we had the site almost all to ourselves. We made our way to the theater and the columns and arches rose higher into the sky as we inched closer.

We walked in from a side entrance, quite possibly into a changing area for performers. Those of you who have performed on stage would have found this place very familiar. It's a testament to these ancient people, that very little has been done to improve on their designs. Not because we aren't smart enough, but because they were so proficient at the art forms we continue today, the act of performing for an audience and all that comes with that, from the actual movement and placement of actors and dancers, to the architecture and design of the buildings themselves.

The stage itself has actually been slightly restored and modern productions continue at here. We took pictures all over the stage and seating areas, as we were free to explore the entire building with our only limitations being gravity itself.

We met a young Frenchman, exploring on his own, and he took a picture for us at the top level of the theater seating. There was also a couple of Englishmen we ran into, but mostly we were on our own.

After we finished searching through all the passageways of the theater we continued on to the area just outside. Old sights were temples and houses once stood now only the mosaics remain. These mosaics are still nearly entirely intact, and depict stories from ancient mythology or of daily life in ancient Rome. For those that might not know, a mosaic looks like a painting on the floor or on a wall from far away. It isn't until you get closer that you realize that there is no paint involved whatsoever. The images and designed are put together using different colored pieces of tile or rock. Every color is a natural occurring color found in the materials used. They are placed together to form vibrant scenes of battle, fishing, sex, worship, are intricate geometric designs.

We walked along the coast examining all the remains, the heat got the best of us and we headed back to the comfort of the theater to eat our lunch. Despite the beating sun, the theater is full of passageways designed to create wind tunnels where the temperature drops dramatically. We sat in one of these and comfortable ate our sandwiches and snacks amongst the ancient ruins. After eating we visited the museum to see  the statues and other mosaics that had been salvaged from the elements before heading back home.

As the day passed we made our way out of the site and towards our car. We saw the security guards washing their feet, hands and heads using an outdoor water fountain, that was more like a big hose poor water from a pump or well. It was then that we heard the afternoon call to prayer. We began to drive back and encountered lots of traffic on the road. We got back on the freeway and learned more about daily prayers.

The road back to Tripoli is dotted by mosque after mosque after mosque. As we approached a mosque we saw dozens of cars pulling over and parking wherever they could and their drivers and passengers, all men, rushing inside. Every mosque we passed was surrounded by parked cars, and the flood of people crossing the highway increased as they parked across the road to get to the mosque. It seemed to us that wherever they might be, Libyans simply went to their nearest mosque whenever the call to prayer is sounded.

20 minutes later, we were still on the road, but now people were leaving the mosques and filling the highway. Suddenly, as we approached a mosque, all the parked cars came alive and wanted a piece of the road.

This was no longer the empty road that we enjoyed on the way west, heading east it was a different thing altogether. Cars weaved in and out of lanes, through the shoulders, and into the opposite lanes all for a few yards of road. Stopping at a stoplight is troublesome, because you don't know if other drivers are going to stop or not. When you do stop, the lights that are actually functioning have a countdown. Usually from 60 seconds, the numbers count down how long until a red turns green. People start honking at the front cars at about 5 seconds left, trying to urge them to go, even if the other traffic hasn't cleared the intersection.

Soon, we began to recognize the signs for our exit, got off and maneuvered through the circle and onto the street that would lead us home. We stopped to run some errands at the local markets, before finally getting home. It was a good day, but we were eager to get some rest. The rest of the weekend was spent getting ready for the start of school the following week.

Settling In

In Libya, as in much of the Muslim world, the work week begins on Sunday and runs through Thursday. So, the next morning after our arrival, Judith, the school's director showed up at our doorstep early to take us to school. Much of that first week was filled with orientation activities, some having to do with work, but mostly having to do with getting settled in to our new homes. As a big group of new incoming teachers, we were taken around town and shown some of the best places to get our food and housewares.

But, definitely one of the highlights of that week was getting our company car. We were very fortunate to get a new VW Golf; the car's size and handling make it perfect for maneuvering through the streets of Libya with all its hazards and obstacles.

The first two mornings, we were taken to school by Judith in her car. She reminded us to take notes so that we would remember how to get home on our own when we received our car. She assured us that even if we got lost that we could call, using the cell phones they gave us, and that someone would come get us. Still, it was pretty nerve wracking those few days thinking about having to drive home for the first time.

