Stirring Point

I waved at Maleyka and her cousins once more before throwing my bag in the taxi. “Sahha, Merci,” I said, knowing this was the last time I’d see familiar faces for a while. Goodbyes are countless when one travels this way for months on end. As travelers, we forge meaningful connections during our time with others, and when the road calls, we look back for only a moment, then shift our gaze towards a new horizon. This restlessness yanks fleeting friendships in half, yet we accept this as part of the journey, knowing it’s a price we pay for the freedom to roam. To fight the separation each time would be like fighting to hold the sun before it sets. We promise to call and write to each other, but like a campfire in a rainstorm, the flames eventually fade.

It was 6:00 a.m. as the taxi backed out of the driveway and drove towards the edge of the city. We stopped and bought cups of mint tea from a roadside stall, then sped off into the desert. The dry morning air flooded the car and cooled our skin, while Algeria shifted to a memory in the rearview mirror. Tunisia was just an hour away, and I was ready for the change. I had a thin outline for the day:

Step 1: Get to the border.

Step 2: Cross the border.

Step 3: Find a way to Tozeur.

Everything beyond the crossing was a guess. Are taxis waiting? Where can I change money? Where will I stay? A few nights prior, I’d probed Algerian friends for updates on safety and logistics for when I got across. Several people told me there’d be taxis available and currency exchange booths just beyond the Tunisian border complex. And if worse came to worst, I could thumb it to the nearest town. Good enough for me.

The drive from Negrine to the Algerian border town of Taleb Larbi jerked me from a sleepy haze. The landscape shifted as we moved, from tightly packed clay to sweeping sand dunes creeping across sections of the road. The sand swallowed the asphalt inch by inch, eventually bottlenecking our path into a one-lane highway. Sand drifts piled high on each side, like mountain snow after a winter storm, then opened back up to a clear two-lane road where the wind was weaker. Camels lumbered in unattended caravans across ridgelines and wind-swept depressions; road signs in French warned of dromedary crossings. Distant dunes met the horizon, melting desert into sky. This particular stretch of desert felt foreign, open, and inhospitable. This place takes much more than it gives, I thought. How long would I last out there on my own without water? 2 days? Maybe 3? 

My driver stared ahead, sipping his tea and watching the road. I tried shooting videos from the passenger window but quickly gave up and attempted to memorize the scenery instead. Capturing the scale of the surroundings by phone felt silly. I brought the device to my lap and stared back into the distance.

Within the hour, we pulled into Taleb Larbi, a border town with wide streets and low brick buildings. An eerie emptiness seemed to transmit through the air, like a town the world had forgotten. The cruel sun pounded every exposed surface, and I imagined the community only roused itself in the summer months when necessary. I looked for signs of life as we drove, spotting little: a Berber man crouched under the low shade of an olive tree, and a young boy wheeled out an air compressor in front of a tire repair shop. This was no place to squander energy.

We drove through town, reaching the entrance to the border a few minutes later, where the taxi pulled over to the sidewalk. I fished 4000 dinar (approximately $20 USD) out of my pocket and handed it to him. He placed his right hand on his heart and smiled softly. Four cars were lined up to cross the border, waiting to process their paperwork. I grabbed my bag from the backseat, closed the door, and started moving.

I followed a man with his passport in hand between bumpers to an open-air counter. I waited my turn, then handed my passport to a short, young immigration officer in his 20s.

“Salam alaikum,” I said.

“Salam. You speak Arabic?” he asked.

“No, just a few words.”

“I speak English. Not many people in Algeria do,” he said.

“That makes it much easier for me,” I joked. “Your accent is great. Where did you learn?”

“Some in school, but mostly movies and music. And comedy. You’re American? Do you know Kevin Hart?” he asked.

“Yes, I know Kevin Hart,” I said. This was the second time someone brought up Kevin Hart in Algeria. Am I missing something? Is he now our greatest export? I wanted to suggest George Carlin but thought better of it.

“What are you doing in Algeria?” he asked.

