I have some news… can’t say it’s bad news, really, but it doesn’t feel quite like good news either. Let’s call it “conflicted.”

I am going home to Madison, Wisconsin.

During some touristy time off in Alexandria, Egypt, I slipped on some wet concrete and fell off my bike. It was such a little thing; it took less than a second. But the ramifications are turning out to be much larger and more far-reaching than I could’ve expected.
I was hospitalized for surgery in a foreign country (again) and they installed a titanium plate with 11 screws to stabilize the wicked communuted fracture on my left femur. There were other complications as well, but that’s part of the full story, hopefully coming soon.
Lily came to take care of me. Then my mom came to take care of me. Capers came and helped too. I thought I was getting better; I figured I would be able to walk with a single crutch(and therefore be able to take care of myself) before they all had to leave again. But I wasn’t.
Not sure why (a “high rate of non-union” with this type of fracture?) but it hasn’t healed very much at all, and the orthopedic surgeon’s latest recovery estimate was 5 months before I can even put any weight on it.
That’s too long to couchsurf, and being able to walk normally(and ride a bike fully!) is too important to me to risk living on the streets of Egypt or in my tent out in the desert somewhere…. so I’ve decided to go home and stay with mom for the recovery.
This means an airplane. Which sort of represents a complete breakdown of my principles. Sort of feels like giving up, sort of feels like failure. This world bike tour has become my life, and though “going home” has always been the goal, I really wanted it to be all the way around the world first, by bike and sailboat. Anyway, to grossly understate matters, it was a hard decision to make, and not without its sorrows.

But I am not giving up on the tour. I am leaving my bike with a good friend here in Alexandria, so one day(probably after a year or so of recovery) I will be back, to dig up the scarab, to visit he accident site, and to pick up exactly where I left off.

Hopefully this will just make a great part of the whole story. And whatever route my emotions or opinions about this may take, up, down, or around… well, it’s life, vibrant and glorious, as always.

Wish me luck!

With Love and Joy,

Thank you.

Charles Brigham

Loneliness was there, a misty specter that filled the room and seemed to push away the medicated haze. It was terrifyingly obvious how self-sufficient I had to be. Aloneness quivered with crisis, discordant. Tears weren’t far away.
I turned my head on the hospital pillow, blearily. Self-pity curled down the corners of my mouth. My eyes throbbed. I directed my gaze upwards to the IV bag slowly dripping saline fluids into my veins. The blood hadn’t come yet; this was just to fill my vascular system with something, anything, to keep my blood pressure up. The doctors couldn’t get their hands on what I needed, and though my friends and contacts were out there, searching for my blood, right now it was up to me and me alone.
Taking a few deep breaths, I prepared the image I would begin my self-guided meditation with: the stark white of my bones before a black field. The disembodied trio of my hip bone, other hip bone, and sternum – the blood-making bones in ultra-real purity.
I closed my eyes….
… and the image took over.
Through no direction of my own, the simple shapes of my bones suddenly became a bright, glowing trinity, morphing dramatically. Woah – is this my imagination? Or something else, something… more?

White light traced the lines between them, one two three, back again to the sternum, in an efficient isosceles triangle, which gave a satisfying gleam as it sealed together, complete, like Voltron forming up. Bleeeeng!
My point of view changed suddenly in a revelation of perspective, as if I had stepped through a television screen into a movie. Now it was as if I were floating far above an expanse, no longer seeing my three bones from the traditional position of a human head looking down across the chest, but rather from high above.

