Once upon a time

Once upon a time, a women went to stay in a faraway place called "The Wisterias." She had a lovely time. When she left and returned home, she quickly discovered that she lost her heart. Her veins and arteries were at their wit's ends, having lost their purpose in life. She wrote to the house-mistress explaining her situation. Oh, could they see if they could find it? The house-mistress considered the situation. Plainly, it was challenge. Even if they were to find it, it would be quite a situation to find suitable packaging, let alone mail it through the postal system. She discussed it with the director and they considered it gravely. He agreed with her in that ideally, the guest should come back to collect her heart. There were insufficient resources for this search-and-rescue activity, as it had not been budgeted for in the year's annual budget. However, he decided that this was an important situation, and called on everyone in the house to keep an eye out for a heart. Where could it be? Was it by the birds-of-paradise, or weeping by the crown-of-Jesus in the garden? Was it in the cheek of everyone's smile? Was it, perhaps having been reduced to crumbs, under a bread-crumber on the dining room table? Finally, it was found by one of the workers in the chapel. He was working on one of the coloured windows. In the morning light, he saw a heart wedged in the crack of one of the original windows. He carefully worked the glass, and set the heart free. And it flew off and lived happily ever after. The End.

Life after Algiers

Now in London, in a very nice room that I can barely move around in, though I've left my heart in Algiers. We had a minor earthquake last night. I'd like to think that we all shuddered at the thought of me leaving.

It was a very lovely morning of taking last minute photographs and saying good bye to everyone. Père G escorted me down to the taxi. That he was the the last person I saw was extra special.

I flipped through the British Airways glossy mag, and came upon a feature article on famous Brits. Like the writer of Casino Royale, who developed great PR for the UK as well as the character of James Bond.

Père G is like James Bond's twin, or Bond in an afterlife. Both snappily dressed celibates. Rather than running after a villian for the purposes of slaughter, G is conversely all about bringing people together - he knows so many people, and this liaison-ing function is his and the Centre's raison d'être. Rather than a cool 'look' and few words, G can be quite gestural and intense with liveliness - he has been leading a theatre class for students during the past few weeks of school holidays. Rather than know about firearms and other items by Q, G wanders around singing in the corridors, gloriously rocks out on the piano on Sunday evenings, and celebrates Mass on Tuesdays.

I chat on the plane with R, who has been working in south Algeria on a 3-week on and 3-week off routine for a year, and now extended for another year. He fixed things up at the Il Amenas site after the damage, and they've kept him on since. Yes, this is the oil field site where terrorists assassinated a number of foreign workers a few years ago. His co-worker on the plane was employed at the time, but happened to be in th UK then. Over the course of the 2.5 h flight, I witnessed R down 2 gin and tonics, and I suspect another 2 more at the back. It seems that yes, the desert can be quite dry.

Le dernier soir

Last evening here, and it has been a jam-packed week. Wonderful day today taking photographs of this lovely home away from home, and taking my last lunch at my favourite place. For dinner Père G has his ascot which symbolized "event." And his bright red (cardinal?) sweater. I brought out my 2 bottles of wine, St Augustin and Koutoubia, and for dessert we were gâtés - aside from chocolate pudding, the cooks made a beautiful chantilly and chocolate cake, with the last lemons of the garden, and decorated it ornately in patterns reminiscent of henné. My friend C came (former resident who recently moved to an apartment), as well as S who is a resident but usually does not dine. So it was a closure with much warmth, very special and touching.

Off to London in the morning. Sigh!

March 27, 1996

I went down to the cathedrale this morning. I thought that it was because I wanted to take some photographs, of what is one of the most amazing cathedrales I have seen. I stayed for Mass at 8:30. And at some point Père Julian mentioned that it was the anniversary of the abduction of the monks at Tibhirine.

Egalité, fraternité, liberté

Just in case it has not been entirely clear, Algeria is not for the faint of heart.

At some point, all the little things will make someone, perhaps a woman, crumble in despair. She could be aghast at the lack of bus route maps. The complete opacity of information at the train station. The lack of implementing seat assignments, either on planes or trains. The official re-naming of streets on maps, while on the streets themselves the old names are still in the plaques. The idea that  Oran is a fun, vibrant, partying city ... because it is only really fun and vibrant for guys.

