I Went Out Walking

I Came Back Home

2009-12-23T07:41:00.000-08:00

After seven months and more than 27 countries, I'm retiring the blog. Thanks to those who followed along.

If you are visiting for the first time, have a look around. You'll find photos and stories from, among other things:

a 5500-mile trek across the USA,
an overland journey across southern Africa (Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Congo DRC, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Malawi, Tanzania),
travels throughout Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt.

Plus, there's a whirlwind tour of the Balkans, photos from Qatar, Malta, Italy, Germany, and Spain, a chimpanzee orphanage, graffiti from Belgrade and Rome, Congolese medical clinics, three trips to the Sahara, an unusual school in Zimbabwe, and lots more.

Enjoy.

Milano

2009-12-21T12:12:00.000-08:00

Looks like a spaceship.

What's hot right now in Milan? Puffy, shiny coats -- either black, purple, or navy blue. And romance.

Bye-Bye Rome

2009-12-20T09:46:00.000-08:00

Castel Sant' Angelo just before sunset.

The same sculpture I showed you in my first Rome post, but at a different angle and with different light.

How I felt in almost every church.

One of my personal favorites.

Sant'Ignazio

2009-12-19T11:05:00.000-08:00

Standing on the special yellow circle on the ground, you look up and see this.

Not that different from many other churches around town. Except this dome is perfectly flat -- it's an illusion. Here's how it looks from directly underneath.

The Birds

2009-12-19T04:42:00.000-08:00

Over the Tiber at dusk.

1

2009-12-18T09:40:00.000-08:00

And Number 1 in the Modern Roman Art Countdown goes to "Here is Photo Opportunity."

2...

2009-12-18T09:37:00.001-08:00

3...

2009-12-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

4...

2009-12-18T09:29:00.000-08:00

OK, 4's actually a tie. Here's the other number 4.

5...

2009-12-18T09:25:00.001-08:00

6...

2009-12-18T09:23:00.001-08:00

7...

2009-12-18T09:21:00.001-08:00

8...

2009-12-18T09:20:00.001-08:00

9...

2009-12-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

Modern Roman Art Countdown: 10...

2009-12-18T09:17:00.000-08:00

Seen Around Town

2009-12-18T09:14:00.000-08:00

It was actually raining when I took this shot.

A man plays violin behind the Pantheon on a wet street.

Tourists taking it in.

In a Park

2009-12-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

A tree, that picture, and a fountain.

Puddles

2009-12-17T09:04:00.000-08:00

Rome

2009-12-16T08:53:00.000-08:00

Later This Week

2009-12-14T16:53:00.001-08:00

A few shots of Rome and Milan. Until then, take a look at some of the links on the right.

Justice in the Congo, Part 9

2009-12-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Near-Riot in a Congolese Prison

The prosecutor now returns to the front of the courtyard before the still-seated inmates and convenes an impromptu question-and-answer session. One prisoner raises his hand and stands to speak. “We are fed up,” he says. The prosecutor begins to respond, but the prisoner continues: “I have been here for a long time, suffering.” The prosecutor interrupts the man and speaks to the whole audience, saying that he will see if he can fix some of their problems.

More hands are raised. More inmates stand up. One shouts: “We are fed up -- staying here in these conditions!” “We need also to get outside,” says another.

The crowd becomes unruly. Still more inmates leave the formation and stand up. They shake their fists and point. Some talk; many shout. My interpreter is overwhelmed and doesn’t know whom to translate.

Amidst the growing unrest, I notice a young-looking boy standing near the center of the courtyard. Shoeless and visibly dirty, he wears a tattered tight blue shirt with English writing. His baggy tan pants have been torn haphazardly into shorts at mid-thigh. The boy stands with his elbows near his ribcage, hands extended outward, palms up. He is silent amidst the sea of bodies as the voices around him grow louder. His expression conveys more than the shouts do. I have seen it often in children and adults in this country: he is hungry and miserable.

“How old are you?” I ask through my translator. “Fourteen,” he responds. He says that he has been here for two years, but we cannot communicate further through the chaos.

The prosecutor repeats that he will be back to talk to everyone, and then we are ushered out -- fast.

The UN has supplied money for a new, separate women’s wing of the prison. We walk through it quickly. It is still under construction. When will the women move in? “Next week.” “Or next month.” Listening to the litany of things that must be done before the wing is inhabitable -- there are no doors or toilets, for example -- these estimates seem ambitious, if not impossible.

Walking toward our car, I ask the prison nurse if there has been any violence in the prison. He says that a girl under the age of 12 was raped. The nurse is not sure what happened to her. The second-in-command later verified that the rape occurred, but said that the prosecutor was still “trying to analyze the case.” The girl has not been returned to the general prison population. No one has been charged.

Thanks to his recent promotion, the chief prosecutor is on his way to the big city to enjoy more resources and to confront a new set of problems. These people and these problems will remain right here in Kamina.

Justice in the Congo, Part 8

2009-12-09T05:03:00.000-08:00

Life in a Congolese Prison

Toward the rear of the lobby stands -- or rather leans -- an ominous-looking set of doors. They are metal and painted green, but the paint has long since blistered and peeled back. Swahili words are written (perhaps scraped, or painted) above a large latch. Below the latch is a large gap where the doors have been bent (or pulled, or kicked) apart. Some sunlight floods through the crack, but most of it is obscured by a head peering through. A set of eyes, open wide, darts this way and that, staring out at me and surveying the rest of the scene in the lobby.

We walk through the door furthest from the entrance and into an open-air courtyard. Clothes lines hug the walls and crisscross the open space; I see brick walls, a dirt floor, the sky above, and the inmates. There is little else to take in.

As we enter, someone utters a command, and the prisoners respond with a deafening shout. Before my eyes, 168 inmates materialize and rapidly assemble in the courtyard into neat rows, leaving a space in the middle to walk. In less than a minute, all are seated and absolute silence envelops the courtyard.

The inmate at the front of each row sits with his feet on the cement floor, knees bent, and legs spread. The next person assumes the same position and then scoots flush against the first -- his chest against the front-man’s back, his legs hugging the front-man’s legs. The rows resemble a human version of stacked chairs. The result is a condensed mass of humanity in a courtyard 10 meters long by 5 meters wide. (All measurements were provided to me two days after the tour by the prison’s second-in-command, in response to my request.)

All the inmates are black. Most are men. At first glance, they are no more malnourished than many of the unincarcerated Congolese I have encountered. Lacking uniforms, they seem to be dressed in the clothes they were wearing when they were arrested -- mostly pants and short-sleeved shirts. Nearly everyone wears sandals or is barefoot.

I notice a group of women in the back right of the courtyard. Two hold small children. One of the children is three years old and has been in the prison for seven months. The other, a year and a half, has been here for two months. With nobody else willing to care for them when their mothers were arrested, our guide explains, the children “have accompanied their mothers” to prison.

We tour six rooms that house a total of 156 men. “Belgium,” the largest of the dormitories at 8 meters by 7, sleeps 33. There are no beds, mattresses, or pillows; everyone sleeps side by side on blankets, heads near the walls, feet toward the middle of the room. Typically, we are told, two men must share one blanket. The floor is concrete. (“Skin disease is a problem here,” the prison nurse later says. He speculates that sleeping on the ground may be a cause.) The ceiling is the underside of the roof. Tiny windows, no more than 8 centimeters by 25 centimeters, admit slivers of natural light through the thick brick walls. A large drawing of Christ on the cross is the only decoration.

I notice a small pile of bowls to one side and no other cooking equipment. (The prison nurse says that some inmates have diarrhea; he believes it may come from the food they cook, so he is making an effort to monitor what they eat.) Shirts hang from nails above many of the blankets; few nails hold more than a single shirt. The smell of human bodies is thick in the air.

The tour moves on. “Soweto,” the same dimensions as Belgium, sleeps 31. “USSR,” though smaller at 8 meters by 5, sleeps 30. “Iraq,” the same size as USSR, also sleeps 30. Around December of this past year, the prison population swelled to 245 inmates. Nearly 50 inmates were forced to sleep in some of these rooms.

The men use two bathroom facilities, which contain a total of seven toilets and two showers. One houses a tank of water with a tap (another gift to the prison). I notice something odd: These bathrooms, used by over 150 prisoners day in and day out, smell cleaner than any bathroom I can recall in Africa, certainly in the Congo. They look, feel, and smell wet -- and that’s it. I do not know what these rooms smell like on a day when U.N. officials are not visiting.

Judging by the blankets lying within the entrance to one bathroom, two (or perhaps four, or more) inmates may sleep here. The tour guide later says that these men don’t sleep here; they just provide “security” during the day.

China, the fifth men’s dormitory, is 6 meters by 5 -- but it houses only seven inmates. This must be the low-security wing of the prison. A television sits on a chair, playing one of the two TV stations available in this part of the Congo. “The prisoner brought it with him,” our guide says.

We walk past the prison “market” -- some tiny dried fish and a few dried peppers on a towel near the rear of the courtyard -- and arrive in “Ethiopia.” Like China, this room is 6 meters by 5, but it sleeps 25 inmates. We learn that as many as 35 slept here less than a year ago.

We walk into a dark, dank, narrow room -- it is 9 meters long and only 3 meters wide. “Chicago” is currently home to 12 women, plus the two young children. Here, I see the first and only heating implement along our tour of the prison: a small device designed to heat food over a coal fire. Aside from this, the only visible food-related items in the other rooms were bowls and cups. Nearby, we briefly look in the women’s bathroom: one shower and one toilet; the strong smell here is more what one would expect from a Congolese prison bathroom.

And that is it: seven dormitories, three bathrooms, and a tiny courtyard for between 150 and 245 inmates. The total living space for all 168 of the current inmates is 25 meters by 16 meters. There is no place to exercise; there is scarcely a place to walk. As our guide put it during the tour, “there is no place to relax.”

