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).
Tuesday, 28 February 2017
Monday, 27 February 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, 26 February 2017
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.
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.
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