Like "Egalité, fraternité, liberté", it was complained during the Algerian War that universal principles applied exclusively to the French. I'm finding this applies only to men here.

My Kabyl mother had really wanted me to stay at the Maison Diocésaine here. Wherever it was. She said that any taxi driver would know. Rather than have a complicated interaction with a taxi driver, armed with neither address or phone number, I decided to head for a hotel of good online repute, and well enough snagged a nice room. One cannot choose mothers, so I am grateful for her concern.

By Canadian customs, a woma, esp. an Asian-looking woman, having a dinner and a glass of wine on her own is considered atypical. Here in Oran it is well off the navigated charts. But it can be accomplished if one envisions the possible. First I do a tripadvisor check (having left all tourist material in Algiers) for a really good restaurant. I head for dinner there tonight at 7:30, which is the equivalent of 'crack of dawn' - rather early. Any combination of 'Chinese', 'woman', 'restaurant/non-home dinner' and 'pre-8:30'  would raise eyebrows. I'm not sure that women eat out for dinner - there was a party of 16 beside me - all men. And the rest were men that trickled in too. Add non-smoking, which is fine - they moved an entire table for me. Then the request, "Can I have just a glass of wine?" Unfortunately, all wine is sold by bottles - was the response. Thankfully, mid-way through my meal, the proprietor poured a very smooth Algerian Cabernet Sauvignon.

Somehow, I was imagining that there would be women on the streets here in Oran after dark. The city is quite a bit more lively than Algiers during the daytime. but it seems for both that there is still a kind of psychological couvre-feu that dates back to the troubles in the 90s (twenty years ago now!). The idea that women on the streets are loose, all foreign women are loose, and that the streets are not safe is still prevalent. Though do the most basic research on the state of the woman here, and one finds very quickly that it is within their home that women are most vulnerable to violence.

This results in truly no-fun cities that cannot develop and grow. Evenings cannot be used for public gatherings, limiting cultural gatherings of any sort. There are hundreds of cinemas, but neither audience nor films. Even in Damascus when I was there, there was a bit more of evening culture. Certainly there were women in restaurants for dinner, and women walking at night. Last weekend in Algiers, there was a concert at 4pm, with an ambience of midnight. Until Algerians sort this out, as this seems to be a collective thing, I'm not sure that there will be too many tourists staying the night (once they find a decent hotel room).

As for me, I just have to solve the riddle: how to have a good dinner, when it is at dusk that restaurants open and when women on the streets are scarce?

Fishing in the Sahara

Making good with my research here. I have turned a corner in it and it is very exciting. I should be able to share in some form at some point.

Reading a book on the doings and sayings of the Mzabites. That sand is used for cleaning, like water. Quite literally "dry cleaning."

"Sur cette aire de prière on étend une toile de sac propre sur laquelle on pose un petit plateau avec du sable pur pour les ablutions sèches, on y pose les mains (à plat), on fait une invocation, on lève les mains pour se frotter le visage, on place les doigts aux oreilles en disant "Venez, ô anges de Dieu! Partez, ô démons!"

"On this prayer area is spread a clean sackcloth on which is placed a small tray with pure sand for dry ablutions, putting hands (flat), invoking, raising hands to Rub the face, we put the fingers to the ears saying "Come, oh angels of God! Go, O demons! "

I'm not sure how bishops are made, but I wish I could attend the bishop'ing of Fr. John MacWilliam when he becomes the new Bishop of the Sahara. It will likely happen in the UK somewhere. To think that I had lunch with Bishop Claude just the day before he received the message from the Holy See. And it has taken a long time for the message to come. I read in a newsletter dated last year (Pax something...) that he though his request for a successor had fallen to the bottom of the pile at the Vatican. I'm neither a Christian or a Catholic. While I know that only baptized Catholics are to partake in Communion, I do here, and nowhere else. Oops. I cannot overemphasize that the Christian community here is truly, truly amazing. With such a small flock, and such intensely shared passion, there is a lot of love. They could have left like everyone else. But they did not, do not, and will not leave their friends in times of danger and need.

