AN INDELIBLE MARK ON MY SOUL
Libya. It took eight days to get to the oasis of Djanet. Here, we could at least wash off the dust from the goat shit that had dusted up not only our bodies but our faces, nostrils, and ears. A few more days later, we made it to the border checkpoint. A no-man’s land spanning 30 kilometers (19 miles) separated Algeria and Libya. On the Algerian side, I was warmly welcomed by soldiers who gave me cigarettes and Coca-Cola. They told me that they hadn’t seen a European in the two years that they had been there. The outpost was only a cargo container. How on earth did they manage to get it there in the middle of the cold Sahara…?
On the Libyan side, I was registered by an old gentleman who spelled my name in Arabic based on how I pronounced it. Upon entering Libya, I was immediately arrested by a mustachioed man dressed in an air force uniform.
I was taken to the city of Ghat. I traveled through a very civilized country with good roads and good organization. Gaddafi has created a rich country, I must say.
No matter how much of a Swedish socialist I said I was, I was refused entry into Libya. I was sent back to no-man’s land. My friends with the goats took me by the hand, and we walked away hand-in-hand. My closest friend told me to get away before I got into big trouble. He placed some money in my hand for my food and wished me God’s peace from Allah.
Stuck in No-Man’s Land
I felt like a fool for not having succeeded in getting into Libya and to suddenly have had to get away from my friends. But now, the question was how to get back to Algeria. I was now in no-man’s land, niether in Libya nor in Algeria. After a day, a bitter Libyan who was going back to the oasis of Djanet let me ride on top of his truck. When we arrived at the boat container outpost at the border again, I was just as welcome back into Algeria with smiles from the border guards. We reached Djanet a few days later.
Though the Oasis of Djanet
I met some shepherds outside of Djanet, where I slept on the sand. They gave me goat milk in the morning. During the day, I went to the market. I didn’t have much money, but dates were cheap; so, I bought mostly dates. Since I had been walking around with the same head covering as the Tuaregs, nobody realized that I was a foreigner in the beginning. There are a number of Tuaregs with light eyes and by then, my skin was dark from long exposure to the sun; but over time, everyone knew who I was.
Taking care of a stranger without a home was a code of honor that the people practiced, and it was also a big part of the Muslim tradition. When I bought my dates one day, the shop owner declared it was free. I told him that I had money and then put the money in his shirt pocket and left. He ran after me, almost aggressively turning me around. “I am not taking your money,” he hissed. “AND you will definitely come to my house and have a real dinner!”
And so I did. Then I continued on. Another man who understood that I was trustworthy came and offered to pay for my flight to Algiers. I have never met more helpful people.
Leaving the Oasis
Finally, after a week, I got a lift from a tour guide who was going to Tamanrasset. It was the first transport that was leaving Djanet in a week. The road we took was different from the one when I came from Tamanrasset. We probably crossed the border into Niger; maybe we were even in Niger. The man who was driving didn’t seem to fully know where he was going.
In Tamanrasset, there is more traffic, if you can call it that. I made my way back up north on pick-up trucks and lorries. I even rode with an old man on a wagon being pulled by a donkey for a while. So I went, until I reached the border to Tunisia. For a few days, I slept in a shipping container in Tunis. I climbed up a couple of containers and had my own apartment in protection from an unexpected black cloud that poured rain over Tunis.
Back in Europe
I hitchhiked to a salt desert and then found a ferry to cross over to Sicily, Italy; up through Switzerland, where the Alps were already powdered with white snow. Winter was on its way. I had the luck and luxury of being picked up by an architect with a beautiful vintage growling Jaguar that glided through the mountains on a glorious sunny day. Up through Germany, on the ferry to Denmark and then to Sweden via the Helsingør-Helsingborg route. I was in a bit of a hurry to get back to my province of Jamtland because I needed to get home to change out things in my backpack and then hitchhike down to Lübeck in Germany. I was about to start my next trip to Central America and Mexico as a bodyguard and translator for Dietz Evers, a former doctor who became a geologist. But that’s another story.
My 3-month trip took place in 1990. It was three decades ago, but it left a mark on my soul and my thoughts. The Sahara, the people I met, and the Tuareg people who live there give a feeling of moving far back in time, into the time of Moses. The size of the Sahara, from the brutal strength of the heat and the winds, to the totally silent cold nights, gave me an experience bordering on religious. Today, Algeria is said to be a dangerous country with militant Muslims, and it’s not safe to travel to. I hear it often, but I’m not sure if that is so. The people I met there were some of the most beautiful and hospitable individuals I have ever encountered in all my travels.