Justice in the Congo, Part 7

2009-12-08T05:01:00.000-08:00

Congolese Prison

I tag along as the chief prosecutor brings us on a tour of Kamina’s prison. This is no drop-in. Several United Nations officials are among the 12 or so people visiting today.

There is nothing remarkable about the outside of the prison; it is a medium-sized brick building with high walls. Most of the structure has no traditional windows -- just small slots three or four meters off the ground. A few windows illuminate offices near the entrance. Several people -- perhaps family members of inmates -- loiter near the bars that function as the front door.

Our group walks into a lobby of sorts with several closed doors. The man in charge of the prison is not present, but I am introduced to the second in command and escorted to his office. I ask two questions, and when the prosecutor sees that this might take a while, he says we should do the tour first. I can ask my questions when we finish, he says. (The opportunity does not arise. But I am able to follow up two days later, on a second visit.)
The second-in-command leads the tour and provides most of the narrative. The prosecutor offers commentary along the way, and the prison nurse occasionally chimes in as well. We learn that the prison was originally a depot for the railroad that runs through Kamina, so it is more suited to housing sacks of grain than hundreds of human beings. The prison has existed here in this form for over half a century, the guide says.

There used to be a dispensary behind one of the doors in the lobby; it was a gift from an NGO. But now, there is nothing inside -- no equipment and no medicine. It has been this way since 2006. The prison nurse tells us that the prison has no place to isolate the infected; they stay in prison until they are sent to hospital.

If a prisoner is in need of drugs, someone must come up with money and go to town to buy them. (The lone exception is tuberculosis drugs, which are free thanks to another NGO.)

The prison spends about $67 per month on drugs -- an average of less than 40 cents per person, per month. An NGO doctor who has worked in remote areas of the Congo for the past three years tells me that many drugs, such as antibiotics or anti-malarial agents, can cost three or four times as much as in the United States.

The prison feeds the inmates once per day, usually around noon. The fare most days is beans and cassava leaves, a common leafy vegetable in this part of the Congo. Sometimes there is fish. Churches or NGOs can supply additional food, and about a third of the current inmates have their diets supplemented by visiting family members.

Four security guards are on the prison payroll; they live here while on duty. During those periods, they have no means of communication with the outside world other than their personal cell phones.

Justice in the Congo, Part 6

2009-12-07T05:00:00.000-08:00

Civil Court

On Wednesdays, the courtroom is used for civil cases. My translator and I sit with a few others in the gallery as the Chief Judge walks in and takes his seat behind the bench, flanked by the Minister of Justice (a sort of head administrator) and the Clerk of Court (who doubles as the court reporter). The Chief Judge hand-rings a bell to signal that court is now in session. Three cases are slated for today.

The only item on the courtroom wall is a piece of paper at the front of the room telling people to silence their cell phones. This is asking a lot in the Congo, where cell phones are omnipresent and cherished. Within seconds of the bell, a lawyer’s cell phone rings. A moment later, the Minister of Justice answers a call and abruptly walks out of the courtroom mid-conversation.

One of the parties in the first case is not here, so the case is postponed until both parties can attend. In the United States, failure to show up in court or file documents on time often results in a loss. But travel in America is not like travel in the Congo, where it can take over a day to drive 100 kilometers. The train south to the major city of Lubumbashi -- which takes about a day when everything works -- tends to take two or more (no doubt in part because many railway employees, I am told, have not been paid in years).

The second case is over just as quickly. The parties are present, but they are merely continuing a hearing that began a week earlier. Everyone decides that the matter is best resolved in private, in the judge’s chambers.

I never receive a straight answer about the third case. Court adjourns within four minutes.

Criminal Court

On the following day, reserved for the criminal docket, the atmosphere is different. The gallery is packed with more than 40 people -- all crammed onto the narrow wooden benches. Six lawyers clad in black robes occupy the quadruple-wide podium in front.

Three judges walk in and take their seats behind the bench. They are joined by the Minister of Justice (who, among other things, announces the judgment of the court for each case) and the Clerk of Court, who writes the only records of the proceedings -- longhand.

The gallery is remarkably well behaved during the four hours I sit in court. Occasionally, a comment by a lawyer or a party causes the gallery to grumble a bit, but a harsh shout of “Silence!” from a judge restores order immediately.

The first case, as my translator puts it, is a “dispute over soil.” It ends quickly, as one of the lawyers says he had no time to prepare. The panel agrees to postpone the case. It seems that delay -- a prominent feature of daily life in the Congo -- is every bit as common in court.

Everyone is present and prepared for the second case, and it goes forward -- for hours. A farmer from a village named Kalumdwe, about 200 km east of Kamina, has been evicted from his farm by three men. These men, the prosecutor says, have threatened to kill the farmer. His crops, including bananas, maize, sugarcane, beans, and manioc, have been destroyed, and he and his family have been forced to sleep outside.

The prosecutor produces a sheaf of documents establishing that, as far as the state is concerned, the farmer has had title to the land for nearly 50 years.

The three defendants stand in front of the wide podium, facing the judges. Dressed in jeans and short-sleeved collared shirts, they mostly plead their case themselves, as their lawyer stands by.

The defendants furnish their own documents, from their own authority. They explain that the old chief in their village has died, and that the new chief, their father, has authorized them to take the farmer’s land. They present letters from the new chief ordering them to harvest the farmer’s crop. According to tribal custom, they argue, authorization to harvest a crop implies the further power to kick the farmer out altogether.

The oldest defendant, who speaks forcefully and with passion, sums up: “The old chief has died. This is our moment!”

When either lawyer wishes to speak, he raises his hand. As in grammar school, a lawyer’s desire to speak can be gauged by the angle of his extended arm and how fast his raised hand wiggles.

A judge asks whether the defendants accept that the land belongs to the farmer. They do not. “It belongs to the chief,” says one.

The prosecutor, who speaks eloquently throughout, finishes his argument by stating that the Congolese government rejects the new chief’s decision. “The soil belongs to the government, not the chief.” And the government is clear that the farmer owns the land. “They must be condemned!” he shouts.

One of the judges states the view of the panel: “Everything belongs to the state,” he says. “The state has the last word. Even the chief is not above the law. If he were, he could take everything for himself.”

Case closed -- almost. The court wants to know the extent of the damages to the farmer’s crop. The prosecutor cannot establish the damages, and the defendants vigorously dispute that they caused any harm at all.

The judges make a surprising decision: They will travel over 200 kilometers to visit the farm themselves and assess the extent of the harm to the farmer’s crop, the journey to commence in just over a week. But the judges have no money for the expedition. Costs are estimated in advance, and the parties must pay before the journey begins.

Justice in the Congo, Part 5

2009-12-06T05:05:00.000-08:00

The Courtroom

The sad set of double doors opens to the middle of the courtroom. Straight ahead are four spare wooden benches, capable of uncomfortably seating seven adults apiece. The gallery sits here, as do the parties, witnesses, and armed security guards.

The space behind these benches resembles the furniture section of a pawn shop. A table with a missing leg lies on its side. It is joined by two or three massive bureaus, some shelving, an extra bench, and a bicycle.

Ahead of the four benches and toward the front of the courtroom stands a mega-podium. Imagine a standard wooden podium, then quadruple its width. The lawyers sit on a bench before the podium and stand when their case is argued. A few paces ahead of the podium, up two steps, sits a bench inhabited by the judges; it resembles those in courtrooms across the United States.

Little else in the room even suggests the First World.

The walls are mostly a drab shade of yellow, and the paint-job looks like modern art. Layer upon layer of paint has been slapped on (or peeled off), revealing multiple shades, textures, and brushstrokes of yellow, brown, and white. A deep fissure zigzags from floor to ceiling, revealing the wall’s beige-colored innards. Most of the chips, dents and scuffs on these walls have no obvious explanation, but two deep rectangular gashes in the walls are plainly the former homes of light switches or electrical outlets.

The ceiling is a shade of sea green. Several panels are missing, offering the gallery a view of the metal roof if they missed it on their way in. Flaps of ceiling droop toward the ground, the product of age, water damage, or both. Near the front of the room, a beam meant to support a ceiling panels hangs precipitously. Should it give way while court is in session, it seems likely to land on the “Greffier” -- the Clerk of the Court

With doors and windows open, it’s room temperature in the courtroom. The air stays fresh thanks to a gentle breeze, and sun floods through the large windows on the far wall of the courtroom.

But the sunlight makes it easier to examine the floor. Once smooth concrete, it now looks like a topographical map. Cracks run this way and that; dents, ravines, and pockmarks dominate the landscape. The legs of many gallery benches have found their way into one crater or another; they seesaw back and forth when sat upon. The concrete has completely worn away from two sections near the entrance, revealing bricks beneath. Even these bricks are wasting away; some are missing, and the ones that remain have begun to disintegrate.

Justice in the Congo, Part 4

2009-12-05T05:08:00.000-08:00

The Problem of Execution

I meet a private lawyer in his two-room office -- his cabinet, as it is called. He has practiced in Kamina for several years and works on as many as 100 cases per year; his annual salary is about $3000. Most of his cases are land disputes; the bulk of the rest involves fraud or deception. Few cases from this rural region involve violence, he says.

The lawyer describes a typical case. A man buys property for $600. He settles in, but members of the Congolese military pay him a visit and tell him that $600 is too cheap. Three thousand dollars is a fair price, they tell him -- and the balance is payable to the military. If he does not pay, he must leave or face eviction. The man is still clinging to his property and the case is pending. The lawyer believes he will prevail.

But winning a lawsuit in the Congo, I discover, is only part of the battle.