Last lunch with Z and her friend F, and quel bel surprise, Father Guillaume came too. We went to what is now my favourite little restaurant in Algiers, quite close to where I live, and the Museum Bardo, Museum of Antiquities. I've passed by it lots of times, but never went in. On the outside it looks like a fast food pizza joint. But the thing is, usually the ground floor / rez de chaussee is just that, but on another floor, it is more of a dining place. A comfortable, unpretentious place with lovely decor - Z said that this is where she can just be herself - with very good dishes, particularly the sardines and merlan. The owner said that quite recently the Belgian foreign minister came for lunch. Things are never quite what they seem here, or really anywhere. Hiding behind a pizza joint could be a petit palais...

Meli Melo

People flitting in and out of the Centre - tonight a doctoral student from Columbia U, studying Algerian cinema. Apparently there are some real gems of films to be seen, most are online. Another from Nice who is doing a documentary on Catholic churches here. His camaraman is still visa-less though in Bordeaux. In the morning, a biologist left - she came for a few days for a conference, despite it having been cancelled. Cancelled conferences left right and centre here - made the mews today.

I tell people I am from Canada, which generally consists of Montreal in most people's minds here. Algeria has a legislative representative for Algerians in Montreal, and as elections are coming up (for what they are worth), the representative was there fairly recently. In the recent bombing of the mosque, two were from Algeria. The daily news has a blog specifically for Montreal - you would think it was part of this country.

The Fetes du Tapis in Ghardaïa was much fun. It was kind of a 3 hour fashion show for carpets along the main drag. Photos permitted, by everyone of everyone - that was by far the most amazing thing. It almost felt normal. Well, apart from all the police on the ground and snipers on the roofs. Loaded guns that were shot in celebration. I'll not firget the shockwaves, the intense mini-seismic events. Lots of smoke, ventolin in hand. Z said that it reminded her of the terrorism times in the 90s.

Returned on Saturday on Tassili Airlines. Owned entirely by Sonotrach, the government-owned oil company, and mainly used to get people to the oil fields. I enjoy North African flights, the few that I've been on. You can bring water in you carry-on luggage, they're not fussy at all with how much carry-on you bring and there's lots of room up there, and for a 1.5 h flight, you get 3 non-sweet patisseries and a drink. Like the good ol' days. Though we had a 2 h delay before flight, a 30 minute delay once landed, and a 30 minute delay trying to get out of the parking lot. Unemployment is high, but they don't seem to fight it with employment.

Possibly Oran on Wednesday for a couple of days, perhaps will see where Camus and YSL lived. Finally a tour of the Casbah on Saturday. Read a bit today on the journalist Hollingworth, and her coverage of the Algerian Independence in 1962. How she delved into the Casbah to get her FLN sources. A bit also on the wars before. There is a street variously named Fraklin Roosevelt or Franklin Roosvelt that I walk down fairly often.

Friday

Rest day today. A day of getting together. Not only amplified calls to prayer, but an amplified sermon at midday for all to hear. But before, the nation is united: families gather round for a hearty couscous lunch.

It's like wiping the table in the kitchen. Why do it, Z asks, it will just get dirty in minutes. But we will enjoy the moment. In a country still, I would say, still tending to wounds past and present, a moment of unity gives a glimmer of hope.

Here in the burbs life is good. Random kids and people pass through for meals - today the director for Algerian Radio popped in for lunch, he is here in Ghardaïa for just a day. The burbs are fairly car-free, and full of natural sounds. The throbby, throaty sounds of pigeons and doves, and the chirps of small birds.

Mid-afternoon call to prayer, and people awake from their seista. Sounds of kids, and more kids.

Boys gather every evening in the open area between the 2 storey buildings, and enact World Cup matches. All the stairs become bleachers. The evening call to prayer at dusk defines the end of the game, and the start of dinner.

Mapping M'zab

A beautiful, sunny, chilly day, about 15C or so. Z and I head into Ghardaïa again, on a minibus that was rather pushing its passenger capacity limits. I tell her as we get off the bus that I just wanted to get a coffee before we head to the library. I might as well have said strip club instead of a coffee bar - she tells me that she would never have come along if I hadn't. But for 25 dinar (about 20 cents) I can hardly refuse truly excellent espresso. I tell Z that if I stayed longer here, I'd probably start a revolution by going to coffee shops every day. We slip out of the man cave.

I return to the library, where I have a very good collecting and reading session. I am not sure that I've ever received such amazing service - after helping me dig through digitized images of photographs and maps, L put all the ones I wanted on my usb stick. He probably spent an hour just helping me out on this. And said that if I wanted more I could just e-mail him. I thought this was all quite extraordinary but he tells me this is his normal work.  He and the other librarian left me on my own during the lunch siesta, also quite extraordinary I thought. But whatever, miracles can happen in libraries too.