My bones had become cities, the connecting beams between them were highways. I soared closer like a helicopter on approach.
The simple dull white of the bones that my imagination had originally supplied was now a vibrant, dynamic, seething, fast-forward white light, cities in the distance, impossibly cramped metropolises of pure, glowing white faceless buildings that in this dreamscape unequivocally meant inhabitation. Inhabited by what, though? Could these be the bone marrow cells, the blood makers?
My one hip was a cluster of skyscrapers, eggshell white, without windows or ornament, more like monoliths than buildings, somehow roiling, bustling, teeming with industry and growth.
Across the black expanse one gleaming highway over, my other hip was surprisingly not symmetrical. It was a different city unto itself, moving and vibrating like an ivory ant colony seen in double speed from miles above, similarly vibrant, yet architecturally distinct; it was less modest, with jutting protruding structures of diverse shapes, and one huge half-arch rising out of the surrounding circus to hang above, like the extravagant wet dream of a Dubai architect, impossible, yet existing….
Then, connected to each hip-city by a shining white super-conduit, lay my sternum. No longer an oblong, slightly beetle-looking piece of bone, it was now an ivory city like the others. Though it was smaller and less buzzing with energy, its smooth buildings radiated power and confidence, like an ancient bank building that knows something, that remembers, despite its subtle appearance. There was no mistaking it – the sternum-city was the capitol, quietly and modestly producing more blood cells than both hips combined.
The dream-vision carried me along. Now I soared closer to the triangle. I became aware that there was something happening in the center, a sort of military army encampment. Each city had sent its legions there for this momentous event – to meet me.
In the center of the center of these three noble and powerful clans there was a stage, or a clearing. I saw it as a sort of stadium field or boxing ring, and I approached flying, circling the vast crowd of warriors surrounding the ring as I descended towards the action. They were already clamoring, roaring in celebration for all the world like barbarian berserkers filling an impossibly large open-air stadium.
But these, my legions of bone marrow warriors, were not human. As I reached ground level and floated smoothly down a walkway toward the center field, I saw in grayscale their bodies were like cells sitting or standing in stadium seats: ameoba, protozoa, whatever – diverse forms with no arms or legs or eyes or mouths, yet somehow their spikey bits were flailing in fanatic celebration, and the cheering was deafening.
Suddenly the vision was put on pause as I realized: “Shouldn’t this be in color?”
Instantly the action resumed, and color – red color- flooded the crowds. All around me and across where I could see the oceans of barbarian fan-cells, streams of blood red streaked through the grays and whites like “the wave,” turning stripes of the world into technicolor red and brown.
I floated onward through the cacophony, buoyed by the crowd screaming their support, like a million spears clashing against a million shields in military cheer.
As I reached the center I felt their presence – the chieftains of the three cities, the bone marrow progenitor cells. The blood makers, the ones I had come to speak with. I could not perceive their forms, as if I couldn’t lift my gaze to look at them, but I knew for certain that they were the ones I had been seeking.
Suddenly I realized: I had never before requested anything of marrow cells, nor did I know how to parlay with barbarian chieftains….
But they were on my side, my staunch allies in this struggle, and I felt confident. I blurted out, “Okay, our priority right now is to make red blood cells, so give me everything you got.”
I was going to continue, to ask if they saw any obstacles to this goal, and proclaim that reinforcements(iron supplements and bagged RBCs on IV drip) were on the way, but….
One of the chieftains, acting on behalf of them all, tossed something at my feet, as if in answer. It was a bundle of thick, dry leaves, long and feather-shaped, each as long as my arm. And each had a large circular hole midway down its length.
I was stunned by this symbol. I had no clue what it meant, but the force of it was strong enough that, somewhere in a different reality, a man laying on a hospital bed thought, “Holy shit!”

The vision began losing clarity. I felt somehow that “thank you” was an appropriate response, and delivered it to the progenitor chieftains.

Then, just as the meditation broke and I lost concentration, I thought, eyeing those dark, foreboding holes in the leaves,

“Maybe this isn’t actually something to be thankful for….”

There seemed to be no question that I would need surgery. They were planning on installing a plate with screws under the skin, and I had to trust them. I was also suffering greatly from the Thompson splint they put on my leg: it was a big iron ring around my incredibly swollen thigh, digging into my groin, connected down my leg with bandages to a one-kilogram weight hanging off the edge of the bed. The purpose is to keep the leg stretched, so the muscles won’t pull the fracture against itself, and to make an understatement, it was extremely uncomfortable. Munshi kept saying, “Look at it this way: if this were a hundred years ago, you would have to wear that for months, until the bone healed. You’re lucky!” Needless to say, I was thankful that modern orthopedic surgery now has alternatives!

But there were several major hiccups before they would perform the surgery.

Firstly, they wanted money up front. They had maxed out my emergency credit card already, within an hour of my admission to the hospital. The next day, a finely dressed young professional came to my room to deal with the full payment. I suppose they didn’t expect to have any problems with an Amerikani, but when she said, very plainly, that they require ten thousand pounds before the surgery could begin, I had to disappoint her. I simply didn’t have that much money, and I was exceedingly disgusted with the system. Truly, sick and injured people, people in desperate, emergency situations, should not have to worry about ultimatums like that. Anywhere. I felt like they were trying to take advantage of me, using my situation as leverage to suck me dry. But I suppose they were just trying to cover their costs. I was honest and told her, and the administrator that arrived later, that I did have some money, but it wasn’t anywhere near that much, and if I gave them that, then I would have nothing when I left the hospital. No, it was going to have to be up to the insurance company.

Thank the Universe I had invested in six months of traveler’s insurance! It wasn’t easy, especially with the room phone on the fritz, but I convinced the hospital’s people to contact the insurance company’s people and figure that shit out. The insurance company sent a representative, and the U.S. Embassy actually sent someone to smooth things over, and after a few days the payment issue was resolved.

In the meantime, we were also dealing with a different problem: blood shortage. The doctors explained that being so soon after Ramadan, the blood banks were tapped out; no one donates blood during the Holy Month of fasting. My semi-rare blood type was not available, apparently, and they were not willing to do the surgery without at least one unit on hand, in case the bleeding was severe. They were looking into having some transferred in(“Do you require Christian blood?”) but they never seemed very confident that would happen. In the end, incredibly, it wasn’t the hospital that supplied the blood. It was Munshi. Or rather, people he, and my other good friend Mostafa, knew. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, all I know is that someone arrived with a small travel cooler, like the type you would bring to the beach, except instead of beer there was a bag of blood inside. I paid for it in cash, right from my hospital bed. The lab screened it, and my surgery was scheduled the next day.