The lawyer faces many of the same resource-related problems that plague the prosecutors and judges in Kamina. Unfettered by the suffocating Congolese bureaucracy, he has better luck furnishing his office. His secretary already uses an ancient desktop computer, and the lawyer discusses plans to buy a laptop in the future.

He focuses instead on a different concern: “Here, generally, execution is still a problem.”

One of his clients had a dispute over the rights to a lake. The lawyer took the case and won. A celebration followed, the client took over the lake, and the lawyer returned to Kamina. He soon received word that instead of appealing, the losing party took a different route. It enlisted the military to reclaim the lake and got the District Commissioner to “cancel” the judgment. Despite winning the case, the lawyer’s client has been kicked off the property with no effective recourse. The lawyer has written the relevant authorities, but he doubts that his client will soon return to his lake.

For the lawyer, this called to mind another water-rights dispute that began in 2001. By 2004, the lawyer’s client had prevailed and gained control of the property. Six months later, the losing party arrived at the property with weapons and chased the winner away. “We tried to fix it,” the lawyer said, “but we could not get them out.” A high-ranking administrator gave them 22 policemen to solve the problem -- to no avail. The occupants are still there to this day.

I ask whether he thinks the justice system is fair, and after a pause, he says that in rural areas, it generally is. “But we have problems at the Palais de Justice,” he quickly adds.

He says that in Kamina, someone can commit murder and be put in prison -- only to be released if he can pay enough money to the magistrate.

Or, he says, it is possible to pay the police to arrest someone, even if that person has done nothing wrong.

“But it is done in secret. People are afraid because the law is tough on corruption.” These days, he says, the government is trying hard to stop corruption. “You see Kabila on TV.” But, he adds, “it is difficult to stop.”

I ask whether poverty is a cause of this corruption. “Even the rich are corrupt,” he responds.

I ask whether anyone within the justice system is not corrupt. Three men in the room brainstorm and come up with four names: one prosecutor, two judges, and a military judge. Two of those named -- including the Chief Judge and Chief Prosecutor -- were recently promoted, and will soon be leaving Kamina for the provincial capital, Lubumbashi.

Administrators' Offices

I stop by some administrative offices in the Palais de Justice. In the prosecutor’s administrative office, the only chair for visitors is metal, with no back. Two hollow metal poles protrude from what has now become a stool. A few bundles of yellowed papers are visible in an open cabinet. Few other trappings of a modern office are visible.

In the Clerk’s Office, the only chair for visitors is wooden, with one arm. There is almost no paper in the room. The few stacks of paper on the shelves have yellowed, and thick cobwebs over some of them suggest that they haven’t been touched in some time.

I peek into a room in the Clerk’s Office reserved for civil cases. Along the back wall sits a shelf with twenty-four cubbies. Most are filled with tall stacks of more yellowed paper; one is filled with old rags. This is the court’s system of civil records, in its entirety. A desk sits in the middle of the room, and near the front is a hulking piece of machinery, covered with dust and spider webs. I am told it is a machine for processing maize.

Justice in the Congo, Part 3

2009-12-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

The Chief Judge

Five or ten years older than the prosecutor, the Chief Judge dresses like a man who doesn’t need to impress. Fit but carrying a large belly, he looks wizened. His natural expression is stoic calm, occasionally broken by a huge, captivating grin.

The Chief Judge uses the same type of official desk the prosecutor banished to a corner of his office. It is covered by yet another plastic food-themed tablecloth. The papers on his desk and the shelves behind him are carefully arranged.

Two cords hang from the ceiling. One dangles above the desk, terminating in an empty light socket. The other is covered in cobwebs and debris, its intended use unclear. There is no source of artificial light in the Chief Judge’s office; indeed, nothing in the office operates on electricity.

Compared to the prosecutor, the Chief Judge is a wealthy man, earning $600 per month. He chuckles when I mention the prosecutor’s salary, wryly observing that the prosecutor has his own car. (No one I ask, including the Chief Judge, can explain exactly how he can afford it.) Officially, prosecutors are not allowed to accept money from parties and cannot run businesses, but they often participate in and benefit from businesses owned by spouses and family members. Whatever means the prosecutor has to earn some extra money, they are unavailable to the Chief Judge, who cannot afford his own car.

I mention the Palais’ lack of resources, and the Chief Judge nods. “If you want to get a computer,” I ask, “how would you go about getting one?” Officially, he explains, there was once an office for that in Kinshasa, the capital of the DRC, nearly 2000 kilometers away. But it has not existed for 10 years, so there is no official way to procure a computer. “Unofficially?” I ask. You buy it with your own money.

The Palais de Justice has seven “official” employees -- that is, employees paid by the state. I ask how the Chief Judge would one go about getting another paid position. The Chief Judge laughs. The short answer is that it’s basically impossible. The longer answer: The candidate must have numerous documents in order. (In the Congo, nearly everything requires myriad official papers.) The Chief Judge must submit an application for the position to the provincial officer; then to the general secretary of justice; then to a state officer. Approval is unlikely at any step, but delay is guaranteed.

I ask to see a judgment -- a court document explaining the facts of the case, the court’s decision, and the reasoning behind that decision. The Chief Judge opens a ragged folder and pulls out a few pieces of paper.

The judgment is handwritten. The uneven blue writing could be a child’s. The paper doesn’t even have lines; the words slant northward as they wander across the page. There are no computers at the Palais de Justice -- and apparently no typewriters either.

Justice in the Congo, Part 2

2009-12-03T04:55:00.000-08:00

The Problem of Resources

Compared to the hallway, the office of Kamina’s chief prosecutor seems well appointed and respectable. It has a ceiling, and the walls are painted a lively shade of blue. Four pictures of Congolese President Joseph Kabila adorn the wall, and a snapshot of Kabila sits on the desk.

The prosecutor greets me with a warm handshake. Dressed in slacks with a vest and tie, he is young and well-built, with a round face, glasses, and very dark skin. I am given the chair of honor -- a high-backed, cushioned chair in front of the desk -- and my interpreter settles into one of the smaller plastic chairs to my right.

During our conversation, I ask what frustrates the prosecutor about his job. “There is,” he says, “the problem of resources.”

The Palais is not connected to the Internet. There isn’t a computer in building, nor is there an office phone. (There are supposedly no working land lines -- or ATMs, for that matter -- in the entire Congo.) “We don’t even have a Ham radio,” he says wistfully. The prosecutor points to two cell phones on his desk and explains that he must conduct business on these, his own cell phones. The government does not reimburse him for the minutes; he pays about 20 cents per minute during business hours for outgoing calls.

Other than a diminutive official desk sitting unused in a corner, the prosecutor has purchased everything in the office -- including the blue paint I admired when I walked in.

I reevaluate the office. The desk looks to be a kitchen table covered by a plastic tablecloth in a food pattern: berries and bananas peek out between piles of folders labeled “Urgent” and “Visas.” The bookshelf behind the desk contains a random assortment of books. “It is almost impossible to get books, and when we get them they are always out of date.”

“At one time,” he says, “the government said it would provide us with a car. We waited and waited. Then they told us that the money for the car was gone.” He laughed.

“What can I do if someone is murdered 300 kilometers away? It would take days to drive there, and petrol is too expensive.” One of the prosecutor’s main functions, I discover, is to approve paperwork drafted by the police after justice has been administered -- if paperwork is ever filed at all.

For the most part, he says, the people have learned to get on without the aid of the justice system. Disputes are resolved privately, or by local police -- and that is usually the end of the matter.

“How much is a prosecutor paid in the United States?” he asks. I say that one might earn $50,000 -- perhaps much more.

“I earn $200 per month,” he says.

Justice in the Congo, Part 1

2009-12-02T05:00:00.000-08:00

July 12-22, 2009

This week, I pay several visits to the Palais de Justice in Kamina, a sleepy city of about 300,000 in the southern Democratic Republic of Congo. The Palais de Justice is the nerve center of the judicial branch in Haut-Lomami District of Katanga Province, in the southern Congo near the Zambia border.

Spanning 108,204 square kilometers, the Haut-Lomami District is larger than Pennsylvania or Portugal, and its population of 2.5 million people is larger than that of Namibia or Botswana. The Palais alone handles the judicial business of the entire District.

The fence surrounding the Palais is a mangled arrangement of upright railroad ties. On a day when court is in session, one can peer through gaps in the fence to see people huddled in the shade, loitering on the sparse grass, or sitting on the concrete steps near the entrance; the front yard is the court’s de facto waiting room. I count twenty-five people loitering outside one day, and twenty-seven the next. A goat grazes on the side lawn next to a brick building without doors or windows.

Constructed under Belgian rule in 1958, the Palais de Justice is about 40 meters across and painted white. The metal roof is rusty and in need of repair. A crack snakes down one side of the building, leaving the impression that a portion may soon detach from the rest and slump to the ground. A rusted machine for processing maize stands near the building’s entrance.

I step over the roots of the overgrown tree that dominates the front driveway -- which, like almost all the roads in Kamina, is made of dirt -- up four stairs, and through two double-doors with broken and missing panes of glass. I find myself in a dark hallway with a cement floor and a solitary dim light bulb a few paces ahead. To my left are wooden shelves lined with dust, cobwebs, and some discarded peanut shells; to my right, an old bicycle and a motorbike. I look up to the tall ceiling -- and discover that for the most part, there is no ceiling. The rusted roof is visible through the building’s skeleton. Dangling from part of the building’s frame near the light bulb is a long, curved strip of metal cloaked in spider webs.

At the end of the hall is a set of double doors. Both have five rectangular panes of glass -- or, rather, had them. Nine of the ten panes have been broken; shards of glass, softened by time, jut from many of the frames. Through these doors lies the one and only courtroom serving the 2.5 million inhabitants of Haut-Lomami.