I leave mid-afternoon, and most of the town is still depeuplée, dozed off in seista. However preparations are being made for Saturday's opening day of the Fête du Tapis, the carpet festival held every year here. And with that, the military seems to have ramped up to 3-4 personnel every block. Roads will be closed off, so Z and I will move to Ghardaïa and stay with the daughter of our hostess, who lives right where the festival will be taking place.

The region is religiously very conservative (think Puritan), and my Malian scarf wrapped around my head is the least I can do to fit in more. I find it also works to protect from sand. Also very practical is the national nose-and-mouth-cover for women, which is white and sometimes embroidered. We passed by a troupe of Japanese tourists yesterday and they had much the same surgical-type mouth protection. The mozabite women have a white adult one-sy - not dissimilar to the classic Halloween ghost costume made of a white bedsheet with two holes for eyes. Except here, there's only one hole for one eye (either one!) for married women. There's a bigger hole for more facial features for the unmarried, presumably so the guys can still check them out.

Successfully took on my own the minibus #30 back to the suburbs of El Atteuf, a minor logistic feat. Kabyl couscous for dinner with laib, which was delicious. I will have to make it on a hot summer day.

Desert cathedrales

Maoua, and Safa. Two points from which one comes and goes. These are also female Koranic names, and Maoua is the grand-daughter of S, and Safa is the daughter of the neighbour here, the one who comes everyday to check in on S.

I have been coming to and from with fair regularity now from the apartment to Ghardaïa, but today it stretched a bit horizontally. And immeasurably vertically.

Z and I visit her old friend, Bishop Rault, for lunch. At some point it dawned on me that I was regularly having breakfast with the Arch-Bishop Emeritus in Algiers, and now another Bishop encounter! It was 1 pm, and the midday call to prayer was in the air. Z asked if it was the Arabs or the Mozabites calling. And Père R, after 40-some years of service and listening, recited Allahu Akbar for us first in the recognizable Arabic chant and then in the Mozabite monotones. This is one for whom the desert is the cathedrale. He has the largest diocese in Algeria, effectively the entire Sahara. A nomad among the nomads, I read in his autobiography, he has spent much time roaming around. He will pass the torch in about a year, and is pensive about the change his life will take, particularly the more sedentary nature of what may be to come. How do you pin down a cloud? he wonders out loud to me.

I find him very sympathetic, very easy to connect to. He talks about how he tries to keep up with news in Canada on TV5, as he spent time in Port Arthur once, working on a native reserve. We talk about Rwanda while we do the dishes, about how advanced they are in certain ways there, such as the ban on plastic bags and the high representation of women in parliament. He led me to the research library they have - surprise! - and I will return tomorrow. Taking the minibus on my own, insh'a allah.

In the afternoon, I essentially crept even further into heaven in this oasis, oblivious to - or perhaps because of - the sand that is blowing everywhere. I finally visit the old town of El Atteuf proper.

Sometimes, when I see something that is supposed to be visited and seen, I wonder what it is that I am supposed to see. When I entered the Mosque of Sidi Ibrahim, it answered itself. It had light and it had dark. It had a beginning, and it had infinity. It was small, and yet immense - from a distance I would say you could not quite judge its size. It was regular, and irregular. One was born, and one was timeless. It was as if it might explain black holes, if one dwelled in it for awhile.

Insiding

What more is there to know about Ghardaïa? asked Père T at breakfast one day. Well, maybe others know, but I do not. Indeed, there is material on this place - poetic, photographic, historical, technical, etc. such as this article from 1996.

There is sand on my screen as I type this. Winds blow through all the windows and doors of S's apartment. It is the month of sand, I am told. I sit in the kitchen. Birds chirp behind, which makes me think of 'tree'. I only hear them, as today is a listening day, but here there are only palm trees down in the palmeries. In the morning, meat was set out for the local cats on the steps outside, where I sit to avoid the accumulation of cigarette smoke and anti-smoke spray. Something always tends to make me go outside. A neighbour came by to visit S - she usually does this a few times a day, S says. A mother of 5, which seems to be the respectable number of children to have here in a family. Winds create gusts outside. Small turbulances collect and swirl plastic bottles and bags in the niches of the houses here. I hear a flock of children outside. The winds bring them home as well for lunch.