I’m really not sure which was the greater hold-up, the shortage of payment or the shortage of blood. But after four miserable days in that bed, far from home and family, I was one embittered patient. I was drowning in a mire of my own making, unable to see outside my own pain. I didn’t have the energy to be gracefully patient, or compassionate about differences in culture. I was just pissed off.

But on the morning of the surgery, I vowed things would be different. I wouldn’t bring my negativity to the operating table; I firmly believe that attitude is a big factor in medicine, and I didn’t want to affect the attitude of the surgeons that would hold my future in their hands.

I woke up that morning, groggy, in a haze of pain, as usual. I grimaced and started to complain… then realized I had a different plan. When the nurse answered my call, I sat up against the pain, and smiled hugely, producing a pleasant “Good morning!” She looked at me like I was from outer space. Where was the bitter American that was here last night?

I was the same all morning; happy and enthusiastic through sheer force of will. And the results were instantly apparent; everyone I interacted with seemed positive and good-humored. I would be fine.

They wheeled me down to the operating room and lifted me through a roll-down window. There were already several docs there, scrubbed and masked and ready to go. I greeted them all boisterously, “Hey everybody! How are we doing today? Everyone in a good mood? Alright! Let’s do this!”

Speaking with the anesthesiologist was a real test of my resolve. They explained succinctly, something about my recovery, surgery, benefits, yadda yadda yadda, and said they were going to give me a “spinal.”

“You mean, um, you’re going to stick a huge needle into my spine? Um, okay, but… are you sure that’s necessary?” I felt my mask of pleasantness cracking, but I continued. “Alright, go ahead then. I TRUST YOU.”

He prepared the weapon, which I refused to look at, and told me to sit up straight.

“Don’t move at all, okay?” he instructed me. I could barely keep myself upright, and was swaying badly.

“Okay, but, um, I think I need someone to help me. Can I hold on to someone while you do this?” Another doc came over and lent me his arm. I steadied myself, arching my back as straight as possible, tense with fear and anticipation. I could imagine the anesthesiologist behind me, watching the liquid squirt out the tip of his gigantic spike-needle. I wondered if he had slept well the night before. Was he fighting with his wife? How likely was it that he might slip, or poke too far, or….

“Okay, we will do general anesthesia instead. It’s okay, you can lie down.”

“What? No needle? You’re not going to do the spinal?” WHEW!

Soon they had the standard breathing-mask apparatus set up, and I was counting backwards from ten.

My big bushy beard was interfering with the mask, though; I wasn’t passing out. My eyes darted around frantically, trying to determine if they realized. I didn’t want to be awake for my surgery! A blue latex hand pressed down on the mask with real force, as if he were trying to suffocate me… and he was. I passed out.

I awoke in the recovery room to the sight of bright red blood, hanging in a bag above me and steadily filtering down a narrow tube into the IV on my hand. After I shook off the post-anesthesia confusion, they told me that I had, indeed, lost a lot of blood, much of it internal from the original injury, and more from the 15” incision cutting through all the layers of my biggest muscle: the biker’s thigh. The installation of the plate and screws had gone without complications, but I had still come out of surgery in critical condition, dare I say even… near death. Thank the Universe they had insisted on having blood on hand!

But there were only two units, and my blood numbers were drastically low even after those transfusions. Munshi walked into my room after the surgery, looked at my chart, and immediately went out to demand, “Why isn’t this man in the ICU?!” Apparently, they didn’t consider that necessary, because my vital signs were still okay – heart rate and blood pressure still acceptable, due to the fluids they were pumping into me for lack of actual blood to pressurize my system – and because I “still had a sense of humor.” So I was stable, for now. But we needed more blood, and desperately; Muslim blood, Christian, Jewish – whatever, as long as it’s my type!

I felt… down. I had no energy, I saw no way up. I thought after the surgery things would start looking better, but it seemed the crisis hadn’t yet run its course. I was more than a little frustrated that there wasn’t blood available for transfusion. My mother recommended I do some “visioning,” to try to encourage my body’s cells to produce what I needed. Late one night, she guided me in a relaxation meditation over the phone, and as soon as we hung up, I attempted my own inner journey. I would try to contact my bone marrow cells.

I lay on the hard stone, breathless. My mind was shocked with the worst pain I’ve ever felt. For the first moments, all I could do was grimace in agony, unable to even see for the blinding white pain.

