Stirring Point

We buzzed through streets, splitting lanes and taking shortcuts. It was 7:00 p.m. and the Algerian air was still hot. Exhaust fumes billowed black smoke into our faces as we tore past buses and old Renault beaters. I held the camera in one hand and clutched the back of the motorbike with the other. I might fly off this thing if he cracks the throttle, I thought. Slim chance, though. We were en route to the gym for training and I felt bulletproof. The sensation of freedom rippled through every fiber of my being.

The traffic was thick with erratic lane switching, jaywalking pedestrians, and police checkpoints. We sliced through it with ease, laughing and joking as we moved. Algeria’s most decorated jiu jitsu black belt was driving us to his gym for another night of exhausting effort. His cauliflower ears cut a distinct silhouette in front of me as he leaned with the bike from one side to the other. The gym is settled deep in the guts of Algiers, along an obscure dirt road and near a featureless overpass. It’s smack dab in the center of some GPS Bermuda Triangle, and word of mouth is how one finds the place; even that could send a local in some directional blunder.

We arrived at the gym and I lept off the bike. A sandy pathway with knee-high scrub brush led to the entrance of the club, and past a single high-heeled shoe. Its delicate floral pattern was faded from the sun, and gave the impression it had been there for months. 

I felt my heartbeat increase as we walked towards the door. The evening’s session was guaranteed to be a grind. Algeria Warrior Team spars with fire in their veins and for the previous 4 nights, they’d line up hungry for the challenge to roll with an outsider. Each round ended with two or three people towering over my labored body, asking “Can we fight next?” or, “Will you go with me now?” I, on the other hand, aimed merely to survive each night without injury. But this day felt different. My veins were bursting with fire and I was ready to bring the battle to them. The tension in my shoulders, neck, and jaw were all gone. No fear, no axiety, no self-doubt. I was ready.

We walked into the locker room, joking and loose. I smiled and laughed as I changed into my rashguard and grappling shorts. I dreamt of this moment. Not long ago, this whole thing was some distant idea. Grappling in Algeria? Really? And now I’m here, 5500 miles from home and preparing to scrap. I glanced around the room at the cast of characters with whom I’d been training: Ousama, Shark, Redouane, Yassim, the guy they call Genghis Khan–a killer’s row of jiu jitsu players laughing and talking about all sorts of locker room nonsense in French and Arabic. Ousama turned to me and explained chunks of the conversation in English as we went. No one seemed to give a damn about our differences, our worldviews, our politics at this moment: none of that mattered. Jiu Jitsu mattered. In here, we were all the same, reminding me of the feeling in my locker room at home.

We walked up the stairs to the training room, grabbed our mouthpieces from our bags, and hit the mat. The heat bore down on us like a wet, steamy blanket. We warmed up with yoga, drilled techniques for 30 minutes, then partnered up and began sparring. The mat was drenched in sweat as we latched collar ties around each other’s necks, fighting for supreme positioning. I felt the burn of lactic acid building in my forearms after a few rounds and worked to relax. “Bshwiya,” the coach had told me over and over the day prior. “Calm down,” I repeated to myself as I circled each opponent, looking for an opening.

Our rounds were fierce, forcing our minds and bodies beyond former benchmarks of discomfort. My chest heaved from the pressure of a heavy opponent on top of me. Relentless forward progress, I thought, as I worked to calm my breath. We’d fight back up to standing, then immediately slip on the sweat and hit the ground. Outside heel hooks. Triangles. Wrist locks. Everyone brought their A-game. And when the final bell rang, the whole group stood entirely saturated, as if we’d just stepped from the tides of the nearby Mediterranean Sea.

We grabbed each other by the shoulders, slapping backs, sharing handshakes and taking photos. 

“Take a video with me?” they’d request. “Can you share your thoughts on Algeria for the camera?”

“Sure can,” I’d say. “Hey! This is John from Denver, Colorado. Algeria has been….”

For 20 minutes, it was a nonstop photoshoot. Selfies, group shots, endless peace signs, shockas, and thumbs up. Serotonin was high and I felt almost weightless. Smiles bounced around the room like pinballs from a paddle. This is what I came for. This moment, right here. I came to see the transcendence of barriers, languages, and culture: using jiu jitsu as the sole point of entry. Our grips on the mat are the same in every language, acting as one shared tongue. The moment made the whole damn journey a success.

When the celebration died down, we walked to the locker room and showered. After changing into clean clothes, a gregarious team member approached and thanked me for visiting Algeria. He loved American culture, he told me, and his smile beamed at the idea of visiting one day.

“I love Los Angeles and New York. I love American movies. Rush Hour, Jackie Chan, comedians like Kevin Hart, rap music. I want to see America,” he says. “Do Americans know about Algeria?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“What do they think about Algeria?” he asked. His eyes were wide and hopeful, searching for a sense of reciprocal validation. America was worth knowing about and surely Algeria was worth knowing about too. “Do Americans know much about Algeria?”

I felt the air leave my chest. 

“I don’t believe so,” I said. “There’s not much reporting on Algeria in the American media, so I’m unsure that most Americans are familiar with it.”  

I watched his hope deflate as he gazed back into my eyes. His face seemed to search for a sense of understanding.

“They don’t know about us?” he asked, as he blinked away the sweat draining into the corner of his eye.

I felt dreadful for my honesty–that I’d somehow reduced his homeland to little more than a trifling afterthought on the world’s stage. I tried to salvage his hope. “There are so many places in the world, it’s difficult to be familiar with them all. Almost 200 countries, so there is only so much people can read or hear about. But, I’m certain they would feel very welcome in Algeria and would be as happy as I am to visit.  And that’s why I’m here, to learn and understand more about Algeria, and you, man. I’m here to learn about you.”

“You will tell people from America to come to Algeria?” he asked. 

“Yeah, brother. I will,” I said. “I can only reach so many people, but I’ll tell everyone who will listen!”

A smile crept back across his face, nodding with approval for a good plan. But his face also showed a rock-jawed certainty that external validation in no way devalued his pride and reverence for his country. Algeria is a nation of fighters, hard-boiled by 132 years of colonialism and ferocious fighting for independence–only seeing liberation from French rule in 1962. His country cast off the colonial chains with the blood and commitment of its people. And it was clear to me that he didn’t need validation from anyone. 

We talked jiu jitsu for a few more moments, elevating the tone back to where we started. But I still felt like I turned a screw too tight. Was I wrong? Had I projected my ignorance about Algeria unfairly upon other Americans? The Trojan Horse of self-doubt had breached the walls of contentment for a moment, reminding me how fickle our states of mind can be. Best intentions. You were honest with what felt like the best intentions. This simple awareness allowed me to adjust the knob on my perception, reminding me that balanced thinking is always resting in the palm of our hand.

I found the coach and we walked to his motorbike. He hit the starter and the engine gurgled to a low rumble. As we hopped on and sped down the road, my blood pulsed with the pace of traffic. I smiled at nothing beyond the night, happy to be healthy and submerged in someone else’s purview. The night air washed over our faces, providing a cool breeze only darkness can deliver. I wanted to share this moment with everyone I knew; to share a gulp of this rarified air coursing through my lungs. I was happy. I was free. I was part of a community that brought joy to others. I watched people walk by in traditional dress as we zipped through nearby neighborhoods. Tables were filled with young men playing dominoes and eating fast food. Countless characters sat along benches and sills around the sidewalk’s edge. We moved with purpose down the road. They sat with purpose alongside the road. All people together, tucked in the same space for a fleeting moment, immersed in the pleasure of the crisp Algerian air.