I gave a rundown of my travels and my experiences thus far. I mentioned the kindness I’d received along the way.

“Sorry, you’re doing what?” he asked.

“Traveling and doing jiu jitsu. I thought it’d be a great way to connect with the people of Algeria,” I said. He looked back at his computer, turning my words over in his mind, then clicked away at his keyboard. His eyes dropped to my passport; he scrutinized the pages. Then he looked up at me, and I watched him scan my face, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for inconsistencies anywhere he could spot them.

I leaned against the wall and smiled as he handed my passport to his colleague. A large man with broad shoulders took the document, flipped through the pages, and spoke in Arabic.

“You were in Morocco?” the young officer asked. “How did you get here? The border is closed between Morocco and Algeria.”

“Yes, just before Algeria. I flew from Casablanca to Rome, then Rome to Algiers,” I said. 

I felt the sweat on my back soak through my shirt as it pressed against my duffel bag. The large man took my passport out of sight. More people approached and pushed past me to the immigration window.

“Just wait,” he said, as I leaned back against the wall. When the small crowd cleared, he poked his head out the window.

“Where is your letter of invitation?”

“I don’t have one,” I said. “They approved the visa with hotel reservations rather than a letter.” 

“Ah, ok. They don’t do this often,” he said. “Wait over here, and we’ll continue shortly.”

So I waited as people walked up from their cars, carrying handfuls of passports for each family. And I watched while their passports were checked, stamped, and handed back within 3 or 4 minutes for each vehicle. I waited as the men climbed back into their cars and continued on. Around 20 minutes later, his colleague returned empty-handed and whispered in his ear.

“Do you have proof of this plan? Pictures, videos? A program?” he asked (program meaning itinerary). “Do you have Instagram?”

Ah, Instagram: social media acting as some new form of passport and currency wrapped in one. I was happy I had started an account right before this trip, as it’s now a form of connective tissue to contact people in the jiu jitsu community, which I needed for access in each location I was visiting. But I was unhappy to rejoin the “image projection” landscape of social media, which seems to be pulling us further apart rather than bringing us closer together. In both Morocco and Algeria, many people sat with their faces buried in their phones at cafes, on public transport, or walking down the street—mostly scrolling social media and tapping away, sending “likes” back and forth like a ping-pong ball.

“No program,” I said. “I planned everything myself. Yes, I have Instagram.” I shared the handle, and he searched for my account.

“Oh! I see now!” he said, as he scrolled through my jiu jitsu images and some landscape shots.

“Here. This will give you an idea of what I was doing in Algeria,” I said, tiring of the suspicion. I pointed to a post. “El Bilad TV filmed me training with a team in Algiers. They thought my travel story was unique and wanted to cover my experience. It’s on YouTube.” 

He flipped to YouTube on his smartphone and pulled up El Bilad’s channel. He scrolled through the latest videos, and as mine came into view, I pointed at his screen. He clicked the video, and there I was, blathering on about jiu jitsu to a national audience. A sliver of paranoia flared up under my skin, like I’d managed to aggravate an infected splinter. The news report had been a great success, and I was proud to be a part of it. We covered topics like kindness, diplomacy through sport, and human connections. But when it aired, hundreds of Algerian commenters on Facebook and YouTube made ignorant and incendiary remarks. They claimed my intentions were suspicious, that I was a spook for the CIA—that I was a spy. Of course, this is utter nonsense. I did my best to laugh it off, expecting this sort of behavior from the wasteland of boneheads commenting on YouTube. But paranoia is a hearty seed, thriving in the right conditions and requiring the bare minimum to grow. And here I was, standing on the border of a police state in the middle of the desert, with my passport under clear scrutiny.

He watched the video and listened to the Arabic voice-over of my experience. I watched his pursed lips shift to a thin smile, then grow to a large grin filled with clean, white teeth. 

“Oh, wow! You’re famous! Very nice,” he said. “Good report.” He called his colleague, who returned to the room and leaned over the small man’s shoulder. He watched for a moment, then pulled out his phone to find the video. He poked around YouTube before arriving at the feed and finding the link. He then turned on his heel and walked away, video in hand.

