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.