The courtroom looks like it has been through an earthquake, or a riot, or both.

* * *

A missionary I met on my journey told me to beware of any absolute statements about the Congo. Even if they accurately describe one part of this enormous country -- roughly the size of western Europe -- they are surely wrong with respect to other parts. And even if they are accurate now, things change in a hurry here. Kamina, for example, is a peaceful town now, but bullet holes in buildings around town are a reminder that this has been a dangerous place at times over the past two decades.

I spent ten days studying the justice system in one Congolese town, sitting in court, touring a prison, and interviewing judges, lawyers, a prosecutor, and prison officials. What I will post over the next week accurately describes what I saw and heard. But when reading it, take that missionary’s advice. This is just a snapshot of one town in a huge, rapidly changing country. Nevertheless, it provides a glimpse of a legal system vastly different from the one in the United States, and it helped me appreciate aspects of the American legal system I had taken for granted. I hope you enjoy the story.

The Giza Pyramids

2009-12-01T04:06:00.000-08:00

I made it from Morocco all the way across north Africa to here (with the big exception of Algeria). The most exciting part was seeing these beasts from the city of Giza itself. Giza looks like a regular Egyptian city -- cafes, stores, lots of dust -- but looming in the background are these enormous pyramids. It's surreal.

Taking Photos of Taking Photos of the Pyramids

2009-11-30T11:00:00.000-08:00

A Few More Shots of Cairo

2009-11-30T02:13:00.000-08:00

Citadels, mosques, parks, traffic, open-air markets, skylines, and some belly dancing.

Going to the Movies in Cairo

2009-11-30T02:01:00.000-08:00

I was told that during the feast of Eid, the first couple of days are spent visiting families, and then people spend the latter half of the feast walking around downtown and going to the movies. I thought a movie sounded like a nice way to spend part of my evening, so I went to a nearby cinema to buy a ticket. This is what I saw.

A mob, demonstrating two facts about the people of Cairo: They like the movies, and they don't tend to line up in queues. I couldn't figure out whether this was the ticket window or the entrance, but it was clear to me that a movie was out of the question. The mob was there hours later when I passed by again.

I'm told that outside of this weekend, it's not so difficult to go to the movies, but at least last night, it was pretty wild.

Happy Eid

2009-11-29T12:57:00.000-08:00

It's Eid al-Adha here over the long weekend. A few days ago, there were animals everywhere.

That last cow was chained to a lamppost in the middle of downtown Cairo. The next day, there was blood in the streets after many of these unfortunate animals were slaughtered. Here's some of the aftermath: a big pile of animal skins, looking pretty moist and unpleasant.

And then the crowds flocked to downtown.

In droves.

There were police everywhere, and while the atmosphere felt pretty combustible to me, I didn't see any fighting or riots. All in all, a good feast.

Welcome to Cairo

2009-11-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

The view from the top floor of my hostel's building.

Coptic Cairo.

The view from a minaret in Islamic Cairo.

It was this minaret, actually.

Notice the goats and shepherdess in this next picture -- and the flock of birds up top in the same one.

This mosque was 50 meters from the first hostel I stayed at. And yes, that's a cow in the pickup truck passing by.

The Nile, again right near my first hostel.

And one more Nile shot, just for kicks.

In the Company of Men: Travels in North Africa

2009-11-29T05:10:00.000-08:00

When I wrote this, I was in a minibus traveling from Libya to Egypt. With me in the bus were eight other men, no women.

It's been like this in many places as I have been in northern Africa: I am usually alone or among men. At cafes and restaurants, I still do a double-take sometimes: Whether there are 20 people in a small cafe or over 100 in a large tea garden, the patrons are uniformally men. Men drive taxis and buses, they run shops and stalls in souqs, they are policemen and soldiers, and they run hotels and other parts of the tourism industry. There are exceptions to be sure, but not many, at least not in my experience.

For people who live here, the experience is different. Men go home to their wives and daughters, they visit their mothers, aunts, and grandmothers, and they undoubtedly have female friends or at least acquaintances (or, anyhow, their wives, sisters, daughters, and mothers do). But I lack those family ties here, so my daily life has much less gender diversity.

It's no surprise that my experience here contrasts with the United States, but it also differs dramatically from my travels across southern Africa. A Zambian woman in her 50s orchestrated my solo border crossing into the Congo; she made me a delicious chicken dinner at the restaurant she owned, called a friend to help me at the border crossing, and then walked me through an intimidating minibus station, found me the right bus, and negotiated a fair price on my behalf. My best friend in the Congo was a female teenager who showed me around Lubumbashi and tolerated my pitiful French. Four women in their 20s intervened on my behalf at a concert in Botswana when some young men began hassling me. And when I asked a female college student for directions in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, she grabbed my hand and walked me all the way to my destination, then invited me to her home to meet her mother and two sisters. In every country I visited in southern Africa, countless little girls (and boys) came up to me and say hello or offer a smile.

My experience in North Africa has been different. In southern Morocco, I recall walking alone in a small town and noticing two or three women sitting near the sidewalk up ahead. One of them looked at me for a split second and then moved her veil (at that point covering only her hair) to cover her entire face, all but her eyes, and then looked away. The same thing has happened several times since then. I am sure these gestures aren't hostile, but they remain prominent in my mind. My other gender-related memory is from Libya. I recall going into an ice cream store, buying a scoop of ice cream, and sitting down at one of the tables in the back to enjoy it. I noticed two or three women in the dining area, but didn't think much of it. A moment later, the store owner (a man) came over and told me I had to leave; the dining area was for women only.

The men in North Africa have been incredibly kind, generous and hospitable. I don't think I've encountered such warmth from strangers anywhere else in the world. I get phone numbers, food and drinks, and invitations to visit restaurants, shops, and homes hundreds of kilometers away. And I get the small stuff too -- a hello, a smile, a handshake. But I still miss the full spectrum of humanity.

(NOTE: I wrote this before I arrived in Cairo, Egypt, where it's a bit different -- but that's another story.)

Books and Light

2009-11-28T11:16:00.000-08:00

And dark. Among the spaceship-like bookshelves in the Alexandria Library in Egypt.

Bibliotheca Alexandrina

2009-11-28T09:05:00.000-08:00

Alexandria's public library cost a fortune and was finished in 2002. It's meant to look like a rising sun. My helicopter ride fell through, so you'll have to look here for an aerial photo.

Once upon a time, Alexandria had the most famous library in the world. This new one is an attempt to rekindle some of that magic.

There's been some controversy about the new library, particularly because it cost so much to build that they've had trouble filling it with books. Controversy aside, I loved the place; I spent an afternoon there and didn't even get to see chunks of what the library had to offer.

Here are some photos of the reading room.

Alexandria, Egypt

2009-11-28T05:49:00.000-08:00

I spent two relaxing days strolling around Alexandria. My youth hostel in Shatby cost $2 per night. The city is narrow and stretches for 20 miles along the Mediterranean. It's modern, and quite beautiful in spots. Here's a nice profile of the city with a pretty slideshow.

It felt like a university town, at least where I was staying; everywhere you looked, young people were walking about carrying stacks of books.

Alexandria felt very livable, but I chatted with a few people who said that work was hard to find there. I met a teacher and a pharmacist who each went to the United States for a year to work in the food industry -- Dunkin' Donuts, pizza delivery, diners -- to earn money to send back home to their families. And most of the 7 Egyptians in my minibus from Libya had been working as electricians in Libya because they said there was more work there, and the pay was better.

The view near the sea. You can make out the edge of the Alexandria Library on the right.

Handsome planetarium as the sun sets in the distance.

Students chatting outside the Alexandria Library.

Cemetery in the middle of town.

My Final Overland Adventure

2009-11-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

With questionable health and little time, I had planned to fly from Benghazi, Libya to Cairo, Egypt -- a journey of about 1000 kilometers. But one day I found myself itching to get to Egypt, and no flights were available for a few days, so I located a minibus and made it happen.

I am glad I did. Most border crossings on my African journey have been memorable, and this one was especially so.

The journey began as most minibus journeys in Africa begin. I approached a bus, ascertained its destination (or so I thought), secured a spot, and sat around waiting for the bus to fill up. I arrived at 1pm and was told we'd leave at 2:00. By 4:00, the bus was 3 feet taller thanks to a mass of luggage strapped to the roof, and we were off. The journey ended around 9:00 the next morning ... to my surprise, in Alexandria!

I won't narrate the whole ride -- just bits and pieces and a few storylines.

One plotline involves hours of conversation between me and 8 men who could collectively speak less than 40 words of English (and I know fewer than 40 Arabic words). The conversation was surprisingly rich, interesting, and satisfying. We talked about religion, food, soccer, marriage, the differences between Libya and Egypt, life in America, and many other things. Another plotline involves pit stops. We stopped repeatedly for gas, food, tea, bathroom breaks, three times for prayer, once to change money, once for a flat tire, and several other times for purposes I never understood. A third plotline is the tremendous generosity of my new friends. Well before we reached the Libya-Egypt border, I had been given two dinners, five apples, a Pepsi, two glasses of Coke, some pear juice, a cup of coffee, and about 4 cups of tea. Over the course of the trip, I had a chance to bond a bit with everyone, and I was sad to see them go.

Now, for a few highlights.

Highlight Number 1: One final time, I got to experience that moment of panic when I awaken from a shallow, bumpy sleep to see that it's pitch black and everyone other than the driver is sound asleep as the minibus races down an empty highway. As is my practice, as soon as I woke up, I tapped the driver on the shoulder to ask if he was ok, I offered him a caffeinated beverage, and I found somebody to give him a cigarette. Our driver was a pro, and wide awake. As dead-of-night awakenings on a minibus go, this one was a cakewalk..

