Despite currently holding the title of largest country in Africa since Sudan's partition in 2011, Algeria has remained rather obscure for decades and off the radar for most travelers, though certainly not for a lack of stunning nature and rich culture. The former jewel in the French colonial empire, mid-twentieth century Algeria was unsurprisingly enveloped in tumult with nearly a decade of uprisings and post-independence struggles, only to be followed by an additional decade of civil war and radical insurgencies. Battling internal strife, economic hardships, and religious extremism, tourism was nevertheless a very low priority. It wasn't until 2023 when the nation felt sufficiently stable and secure enough to ease entry restrictions and open its doors for those seeking a taste of the untouched, though many areas were still classified as "visit at your own risk" and freedom of movement was limited. One of these areas was the martian landscapes of the deep Sahara, home to veiled nomads and mysterious neolithic petroglyphs, all unfortunately situated in a hotbed of Al-Qaeda and jihadist activity. As one of the world's harshest terrains bearing some of the hottest average temperatures, many would find it surprising that a festival could even occur here at all. Yet Life itself still thrives in the depths of Earth's furnace.
My lifelong passion for the indigenous Tuaregs, for their alluring culture, haunting music, and regal fashions, meant that sooner or later I would need to find a way to attend The Sebiba, their largest and most significant cultural "gala". Held on the same Islamic calendrical date as Ashura, both the timing and the location presented logistical challenges. Talking with local Tuareg guides via WhatsApp (whenever they could get mobile connection), no one could give a definitive date for the event until the lunar phase could be more accurately predicted. The problem was that I needed to have already secured air transport and an approved Algerian visa weeks to months in advance of the supposed date. I gave myself a guesstimated week-long window for when the festival would likely occur and prayed that the moon would be on my side. Taking place around the end of June 2026, the Sahara supposedly would soon be averaging temperatures above 40°C (105°F ), making the experience authentically grueling even despite my familiarity and tolerance with desert climates. Finally, to add to a list of looming stress, a pointless war between the US and Iran was actively inflicting a jet fuel crisis on Europe's aviation industry and the threat of not reaching Algeria at all. And so the countdown until departure began, fingers crossed that all of my tiring and costly gallivanting would not be done in vain.
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| Follow my journey (red line) to Djanet, the geographic center of the Sahara |
Algiers: The Jewel of Africa
After a lengthy, nerve-wracking Arabic discussion with immigration officers questioning my presence and purpose in Algeria (even despite having a valid visa), I finally stepped out from the half-dead Houari Boumediene International Airport into the warm and breezy Mediterranean air. For less than a dollar, a nearly empty train transported me along the sun-kissed seaside and coastline of date palms before terminating at the provincial Agha Station. The sleepiness of Algiers I had first perceived completely dissolved upon ascending a few flights of stairs hugging one of the capital's many steep hills, depositing me right into the center of a car-congested, commercially bustling Rue Didouche Mourad. A tree-lined thoroughfare bordered by towering whitewashed colonial flats, its Haussmannian facades with patinated Parisian balconies seemed to be at odds with splashes of Moorish arches and tiling. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians cruising endless shops filled with Chinese housewares, European fashions, and Arabian fragrances, interspersed by the colorfully delectable displays of French patisseries, Italian pizzerias, and Palestinian shawarma stands. People watching was equally as entertaining, as elderly sheikhs in long gandouras and fully veiled aunties shared the sidewalk with young ruffians in ripped jeans and women donning designer knockoffs. Large families took over restaurant tables along the sidewalks as waiters bounced around with trays of ice cream sundaes and hot mint tea. At 8 PM on Thursday, the night before the weekend, North Africans were out in full force with a vivacity of life vastly different from the subdued suburbs of North America. It felt nostalgic and reminded me of Tunisia, like returning to a home I haven't seen in over 20 years. After chatting with a bubbly waitress over Algerian dishes, we took a seat on the sidewalk and were brought individual terracotta tagines of fluffy couscous and steaming rechta noodles with spiced chicken. Much to our surprise, a college student waiter excited by our presence suddenly burst into a charismatic lecture in rare perfect English, proudly informing us that we were dining at a historic location. An inconspicuous plaque on the wall mentioned in Arabic that this was one of the locations bombed during the 1950s revolution by covert Algerian guerilla fighters seeking to upend the lives of French colonists. Apparently, the woman who carried out the attack was still alive and in her 90s, to which he finished his monologue with "God bless her soul" and a hand over his heart. The evening finally concluded down the street at Samir Hotel, which occupied a vintage colonial structure sporting a narrow, never-ending spiraling staircase, with our room on the fourth and highest story. The receptionist welcomed us with an overjoyed array of praises and blessings to make one blush, a level of kindness that seemed almost unnatural after coming from the blatant indifference of Los Angeles. Not even four hours after arriving had we already experienced a taste of Algeria's acclaimed hospitality.