“Taking a long time, eh? Just wait, not much longer,” said the young officer, as more people arrived and presented their passports.

“I’m in no rush,” I said with a smile. I leaned back against the wall and picked at a layer of paint, stained from years of oily hands pushing, touching, and wiping. A wafer-thin section broke free under my fingernail.

When the large officer returned, he flipped through his phone and showed me a photo. A younger, thinner version of him stood with a black belt wrapped around his waist.

“1st dan, Taekwando,” he said.

“Wow! Dangerous man,” I replied, as we both began to laugh. I pulled out some videos of me training with the Algerian team, fighting with each other like absolute bastards, and he glued his eyes to my phone. Then, he slapped the young guard on the shoulder and gave me a thumbs-up.

A few minutes later, a third man in a teal golf shirt and dark aviators came back with my passport in hand.

“Here you go. Sorry for the delay. Welcome to Algeria,” he said.

I reached out and took the passport from his hand. “Am I good?” I asked the young officer. 

“Yes, you’re good. I’m following you on Instagram. Enjoy your amazing adventure!”

I walked a few steps beyond the window and laughed to myself. What the hell am I doing out here in the desert? I continued on to a small toll booth 20 yards ahead, the last stop before exiting Algeria. I approached the door as a monster of a man, looking like Shrek in a border guard uniform, walked out with a fresh sleeve of cookies in his left hand. Crumbs spilled from his lips as he saw me, and he wiped the overflow on his forearm. He thrusted the cookies at me, gesturing for me to take one. I politely declined while he chomped away like a clumsy cartoon character, crumbs showering the ground around his feet. His broad shoulders took up much of the door frame, and his swollen hands and thick fingers made the cookies look like miniature Sno-Cap candies. He wore a jovial expression and shoved another cookie in his mouth while he asked for my passport. I handed it over.

“Merikani?” he asked.

“Oui,” I said, as he flipped through the pages and smiled. He yelled to a comrade that came out of the room and thumbed through the pages of my passport too, inspecting my photo and several visas.

“Merikani!” he laughed, then launched into a few questions in French. I told him I didn’t understand. “Algeria?” He quizzically shrugged his shoulders. I understood. Why had I come?

“Sportiv,” I said in French. “Athlete. Jiu Jitsu,” which left him baffled. His face came closer, as if the lack of distance between us might change the meaning of the words. “Ah, judo sportiv,” I said.

“Judo!” he yelled, taking one of his thick fingers and running it across the small knuckles below my fingernails—searching for calluses left behind from all the gripping. The world knows judo but not jiu jitsu. He gestured for me to grab the lapel of his uniform with judo grips, so I latched on to his collar with my left hand. He put his hands up in a pretend “don’t hurt me” scenario, and we both burst into laughter. 

He handed me my passport back and grabbed both my shoulders, looking directly into my eyes.

“Welcome to Algeria,” he said with a wide smile. Hunks of chocolate were trapped in the gaps between his teeth, half masticated and waiting to be swallowed. He slapped my back like an old friend and pointed toward Tunisia. This was my last memory of Algeria.

A 100-yard stretch of “no man’s land” sits entirely vacant between the two borders. I felt the sun on my neck as I slowly walked from one side to the other. No cars passed through, and no other people were on foot. Just me, moving between the window panes of countries like a fly that had found a way in. I walked slowly and took in the moment.

Tunisian immigration was a breeze and took all of 10 minutes. I walked out of the complex and into a small row of booths selling SIM cards and a few currency exchange counters. Damn. All the currency windows were closed. I’d have to use USD for water, food, and a taxi. Wait, where were all the taxis? I walked back to the guard booth and asked, “Taxi?” 

“No, first taxis are in Nefta,” he said.