Highlight Number 2: Late evening, still in Libya. We pull into a gas station and fill up with 35 liters for less than 6 bucks. Although nobody else seemed concerned, I was terrified. When we pulled into the station, two of my companions were smoking cigarettes. A third lit up shortly after we began filling up. This was enough to raise my blood pressure, but I really began to worry when a man not ten feet from us topped off his old jalopy. As his gas tank filled up, the man kept pressing the pump's handle, and the petrol repeatedly reached the top of the tank and spilled down the side of the car, splashing into the air and onto his clothes. The gas-station scene from Zoolander raced through my head, but we emerged unscathed.

Highlight Number 3: Libya-Egypt border, the Libyan side. Leaving Libya overland was surreal. In the 10 or 20 kilometers leading up to the border, we passed through at least 5 checkpoints. Each time, the driver gathered our passports into a pile and handed them over. Each time, the officer spent a long time thumbing through my passport, asked the driver (but never me) some questions about me, and then let us pass.

As we approached the border itself, the man next to me, named Said, closed his eyes and began to pray in a low voice. Everyone else was silent. This continued for a good 5 minutes. We finally arrived at the border post, piling out of the car and standing in a pack near a handful of booths. Our driver ran at full speed from booth to booth, apparently trying to expedite our exit from the country. Other groups of hopeful border-crossers mingled about.

What struck me as we waited in the cold night was that all the travelers had an air of subservience. They stood a little bit straighter, talked a little bit more quietly, and ran like the wind when their names were called. I received an exit stamp within 10 minutes, but some of my companions ran into some trouble. I watched with great interest as they spoke urgently and in hushed tones to one another, but I didn't see how the story played out because the driver sized up the situation and told me to walk on toward Egypt.

As I walked along, a young man with slicked-back wavy dark hair approached me from out of nowhere and demanded my passport. He wore a black leather jacket and a classy patterned scarf, and had an earphone in his ear -- it looked like it was connected to his cell phone. I hesitated, and he demanded the passport again, this time more forcefully. I handed it over and he walked away to make a phone call. Soon, I was surrounded by a total of nine men -- some in military fatigues, some in plainclothes. I was escorted to a small building and watched as a man copied my visa and passport information longhand. I got my passport back was told I could proceed. One strange thing about that experience was that I wasn't certain which country those guys worked for; I already had my Libyan exit stamp, and the Egyptian facility was a ways further down the road.

Eventually, all my companions arrived -- whatever trouble there was had been resolved -- and we were off to the fun part.

Highlight Number 4: Libya-Egypt border, the Egypt side. By this point, our driver was frenzied and dead-set on hurrying us along. He grabbed my arm and we went from window to window, filling out forms along the way, to secure my $15 entry visa and passport stamp. I visited six windows in all, and at each one my driver cut in the queue or we were overtaken by someone who cut in front of us.

When my other companions made it through, the adventure began. We drove our overloaded minibus to the Unloading Zone. All around us, similar minibuses and cars were being furiously unloaded; blankets, fruit, refrigerators, wheelbarrows, chairs, boxes, bags, and baskets were piled everywhere -- but only for a second. They were immediately wheeled or dragged into a big building, the Inspection Station.

We stripped our minibus clean in a flash; the smallest among us, an Egyptian in his 50s, stood on top of the bus and tossed our luggage down. After admiring our mountain of possessions for a quick moment, everyone grabbed as much as he could carry and went inside.

When I got within 15 feet of the door, I was immediately pushed, yelled at, bumped, elbowed, and otherwise jostled, and the process did not end until I emerged from the other end of the Inspection Station. Everyone seemed to be operating at twice normal speed. The initial bottleneck was created by a double door, which had a conveyor belt with a metal detector on the the other side. Everything that came off the cars passed along that belt. The mob surged towards it; people within 5 feet of it seemed content to toss their belongings at it. They then raced through a metal detector meant for people and began clawing and fighting to get their possessions back. Meanwhile, inspectors wrote the names of each person's possessions on scraps of paper and handed them out.

On the other side of the detectors, in the main hall of the Inspection Station, the chaos continued. Some people searched for lost possessions or yelled for their companions, but most people dashed -- as though the building was on fire -- with everything they owned across the interior of the Station to the exit. A single exhausted agent was tasked with collecting everyone's list of possessions. I can't imagine that he turned many people back; if he tried, it might be like a stampede at a soccer match. I somehow never got my scrap of paper, but my US passport and a look of panic sufficed, and he waved me through with a bunch of Said's blankets and clothing. (Apparently his prayers were answered.) I exited that building behind a man in his 60s who was pushing a big metal box with two rusty wheels stacked on top.

I walked out into Egypt and into a thick fog. My companions gradually assembled, the driver arrived, and we repacked the van in record time. A pack of wild dogs ran about nearby, snarling and barking and drifting in and out of sight. Here's the scene.

Our minibus wasn't packed quite this high, but it wasn't far off. In this next shot, the Inspection Station looms in the background.

In a flash, we were back in the car. After a couple more stops, we made the high-speed burn across western Egypt, and arrived safe and sound (and exhausted) in Alexandria well after sunrise.

I reached down below my seat to tidy up a bit and gather my trash. By the time I finished, only the driver and two of the passengers remained. I'm sad I didn't have a chance to thank my friends for their kindness and companionship on a worthy final voyage.

Signs

2009-11-27T08:38:00.000-08:00

Libya's signs are in Arabic. For tourists like me without a firm command of the language, it can be challenging to get around.

I took this photo in Sebha. Several blocks back, I had used gestures and sign language and the word Internet to indicate that I wanted to find an Internet cafe. I stared at this sign for a solid 30 seconds, trying to guess whether it meant "Internet Cafe." It didn't.

Go to (the street mentioned below). Then look for (the thing mentioned in the second sign below). It's on your right.

As I wandered around, I'd sometimes try to guess what was behind those shuttered stores and (to me) indecipherable signs. The funny part was that sometimes, when the stores were open, it would be no clearer to me what they actually sold or what service they provided.

Benghazi, Libya

2009-11-27T03:13:00.000-08:00

I was about to tell you that Benghazi isn't particularly photogenic, but then I visited its Wikipedia page and I take that back.

Benghazi is Libya's second city, along the coast in the eastern portion of Libya. I spent a couple of quiet days there, wandering through the long market, eating delicious and inexpensive food (including a massive lamburger with a fried egg and hot sauce for less than 75 cents), and enjoying the hospitality of the Libyans I happened upon.

One tip: Stay at the El-Dogal hotel. It's along the sea, the rooms are pleasant enough, and they're much less expensive than similar options in town. Also occupying the hotel while I was there: A cool Indian music group and a group of European basketball players. El-Dogal is the place to be.

Photos of Benghazi:

This next one is an average street in the main part of town.

Benghazi has nice lakes, and a few monuments, and some pleasant places to walk along the sea, but the areas off the main souq -- which are smelly and dirty and wonderful -- are the places to be, as far as I'm concerned. They look more like this.

Not much to look at, but believe me, much more interesting and fun.

Libyan Sahara Grand Finale

2009-11-26T13:05:00.000-08:00

A dune, of course. Even with the lakes, seeing tons of these guys was the highlight, and it never got old for me. It was a great trip.

Yachts in the Desert

2009-11-26T09:08:00.000-08:00

In the Libyan Sahara, I spent an evening with some Europeans who run a small tourism business. They operate gargantuan vehicles that look like an unholy combination of RVs and monster trucks. The wheels on these beasts come up to my shoulder, easy.

The tour operators take these trucks... wherever the want. Roads are completely unnecessary. They traverse 300-meter dunes in the Murzuq Sand Sea like they are nothing. Rivers, riverbeds, shrubs -- no problem.

And they do it in style. Inside, the trucks have every imaginable comfort. Think of a well appointed luxury hotel room, complete with satellite TV.

Hire one of these things and you get the works: a driver, a personal assistant or two, expert local guides, and of course a gourmet chef flown in from the country of your choice. And they'll handle every detail of the trip, including getting you there on a chartered flight and cutting through all the bureaucratic red tape.

I highly recommend that you track down one of these companies and take a few of your friends on the adventure of a lifetime. It's only 4,000 euros a day!

Haunted Mountain

2009-11-26T04:47:00.000-08:00

Behold, the menacing Kaf Ajnoun, 25 kilometers north of Ghat in southwestern Libya.

OK, it looks pretty much like a regular 4000-foot mountain, but look a bit closer and you have to agree that it's pretty symmetrical, and it does resemble a fort. The Tuareg, a tribe that has lived in this part of the Sahara for ages and ages, apparently believe it is haunted, and give the mountain a wide berth.

As you get right up to the mountain, two things are noteworthy. First, it looks completely different; the fort-like aspect is gone, and there are just jutting rocks in all direction. Second -- and this made the trip worth it for me -- was the scenery just to the west of Kaf Ajnoun. Have a look for yourself.

A nice circus-peanut dune chain nestled in an otherwise black and barren landscape. Pretty nice. One more shot, this time with the road.

That spot on the far right, where the orange and black mingle, was especially cool.

Three Other Ubari Lakes

2009-11-25T13:00:00.000-08:00

Lake Umm al-Maa, which is almost everybody's favorite these days.

Another shot of Umm al-Maa from a different spot. Bad lighting, but it gives you more of the lay of the land.

A black-and-white shot of tiny but feisty Lake Mavo.

And, finally, what was once the granddaddy of them all, the famous color-changing Lake Mandara!

Whoops. Lake Mandara's out of water. Apparently it has been this way for some time and will likely remain so. While not as dramatic as a lake that changes from green to red to blue in a single day, I still found the current state of things quite beautiful.