I looked down at my leg, the center of my disaster. After my crash in Ireland, I was expecting to see torn and bloody cloth, maybe a jagged bone sticking out of my skin. But my pants were intact. My bike was still between my legs, my feet still on the pedals. I pushed the bike away, and cried out involuntarily as I twisted onto my back. Something was terribly wrong. I told my muscles to move, but my left leg was not responding. It lay off to the side, dead, as if it were a waterlogged hunk of driftwood, tenuously attached, caught on my body by a tangle of fishing line. Fear presented itself, a black cloud of immense proportion rising with sudden celerity from behind my initial shock. A deepening sense of dread took hold of my soul.
In desperation I took my bent knee in my hands, and did something I instantly and forever regretted. I moved my leg. A simple lift-and-pivot, from laying off the the left, up into a forward position of symmetry.
I screamed again, equal to the first, a devastating shockwave of anguish that penetrated every corner of ancient Alexandria, a sound of primal pain that surely reached the outskirts of the city and echoed far into the desolate, uninhabited desert. Schools of fish scurried under rocks, and whole flocks of seagulls were disturbed into panicked flight. Eyebrows all across town raised up, and people glanced out their windows without knowing why. Tourists in Giza looked up as one in concern as an enduring moment of shock flushed through the Pyramids. Babies began to cry and taxi drivers rear-ended the cars in front of them. This was the scream I felt tear itself out of my chest.
I sensed a popping crackle inside my hip when I did it, as the taught muscles were forced over jagged ends of broken bone. Perhaps the bone itself was pulverized even further; ligaments and tendons could have severed, bursae scratched and torn. With that one simple motion, I fear I may have compounded the injury to a unrecoverable degree. I’ll never know for sure.
My entire body was once again ignited, like white-hot flaring magnesium. My muscles were wracked as my energy drained out of me. I lay back, exhausted, defeated. The waves of the Mediterranean continued to crash against the rocks, antagonizing me with cold splashes as I lay in the very puddle that caused my tires to slip. Even the Egyptian sun felt cold. Piercingly, painfully bright, but not warm. Not comforting. I covered my face with my arm, and wept.
Slowly I became aware of someone above me, blocking the sun. A swarthy Arab face was silhouetted before me, concerned appeal behind his foreign words. My thoughts went to the Arabic dictionary in my pocket, that surely must be getting soaked by the splashing waves. My camera, phone, and MP3 player were surely being soaked in salt water as well, so when I felt his gentle hands under my armpits, I quelled the sudden feeling of panic and prepared for another burst of agony.
My breath sucked in as he lifted slightly, then squeezed out through my clenched chest as he dragged me out of the puddle, away from the edge of the quay. My body, my mind, my world, my entire life felt punished and exhausted, but I was overwhelmed with gratitude. In my bright world of pain and confusion, I clung to words I knew like a mantra. “Shukran, shukran, shukran.” Thank you, thank you, thank you.
As more onlookers began to crowd around this foreigner and his fallen bike, I began to repeat the words, “Help, hospital.”
“Help. Hospital.” Over and over. “Help. Hospital.” I couldn’t make out anyone’s face, nor tell if there was a police officer or paramedic hovering amongst the crowd of heads circling my view of the pale sky. I just kept repeating those words. “Help. Hospital.” And out of the confusing cacophony of concerned conversation, I realized someone was directing questions at me.
“… sahibi…?” Friends? What friends? Yes… yes, friends! Munshi! I need to call Munshi!
Trying not to move my leg even the slightest bit, for each tiny twist or flex of the muscles sent daggers through my entire body, I painstakingly fished out my phone, the phone Saadi gave me in Algeria. I forced myself to focus on the tiny screen, and placed a call to Munshi. He was across town, but he promised he would be there as soon as he could. I passed the phone off to the first hand that offered, and was dimly aware that whoever it was, he would tell Munshi where exactly I was.
I felt safe. I was being taken care of. Thank the Universe.