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| The bustling Rue Didouche Mourad, with the Grande Poste building at one end |
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| Close up of the French colonial Haussmannian architecture of Algiers |
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| Samir Hotel is centrally located and in a nicer area of downtown |
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| L’assiette Algeroise: restaurant, ice cream parlor, and bombing site |
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| Algerian classics of couscous and rechta with chicken |
The first full day in Algiers fell on a Friday, the Islamic equivalent to Christian Sunday, essentially turning the city into a ghost town of boarded-up businesses and empty streets. Still overcome by jetlag and the heat, it seemed appropriate to take a slow-paced, relaxing morning stroll through the sprawling Hadiqat el-Tajarib el-Hamma, or Le Jardin d'Essais, a massive botanical garden complex with the azure Mediterranean as its shimmering backdrop. Manicured terraces of flowers and fountains descended the hillside before diverging into dense wooded "alleys" lined by giant yuccas, dragon bloods, date palms, and birds of paradise. Founded by the French in the mid-19th century as a test plot assessing suitable crops for farming, and later converted into a public nursery for colonial settlers, the gardens eventually expanded into a 79-acre wide collection of 1200 plant species with a small zoo. With its historic trees and refreshing lakes, the garden was a pleasant and elegant oasis in the middle of the hot and humid capital, a particularly popular destination for hundreds of families seeking a large and scenic weekend space to affordably occupy the attention of their energetic children. As for the garden staff, no rest could be found so long as there was grass to be trampled upon. From the gardens, we took a crammed cable car to the summit of a hill topped by the Martyrs Monument, a towering tribute to the freedom fighters of the revolution. Oddly, the police presence made it impossible to access an overlook that afforded some of the most dramatic views of the city, unless you possessed the right connections, naturally. That afternoon, we returned to our district, following Rue Didouche Murad up the hill to the Bardo National Museum. With the Algerian Sahara being one of the world's largest, UNESCO-protected repositories of neolithic rock paintings and petroglyphs, the museum was a perfect place for admiring the avant-garde works of unknown Stone Age masters. However, equally as enthralling as the exhibit was the structure of the museum itself. Built into a former 18th-century palace and villa, the museum was intricately decorated with Moorish keyhole arches, Ottoman Turkish windows, Tunisian and Italian tile work, and Moroccan style furniture in the tea salons. The Andalusian courtyards and gardens were ideal for savoring a cool breeze in the style of historic Algerian nobility.