Lake Gaberoun, Libya

2009-11-25T08:09:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Lake Gaberoun, located in the Sahara Desert about 800 kilometers south of the Mediterranean Sea.

How big is that dune, you might be wondering. Well, look below and you'll find out. That's a person near the top.

You can swim in Lake Gaberoun, and it's quite an experience. Up close, the water looks like this.

The water feels cool and refreshing when you dip your toe in. But as you wade out along the soft, muddy ground, you discover that the cold water is a thin layer only a few inches deep. Below that, the water's warm. And below that, the water's hot! Bizarre.

While you're in the water, you'll also notice that it's very salty. I tried to tread water but found it hard to keep my legs under me -- they kept drifting behind me or in front, and then quickly up towards the surface. Another feature of super-salty water is that when you get out, you are covered in fine powdery salt particles and you look a bit like a ghost.

Near one bank of Lake Gaberoun lies a ruined town, fittingly called Old Gaberoun. I saw a lot of wrecked houses, a mosque, and a school. Some of what's left looks like this.

Apparently, Libya relocated the entire town of Old Gaberoun to what's known as New Gaberoun. New Gaberoun is conveniently located near the highway, but the scenery is not uplifting, certainly not when compared to the lake.

I met a guy who lived in Old Gaberoun for 28 years before it was moved in 1991. He said that there were about 800 residents, give or take. They loved living next to the lake, but the Libyan Government had other plans. I asked him if the families were compensated for the move, and he said yes, but linguistic difficulties complicated my efforts to learn the terms of compensation.

The Ubari Lakes

2009-11-25T04:41:00.000-08:00

Get to a small town in the Sahara called Tekerkiba and find a guy to drive you through about 45 km of this.

And if you're lucky, you'll arrive here.

Or at one of the other 10 or so lakes in the region.

1

2009-11-24T13:00:00.000-08:00

That was five views of the sunset as seen from Wadi Meggedet in southewestern Libya. (Click "Older Post" to see the previous 4.) Hope you enjoyed them.

2...

2009-11-24T11:55:00.000-08:00

3...

2009-11-24T10:46:00.000-08:00

4...

2009-11-24T09:46:00.000-08:00

Silhouette Countdown: 5...

2009-11-24T08:46:00.000-08:00

What Do You See?

2009-11-24T06:36:00.000-08:00

Guy wearing a turban.

Abraham Lincoln.

Clydesdale.

Rock Hodgepodge

2009-11-24T04:46:00.000-08:00

This one was maybe 25 meters tall.

The view as you walk along; there's sand everywhere the rocks aren't.

Mini-caves abound.

The view looking down into a valley in Wadi Meggedet. Many of the formations down there were flatter and more expansive than that statute-looking ones near where I camped.

Almost a curvy staircase inviting a good climb.

One Last View From Up Top

2009-11-23T10:23:00.000-08:00

Wadi Meggedet, in southwestern Libya.

Another View From Up Top

2009-11-23T08:31:00.000-08:00

Views of Wadi Meggedet

2009-11-23T06:23:00.000-08:00

One fun thing about all these big hunks of rock is that you can climb most of them. Here are three shots of the view from atop one of them.

Wadi Meggedet

2009-11-23T05:14:00.000-08:00

A long way from anywhere, Wadi Meggedet is a huge forest of rock formations. Many are 20 or more meters high. Some look like this.

Taking a few steps back, they look like this.

And this.

But the amazing part is that they're everywhere -- in spots, they're so thick you can't walk between them; in other places, they're conveniently spread out, creating a surreal sort of obstacle course or maze.

Coming Tomorrow...

2009-11-22T11:29:00.000-08:00

Some of the very big rocks that produce silhouettes like this.

And this.

The Price of Gas in Libya

2009-11-22T11:20:00.000-08:00

.2 dinars per liter. By my calculations, that works out to about 63 cents per gallon.

More Desert Flora

2009-11-22T11:01:00.000-08:00

Desert Flora

2009-11-22T09:26:00.000-08:00

These plants produced green fruits (well, green when I saw them) the size of large oranges.

Algeria is behind that mountain in the background.

Muddy Water

2009-11-22T05:19:00.000-08:00

Up close, this big puddle in a canyon (only puddle I saw in the Sahara, aside from some desert lakes I'll show you later) looked and smelled awful, but it doesn't look so bad from this angle.

The Green Book, Part 3

2009-11-21T21:00:00.000-08:00

Part 3: The Social Basis of the Third Universal Theory

This part of the Green Book is wide-ranging, covering topics like nationalism, family and tribal life, male-female relations, minorities, art, and sports. One of the most important sections is the first, which discusses national identy and religion, and one of the most interesting sections is the one on gender. I'll cover those two and just give you a taste of the rest.

Click here for Part 2. Click here for Part 1.

Families, Tribes, and Nations

Qaddafi posits that "the survival of a community depends on the unifying social factor, namely the existence of a national identity, and this is the driving force behind the struggle of communities to achieve their own national unity and to ensure their survival." Right up there with the desire for national identity is the "religious factor." Qaddafi observes that religion may either divide or unite a nation, and claims that harmony should previal when each nation belongs to one religion. Nevertheless, nations tend to have citizens of several religions, and "this diversity has become the real cause of conflict and instability in the lives of the people in all times past and present." Therefore, Qaddafi says, "A sound rule is that every nation should have a religion."

Qaddafi says that individuals regard their families as more important than the state. He claims that therefore, good societies are "ones in which the family flourishes," while serious problems arise when individuals are severed from their families. His view of tribes -- defined as large extended families -- is much the same. A tribe provides the people with important advantages, benefits, values and ideals, and it should play a role in society by giving its members a code of ethics and a social "umbrella" when times are tough. Nations are like really big tribes, but they serve a political function as well as a social function, and the nation ultimately takes a back seat to the family and the tribe. "To disregard the social bond of human communities, and to establish a political system counter to social reality [as it exists in families and tribes] is to create a temporary structure which will collapse because of the movement of the social factor."

Women

The Green Book's ten-page section on women opens with this: "Women, like men, are human beings. This is an incontestable truth. Therefore as humans, it is a fact that women are equal to men and to discriminate between them is a glaring inexcusable injustice. Like men, women eat and drink, love and hate. They can equally think, learn and comprehend, and they equally need shelter, clothing and means of transportation, and just like men, they feel the bite of hunger and thirst, and they also live and die."

But women and men aren't the same. Qaddafi delves into the "natural difference" between them: "According to gynaecologists women, unlike men, menstruate each month. This menstrual cycle is a natural ailment that women must experience every month.... When a woman becomes pregnant, due to her pregnancy, she becomes less active for about a year because her pregnancy inhibits her natural vitality until she delivers the baby." Then there's nursing the child, during which period the mother and child are "necessarily inseparable." Men, on the other hand, are "naturally exempt" from all this.

Further on, Qaddafi suggests some other differences. "There is also a difference in disposition, nature, temperament and shape of body. A woman is beautiful, compassionate and emotional. She is easily frightened and is generally a gentle being, while a man is aggressive by virtue of his inbred nature."

A woman's natural role is to be a mother, and "any mother who forsakes her duties towards her children goes against her natural role in life. A woman should not be subjected to tyranny and oppression, and should be given rights and provided with adequate conditions which would allow her to perform her natural role in normal conditions." She should not, for example, be expected to exert physical effort while pregnant. "To consider women capable of carrying equal burdens as men while pregnant is unjust and cruel." Similarly, women should not be expected to fast while breastfeeding.

That said, "there is no difference whatsoever between men and women as human beings. Both are not to be forced into marrying against their will and both are not to be divorced without the due process of law or without mutual agreement outside the courtroom, or even to be married without prior agreement on divorce. Moreover, the woman is the rightful owner of the house, because a home is necessary to women...."

In italics, Qaddafi writes: "All societies today look upon women as little more than commodities. In the East she is looked upon as a personal possession to be bought and sold, and in the West her femininity is not recognized." In Qaddafi's view, "a world revolution is needed to do away with all the materialistic conditions that prevent women from performing their natural role in life and so drives them to carry out men's duties in order to achieve equal rights." But at the same time, work and opportunities "should be made available by society to all capable and needy individuals, women and men, provided that each individual works in an appropriate domain and is not coerced by oppressive circumstances to go into inappropriate domains."

Other Social Issues

Qaddafi says that minorities with a social framework but without a nation of their own have their own social rights, "and it would be unjust of any party or majority to infringe upon these rights." "To look upon a minority as a political and economic minority is dictatorial and unjust."

In a section called "Black People," Qaddafi discusses the "tragic historical phenomenon of slavery" and says that the black race is "in a dire and backward social condition" as a result.

The next section, called "Learning," inveighs against the evils of a rigid, defined curriculum, and calls for a "worldwide cultural revolution" that will "destroy all the prevalent educational systems in the world to liberate the human mentality from syllabuses that nurture fanaticism and the deliberate reshaping of man's concepts, his tastes and mentality." Society must provide all sorts of eduction and give students the freedom to choose the discipline of their choice. No discipline should be shut off from scholarly examination. "Societies that monopolize religious knokwledge are also reactionary, ardent adherents of ignorance and hostile to freedom." "Knowledge is a natural right for every human being and no one has the right to deprive others of knowledge.... Ignorance will come to an end when everything is presented as it really is; it will end when knowledge about everything is made available to every human being in a suitable way.

Rather bizarrely, Qaddafi's section on "Music and Art" focuses on his view that one day -- though not any time soon -- all of mankind will adopt a common language.

The section on "Sports, Horsemanship, and the Stage" seems to advocate the abolishment of public sports. It states that "sport, like power, should be for the masses, and just as wealth and weapons should be for the people, sport as a social activity should also be for the people." One day, people will stop watching sports and start playing them. Similarly, people "who make their own life do not need to see how life takes its course through watching the actors on stage or other theaters."