Unbeknownst to me, I have been gladly participating in an Arabic / Kabyl cooking course these past few days. We have been making torte, a Ramadan soup, and something else with camel meat that has no name. I have made roses from the peels of oranges, scraped the lengths of cucumbers with a fork before slicing them, boiled almonds and removed their peels, and rinsed anything and everything, whether it came in a package or not.

S and I await the arrival of a Frigidaire. This is the general name for a fridge. Z tells me this morning that S will probably cry tears of happiness. Her old fridge, which works fine now, doesn't close during the 50-plus degree summer days. The consequence, somehow, of excessive thermal expansion. Modern appliances devised under temperature-controlled laboratories and factories, unleashed like innocent bunnies into the desert.

Ghardaïa, Ben Izguen - through the restrictions on being, moving and seeing, as a foreigner, as a non-believing and non-Mozabite outsider, as a person in a place under security, as an anglophone woman in a francosphere, I was permitted a brief glimpse into a world that has sought its own self-determination. Unlike a café, through which by habit, general determination, and a small amount of money I was able to convince the coffee guy and the all-male coffee drinking clientele that yes, women can drink coffee too, the old towns have stricter barriers though which trade seemingly is discouraged. Well, weren't we lucky that I just happened to get the keys to this house? says the tour guide. You can see it for an extra 200 dinar, on top of the 300 dinar tour fee; and he opens the door to a house laid out with labels and information sheets.

It may not want much to do with our world, or, it just might. They will put water tanks and satellite dishes on the roofs, run cables and fluorescent lights along the outside walls (nothing's sacred), and plug into the gas system and install crappy metal security doors. They will not care how we think of it all. It will remain their own inside thing.

El Atteuf

"I don't like it when they play the Koran when you are on hold," says my journey-woman, as she waits on her phone. She is not my host but essentially is the one who has brought me here in the M'Zab Valley and is responsible for me. We did not have the most auspicious incoming yesterday, with a 2 h delay due to a maintenace issue, and also a delay every step of the way to the plane, as if we were in a stop motion animation film. But the sunset flight was beautiful, and the almost-full moon gave a beaming welcome in the clear desert sky.

Today we had a day truly as women, inside, in feminized spaces. It is very rude to decline invitations, so we make visits and have lunch at F's place, and later at another apartment where we have labna/milk and dates, coffee and cakes, and many conversations in Arabic, which pass above my head. I pass the time by breathing. The old cities are very close, but we are on the new parts, where the non-Mozabites (i.e. Arabs and Kabyls) live. There are about 2 or 3 military guys every block on the main roads here - not an exceptional sign of peace - hence I am effectively forbidden to roam around like a cat off-leash and check into a hotel or guesthouse to do my own thing. Père T and S, who called to make sure I was ok, would never forgive her. They have known each other for many decades and been through much, not least Tibhurine and other horrors of the 90s. I don't want to add to their worries unnecessarily. It was quite bad 3 years ago here, and there were some tensions last year - security levels are 'ok' now, says S.

We return home in the new part of El Atteuf, and no sooner than we cross the threshold do I pronounce my intended mission to take a walk for a half hour. They concede, somewhat grudgingly.

Children, somehow, are so similar the world around. It seems that when they age into adults they become something else. Boys were kicking around a ball in the street but they catch on fairly quick when I start taking photos. Big huge smiles and screeching reactions when they see themselves on the lcd screen after. I walk up another street, and pretty soon I'm surrounded by about 20 young girls who appear from thin air. All just lovely princesses, and we do a short photo session before I head back home. They all escort me back, of course, like my personal bodyguards.

SaHaa, Madame

The streets have become a place of comfort for me. They have become more familiar, even though I have not ventured out far. I am able to get lost within a known framework; up directs me home and down directs me away from home. Shopkeepers exude a real, palpable warmth here. I bought a bouquet yesterday, on what seemed to be one of the busier days of the year for florists, and as I returned and passed by a crawling line of traffic on my street, someone said "SaHaa, Madame" -- To your health, Madame.