For the next forty five minutes I lay on the hard stone, trying not to move, trying not to think, just trying to keep my lungs pumping. Legs and shoes made wide circuits around me as families and fishermen continued their Sunday afternoon. One young voice kept repeating in English, “The ambulance come, okay, five minutes. Five minutes, okay.” A police officer arrived on the scene. I glimpsed his white uniform and black beret between spears of harsh sunlight, and finally surrendered my passport. I sensed some change, some new understanding in the crowd as the information spread: “Amerikani.” Many questions were posed to me, but I didn’t have the energy to attempt to understand. The best I could do was find “mushtasfar” in my dictionary: hospital. The vibe behind the response was comforting: someone was on their way to bring me to a hospital.
Then the crowd parted, and two paramedics entered, like angels in fluorescent green-and-white jumpsuits, carrying some sort of stretcher between them. Concern blanketed their countenances, and their attention was professional and competent from the first moments. They checked me over and secured me for transport, with a neck brace and a harness to hold my hands over my chest so my arms wouldn’t flop off the stretcher. Then came the painful part: moving. I’m sure I screamed again when they lifted me. I was put on a gurney and wheeled down the uneven walkway, every little bump jostling my leg. There was nothing I could do but grit my teeth and endure – this is what I needed.
The crowd of people followed us, helping. What seemed like ten men assisted the paramedics to carry the gurney down a small flight of stone stairs to the bridge that crosses the inlet, everyone eager to lend a hand in any way they could. Even under all the pain, I was touched by the care that was shown.
As we reached the mainland, in the most perfect timing possible, Munshi arrived, just before they put me in the ambulance. He was greeted with a flurry of excited questions in Arabic, and after exchanging a tearful greeting, I lay back and let him do what explaining he needed to do. I lay in the ambulance, supremely comforted to hear his deep voice confidently responding to the police and paramedics with his usual good-natured humor.
He climbed into the ambulance and told me everything was going to be okay. My bike would be taken care of, he had my passport and telephone, which I had forgotten about, and he had directed them to take me to one of the private hospitals of Alexandria. Little did I know how important that was at the time, but in hindsight, I wonder if I would even be alive today if I had gone to a public hospital….
The ambulance ride seemed an eternity of jostling over potholes and the hectic stop-start of Egyptian traffic. More than once we pulled over so unknown officials could demand explanations. I have no idea where we were, or why we were stopped, but each time, Munshi handled it adroitly, and we continued without delay to Louran Hospital.
It seemed more like an apartment building than a hospital from the outside. The ambulance double-parked on the narrow residential street to unload me as the wild Egyptian traffic zoomed past unabated. From my gurney, the single stoop-style entrance seemed impossibly far above street level, and a steep wheelchair ramp next to the stairs connected directly to the public sidewalk. The ER was a tiny room just off the lobby. I was carried up and installed in a bed, and a hefty surgeon in a white coat ministered to me gently. Munshi was there to translate for me, and he held my unfailing trust, but it was truly a relief to hear the doctor speaking English as we prepared for radiology.
I still hadn’t come to grips with the true ramifications of this injury; what it meant for my world bike tour, for my athleticism, for my life. I lay in the hospital bed during a moment of solitude, looking up at the ceiling panels. After these longest two hours I’ve ever had to endure, I was at least and fortunately, finally, able to breathe.
My heartbeat calmed. I drifted off.

A little cafe on Avenue Habib Bourguiba. The waiter offers me a “personal discount” on my coffee because of something I’ve come to describe as “the bike effect”: my rig looks bad ass resting next to my table, and here the travel-worn, custom-grub adventure bike is out-of-place enough to mark me as an adventurer, a traveler, not just another tourist who comes on the ferry from France for an afternoon-in-the-medina to say “I visited Tunisia!” It’s not just literally that a bike is “open to the world” – it opens the very soul of the rider, and affects the first impressions of others in a mysterious but undeniable way.

The table next to me is taken by a man in a wheelchair, his wife in hijab, and their little daughter. Now, when I see wheels with tires on them – not counting cars – I pay close attention. At the bike shop, on the street, all over the world, I’ve noticed that most people don’t maintain a proper, or even safe, air pressure in their tires. I can’t count the number of times I’ve yelled “Air your tires!” to passing cyclists, or preached to parked bikers, “More air pressure directly translates to more speed. And if you don’t want to go fast, it converts to ease – less energy used.” The same goes for wheelchair tires. And fixing or replacing a wheelchair tire or inner tube is such a hassle that it’s even more important to keep the pressure up; if you’re rolling low enough, just hitting a sharp bump can pinch-flat the tube, and if you can’t fall back on your legs and walk….

Subtly I confirmed: the poor fella at the next table was running this risk. Not to mention spending a lot of extra effort pushing himself around under the Tunisian summer sun with sloppy tire pressure. So after my coffee, a bit nervous and feeling like this might be a dumb idea, I approached their table with my pump in hand.

“Excusez-moi, je ne veut pas vous importuner, mais….” He doesn’t speak French. “Do  you  speak  English?” I ask.

“A little.”

I’m weird and this is uncommon, but he lets me help him. “Yes it is a normal valve, just give me one minute.” I know the thin wheelchair tire can take a hundred pump strokes or more to reach maximum, but he cuts me off after fourty or so. I let it slide; he’s past the danger zone now, at least.

I give the same treatment to his other tire, and before I can escape as an unidentified good samaritan, he starts asking questions. I give a brief account of where I’ve been on my bike, and mention that Libya is next. “No, I don’t think the visa is easy to get – I was just at the embassy this morning. Inshallah!”

Then the cosmic serendipity reveals itself, stunning me nearly to speechlessness:

“By the way, we’re Libyan. If you need contacts in Benghazi…”

Everyone was smiling when I left that little cafe on Avenue Habib Bourguiba – the Libyan man and his wife, their precious awe-eyed little girl, the waiter, the tables nearby – and especially me. The Bike Effect in high gear, blowing away the fog of fear and indifference, to let truly meaningful life shine through!

