Part 1. The Tunisian-Algerian border to Djanet
The Algerian Sahara | Guides, police escorts, migrants and marvels
We arrive early at the Taleb Larbi border crossing between southern Tunisia and Algeria. We are in the red zone, ‘formally advised against’ by the French ministry of foreign affairs.
We know that a long day is ahead to clear police checkpoints and customs. As we join the waiting line of cars, we meet Amastan, our Tuareg guide who will help us cross into Algeria and escort us over the next 1800 km south along the red-zone border with Libya, then southwest into the yellow zones (‘not recommended except for imperative reasons’).
The goal for this first leg of our journey is Djanet, our point of departure for visiting the Tassili N’Ajjer National Park and the Tadrart Rouge mountain range. Amastan, ‘protector’ in Tuareg, is tall and imposing, wearing a traditional Tuareg chéche head scarf and a long tunic over loose pants. He waves us over to a small parking lot in front of the high concrete arches that mark the border post. We hand over our passports, car registration, visa applications, and cash to be exchanged, and settle in to wait. It is sunrise and the line is already long with an improbable collection of barely-functional Mercedes used to transport cheap Algerian diesel back into Tunisia. Our convoy of 7 offroad vehicles from Switzerland and France is also an improbable collection that offers a distraction to the waiting line of cars: a Toyota Landcruiser HJ61, a Safari, a Tacoma, a Hi-Lux, a Jeep Wrangler JKU Rubicon, and 2 Land Rover Defender 110s. Our ages range from 34 to 79, and for this delivery leg of the trek, I am the only woman. We make coffee, discuss plans, make the most of intermittent internet signals, discretely compare hiding places for VHF radios, cameras, binoculars, drones. As I refill my coffee from the back of our Defender, a young woman walks toward me with her two children, her warm smile and dark soft eyes framed by her hijab. She asks where we are coming from and where we are going, our conversation limited to hand gestures and a few shared words in French. I explain that we are headed south, to Djanet, pointing downwards to indicate south. She looks confused and corrects me. “North. Algiers”, she insists, pointing upwards. “No, South. Djanet, Tamanrasset”, I repeat, pointing down. Her eyes widen in surprise. She mimics my gesture pointing down, questioning if she has understood correctly. I shake my head yes. She says something to her son and daughter. They lift their eyes and smile timidly at me. She stares at my curly blond hair and indicates that she would like for her son to take a picture of us together. I smile as we lean towards each other like old friends, wondering if my hair and I have become a circus attraction, or worse, an unintended political statement. She checks the results with satisfaction and smiles. “Marhaba”, she says, offering me her hand. We shake hands and she takes her hand back to her heart. “Marhaba” she repeats. Welcome.
The goal for this first leg of our journey is Djanet, our point of departure for visiting the Tassili N’Ajjer National Park and the Tadrart Rouge mountain range. Amastan, ‘protector’ in Tuareg, is tall and imposing, wearing a traditional Tuareg chéche head scarf and a long tunic over loose pants. He waves us over to a small parking lot in front of the high concrete arches that mark the border post. We hand over our passports, car registration, visa applications, and cash to be exchanged, and settle in to wait. It is sunrise and the line is already long with an improbable collection of barely-functional Mercedes used to transport cheap Algerian diesel back into Tunisia. Our convoy of 7 offroad vehicles from Switzerland and France is also an improbable collection that offers a distraction to the waiting line of cars: a Toyota Landcruiser HJ61, a Safari, a Tacoma, a Hi-Lux, a Jeep Wrangler JKU Rubicon, and 2 Land Rover Defender 110s. Our ages range from 34 to 79, and for this delivery leg of the trek, I am the only woman. We make coffee, discuss plans, make the most of intermittent internet signals, discretely compare hiding places for VHF radios, cameras, binoculars, drones. As I refill my coffee from the back of our Defender, a young woman walks toward me with her two children, her warm smile and dark soft eyes framed by her hijab. She asks where we are coming from and where we are going, our conversation limited to hand gestures and a few shared words in French. I explain that we are headed south, to Djanet, pointing downwards to indicate south. She looks confused and corrects me. “North. Algiers”, she insists, pointing upwards. “No, South. Djanet, Tamanrasset”, I repeat, pointing down. Her eyes widen in surprise. She mimics my gesture pointing down, questioning if she has understood correctly. I shake my head yes. She says something to her son and daughter. They lift their eyes and smile timidly at me. She stares at my curly blond hair and indicates that she would like for her son to take a picture of us together. I smile as we lean towards each other like old friends, wondering if my hair and I have become a circus attraction, or worse, an unintended political statement. She checks the results with satisfaction and smiles. “Marhaba”, she says, offering me her hand. We shake hands and she takes her hand back to her heart. “Marhaba” she repeats. Welcome.