If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand that not everyone follows the same kind of traffic rules as in the US. Yet, many say that Libya's low population can be very much attributed to its lack of traffic laws; to be more explicit, there are no traffic laws; none. The motto in Libya is, 'if there is pavement, fill it.' Maneuvers that we might consider as aggressive driving back home are very common place here and are done without any bad intentions. Here, one simply wants to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means squeezing between to cars in front of you on a 2 lane road . . . when one of the other two cars is going the opposite way.

Well, after getting our car, we carefully made our way home. Driving under these conditions might prompt some people towards slower more cautious driving, big mistake. While the roads seems full of crazy drivers, there is a certain flow to it; if you're the only timid driver on the road, then you're the dangerous one. Of course, Libyans will also do things on the road that make very little sense at all no matter how you look at it. Instead of slowing down to go over a speed bump, many will go off the pavement and drive over the dirt sidewalks to not have to press on their brakes, even going around a car slowing down for the speed bump.

We hit the road, turned left at the Libyan school, past the 4 or 5 mosques between our home and the school, through the intersection with the non-functioning traffic light, and the cops asleep  in the police car that hasn't moved in weeks, another left where the day workers wait, right at the monument, then a left, past the final mosque, another left, and another left on Nopal Ave and around the corner to our Oasis. The gate opens and we pull into our driveway, our green lawn and blue pool welcome us home every afternoon.

Another highlight of the orientation days was a field trip to the Media, the old city of Tripoli. The Medina is still surrounded by high defensive walls, dissected by long narrow streets, and filled with shops and businesses of all kinds.

We drove to school and met there. A bus was  waiting for us, we got on board and headed downtown. The bus driver was a young guy, probably late 20s early 30s, and was very welcoming. He joked  about driving in Libya, as he maneuvered through the streets and battled it out for space on the road against the traffic. He talked about the upcoming Al Fatah, the anniversary of the revolution that toppled the monarchy and brought Gaddafi to power.

'It's a big party' he said, 'a big party for Gaddafi.' Some of us laughed at this, 'everything for Gaddafi, everything.' His tone was not typically sarcastic, negative or with any ill intent. Yet it was obviously a critique, but accusatory and permissive at the same time.

He joked about this while keeping his eyes on the other drivers, and with a big smile on his face, beneath his wrap around sunglasses. It was the first time that I heard a Libyan utter anything that seemed to resemble a critique of Gaddafi or his government. It was interesting to see the expression on his face while saying this.

In the U.S, as in much of the western world, you could criticize  political leaders without fear. You could wear a 'Fuck Bush' t-shirt and not worry about being put on trial or worse. Libya isn't exactly a free country, Gaddafi's been in power for 40 years. But there also isn't a overt show of force. Most police that we see are sleeping in their cars. So far, I've only seen them act when a traffic accident happens. There are no roving bands of soldiers in fatigues intimidating anyone. Libyans seem content, this is one of the richest countries in Africa, after all.

Yet, when I think about our driver that day, he seemed relaxed, happy to be able to express his views in a non-confrontational way, saying very little while at the same time sharing deep insights into the Libyan political and social  environment.

The bus moved on, through the two lane highway, past the traffic circles, and down the main road leading to Green Square, downtown Tripoli. We got off the bus and stood before a Medieval wall. The wall showed its ancient age, yet still stood tall and strong and was an intimidating sight.

Our tour guide took us around the side of the wall, and we walked along the shore, the waves of the Mediterranean flapping against the ground. He talked to us about the remains of the fort that once protected the city as we moved past it and into the Medina.

The Medina is a mixture of people, architecture, history and culture. You can immediately see the influence of the various peoples and nations that have passed through Tripoli over the years. Italian architecture, in the form of a clock tower, cuts through the sky and rises above most of the buildings here. The Red Castle, from Islamic medieval times, casts a shadow over the streets around it. As we made our way deeper into the old city the streets became more narrow, and as time passed and the sun rose in the sky, they became more alive as well. Shop owners trickled in. First only a few, then a lot more, they raised the green metal gates to reveal small stands selling everything from basic everyday souvenirs to fine Libyan cloth and even some artifacts brought in from the desert and beyond.

