After 36 years of scorn and isolation, Libya--slowly--looks westward.
Entering the Sahara from Libya's north coast, you encounter a vastness of rock and hard-packed sand so flat and immense that the Earth seems to curve under your gaze. It is likely an optical illusion, the mind providing an explanation in the face of such an expanse, the way it interprets the glassy reflections in the near distance as water. On very hot days, locals say, the sun bleaches the sky and the sand, whitening out all points of reference. For some people it can be quite literally mind-blowing, inducing Sahara syndrome, a temporary anxiety disorder that has pushed some of its victims to the fringe of insanity.
For our party of six visitors, the awe the desert inspires is not so threatening. Between two rugged French guides, a team of Tuaregs--the indigenous Muslim nomad drivers who are experts at navigating the terrain--and the accoutrements of modern wayfaring, namely handheld GPS devices and satellite phones, we're well-guarded from disaster. Then again, glimpsing eternity in the desert is not just a physical risk; it's also a cosmic one that's apt to touch your nerves, if not your soul.
At the sight of our first chain of dunes erupting from the desert floor (an erg, in desert parlance), the Tuaregs halt our
caravan of SUVs and get out to pray. Their heads and faces are wrapped in colored scarves; the traditional indigo dye on these sheshes, as the scarves are called, colored their faces, so they became known as the blue men of the desert. (Volkswagen borrowed--you might say carjacked--their name to brand their Touareg SUV model.)
We pile back into the vehicles and continue into the thick, soft sand at the base of the dunes. Everyone is swept up in the excitement. The Tuaregs yelp and ululate, and after we get out, they spin the wheels and make figure eights in the sand.
My fellow travelers and I start climbing. Two main dunes the color of ground cinnamon tower over tributaries of sand. From a bird's-eye view, they must look like dinosaurs with ridged backs and tails. The sky is pure blue, and the pale, late
afternoon sunlight beaming down on one side of every ridge separates light from darkness and casts shadows
that pool in scooped-out hollows. A light breeze sweeps granules of sand, which roll in miniature waves like liquid.
I settle into a patch of shadow to take some photos, but when I
remove the camera, the lens hood pops off and bodysurfs on the sand and into the grains of forever.
"Well, there goes six bucks, shot to hell," I say to my mate Pearse Umlauf. It's not easy climbing in soft sand, and even if it won't kill me to go down and up again, I can live without the hood.
"I'll get it," Pearse says. He and his wife, Jill Smith, widely traveled northern Californians, are well equipped. They have gadgets and gear for all exigencies, even devices to perform emergency surgery.
"If you don't make it back," I say, "can I use your sat phone?"
We laugh, probably harder than the line deserves; it's a
release, a kind of valve to let out the built-up exuberance. The
literal meaning of Sahara is "sand sea," so maybe the elation comes from walking on water.
Or maybe we're just lucky to be on the sunny ridge of Sahara syndrome.
Who would have expected such good feelings in a nation whose name has for more than a generation been a synonym for evil? It was, after all, the evil that was part of the reason I'd come. Since Libyan leader Colonel Muammar al-Qaddafi seized power in a 1969 coup, declaring a new form of government that would meld socialism and Islam, the country had spent more than a generation beefing up its creds as the terror-supporting, WMD-building, human rights-abusing point guard in the global dream team of evildoers. Off-limits to Westerners in general, Americans in particular--and Judenrein since 1970, ending 2,000 years of Jewish presence--Libya had recently, at least officially, begun to ask itself whether political and diplomatic isolation, economic stagnation and rotting internal infrastructure were necessarily wise growth strategies going forward.
After the country agreed to pay $2.7 billion to families of
victims of the 1988 Pan Am Flight 103 plane bombing over Lockerbie, Scotland, international sanctions were lifted. Libya then ended its WMD program, announced economic reforms to its bastardized socialist system and opened bids to multinational companies on leases to its oil fields. (It has Africa's largest proven reserves, surpassing even Nigeria.) Most importantly, at least from a post-9/11 American perspective, Libya offered to share intelligence on Al Qaeda and other militant Islamist organizations--which, as it happens, are Qaddafi's adversaries as well. Libya, anathema to Islamists for being insufficiently religious, first issued an Interpol arrest warrant for Osama bin Laden in 1998.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say. But Libya, which holds out hopes for Marshall Plan-style
aid, hasn't made the White House guest list just yet.