Philosophy seems to be a real thing here too, just like International Women's Day. Who would have thought. In my Arabic book, the initial learning sentences talk about students studying Arabic, French, history, and philosophy. Philosophy Days (2nd annual) will be held this weekend too, on the subject of Beauty. They even have philosophy workshops for kids (got to get them early).  There is great potential here in Algiers at least for a very beautiful city. The old French bones could do with some rehabilitation, and if anything, this could absorb the very high unemployment and truly bring about a 'radiant city'. The mix of density and topography already make for a spatially dynamic city, with very deep ravines, and I think could only be somewhat captured in vertical panoramas.

Discovered an excellent place for lunch today and had a very delicious chachouka - a slow-cooked sauce on top of a bowl filled with waves of crêpishness. Served by 2 grandmothers. Must return.

Smokes

First time for everything: I bought a packet of cigarettes. They are extraordinarily cheap here. The thought crossed my mind that I could partly fund a trip through a lucrative trade, continuing a history of merchant trade. But the thought went away. I am told that a few packets of smokes will be the present of choice for my hostess down in M'Zab. Whether or not I will be able to cope with a potentially smoky home is something else, but this gives me a good chance to visit a few tabacs.

Gas is also extraordinarily inexpensive. They might as well make it free, and offer society free public transport. It's about 25 DA per litre here, about $0.20 CAD or $0.13 USD. Bread, circusses, and gas.

Town day today. Cuttlefish lunch, and a couple of museums afterward. Exchanged on the informal market - good rate, friendly older man in a perfectly respectable local shop. I'd highly recommend, but I suspect word of mouth is de rigueur.

Les Fleurs d'Alger

March 8th is a real day here, unlike in Canada, France, etc. While in other countries this is a full holiday, here it is a half-day holiday - i.e., not the best day to invite extra guests for a meal and ask for extra work. I think I understood that on one International Women's Day, each woman that got off a train got a rose, and I think we may be each getting one too. I wonder if we have the choice to refuse. In any case I may take this an an opportunity to interact with one of the very photogenic, romantic-looking street florist shops here.

School holiday just now. We are collectively breathing a bit better these days as there is less traffic. The weather has been very pleasant and I should be out there, though at the moment I am just puttering away at my desk with my research material. B arrived yesterday evening - a specialist in conservation from Barcelona, and he has promised me a small article on the conservation techniques for buildings in M'Zab. I am also taking an Arabic course on the side (in French), and we zipped through 4 lessons (in a 15 lesson book) last Wednesday. Like the library system, my brain usually retrieves a requested French word in about 5 minutes.

Sunday

Morning: a ride to the Cathedrâle de Sacré Coeur with the Arch-Bishop Emeritus of the Diocese of Algiers. He comes for breakfast now and then, and offered a lift. It is truly a beautiful building on the inside - must return to take a few photos. On the outside, however, instead of the grand stairs to the main entrance there is unfortunately a gas station. One day the stairs will come. But until then it is the "Cathedrale Sonatrach." Everything is Sonatrach here - the state oil and gas company, in an oil and gas state. Even Canada imports crude oil from Algeria, though its neighbour Morocco imports from Iraq.

It is a small and very mixed congregation. On the way in there were a couple of Filipinas, for example. I meet S, a retired teacher of English who is going to Ghardaïa on Saturday. And I will join her for the same week she is there. I have just now bought myself a plane ticket, which will happily enough set me on a Dash 8 (De Havilland DHC-8 200 series), on Tassili Airlines (effectively "Air Sonatrach"). Algeria is similar to Canada in terms of cartographic reveries and itinerary realities. The trip, about a quarter of the north-south length of the country, on a bus would otherwise take 10-14 hours. I will find myself in the M'zab Valley almost exactly 86 years after Le Corbusier's visit in March 1931.

Lunch: Baked artichoke hidden by petit pois and meatballs. And a surprise visit by Mohamed Sami, a novel writer and translater.

Lunch

One of the residents, a doctoral student, gave Part 2 of a 2-part talk this morning, on the Algerian Navy during the Ottoman era (about 1500s to 1830). For Saturday 10am, there were about 30, with a trickling in every 15 minutes or so right to question period. To call it the Algerian Navy is respectful; Barbary Coast privateers could otherwise be considered to have been an absolute menace that took in a million European slaves. Coastal communities were depopulated for centuries, as people either were taken or they moved inland. I begin to understand tall walls.