Yay Bikes!!!

This is made even more effective when the targets themselves buy into the fear:

(Taken directly from the U.S. Department of State’s website)

“Algeria Country Specific Information

…

SAFETY AND SECURITY: Terrorism continues to pose a threat to the safety and security of American citizens traveling to Algeria. Terrorist activities, including bombings, false roadblocks, kidnappings, ambushes, and assassinations occur regularly, particularly in the Kabylie region. Since early 2007, vehicle-borne suicide bomb attacks have emerged as a terrorist tactic in Algeria, including in the capital. Suicide car bomb attacks in December 2007 targeted the UN Headquarters and the Algerian Constitutional Council in Algiers. The attacks occurred in areas where many diplomatic missions and residences are located. The group that claimed credit for the December 2007 attacks has pledged more attacks against foreign targets, and specifically U.S. targets.  The same group is believed to operate in southern Algeria and has kidnapped foreigners in neighboring countries.  This kidnapping threat was noted in the Department of State’s Worldwide Caution, dated February 12, 2010.

The Travel Warning for Algeria contains the most current information concerning the threat from terrorism.

The Department of State recommends that U.S. citizens avoid overland travel in Algeria. U.S.citizens who reside or travel in Algeria should take prudent security measures while in the country, including making provisions for reliable and experienced logistical support.  Additionally, sporadic episodes of civil unrest have been known to occur.  U.S. citizens should avoid large crowds and maintain security awareness at all times. Visitors to Algeria are advised to stay only in hotels where adequate security is provided. All visitors to Algeria should remain alert and adhere to prudent security practices such as avoiding predictable travel patterns and maintaining a low profile.”

Now, I’ll admit that people should be informed about the risks of traveling to any particular country. I remained alert and prudent. But to me these previous paragraphs don’t feel like an impartial bulletin about the situation in Algeria; they feel like exaggerated fear-mongering. By posting this type of warning, replete with all the keywords that push an automatic Fear button, the U.S. Department of State is pretty much helping the terrorists – by spreading the fear.

Some other examples:

The verbatim response from the U.S. embassy in Algiers to to my request for travel assistance:

“Dear Mr. Brigham:

The border is indeed closed between Algeria and Morocco.  Nor would we advise anyone to attempt a bicycle ride anywhere across Algeria.  Please see the current travel warning for Algeria at (link.)

We do not assist individual private American citizens to obtain Algerian visas, nor do we provide letters of support for such visa applications.

You should not attempt this trip.

Regards,

American Citizen Services

U.S. Embassy, Algiers”

The response from the U.S. embassy in Morocco:

“Hi Mr. Brigham,

Sorry for the delay in responding to your inquiry.  While the economy of Morocco does depend largely on tourism, it would be extremely unsafe, not to mention logistically impossible for your to attempt to bike across Algeria and Libya. Even if you were able to obtain a visa to travel to Algeria and made it across the closed border, you would end up stuck there trying to get into Libya, which has  complex visa entry requirements.  Please consult www.travel.state.gov to review the travel warnings for these countries.  While we applaud your efforts to bike around the world, you must consider your own safety.  Perhaps an alternative would be to ferry to Spain and travel along the European Mediterranean coast?

Once again, we urge you to make alternate plans.  Bike travel across Algeria and Libya is simply not an option.

Best Regards,

American Citizen Services

Casablanca, Morocco”

Of course they have to be rather blunt and frightening, lest some moron gets himself killed or someone sues them for giving relaxed advice. (Our society is actually prepared quite nicely to be paralyzed by fear, isn’t it?) But they were wrong.

And I’ll wager that the U.S. government doesn’t really care if Algeria maintains a reputation for being full of terrorists – they would rather Algeria just fall off the map.

But I do care.

Algeria is not full of terrorists. Algeria is full of wonderful, generous folks who hate terrorists.

I did “attempt this trip,” and the only “reliable and experienced logistical support” was me, and my attitude of love and joy for all, which blossomed elegantly into a network of Algerian friends. I never felt in danger, I never felt close to any manner of terrorism or even crime. In fact, I must say that it was an unforgettable experience of the true cosmic beauty of humankind.

Conversely, if I had swallowed all the tripe the U.S. government tried to feed me – if I had gone to Algeria full of fear – well, I can’t say for sure, but it surely would’ve prevented me from reaching out to the people of Algeria, and I would’ve been much more alone, suspicious and frightened of everyone until something ugly actually did happen. Sure, when that’s the alternative, it’s better to just stay home under the covers and watch Fox News.

I’m not saying that there is no risk of terrorism in Algeria. All I’m saying is that the people of Algeria do not deserve to be feared, and you don’t deserve to live in fear either. Terrorism depends on fear to succeed; if you live in fear of it, you’re living exactly how they want you to. If you live in fear you are being controlled. Fear is a natural phenomenon, but it’s how you react to it that makes all the difference. It lives or dies in your mind. Will you choose repression, control, and desperation – or freedom?