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| Le Jardin d'Essais Botanical Park, an oasis in the heart of the capital |
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| Inside the Bardo Museum, a former Moorish mansion compound |
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| Inside one of the private halls and tea salons of the historical Bardo mansion |
Departing the Bardo, we strolled back down and past Samir Hotel until crowds of people began to fill the street. At Place de la Grande Poste, a large afternoon street fair appeared to be underway, with artworks on display in the square, children's activities, and live traditional music in a filled amphitheater at the center of the square. The exquisite Grand Post Office, one of the most elegant colonial era buildings I've seen in the Centre Ville, dominated the square with its arches, arabesques, and domes. Further down the street stood the imposing statue to the famed 19th century Emir Abdelkader, a noble Sufi turned military leader who was one of the first Algerians to resist the French invasions, a national hero and highly respected figure across the Arab World. Across from the statue stood the Milk Bar, a cafe once popular with French colonials that was destroyed by a female suicide bomber in the early days leading up to the revolution. In less than two days, we had already seen four plaques commemorating attacks by freedom fighters, a persistent reminder of the city's tumultuous activities during the independence movement 70 years earlier. One should not take in too much history on an empty stomach, which was easily filled by a decadent pistachio éclair and a flakey "New Yorkie" pastry roll at Patisserie Essafoua, undoubtedly one of the few positive outcomes of exploitive colonialism. The capital seemed to be full of patisseries, ice cream parlors, and bakeries, with at least one on every city block offering a colorful medley of North African semolina-based desserts, Arabic style baklava, French cakes and Italian gelato. Shockingly, none of these establishments seemed to be struggling, leading us to assume that all Algerians have an insatiable sweet tooth. Before returning home, two young men frantically caught up to us, having run down the street from a nearby cafe. Mohammed and Sasha were on the constant lookout for rare Koreans, though my father certainly was not a disappointment for them. Fluent in English and Russian, in addition to Algerian Arabic and native Amazigh, they were anxious to find someone to practice their rudimentary Korean, the next language on their linguistic checklist. Yet tracking down a rare Vietnamese duo excited them given our shared histories of fighting the French. I might have been more enthralled with them as they were with us, for the two were ethnic Kabylie Berbers, the indigenous people of northern Algeria. Given the millennium-old grudge against the Arabs, they made sure to distinguish themselves from the rest of the genetically convoluted Algerian population. We chatted for a while on the busy sidewalk before leaving with copious wishes for a safe journey in their beautiful country.
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| A street fair and arts festival for children at Place Poste Centrale |
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| Live Algerian folkloric music in the square's amphitheater |
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| Emir Abdelkader, 19th century leader and national hero |
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| Running into native Kabyle Berbers, Mohammed and Sasha |
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| Decadent cream-filled creations at Patisserie Essafoua, each for just over $2 a piece |
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| Just a small selection of the amazing pastries, sweets, and desserts found across Algiers |
The Casbah. While every major North African city possesses a densely packed medieval citadel, the oldest quarter of Algiers was likely one of the most recognized in history. It was often dubbed the last truly authentic casbah in the Islamic world, one that still serves as a living and working hub rather than a restored and glamorized tourist attraction. A veritable labyrinth of narrow alleys and staircases snaking through ancient multi storey residences, mosques, palaces, and bazaars, the Casbah was also a formidable location for concealing agents of the freedom movement that terrorized the French during the decade of revolution. Though popularized by the film The Battle of Algiers, the Casbah's history dated back to the Arab conquests of the first millennium, which laid the foundation for additions by successive Berber dynasties and eventually the Ottoman Turks. Starting at the deglet nour date shops beside the elegant Moorish-Byzantine Ketchaoua Mosque, we meandered (and more often lost our way) around the Dar district, which boasted a complex community of former palaces and mansions for the ruling elites. The Dar Mustafa Pasha epitomized the outline of a traditional Casbah villa, with its network of beautifully tiled rooms spanning three floors built around an arched courtyard in the Moorish-Andalusian style. The chambers contained a collection of beautiful Arabic calligraphy pieces and illuminated manuscripts, their intricate geometry and swirling lines drawing the eye towards a divine infinity. From the Dar, we began the grueling ascent up hundreds of climbing steps, passing through narrow alleys that often were only wide enough for a single individual, all while dwarfed by towering Ottoman bay windows supported by rows of slanted wooden beams. Ornate gateways with carved wooden doors broke up the space in crumbling lime-washed walls heavily painted with slogans and tributes to the city's main football team. Some doors were open, into which one could peek into the dim workshops of brassware and leather artisans. After getting lost a few more times amidst crumbling structures and empty alleys, we ultimately reached Rue Sidi Driss Hamidouche, which snaked along a ridge at the top of the casbah. Filled purely with local tourists, the road bustled with souvenir shops, tea houses, and tightly packed restaurants serving up traditional street foods of fried sardines, chicken livers, and tomato-pepper-egg mélange of chakchouka.