After the talk, the plan was to have lunch at the Hotel El Djezair, which is quite close but lunch was easier said than done.

The security portion was fine. I went by two national guards at the street, 3 hotel guards just inside, and a sort of flip-up mechanical roadblock set into the driveway that could probably resist a tank. Continued through to the back to a somewhat hidden entrance, through which I passed my bag and myself through airport-type x-ray machines. No problem.

- I'd like to have lunch here, and I heard that there is a nice place by the pool.
- Unfortunately the pool is not yet open. But you are welcome to go to the left here.

I go to the left, and pass by photographs of the various people who have stayed here.
- May I have lunch here out on the terrace?
- Unfortunately this is the bar. You will have to go to the restaurant beside.

I go back out and to the right instead. There is a woman standing just inside the doors with a badge. The place is deserted.
- May I look at a menu please?
- I'm sorry but I do not work here.

By virtue of its illustrious history and clientele, this is an absolutely renown hotel. If they need a few actors during the day to give an air of a functioning establishment, I'm sure they could make it happen.

I head to another restaurant, where I meet a semi-retired public sector banker who is from Sonoma Valley, and his young colleague from Kabylie. The former has been coming here for 10 years and brought his own pepper grinder, a thoughtful gift from his daughter. The latter speaks good English as he studied in Rochester on a Fulbright. We have an excellent lunch and at the end, I show them the study centre where I am staying.

Fun dinner tonight with "the girls." Justin Trudeau is hot, even in Saharan Algeria.

Fil barbelé

A quiet Friday, after a Thursday where I launched myself into the bustling city to see the sights. I can report back that I spotted no tourists here. About 200,000 come each year to the country, and mostly from Tunisia. Vancouver receives about that many every week or two. I read that the government plans to develop its tourism potential by 2010, but alas that year has come and gone. It seems that the younger generation would like change, while the older generation would like peace and security.

Dinner soon. A small group tonight. We have had fairly esteemed people here, and more to come, and due to the wonderful system here we all come together to do the dishes after each meal. I went out for a walk in this area, which is full of embassy buildings. I google map a bit before, and see a few buildings with Chinese names. Someone joked at breakfast that perhaps the Grand Mosque (which "the Chinese" are building) might take the form of a pagoda when they're done, who knows. The air is very nice at dusk, and around one corner I do smell jasmine. There are lots of tall walls. And every nation has their own kind of barbed wire.

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News flash at dinner: a Norwegian cruise ship came into the harbour today. Père G says this was the first time he's ever heard of one here, though Google tells me this is number 3. I take that there *has* been progress on tourism. The police presence on the streets either equalled or outnumbered the passengers. The boat fed them through the Casbah on its most inactive day, which is a pity. I imagine that many might have wanted to experience the area in its everyday, authentic spirit. But perhaps what we have here is a demonstration of both change and security.

The weather has turned, quite dramatically. Very high winds at the moment, causing even a car alarm to go off.

Mardi Gras

A visit from the Soeurs Blanches tonight. One from Burkina, and we reminisce about the Village des Artistes in Ouaga. Another who arrived from France in 1958 (i.e. during the War, so quite in the opposite direction of most), and another from Spain 50 years ago, who I could barely understand, and who went directly to Kabylie (off limits area, but her home). The latter somehow correctly identified the cook (who I've not seen yet) as being from Kabylie, nothing short of amazing to all of us. She could barely hear, barely see, barely walk (all her words), and yet her sense of taste was very much exercised and intact. We all started with a 'petit gout' of an aperitif, but she asked for 'more than a taste.' We conclude with crepes in honour of the day.

Otherwise a lazy, jetlagged day. Walked a bit, and survived. This city has value-engineered out not only ATMs but also red lights. Maxed out my library borrowing privilege (5 books, via catalogue search and retrieved by the librarian only), which must remain in the reading room (sigh).

Arrival

We have a wonderful dinner. The French language flowing well above my head, and everyone in good spirits. There are about 10 of us, all from France except one originally from Martinique and another from Morocco. With tall, lively Pere G at the head of the table, truly very open-hearted and full of life, air fills his lungs and blood runs through his veins. He gives directions to places that google cannot provide (like the municipal library), he tells of the different Algerian dishes we have, and offers a lemon drink, a gift made by the Sisters of Annunciation in Bobo, Burkina Faso. He tells me the library is particularly well stocked on architecture, and I cannot wait.