P.S. Please look up the book “Three Cups of Tea.” Pakistan, Afghanistan. Education to promote peace, alternatives to terrorist training camps, dedication, love, growth… it’s an inspiring story.

“If you just fight terrorism, it’s based in fear. If you promote peace, it’s based in hope.”

I stayed one extra night at the tourist complex near Bejaia. Said and Nounou had to take off, and in the morning I said a final goodbye to Saadi. It was a little sad; he’s become a great buddy!

Alone again and headed for adventure, I pedalled along the paradisical coastal route towards Jijel. There were even ten kilometers or so of traffic-free construction zone, now that’s paradise!

Nightfall approached and I found a beach to camp on. As usual the gendarmes wanted to stuff me full of food and Islam – all I wanted to do was sleep, but there’s the captain in my way with his leg up on the railing, getting more and more excited about converting me to his religion. And he was the one who originally said “No no, don’t ask about that; he is a free man,” when his privates started in with the glittery-eyed muslim enthusiasm….

Finally asleep for maybe a half an hour, when the bigger boss arrives, orders me woken up so he can put me in a hotel back in town! “NO NO NO – NO HOTEL! I WAS ASLEEP ALREADY!” How completely degrading.

In the morning there wasn’t much Islam talk, but everyone wants me to rest. “I just slept 7 hours! Why would I want to rest?!?” I reply, jumping around a bit to make my point. But something isn’t normal, and they’ve got my passport hostage…. After a swim and breakfast the captain tells me that his boss has decided they will arrange an escort. After complaining a bit I concede, but where is this escort? I can’t believe I’m saying it, but “I”m late!”

An aggravating hour later, three green and white gendarme SUVs arrive. They give me my passport finally, and I just leave - if they want to escort me, they can catch up later.

And they did, making passes all morning, all the way to the border of the province. At least they were subtle.

A girl from Constantine had invited me to visit, but unfortunately she couldn’t host me, because her brother would have to chaperone and he wasn’t there. She set me up with some English-speaking college friends who were anxious to meet me, calling calling calling… do I really want this phone?

They met me outside of town and gave me some water. I declined a ride in their car, so they escorted me – and this time it wasn’t subtle. Just behind me, hazard lights on, snapping photos from the passenger window and drawing honks and yells from all the highway traffic that had to go around.

Constantine is at the top of a huge mountain, and the ascent is straight up, no gentle switchbacks. It was a brutal climb, in danger of overheating, dousing my head with water from my drinking bottle, nearly losing my momentum over the broken concrete, no end in sight… but most of the cars that passed and all the folks on the sidelines recognized what a challenge I was undertaking, and supported me with lots of honks and waves and shouts and “Bon courage!”

After hefting the rig up ten flights of stairs, a snack and a shower, we went down to meet the girl and her sisters. I wasn’t surprised that they were Muslim, but I was a little miffed when she declined to shake my hand; “I am sorry, I can’t touch you.” And then, after a two minute meeting in the parking lot, they left! Why did I come over all those hills again?!?

Well, Constantine is gorgeous. A city of bridges, build right on the cliffs by an ancient Roman emporer(and the French). My hosts were very hospitable and everything was taken care of for me, but my original plan to stay one night seemed to have been forgotten. “Oh but I made plans to do so many things!”

But I’ve been so rushed and pampered and celebritized here in Algeria that I really, really wanted to have one full day at the end, to process everything and do some writing. Sorry guys, I gotta go. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

We met up with the sisters again the next day, still in the burkha body covering, who brought gifts and well wishes for me, and a pamphlet on “The truth about Jesus.” You know I’m not Christian, right??

The guys escorted me again, across the longest stone bridge in the world and out of town. I wish I could’ve spent longer there and learned some breakdancing, but I need to empty my cup before I can fill it with anything else!

The next day I was awoken by the 3 am a’dan call to prayer, because the village police put me right next to the mosque for the night, so I made it to Guelma by 11am. But Saadi called and mysteriously said I should wait, that there’s a gentleman coming to meet me and it’s important. Hmm…

I waited. The longer I wait in one place, this time a cafe, the larger the crowd grows. Four hours is a long time to practice Arabic and listen to Islam preaching from all angles, even if there is free food. Eventually I took off to meet this “gentleman,” thankful to have a reason to escape.

We meet at a hotel bar. I learn his name is Said, but before he can explain what this is all about, Saadi was there! “You drove all this way?!” What a surprise! Suddenly I knew I wouldn’t get my day of cup-emptying…

It was nice though, we went to a hammam in the country fed by a natural hot spring, and I was able to have a nice night’s sleep without mosque calls or police poking their heads in my tent. And it was especially nice to see Saadi one last time – he’s helped me so much, and his attitude is just golden. Thanks a million my friend!