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| The elegant Ketchaoua Mosque, an icon of the Casbah |
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| The world-renowned deglet nour date variety originated in the Tolga oasis of Algeria |
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| Tiles and archways of the Dar Mustafa Pasha palace complex |
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| Local families enjoying lunch in the alleys of the Casbah |
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| The classic Casbah street food combo of fried sardines, chicken livers, and chakchouka |
Groups of women wearing the traditional haik headscarf and face veil flooded the best vantage points for selfies, although the irony of not being able to distinguish one from another in the photo didn't seem to take away from the overall excitement over a glamorous photoshoot. Eyeing a number of people passing in and out from a small door in one wall, my curiosity landed me in the courtyard of someone's house. Before quickly running out, the owner welcomed me to his family's historical residence, Dar Lalahom, which he had opened up to visitors interested in seeing a traditional functioning casbah home. Built around a tall and narrow inner courtyard surrounded with ornamented arches, entering the home felt like stepping into an North African antique store with its brassware, ceramics, vintage colonial furniture, and Quranic inscriptions. For a small tip, we were even permitted to access the second and third stories, the top of which possessed an open terrace granting 180 degrees of breathtaking casbah views, including the port and shimmering Mediterranean. One group of chatty veiled women had taken over the terrace for their photoshoot, gathering together to bellow out in unison a shrill celebratory ululation (yuyu) that echoed out over the entire casbah below. The traditional sound reminded me of the vocals called out during the initial revolts leading up to the revolution, reminiscent of intimidating war cries before the onset of battle.
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| Algerian beauty behind the traditional haik headscarf and veil |
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| Folkloric photoshoots at the private Casbah house of Dar Lalahom |
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| Haiks everywhere! |
The Battle of Algiers was so significant to the freedom movement that the martyrs could be found in every house, shop, and street corner, often in the form of photos, murals, graffiti, and memorial plaques. The Casbah itself was a complex web of rebels, spies, and assassins, forcing the French to impose stringent checkpoints and curfews on all residents while also performing regular house raids to weed them out. Despite the many leaders and intellectuals who took up arms against the French, only a poor, illiterate street ruffian would eventually transform into the most iconic face of the struggle immortalized in the film. Ali Omar, better known by his nom-de-guerre, Ali La Pointe, paid the ultimate sacrifice for refusing to surrender, being bombed by the French while still concealed in a Casbah hideout, which has since been restored and converted into a memorial museum. Filled entirely with domestic visitors, the tiny museum suddenly broke out into a fervent Algerian national anthem, filling the small courtyard with the patriotic vocals of a proud and resilient people. Leaving the Casbah, we walked along the crowded waterfront to the Palais du Raïs, a former palace compound of Algerian Ottoman admirals with extensive exhibits on their roles during the maritime age spanning the 17th to 19th centuries. By the late afternoon, having thoroughly viewed sufficient arches and tiled rooms, we had an early dinner at a seafood restaurant with a highly hospitable and patient owner. Ordering seafood without a menu, price, or fish display proved to be confusing, even more so when conversing in three broken languages. After a haphazard 15-minute long discussion over the dishes, we finally left it to Fate that the meal would fall within our budget. The owner later returned with a large tray of fried calamari, giant grilled prawns, two dorade fish, and a side of butter-sauteed mixed vegetables. We feasted until filled, and while we knew it was going to be the most expensive meal of the trip, the heaping platter still converted to a surprisingly reasonable $56, a price absolutely unattainable in the US.
