The Shores of Tripoli

The biggest adventure for an American traveler in Libya is getting into the country. The entire visa system was shut down until last May, but slowly relations between our two countries have begun to mend. There is even an American embassy in Tripoli now. Americans can get into the country and take a look around - provided they’re invited. The trick is to book through an in-country tour agency which will take care of the visa process for you. You will then have to pay (a lot) for and sit through a completely guided tour during which you hear the entire history of Libya since ever on four different occasions and in four rather divergent accents and are never, ever alone unless you climb out of the car window like a chinchilla and you begin to confuse the words "guide" and "guard." Also, there are Qadaffi tee-shirts. So, obviously, it’s all worth it.

My visa was waiting for me in the airport without a hitch, my guide/guard picked me up, and I was shuttled to my Tripoli hotel for an hour or relaxation before hitting the streets. The first thing I saw when I turned on the TV?



Qadaffi. He is impossible to miss. That hat! Almost every billboard sports either his visage or else his message. There are a few ads for Pepsi, some for a yogurt company, and precisely ten million patriotic images and slogans to enjoy. I enjoyed them so much that I purchased five of the afforementioned Qadaffi tee-shirts and two Qadaffi watches. But that was later.

On my first day, my guide/guard didn’t let me alone for a moment. His English was rudimentary and very strange - it took me a day to realize that when he said something like: “I like Libyan food” he meant something more along the lines of: “Would you like to get some Libyan food?” Our communication never really advanced from there. Yet we managed. We walked through the medina at a brisk clip, peeked in passing at shop after shop of gold merchants and wedding paraphernalia, then hiked over to photograph the arch of Marcus Aurelius. We ate lunch (together, across from each other at a small table, barely speaking) at a seafood restaurant with view of the harbor. The restaurant was packed and I was the only woman. In fact, I think I saw about five women during my first day in Tripoli and three of them were fellow foreigners.







On the left is a mosque that was built, by Italians, to be a Catholic cathedral:



The tourstic shops weren’t very interesting to me once I observed that every unique handicraft they offer is available in Tunis too. I was more intrigued by the central market where locals can purchase some fabulous looking produce, piles of olives and, if they so choose, live cobras. One corner of the market was taken up by several pet stores in which I saw a pathetic kitty sharing a cage with twenty-five turtles, de-fanged snakes threatening passers-by with fierce gumming, and pitiful puppies strained at their restrictive chains.



These cobras are napping inside emptied water bottles:

We passed a small weaving studio in our march. Unlike the showier carpet shops which always include a “real” and “historical” loom for tourists to gawk at, this was a working studio churning out cloth for weddings (is everyone in Libya getting married at once? They sure do sell a lot of marriage-related merchandise!). I started chatting with the closer weaver and discovered that he is, in fact, Tunisian! This discovery was very exciting and occasioned the use of my Tunisian dialect, much to the amusement of the listening Libyans. Apparently Libyans find it very entertaining to make fun of the accents of their closest neighbors - an impulse I can certainly understand. Um, "3ayshik?"



We also visited a church - had to, the sign told us to do it! - where a Nigerian man started chatting with me. It was one of those “Hey! You speak English too!” kind of connections in which we had no real topic in common. And the conversation got stranger when he asked me whether I am Christian. “No,” I told him to be contrary, “I'm Jewish.” He then shrugged and replied: “But Jews are a kind of Christian, right?” “Not really, no,” I said. But he persisted: “Yes, I think that Jews are a sect of Christianity, also Christian.” Well, that certainly puts the intifada in a different perspective.



The prettiest square of the old town is presided over by an Italian-made clock tower. It is therefore and appropriately called Clock Square. I drank cappuccinos here (passed on the advertised "American-style donuts) and watched the rather muted shopping day. Crowds of idle men with wheelbarrows were waiting to help shoppers with their purchases. I didn't see any get work, nor did they take part in wheelbarrow races. Missed opportunities all around.