Holy shit, that’s 40 kilometers away. I turned and looked toward the desert. A long expanse of featureless highway stood in front of me, with only a small rest stop around 500 yards in the distance. I looked down at my feet, adjusted the packstraps of my 30-pound bag, and began walking. A warm wind blew across the road while the sun baked the earth around me. As each car left the border crossing, I stuck out my thumb, bit my bottom lip, and hoped for a ride. One car stopped but wasn’t headed where I was going and continued on without me. I walked to the rest stop, but there were no vehicles and the store was closed, so I kept going. After a half-mile, a battered Peugeot pulled over a few feet in front of me. The smashed windshield was partially sunk in, like someone dropped a bowling ball on the passenger’s side. Trim dangled from the body, while the paint job wore a layer of soot and grime. I bent down and popped my head through the passenger window. The stained seats missed chunks of foam, and the dashboard was cracked in several spots. I looked at the driver and found myself at a “stirring point.” His appearance was everything my western mind had been conditioned to fear in a post-9/11 world. He wore a long, wire-haired beard with dark features, a Berber headwrap, and loose clothing covered in dirt and oil. My prejudice ran wild, and my gross judgment catapulted to the surface. I felt internal echoes of hypocrisy rattling around my head. I hated the feeling but couldn’t shake it, knowing that when the rubber meets the road, what I say I believe and what I truly believe are sometimes divergent.

He glanced at me with a timid smile. “Tozeur?” I asked.

“Hazoua,” he responded. His voice was so soft, it was nearly inaudible. Hazoua was a tiny town just a few kilometers down the road, but the ride would save me some walking in the mid-morning heat.

I opened the door and plopped down. I looked through the cracks in the window, searching for a clear view. A wave of self-loathing washed over me for judging him. When we reached the small town and his turnoff, he pulled to the side of the road, and I gathered my things. I thanked him in Arabic and opened the door, looking back for a moment to show my appreciation. He gently touched his hand to his heart, said “Sahha” back, and smiled. I felt ashamed.

Yes, I was out here in the damn desert on my own, disarmed by a language barrier, with no local currency in hand, and ignoring State Department warnings for the region. And yes, I was hitchhiking in a country I’d arrived in 30 minutes prior, with no idea where I’d stay for the night or, frankly, how far I’d make it. Maybe my mind was doing what it was supposed to—considering variables, weighing conditions, and forming judgments. I’m a savvy traveler, and I know when to trust my gut. But dammit, I pinned the man as a threat the moment I saw him, entirely based on appearance. What do you call that? I know what I do. I decided to walk for a while as penance and think about my prejudice.

I covered a half-mile before determining it was time to forgive myself and get moving. I stuck my thumb out and watched several cars speed by. The weight of judgment lifted, and I began smiling as I took in the wide expanse of my surroundings. Real adventures often feel tough in the moment, and only upon reflection are they cast in beauty. But at times, in the present, we catch a glimpse of their charm, and the sensations of comfort and discomfort become irrelevant. What matters is that we are living, feeling, and breathing rarified air. Maybe it’s halfway up a mountainside or during a long, punishing run through a section of wilderness. Or maybe it’s as we stand there on the side of the road, thumbs outstretched in the Sahara Desert, free beyond a measure most can understand because we are fully aware of our fortune. For a moment, I was a feather in the wind, drifting exactly as I’d dreamed of in the months leading up to my trip. My visions of raw experiences in exotic locales were coming true—they were happening at this very moment, and my job was to simply notice them and be present.

A few minutes later, a small red Citroen pulled over and gestured for me to hop in. A young, athletic guy with spiked hair and dark sunglasses sat behind the wheel. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m headed to Tozeur,” I said.

“Well, I can get you to Nefta, where I live, and there are shared minibuses there to Tozeur. It is very easy to get around from Nefta. Not like here.”

I closed the door, and we pulled onto the highway, cruising with the windows down and chatting like old friends. While he spoke, I peered out the window and watched the empty stretches of desert slowly morph into date palm groves and a mixture of light greenery. For a brief moment, I was simply a feather in the wind. A deep sense of freedom coursed through my veins. I felt alive.