And that's the end. 82 pages, straight from the Colonel himself. Hope you enjoyed it. And if I got anything wrong, by all means let me know and I'll correct it.

Sometimes the Sahara is Black

2009-11-21T11:51:00.000-08:00

This is near a small canyon west of a tiny Libyan town called Al Awaynat. The black rocks continued as far as I could see. And I went out to climb those hills to make sure.

Rocks That Look Like Huge Potatoes

2009-11-21T08:53:00.000-08:00

That guy on the right was probably 8 or 10 feet tall.

Here are some of his friends.

The Fezzan

2009-11-21T05:41:00.000-08:00

The Fezzan is a huge region in southwestern Libya. I visited Sabha and then made my way west-southwest from there to near the Algerian border north of Ghat. The main road takes you through several unremarkable towns, but the scenery itself is enjoyable, if bleak at times. For chunks of the ride away from Sabha, there are black mountains (like those pictured below in the distance) on the left, and fluffy sand dunes off to the right.

The Green Book, Part 2

2009-11-20T23:06:00.000-08:00

Part 2: The Solution to the Economic Problem

The economic problem is simple, Qaddafi says: "Wage earners are but slaves to the masters who hire them." The solution to the problem is to "abolish the wage system, emancipate the human being enslaved by it, and revert to the natural laws which defined relationships between workers and employers before the emergence of social classes and the development of various forms of government and man-made laws."

The primary natural law is that everybody who contributes to the production of a good ought to own some of that good. So, if a good requires three inputs -- raw materials, the means of production, and the producer -- the people responsible for each should own an equal share of the final product. In this way, we can avoid the problem of a "system of wages that deprives the workers of any right to the products they produce." The slogan for this theory, still visible on signs in the airport and elsewhere in Libya, is Partners Not Wage Earners.

Qaddafi then makes his other key point: Human beings can only be free if they are free from need. It is society's job to provide for people's basic needs, such as housing, income, food, clothes, and vehicles. And it must provide them in full. Renting houses or vehicles to another should be forbidden "because this represents controlling the needs of others." People are entitled to these things, but only to the extent of their true needs. "No one individual has the right to undertake an economic activity, whereby wealth exceeding his needs can be amassed. The excess would represent the right of others." Even those who are especially talented or hardworking cannot take in more than they need. Finally, unlike cars and houses, land cannot be owned by anyone, but land is to be used like these other things: Everyone has the right to exploit it, but only to fulfill their needs.

The goal of the socialist society Qaddafi envisions "is to establish a happy society deriving its happiness from being free. Such a society is realized only through the fulfilment of the individual's spiritual and material needs, and this can be achieved by liberating these needs from the control and manipulation of others." That liberation takes place when people own what they need.

Then there's this conspicuous sentence: "In the new socialist society, inequality of wealth between individuals is unacceptable, except for public servants who are assigned a specific share of society's wealth commensurate with their productivity and the services they perform." Based on the length of the wall surrounding his home and office, it appears that the Colonel has taken full advantage of this loophole.

Down the road, after this system is implemented, here's what happens. Society will reach a stage when "money and profit disappear as society becomes fully productive and the level of production reaches the point whereby it meets the material needs of all the members of society. Profit automatically disappears at this final stage and the need for money as a medium of exchange no longer exists."

Voila, the solution to the economic problem.

Click here for Part 3. Click here to go back to Part 1.

Get Ready For the Libyan Sahara

2009-11-20T11:59:00.000-08:00

Some dunes in southwestern Libya look exactly like this. Others are the color of circus peanuts. At just the right time in the evening, some are an almost uncouth shade of magenta -- like those pants that say "Juicy" on them.

But you can go to many places to see dunes. How about natural lakes nestled among sand dunes? Check. Surreal, moonlike clusters of rock formations that stretch for kilometers? Yes, sir. Black soil, black rocks, black mountains? No problem. A haunted mountain? Got that too.

Tune in this weekend and next week and I'll show you.

Sunrise, Sunset

2009-11-20T10:19:00.000-08:00

One last photo of Tripoli -- this time, sunrise. Many days, I walked along those lampposts on the long, wide promenade next to the sea. I spent nearly two weeks here and had a lovely time.

Tripoli's Green Square

2009-11-20T09:51:00.000-08:00

Tripoli's Green Square is, I suppose, Libya's Times Square. It's right between the walled old medina and one of the fancier parts of town. In the picture below, you can see part of the Tripoli Castle off to the right. The medina is behind that and further to the right. Between those two tall pillars near the middle of the picture is the Green Square.

This is the upper part of the Green Square just before dawn; usually, this area is full of pedestrians, the fountain is running, and people are sitting about. At one point, the concrete here was actually painted green. You can barely see what remains of the color when you walk across it nowadays.

The main entertainment on the Green Square most nights.

This photo was taken from near the arches. See, it's big! And most of the time, all this space is filled with parked cars.

One Last Jamahiriya Museum Post

2009-11-20T09:37:00.000-08:00

One last sampling of art from this wonderful place.

On the Wall in Tripoli

2009-11-20T09:33:00.000-08:00

My favorite piece of art from the Jamahiriya Museum in Tripoli.

The Green Book, Part 1

2009-11-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

On 1 September, 1969, Libyan military officers staged a bloodless coup and overthrew Libya's ineffectual monarchy. A week later, a 27-year-old man named Muammar Al Qaddafi came out on top. He tinkered a bit with the status quo, shuttering all newspapers, churches, and political parties, imprisoning or exiling political opponents, nationalizing banks, kicking out about 30,000 Italians, and expropriating the assets of non-resident Jews. He also poured money into development projects of all kinds.

In the mid-1970s, Colonel Qaddafi went into the desert and emerged some time later with the Green Book, his blueprint for the political, economic, and social organization of a state. In 1977, Qaddafi renamed Libya the Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Roughly translated, Jamahiriya means "a state of the masses."

The Green Book is slender but dense, combining political philosophy, economics, and advice about male-female relations and sports. It's conveniently broken down into three parts. What follows is my best effort at distilling its main points.

Part 1: The Solution to the Problem of Democracy

What's wrong with current versions of democracy

Qaddafi tells us that all current forms of democracy inevitably result in a dictatorship. Take American-style democracy, for example. The people vote for a leader, and the candidate with the most votes wins. Let's say the winner garners 51% of the vote. This is basically a dictatorship, Qaddafi says, "because 49% of the electorate would then be governed by an instrument of government they did not vote for, and which has been imposed upon them." Parliaments are no better: They are essentially a "legal barrier between people and their right to exercise authority," excluding the masses from political participation while monopolizing the control of politics. Aside from casting votes for representatives (which Qaddafi likens to throwing "rubbish in dustbins"), the people have no meaningful role in a parliamentary democracy. Referendums are even worse: They "make a mockery of democracy" and "represent the most extreme repressive dictatorships." The people can only vote "yes" or "no," without the ability to offer reasons for their votes.

Breaking things down a bit further, Qaddafi asserts that the political party is "the latest modern dictatorial instrument of government, whereby the part rules the whole." Political parties form when groups of people come together with common interests, intent upon imposing their will upon all of society. And political parties function in practice through the "manipulation of the people by the party leadership," bribery and corruption, and inter-party squabbling that usually involves "mud-slinging tactics" unrelated to "society's vital and prime interests." In the end, the clash of political parties results in a winner and one or more losers, and that winner does not have the interests of the people at heart: It is the "arch-enemy of a large proportion of the people." Qaddafi says that his analysis of political parties also holds for government based on competing tribes, sects, and social classes.

In sum, "all attempts at unifying the material basis of a society in order to solve the problem of government or to put an end to the struggle in favor of one political party, social class, sect, or tribe have failed. In addition, all attempts to appease the masses by having them elect their representatives, or by seeking their opinions in referendums, have also failed. To persist in such attempts is a waste of time and makes a mockery of the people."

Qaddafi's solution

Qaddafi's Green Book claims to present "the ultimate solution to the problem of the instrument of governance." Basically, the idea is "direct, orderly and efficient democracy." Direct democracy is the only way to truly reflect the will of the people, "an ideal over which no two reasonable adults can possibly disagree, although the method of implementation . . . was previously inconceivable." Until now.

Qaddafi then lays out a system of People's Conferences and People's Committees, implemented through what he calls the "Third Universal Theory," which "permanently solves the problem of democracy in our world" and achieves true direct democracy: "supervision of the people by the people."

Simplifed just a bit, here's how it works.

First, the people are divided into Basic People's Conferences. As far as I can tell, these BPCs are units of direct democracy. Based on Qaddafi's slogan "Conferences Everywhere," I'm guessing that any state will have a lot of them. The book gives few details about how BPCs actually operate.

Second, each BPC selects administrative People's Committees to handle all government administration. Those People's Committees will run all public institutions and be answerable to BPCs, who dictate policies and oversee their implementation.

Third, each BPC selects its own secretariat. Those secretariats together form other Conferences, including the all-important General People's Conference, which will draft resolutions to be implemented by the People's Committees.

Sound confusing? Qaddafi provides a diagram of the system, which helps a bit. Envision a sphere with an outer ring, an inner ring, and a center. The outer ring has BPCs, the inner ring has People's Committees, and the center is the General People's Conference. The outer two rings make political resolutions and submit them to the center. The center consolidates the resolutions and refers them back to the BPCs in the outer ring. If approved, these resolutions are implemented by the inner ring, the People's Committees, which are substitutes for instruments of government. Put another way, the outer ring is the people, the center is a conduit for interpreting the will of the people, and the inner ring implements the people's will.