Even as he courts world leaders and representatives
of Congress, Qaddafi remains a crank dictator who
rules the population of 5.6 million with a clenched fist. The country, its land mass larger than Alaska, has so far had to content itself with trickles of tourism. Tripoli and Benghazi are hip new ports of call on the Mediterranean cruise circuit, and university alumni groups are booking trips to the ruins in Leptis Magna and Sabratha, which scholars consider among the best records of Roman antiquity in the world and which, for the time being at least, are far less tourist-infested than those in neighboring Tunisia.
And some, like our merry band, are coming for the desert.
A number of U.S. outfitters have jumped into Libyan tourism. For our desert journey, we've gone with Mountain Travel Sobek, a northern California company that specializes in outdoor adventure trips and partners in Libya with a French company, Hommes et Montagnes. It is through them that we wound up with our guides, Jean-Yves Brizot, a soulful veteran
of expedition travel, and his assistant, Vincent DuFour, who
has spent four months exploring with the Tuaregs, picking up phrases in Arabic and Tamasheq.
Our itinerary takes us on a skim of the ruins, which set
Libya in context as a major player of antiquity, starting with the Phoenicians and coming into its own under the Romans, when one of its native sons, Septimius Severus, ruled the empire and enlarged his hometown of Leptis Magna into its second city. Ruins, though, are not just historical curiosities: They also have contemporary meaning, and when the Italians colonized the
area in the 1900s, they set to restoring Leptis Magna and Sabratha to legitimize their historic claims to the land. That effort lasted through Mussolini's regime, which gave way to British occupation until independence in 1951. A monarchy ruled for
almost 18 years prior to a coup led by the then 27-year-old Qaddafi. Political isolation has made Libya seem remote, though it's geographically well-situated, a proverbial stone's throw from Europe.
Beyond 1,100 miles of mostly undeveloped Mediterranean coastal real estate, Libya is also a gateway to the Sahara, which we reach after a couple of long days of driving, stopping in Nalut, a thousand-year-old mountaintop Berber settlement near the Tunisian border. Everywhere, people are unfailingly warm, and all the more so when they hear that we're American. Just past the town's mandatory billboard featuring the Leader, as Qaddafi is known, an old man sidles up to us and offers two fresh-baked baguettes. They have an intoxicating smell, but we're on our way to dinner, and in our jaded-traveler ways, we try to tell him we're not buying. Then we're left feeling ashamed when we realize he isn't selling but offering a gift.
In Ghadames, an oasis town, we tour the old settlement, a labyrinthine whitewashed enclosure of beam-and-thatch- covered alleys with two-story courtyard homes--austere, efficient and most of all, cool. No one has lived in this UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1986, but because it's built over an oasis, the settlement is still well-tended, with courtyard gardens, abundant date palms and citron orchards.
From here, it's into the desert of the Tassili n'Ajjer. We spend a good deal of time in the vehicles. The drivers rumble down rocky slopes that bring to mind the "Built Ford Tough" commercials and plow through sand that's like deep snow. Now and again they don't get up enough speed to summit the crest of some dune and have to circle back and try again. Herds of camels appear on these great sand savannahs to feed on the wickedly sharp needles of acacia trees. From soft dunes and tiny oases, we roll onto blackened, dried-out lake beds, moonscapes of boulders, cindered ruins of nature littered with prehistoric fossils, petrified rock and Paleolithic tools and weapons. The changes in terrain happen suddenly or seamlessly; either way, it's amazing how many varieties on a theme there are. Pyramids of dunes appear on one horizon, buttes and mesas on another.