My arrival went smoothly. The plane was perhaps 20% full, and almost entirely of men. This continued right through into the airport, and it felt more like I had wandered into the wrong washroom, rather than I landed on a construction site. I chatted with the guy beside me, a Brit, who gave me a landing card. They don't offer these on the flight, he says. He comes every two weeks, and works on silicon chip manufacturing. He gave me tips on finding the ATM in the airport (it's the one with VISA on it), and quite successfully I found it, as it was the most normal thing in the world. There might be one other ATM in the city that accepts foreign plastic, and from what I gather from a blog, this required assistance from members of the Algerian Army. I asked for X dollars. It negotiated and said how about Y?

Two of the wallet-busting wad of bills went to the taxi driver. This was also a normal experience. They wait in line at a taxi stand, and they tell you a price a little more than what you've been told. He is perhaps in his 70s, but boy, drives like he owns the road. The judicial, psychological, and mechanical nuances were completely honed down by this guy. There were spaces in between cars I never knew existed. He needed no map; he knew exactly how to get me to my destination, even though he had never been there before. He sniffed the air, and went from there.

Traffic is an acknowledged thing to be wrestled and wrangled with. Like anywhere else, but very much more so here, traffic accidents cost far more lives than anything to do with terrorists. A group of four here are doing a programme on something to do with truck traffic. In the next month, there will be a lecture by urbanists and planners, on some sort of 'accidental intervention.' If I translate that right.

My room is a lovely 12'x12' haven of security, serenity and simplicity, looking out to a courtyard of cacti and succulents. Liketypical middle eastern architecture, and perhaps monastic, it does not have much of a facade (a door and a number), and the heart of the place is a fruitful, empty place. I opened two doors, and let in the call to prayer at sunset, the first I've heard for awhile. French maps dating from 1928 tell me about the local climate, of good and bad agricultural times, and the colour of the Sahara is matched by my room's walls. The entire place was built in 1962 or shortly thereafter. It is a place of simple hospitality for the purposes of supporting research on all things Algerian. I have a large oak desk, 'professor-sized,' which soon enough will support my own efforts.

Pitter-patter

I arrived at Heathrow in the afternoon, and my senses awoke, vaguely, to the feel that this is not Kansas anymore. 'Do you live in Algeria?' asked the customs officer. In the grand tradition of verbal exchange with authorities, I offered a simple 'No.'

Having transferred to the hotel near Gatwick, I soon discovered why I got such a good deal. In my mid-afternoon slumber, construction to improve facilities was in positive action. But as the drilling continued and the fire alarm rang, like a mound on a bed of comfortable soil, I was hardly to stir.

My flight is in the morning. The window (vinyl, right-hand inward casement, with restrictor) is open. It is an unexpected, rare treat in what seems to be a modern land of exposed exterior mechanical systems. The pitter-patter of rain layers with the occasional swoosh of a car, and the hum of an airport that perhaps sleeps little. I had a delightful, nourishing curry in the hotel restaurant for dinner. It served as a reminder that the extraordinary can come from the hands of the ordinary.

One of the pleasures of travelling to the east (Europe) is waking up at midnight and having a lot of quiet time. Usually I do some timed-release reading preparation for a trip, and there was no exception in this case. I wandered in the woods of Camus in the fall, watched The Battle of Algiers, and stumbled upon the Algerian nationalist Abdelkhader in the biography of Anglo-Syrian Jane Digby. Literature on this place, however, a vast desert in the English-speaking world. The first Lonely Planet on Algeria was published in 2007, and the copy which is accompanying me is in relatively pristine condition - a complete set of pages, a good spine, and perhaps a greyness on the edges due only to dust and not to handling. And in this quiet time of pitter-patter, I journey into my Bradt and LP and Petit Fute, into a vast landscape with pockets of the incredible. How one guidebook, and indeed a single country, can fathom what it does is a bit beyond my comprehension. Who *hasn't* been to Algeria would be the question. There may be, in fact, more in Mandarin on current affairs here, and if I am lucky I may find a noodle shop, and need to brush up on how to request 'not spicy.' I will acknowledge my arrival to a kind of heaven if I can have a bowl of foul for breakfast and shrimp rice rolls for lunch.

And if this is the humble promise and potential of the unknown, so be it.