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| Ali La Pointe with the famed quote "The National Liberation Front sentences you to death" |
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| Traditional Casbah architecture at the Palais du Rais |
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| The old marina for fishing boats |
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| A seafood platter for two |
North of the city center and Casbah stood the local working neighborhood of Bab El Oued, where crumbling French-era flats were connected by giant hand-painted football club banners interspersed between drying laundry. Shops on the ground level sold every kind of domestic merchandise, alternating between countless shawarma cafes, pizzerias, and sweet shops. One could hear the shrill yuyus of women and fireworks being lit through open windows on the upper levels, audible evidence of multiple home wedding ceremonies commencing simultaneously through the neighborhood. We strolled through an open air market filled with fresh produce and fish, later reaching a spice market where I was able to stock up on Ras el-Hanout for only 150 dinars ($1.40) for a solid 200 grams. From the beach of Bab El Oued, we caught a local bus to take us up the steep hillside to the scenic Basilica of Notre Dame d'Afrique, one of the few remaining colonial churches that wasn't converted into a mosque after independence. Overlooking a stunning coastline and the length of the city, the beautifully ornamented Euro-Moorish edifice and terrace was a serene and breezy vista for Muslim families to relax. Above the altar, a large tiled text in French and Arabic proclaimed the church as a safe space for both Christians and Muslims alike, a peculiar and touching expression of rather elusive religious tolerance. After returning to Bab El Oued for a cheap lunch of chicken liver sandwiches, we decided to leisurely make our way all the way back to the hotel on foot using only the coastal promenade, a walk of around three miles. We passed through Place Port Said, a square filled with loitering black market money changers anxious to grant an exchange rate nearly double that of the banks, greatly increasing our purchasing power.
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| Local street life in the neighborhood of Bab el-Oued |
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| Stocking up on Ras el-Hanout at a friendly spice shop |
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| Views of the Mediterranean coastline from the Basilica of Notre Dame d'Afrique |
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| The basilica is a beautiful amalgamation of styles and a peaceful escape from the city below |
As the area gradually became more affluent, the colonial flats became tidier and the government buildings more elaborate. A promenade lined with fluttering Algerian flags led us to a pedestrian overpass where a very crowded cafe overlooked the ferry port. An iced coffee (a true rarity in Algeria), lemonade, and pistachio cheesecake on the covered terrace of Bab Dzair Coffee served as the perfect rest stop for our long walk in the heat and humidity. Reaching the hotel by evening, we sought out a French restaurant in the neighborhood that turned out to be permanently closed. In true Algerian style, a concerned shopkeeper across the street insisted on guiding us to a place nearby which, much to our initial skepticism, was inconspicuously hidden behind a closed door that had no visible dining establishment indicators. A single knock and the unbolting of a deadlock revealed a small bar room filled with tables of friendly older Algerian men drinking beers. Through a narrow hallway and in the back was a small dated dining room decorated in posters of 1950s American film stars and jazz musicians. Instrumental versions of popular 70s and 80s tunes mingled with the wafting of cigarette smoke as patrons chatted over beers and cocktails. Something about the whole scene seemed oddly clandestine given the visible Islamic conservatism out on the street, but the humorous and persistent waiter insisted that we give the food a taste. Much to our pleasant surprise, the meal was both delicious and reasonably priced, a taste of French-bistro inspired Algerian cuisine in the form of veal cutlets and juicy tender steaks with sauteed vegetables and fries. Sometimes memorable meals truly are found in the most unexpected and unplanned places. After a round of thanks and farewells from both the owner and other diners, we exited the little "hole in the wall", Restaurant Zidi, its solid door closing and locking behind us.
