Notes from Algeria 1-2

In a car, a hot and dusty carriage. A soundless dot, a bright brittle star in the sunlit Sahara desert. Region: the Triangle of Death.

We arrive at a Club house. A flat sandstone building topped with triangular glass. Once a popular spot - disco - written large above the door. In the front porch, a houseplant is kicked about the floor, bits of earth and plastic, and the limbs of a spider. 

Then into an open sun lounge and seated at a large plastic white table. The table is so large, we feel the distance, and must pitch a raised voice to talk to one another. The dark glass walls are lined with hot house plants and ivy. There is no music, and few members sit in the shadow of the bar. 

Once seated the women arrive from a side door, led by a tall and muscular woman in a red dress. Her hair short and soft like a newborn, her teeth dark and set in a hot and red face. Her appearance is that of a large thumbed caricature Madame. She is friendly and natural with us, with an arresting smile. Her friend is small and tanned, with dark features, her small chest and waist is accentuated by a round and large back. She is ill-at-ease, crosses her arms and doesn't speak.

The red dress is the first to act, bearing down on Mike' grasping the tops of his shoulders with two heavy hands, and with a thick accent, in a half whisper she is first to speak, "you want, say you, come on, come on?" Our group begins to stir as Mike - now following orders - with a worry face is taken away. I look at the tanned woman again, she is wearing a green top and bikini bottoms, but no shoes. We talk amongst ourselves, and who will be next. Uncle Abduh, is pressing us to "get our business done". Nathan is being egged on by the others, and looks uncomfortable. Then Mike appears moments later having left early. And we leave. 

Outside groups of men are loading watermelons into a flatbed truck. I go to help them. I ask if I can try one, and I do, but it is a tasteless bite. When our cab arrives Mike tells me he ran out - but not without paying. He didn’t touch her. “Don't tell the others", he says.

Part 2

Fork lightning during the day - white-blue purple above our home. Here IT stayed - a binary of white line suspended in the course air. A full copy of our dwelling - electric symmetry in the twilight stain. 

Wild dogs now sat beneath a tree, a donkey joined them and together they all look up. 

We are told by the family not to venture out - men from the hills - terrorists have gotten word of our visit, and are now in the village. It isn't safe, so we stay in the compound. 

By the following evening in the back of a flatbed, our troubles skip beneath us, as we make our approach. Rain, heavy, in our faces, then lightning again and our voices in chorus.

Then without warning a dog runs into our side and under our truck - a terrible sound as we drive over the body. Although clearly hurt she is up and gone, disappearing in darkness. There is guilt now - a single beam finding us as we spiral up the hillside to our appointment with the newspaper Le Monde, by now drenched we shuffle into the coffee shop. 

We tell them who we are, where we came from and how much we love it here.