We made our way west along the same roads first laid out by the Romans, millennia ago. As we walked, our guide pointed out some of the small telling signs of the history still present here. Jewish stars, Roman columns, all mixed and meshed together with Islamic overtones.

Along the way, old men sat on the sides of the narrow streets, watching curiously as this group of Americans gazed at their everyday lives as if it were all some exhibit in a museum. Kids ran past us, staring at us as we smiled at them. Their mothers hurried them past, clearly on a mission more important than we were to  their children's eyes.

We looked up at the buildings, through the windows and the narrow alleys with the same curiosity and amusement as the locals looked upon us. I've never felt quite right being part of a tourist group, and this was not different. None the less, we continued on.

After a few minutes, turning some corners, dodging passing cars, and taking a few photos, we arrived at one of the highlights of the tour. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius (yes the same Marcus Aurelius from the Gladiator movie, the old one who dies at the beginning). The Arch is about 3-4 stories high. As you approach it, it doesn't seem to stand tall at all, until you get close enough to peer down at the base, about 20ft below the surface of the ground around it. The arch sits like a compass, two road intersect it, running through its four archways, running east to west, and north to south. The the roads are buried beneath 20ft of dirt, stone, metal, brick and centuries, the path they run still dictate the modern city plans of the Medina. The path we had been walking the whole time lays directly over the old Roman roads.

We spent a few minutes here, took pictures, and just tried to take it all in. Standing in the center, you can gaze up and see the inside of the dome, and as you bring you eyes down to rest your neck you see the Roman road, with its perfectly cut and aligned stones. You follow it our northwards, to the sea, and if you can focus your eyes on the road itself, and let everything else melt away, you can almost see the Marcus Aurelius himself, at the head of a Roman legion, marching into the city, here at the gate he built.

We walked back the way we came. The streets were more full, of people and energy. More shops were open and there was more to see and hear. Like in most places like this, you had your share of shops selling typical touristy stuff, things I've seen in other countries. But, there were also some things that set Libya apart. There were some shops with actually jewelry making happening, and you could buy some right from the maker. Some very beautiful pieces. Also, lots of clothing and fabric shops, with very elaborate dresses and clothing for both men and women.

As our group slowly made its way back, we stopped at one corner to listen to our tour guide. Carolina and I trailed behind a bit, and noticed a group of older men, sitting off to the side, calling to our group. When I listened I realized that they were saying hello, but no one else was responding.

"Hello," I answered him.

"Hello, are you from London?"

"London? No, we're not from London?"

"Oh, then where?"

"From the United States."

Their faces opened up, they looked at each other and smiled. "Welcome!" he said with outstretched arms. "Welcome," and something about enjoying Libya. Again I got the feeling that Libyans want from exchange with the west. They might not be fans of American actions in places like Iraq or Afghanistan, but they don't hate America or Americans. I also think that national pride has something to do with it as well. 'Come see what and who we are, and what we've done and what we can do,' is what I think I hear in their welcomes and their open arms.

"You have Libyan skin," he then continued.

I laughed, and went into the same conversation about being from Mexico.

"Are you from Libya?" I asked.

"Yes, see my skin is Libyan."

"And you," I asked his friend. "Are you from Libya?"

"No, I am from Cameroon."

"His skin is not Libyan, see." The first old man pointed to his friends black skin.

We shook hands and I caught up with the group as it had moved down the street.

After saying goodbye to our guide, but before heading back home, we had one more highlight of the day, a very yummy highlight. Tammi and Bruce, another teaching couple at the school, had made arrangements for us to have a late lunch at a great Turkish restaurant. We walked back past the Italian clock tower and into an open plaza, into one of the side buildings and up three flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the walls were covered in quilts of dark reds. We passed one floor of the restaurant, which looked like a smoking lounge, with a soccer game on the tv. We got to the top floor and to a long set of tables waiting for us. We started with some soup, some Turkish flat-bread, and a myriad of dipping sauces. I ordered the Lamb and loved it.

Soon, we were heading back to the bus and to our smiling drivers. We went back along the busy streets, to our school and to our homes. We were eager to go back out, to learn more about what's around us, and to meet more people and to compare our skin colors if that's what it takes. Hopefully soon we'll be able to share more about the people who welcome us and are ready share their country with us.