In general, the language barrier restricts conversation between the tourists and the Tuaregs. The word inventory consists of "How are you?" and "Salaam alaikum," and after that we're about tapped out. Our own curious fashions come under scrutiny, in particular the facial piercings of one traveler. "They want to know why you did it," someone translates. It's such an obvious question that he's stumped. "Well," he says finally, "I guess you could say they're decorations."
We spend a day and a night in a narrow canyon, scrub and stunted, gnarled trees filling in the space between rock walls. We set ourselves up under a rock formation and have a long group snooze before exploring the canyon's galleries of pictographs, some of which are more than 10,000 years old. Scenes depict men in horse-pulled chariots, children jumping into a pool of water, a man and woman, possibly bride and groom, holding hands. Paintings and etchings are spread throughout the region.
Night is perhaps the most fascinating time in the desert. We pitch our tents far away from one another, but I follow the Tuaregs' lead and sleep outside. (Although they have adopted many modern ways and have mostly settled in towns in Libya, Tuareg tradition holds that houses are living tombs.) I can't see or hear the others, and the stillness is otherworldly and full of contradiction. Lying on my back, I have a sensation of floating in space. In the same moment, I feel as if I'm the master of the universe and a speck of dust. The cosmos itself is deep and
active, a stellar chandelier with millions of bright and flickering lights. I can see a terrifying distance, yet they seem close enough to touch. Star showers, streaks of comet dust, fleet across my field of vision. I hardly want to sleep. Why miss a moment? I snooze, and each time I wake up, I check my watch to make sure there's still plenty of time left before daybreak.
It is little wonder that the desert has been fertile ground for
religion. It's a space for revelation, for Big Thoughts, an immense open-air temple.
In years of living in and visiting the Middle East, I'd managed to avoid riding a camel even once, but the circumstances provide me a T.E. Lawrence moment, and so on the fourth day I mount the fatty hump and jounce and endure it for an hour, wondering how this animal ever became
a great advantage in desert warfare. But I'm no warrior, and see that my earlier instinct was the right one and dismount, completing the day's wander on foot.
As we hike, the Tuaregs, our desert Sherpas, break camp and prep meals. The cook, Sidy, is dexterous, considering that he's not exactly working in a designer kitchen. He makes savory stews, couscous and pasta. His assistant, Issa, bakes sand bread by kneading dough, clearing the embers of the campfire, laying the dough directly on the ground, then covering it with the embers, creating a makeshift oven. The heat somehow burns off all the grit.
Our last and longest hike proves a highlight, a seven-mile jaunt through Tassili n'Maridet to Wan Regaya,
a forest of soaring rock formations. They take on shapes--eagles and rhinos and fish; two heads that look like king and queen chess pieces on fields of sand and cindered rock.
"Pay attention to what the desert does to your psychology," says Jean-Yves, our guide. The 41-year-old led rugged exploratory journeys in 40-plus countries until he settled in Niger in 1992 to create a silver guild that produces the Tuareg collection for Hermès, the luxury goods company. He loves the desert both for its mysteries and its austerity, an environment conducive to reflection. "What do you think?"
"I have to think about it," I say. The truth is, I love deserts too, and this spot strikes me as particularly precious, but I would have to wander a bit more to gather the words to describe how its sights and smells and size move me. It is a picture of the world before people, and yet it leaves me feeling settled in the here and now.
Jean-Yves walks a step or two ahead, and his sandals imprint a message in the sand: Mephisto. "Nice shoes," I say. "I'm in the desert on the heels of the devil."
On our last two days, we come upon something unexpected and oddly thrilling: a paved road. And then, heading east along the Wadi al-Hayat on the southern fringe of the Ubari Sand Sea, we get a taste of a sandstorm, which forces a change to our itinerary and abbreviates our visit to the Ubari Lakes, oases that actually look like the kind you see in movies, with palm-fringed ponds large enough to float a raft on. There, men from Niger
sell silver objects spread out on floor cloths, and we bargain and
buy, and then we're about ready, I think, to return to civilization.
Or Tripoli, anyway.