Additional ruminations

Qaddafi then offers some observations about law. He asserts that constitutions, like all other man-made laws, are a "mockery" because they are "based solely on the views of the dictatorial instruments of government existing in the world today." "It is invalid and undemocratic for a committee or an assembly to be empowered to pass legislation for society." The only true law is natural law, because man is "essentially one and the same everywhere physically and in terms of sensibility, and that is the reason why natural law is the logical law for mankind." "Natural legislation in any society is grounded in either religion or customs, and any attempt to make legislation for a given society derived from sources other than these two is invalid and illogical." In short, the only laws in Qaddafi's society are natural laws, usually embodied customs and religion. Man-made laws and constitutions have no place in this society.

Finally, Qaddafi opines on freedom of expression and freedom of the press. He puts to one side an individual's freedom of expression, which he calls the "right of every natural person, even if a person chooses to behave irrationally to express his or her insanity." Corporate bodies have the same right, he says. The key point is that these entities speak for themselves alone. The press, by contrast, "is society's medium of expression, not an individual's or corporate body's medium of expression. Therefore, it cannot be logically or democratically the private property of such persons." It must instead be published and broadcast by the People's Committee, comprising members from all the various groups in society without exception. Only in this case will the press or any other information medium be democratic, expressing the viewpoints of society as a whole and representing all its various groups.

After a flowery paragraph extolling the virtues of the Third Universal Theory, Qaddafi ends with this ominous sentence: "Theoretically, this is genuine democracy, but in reality, the strong always rule: that is to say those who are strongest in society hold the reins of government." That's a surprising sentence, given what came before, but perhaps there's more wisdom in this sentence than in the rest of Part One combined.

Click here for Part 2. Click here for Part 3.

Leptis Magna Grand Finale

2009-11-19T13:13:00.000-08:00

There's plenty more to Leptis Magna than I've shown you, but I'm ruined out, and I bet you are too. So here's the final shot. Not the greatest, but I hope you can appreciate my ability to take a picture with one hand while celebrating. Thanks for touring Leptis with me.

Fishermen

2009-11-19T04:52:00.000-08:00

Near the Tripoli shore.

Mummy

2009-11-18T14:07:00.000-08:00

Or... something. What is this thing? It's in Libya's national museum in Tripoli.

Update: I am told it's the 5400-year-old skeleton of a child found somewhere in Libya. Ah.

Count the Columns

2009-11-18T06:52:00.000-08:00

Click on this photo and go to work. The theater at Leptis Magna is off to the left, and that's the Mediterranean on the right.

Lounging

2009-11-18T05:48:00.000-08:00

On top of an arch at the top of Leptis Magna's theater.

Tripoli Nightlife

2009-11-18T05:34:00.000-08:00

There is none.

At least, that's the line I've heard repeatedly, especially from expats and people with jobs that cater to tourists.

By the standards of big American and European cities, that may be true. Alcohol is outlawed here, so there are no bars, and I'm not aware of any clubs. There are some movie theaters that show mainly Egyptian movies, but the movies don't seem to be a huge draw at night. There's relatively little in the way of live music and theater, opera, etc.

Instead, people just spend time together. They wander through the market, walk around downtown, linger on their stoops and near stores, play cards, and chat in pleasant outdoor cafes. Many probably stay home with friends and family.

This pace of life has its advantages. It feels less noisy and hurried, and there's more time to enjoy the people you're with and the details of the world around you. That's not such a bad thing. And if you want adrenaline, just get in the nearest taxi and tell the driver you need to get somewhere fast.

Leptis Magna Part 3: The Market

2009-11-18T04:32:00.000-08:00

They sold fabrics, fruits and other goods here 1800 years ago.

Nearby, fun with shadows.

Apparent Witness to the Revolution

2009-11-17T13:22:00.000-08:00

Caption written in English next to a jeep in Tripoli's Jamahiriya Museum:

"This car (1/4 ton Jeep type) is the apparent witness of the historic penetration and courageous swoop on the aurora of the morning [September 1, 1969], forced one's way from Garyuness Camp to the Broadcasting Headquarters / Benghazi, which carried the Leader Moammar El-Gheddafi at the head of the obvious victory procession with his battlefield uniform risking one's soul for Libya, Arabism, Islam and humanity altogether."

Leptis Magna Part 2: Severan Forum and Basilica

2009-11-17T07:45:00.000-08:00

The Severan Forum at Leptis Magna is bigger than a football field. It had a marble floor and was surrounded by impressive porticoes. The ground is covered with fallen columns and other artifacts. Aside from the forum's sheer size, these Gorgon heads were the highlight. Apparently over 70 of them have been found at the site.

This photo shows you a chunk of the forum. All four walls are largely intact; I'm just showing you parts of two of them. Like I said, it's big.

At the back of the forum is a basilica that measures about 40 meters by 90 meters. Archaeologists were hard at work here when I visited, measuring and rearranging the ruins strewn throughout. This first shot captures about half of the space. The second gives you a closer look.

Leptis Magna Part 1: Arch of Septimus Severus

2009-11-17T07:09:00.000-08:00

The first thing you see when you walk into Leptis Magna, 130 km east of Tripoli.

This place is unbelievable. Other sites I've visited have had some well preserved ruins, but this is an entire city -- acre upon acre of ruins. You can walk the same streets people walked 2000 years ago and visit building after building. All are preserved well enough that you can easily envision how this decadent and extraordinary city looked in its heyday.

Light, Window

2009-11-17T05:07:00.000-08:00

Tripoli medina.

Pier

2009-11-17T05:03:00.000-08:00

Bundles of fishing nets on a pier, with Tripoli's skyline in the distance.

Banca di Roma, Tripoli

2009-11-16T13:31:00.000-08:00

This Banca di Roma building played an important role in Italy's colonization of Libya. As a posting outside the bank puts it: This building was "used by Bank of Rome as a branch of the central bank in Italy, aiming to find an excuse to colonize Libya." You might walk past the outside without noticing it these days, in part because it's in a quiet section of the medina, but here's a shot of the ceiling.

After a stint as a museum and some other uses, it's now a bank again. According to this posting, it's a branch of Umma Bank. But the sticker and a sign inside leads me to believe that it may also serve as a Western Union.

Roommates

2009-11-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

My roommates in the youth hostel in Tripoli were an Egyptian construction worker and a Turkish restaurant owner. The Egyptian earns about 600 dollars per month, and came here because it's easier to get work than in his hometown, Alexandria. He stays up late each night reading, and says he's a big fan of Toni Morrison, Tennessee Williams, and Ernest Hemmingway.

In Tunis, my roommates included a business student from Cameroon and a man from Bangladesh who had just gotten laid off from his IT job and decided to explore Tunisia a bit. One evening, my dinner table at the hostel consisted of a German man in his 60s who is cycling around Tunisia, a Brazilian man who deals in semi-precious stones and teaches dance class, and a French bricklayer and former literature student who came to Tunis to study Arabic.

Busts

2009-11-16T07:51:00.000-08:00

In the Tripoli's Jamahiriya Museum.

Lights

2009-11-16T05:04:00.000-08:00

Decorations on the fence surrounding a very impressive building east of the Green Square. I'm not sure what the building is -- perhaps it's a statehouse. It has a nice illuminated dome, and huge images of ruins and the Colonel are projected on it at night. Quite a sight to behold, but difficult to photograph. And in my case, impossible to photograph because a policeman came up to me and told me to stop taking photos.

Different wall, same decorations, this time with lights from passing cars below.

Market

2009-11-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

It doesn't look like much during the day, but at night this market, right next to the medina, is packed. The man on the left wanted his picture taken, then asked me where I was from. During our conversation, about 15 people gathered around to see what the tourist had to say; many others piped up with questions of their own. One of the observers jumped in and began speaking and then yelling in Arabic about Islam. I still felt fine, but an older Libyan man, perhaps sensing that the situation could escalate, came over and broke up the conversation and escorted me on down the street.

This has happened to me many times on my journey over the past six months. Nobody has even threatened me, let alone robbed or harmed me in any way. And whenever a situation gets a little dicey, a bystander has stepped in to help me out. In southern Africa, it was often a woman -- sometimes an older one, often someone in her 20s; up here, older men do more of the bailing out.

A Door and a Wall

2009-11-15T09:52:00.000-08:00

Coming Soon: Leptis Magna

2009-11-15T07:22:00.000-08:00

This week I'll take you on a tour of Leptis Magna, in the north of Libya. Stay tuned.

By the Sea in Tripoli

2009-11-15T05:46:00.000-08:00

This abandoned building used to be a cafe, I think.

Lounging in the sun.

One of the biggest fishing poles I have ever seen for fishing off the shore.

More Still, Tripoli Medina

2009-11-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

Fewer cats here than in Morocco and Tunisia, by a long shot.

Old man with a cane.

More Tripoli Medina

2009-11-14T02:25:00.000-08:00

Handprint

2009-11-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

Alleyway in the Tripoli medina.

Tripoli's Jamahiriya Museum

2009-11-13T11:16:00.000-08:00

Libya's national museum is spectacular. I went once a few days ago, and I'm going back because it was so good. Created in conjunction with UNESCO, it's beautifully laid out, and the collection runs the gamut from stunning sculptures and mosaics to Islamic art, natural history, and modern history. Did I mention that there's a mummy?

I was devastated because the section on Libyan independence, supposedly one of the best parts, was closed, but even the limited collection I saw was amazing. And luckily the Colonel's revolutionary Volkswagen was still on display.

I'll post more photos next week (including a mummy photo!), but these two will give you a taste.

One other thing. I had read in a guide book that entrance is three dinars (less than three bucks), but you have to hire a guide, which will cost you another 50 dinars, and no cameras are allowed. Times have changed. Now it's six dinars, no compulsory guide, and cameras are welcome.

One More Cat

2009-11-13T10:30:00.001-08:00