The day I had planned to sit and write and process this crazy month in Algeria, I instead spent pedaling my ass off. Just after dark I arrived at a campground I had heard about, and pulled in with that exhausted-but-relieved aire about me. Finally.

But despite being called “Camp Africa,” it was prohibited to camp there. It’s actually a “vacation center.” But they told me I could camp anywhere I wanted in the national park; just not here. So I walked down the road a bit, and actually ditch-camped in Algeria for the first time, on my last night there. I found a nice sandy spot(under a tree to block the morning heat), well-hidden and comfortable, and slept until eleven.

Then I got up and went to Tunisia.

30 days in Algeria – what a wild ride!

Thanks for reading, thanks for your comments and messages! Thanks for the love and the joy and thanks to all the wonderful Algerian people! Sahit!

الجزائر, al-Jazā’ir, week three

Week three has been great!

A bit too much being in a car, though, I must say. I am just not accustomed to it, and my friends here want me to see everything there is to see, toute de suite! I want to see it too, and with only 30 days on the visa, I’ve been letting them make tourist plans for me – in between days of cycling, that is. I will still trace a solid route clear across Algeria with my two wheels.

Algiers is big and bustling and spread out. Parties and tours and police checkpoints everyzhere, freeways and messy little warrens of one way lanes, broken slums and huge white buildings with sky blue trim built by the French.

I finally met up with Farid, who helped me with the invitation. Sahit mon ami!! I was installed in style with Saadi’s cousins Said and Lydia; and properly pampered for a few days.

After some wicked traffic on the autoroute out of town, I crossed into Kabylie.

This is the one region that scares everyone when I talk cycling routes. The US Embassy flat out said not to attempt such a journey, and it is well known that the few terrorists that remain in Algieria are hiding in the mountains of Kabylie. It’s a long story….

Though there are Arabs here, it’s really Berber country. I thought I would be fine with French in Algeria, and when it seemed disrespectful to start an interaction in French(the colonialists’ language), I figured I could use my bit of Arabic. But here; it’s a whole other level – “Don’t say salam aleikum, here it’s azul.” They’ve got the language; and the ancient pre-Arab history, and they’ve got a strong spirit of freedom and independence. I never expected such a rich African culture that wasn’t Arab. But it’s a nice surprise, a real adventure, especially since most of the fast friends I’ve made – they’re Kabyle Berbers.

Saadi gave me a cellphone, and his cousin Said kept tabs on me as I entered “his country.” He called a couple times, and I knew he was on the line whenever I needed him, but other than that I was still pretty solo.

I hit some really backed up traffic about 80 kms from Tizi Ouzou, cut some lanes of jammed up trucks and cars, skirted around the roundabout where everyone was turning around, and found myself on an empty road. Not normal. Ahead I could see a bit of traffic, and a huge plume of black smoke. An accident? A bike can go around; I kept going.

But it wasn’t an accident. It was a huge group of people, some wearing t-shirts around their faces, burning tractor tires in the road – now that’s interesting… But the strangest part was the fact that there wasn’t a cop or a gendarme to be seen! No cops?!? In Algeria?

I thought about stopping before I reached their civilian roadblock, but only to take a photo. I just wasn’t afraid, and I rolled up with an intrigued expression on my face. Everyone surrounded me, as usual, very interested, but I didn’t feel threatened.

I give that quirky hand signal that means “what’s this?” and ask “C’est quoi ça?”

Amidst the cacauphany of replies that followed, I only heard one word I recognized, “Amerikani,” spoken with a twitch by the crosseyed, shirtless, pale-skinned youth holding a huge dry palm branch. American… what? Are they waiting for an American? To kidnap him, or to welcome him? I decided suddenly I didn’t really need to know what they were doing there. Hopefully they think I am French, actually….

“Tizi Ouzou?” I ask quickly. “Tizi Ouzou, e” says one, and ushers me around the burning tires. “Welcome to Kabylie” someone said, trying out their English, and I was past.

They used to be the only place without terrorists. Kabylie was not so affected by the terror of the nineties. But after the death of Matoub, a most cherished Kabyle musician(which everyone says was blatant murder by the state in response to his critical lyrics), they went crazy with a million and a half person march to Algiers and the complete destruction of all police and military buildings. They actually forced the government out. Perhaps this was premeditated by politicians and generals, as some Kabyle claim, because then, the terrorists all fled the increasing military pressure elsewhere to the only place they won’t be chased – the rich forests of Kabylie.

We have the phone for safety. My friends know where I am. We decided not to meet the press and keep a lower profile. Stick the big roads, travel during the day. It’s been no problems – Kabylie and its people have been more and more beautiful and welcoming the longer I stay. I’ve seen forests and mountains, lakes and waterfalls, tiny Berber villages and black sand beaches – a gorgeous backdrop for stark Berber pride and humbling generosity. It’s a shame I will have to leave my new friends soon, but that’s life on the road – each goodbye signals a new adventure.