I had a couple of free days in the Libyan capital. In recent decades, the population has exploded, growing from 400,000
in 1970 to an estimated two million in 2005, and much of the new sprawl is bleak, with hurriedly constructed buildings still sprouting rods of rebar.
The downtown, where the city's recent Italian past is apparent, is considerably more appealing. Around Green Square, the main piazza, and all along wide avenues such as the Sharia 1 September are espresso bars and cafࡕs where men in vests
and sports jackets would look at home in Rome. Women wear scarves and robes, but the boutique mannequins model fashionable Western garb, which suggests the outer garments are purely for public consumption.
In the medina, the walled old city, craftsmen carry on ancient traditions. An elderly weaver, his head covered, his feet bare, makes fabrics on a loom. In one alley, smiths cacophonously beat copper pots. In shops, spices are piled into miniature dunes and blend with the aroma trailing after young men bearing trays
of Arabic coffee mixed with cardamom. In a poor section inhabited by sub-Saharan Africans, I discover a crumbling, long-abandoned synagogue.
People are as friendly here as everywhere, and they're downright enthusiastic when they hear that I'm an American, with greetings and introductions and offers to show me around. One fellow invites me to attend a concert in
the evening with him; another gives me a music cassette of a popular Libyan singer. Such friendliness is typical in souks and bazaars. Usually it's contrived, part of the selling ritual. Here, though, no one tries to sell me anything at all. Like prisoners in solitary, they seem happy enough just for the contact.
I've been warned that people won't talk politics. The society is known to be crawling with informers. Yet, when I ask questions, I find
numerous willing talkers who in quiet, private spaces express vigorous disgust with the Leader and everyone associated with him. They wish the 1986 U.S. bombing, which targeted Qaddafi personally and killed a four-year-old girl said to have been his adopted daughter, had been successful in removing him.
"America has to come and do for us what she do for Iraq," one fellow says. He's probably about 30, but serious tooth decay makes him look older. (I'll refrain from describing him further, lest he lose more teeth, or worse.) "Thirty-six years of this is enough."
"I'm not sure the Iraqis are so happy at the moment," I say.
"Were they happy before? America did Iraq a very, very big favor. Why not she do for Libya?"
"Aren't you afraid, speaking to me like this?"
"I don't care," he says. "Let them come and take me! This is no life here." Yet, when a stranger approaches, he falls silent. After she leaves, he says, "You know, the truth is, I am very tense talking to you." He repeats that he doesn't care, but he looks suddenly anxious.
His viewpoint does not seem uncommon. In one place, a half-dozen men crowd around one fellow who speaks passable English, and they feed him lines to pass along. They want freedom. They want democracy. The newly announced reforms are window-dressing, and Qaddafi has to go. They speak with such passion that I'm concerned they got the impression that it's all my call whether the troops will come; meantime, I feel as if I've somehow fallen into a group dream for neoconservatives. When the English-speaker is called away for a minute, the others stand looking at me quietly, except for one elderly fellow who knows a couple of words. "Bush wonderful!" he says. "Bush wonderful!" Later, when I take out my camera, they all duck and run for cover.
On my last morning, I beat the hordes to the Jamahiriya Museum, housed in a four-story medieval castle on Green Square, Tripoli's main piazza, overlooking the Mediterranean. The Jamahiriya's collection contains the country's history; some scholars insist its treasures are second only to those of the British Museum in London. There's an intact fourth-century Roman mausoleum, statues and striped cipollino columns quarried from Leptis, mosaics with geometric motifs and preserved rock paintings. There are exhibits on now-extinct animal life and the vernacular architecture of the Berbers. The top floor is devoted to the Leader and his revolution, but it's the tragicomic artifact on the first floor that you can't but notice: Amid the marvelous sculpted works of antiquity is a pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle, Qaddafi's ride into power in 1969.
What overbrave curator would have been foolish enough to say "no thanks"?
Perhaps someday they'll put it down to an exceedingly long bout of Sahara syndrome.
Getting There
Available through spring 2006, a two-week trip to Libya with Mountain Travel Sobek costs $5,000 per person, airfare not included. (800) 282-8747, www.mtsobek.com.