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| Buildings of the European Quarter, along Boulevard Che Guevara |
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| National flags in front of the Wilaya Alger prefecture hall |
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| Veal and steaks in the back room of Restaurant Zidi |
Constantine: The City of Bridges
Once the minivan had filled with passengers, we departed the open-air Carrouba Station at 8 AM. We headed east along a four-lane road that passed through endless rolling hills of yellow grassland and shrubs with the silhouette of distant mountains, a scene that strangely resembled Highway 5 passing through central California. After 4 hours, the terrain began to climb until the large rocky outcrops leveled into a plateau, a stunning network of roads switch-backing across deep gorges connected by bridges of all styles and sizes. Known as the City of Bridges, the eastern Algerian city of Constantine was a topographical wonderland built on multiple levels, a dream for urban explorers and an utter nightmare for those who despise staircases. The Ibis and Novotel stood on one end of Place de Les Martyrs, the cheaper and more dilapidated of the two naturally being our choice of stay for the next four nights, both of which were a mere stone's throw from the entrance to the labyrinthine medina. An unexpected rain cloud rolled in, darkening the sky and pleasantly cooling the air before ushering in a thunderous boom across the entire city and valley below. We escaped the rain with a visit to the Cirta Museum, a small pink colonial-era building built in the layout of a Roman villa, filled with dusty and dimly-lit exhibits ranging from prehistoric to colonial times spanning more than ten thousand years. Piles of Numidian and Punic votive tablets to the goddess Tanit filled one room, while others were littered with amphoras, Roman mosaics, and Islamic wood carvings. The present site of Constantine, or ancient Cirta, had been founded by the early Berber kingdoms before being occupied by the Romans. With the rise of the Byzantines, the city was renamed after Emperor Constantine the Great, before falling to the Muslim Arabs, then Ottomans, and French, all of whom left architectural and cultural traces throughout town. Having arrived late, we only had two hours to get through two thousand years. After the rain had passed, we found a truly delicious dinner at Nabeul Restaurant, my first proper Tunisian meal in twenty years and a nostalgic culinary soiree. The sweetest owner and his head chef personally attended to us after hearing how I had patiently waited for months to dine at their restaurant, bringing out their highly recommended brik bel-lahm (fried pastry with meat) and classic slata mechouia (roasted pepper salad). The main course was the finest fish couscous I've had in a very long time, topped with a massive meaty steak of pagre (sea bream) and tender vegetables, a treat that nearly brought me to tears. With the Tunisian border only a few hours away, home felt so close and yet so far away. After a long and somewhat rushed day, we relaxed that evening in the tattered hotel room, whose sole redeeming quality was the stunning view of a sunset-illuminated valley below, made even more magical with multiple calls to prayer that soothed the tired mind.
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| Overstock on ancient Punic tablets at the quiet Cirta Museum |
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| Families out for an evening snack and social hour in Place Hadj Ali |
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| Tunisian brik fritters and slata mechouia roasted pepper salad |
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| Tunisian couscous with sea bream, the best we had on the trip |
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| The view from our window, the only positive attribute of the Ibis Hotel |
The following morning welcomed us with clear skies and a temperate climate as we made our way into the heart of the old medina. The Palais d'Ahmed Bey, an 19th century Moorish-Ottoman villa for the city's rulers, opened its intricately carved doors onto a lavish compound of lush shaded gardens enveloped in arched colonnades of both Arabic and Turkish styles. Ten degrees cooler than the city beyond its walls, the courtyards were blessed by massive palms and fragrant citrus trees among an array of flowering shrubs and grapevines whose florals mirrored the vibrant colors of the surrounding tile work, murals, and stained glass windows. The former chambers of the elites housed small exhibits of traditional kitchen utensils and folkloric clothing, as well as life-size comically rendered manikins of the bey and ottoman janissary guards. After exploring the palace, we strolled down a crowded walking street through the old city, lined with countless shops devoted to the djebba fergani, the elaborately embroidered regional gown, and intricate gold filigree jewelry accessories, all specialties of a city famed for being a one-stop shop for anything related to traditional Algerian nuptials. In the winding alleys around the Sidi Lakhdar mosque, gold glittered from seemingly endless windows of small jewelry shops full of women, while vivid hues radiated from wedding dresses decked out with dazzling beaded tapestries. After a few wrong turns, we ended up at Zaza, a local alleyway eatery with the friendliest staff, where we split a savory roasted sheep's head and sides of liver skewers, eggplant salad, and local flatbread all for only 15 dollars. The rest of the afternoon was spent in leisurely wandering, strolling the 1912 Sidi M'cid suspension bridge across a vast gorge carved by the Rhumel river and climbing up to the memorial arch overlooking the expansive valley below. An excited voice called out in perfect English, as Sirina anxiously trailed us with her camera. A college graduate and native of Constantine, she had been on the lookout for rare foreign visitors to strike up a friendly conversation. Unlike Mohammed and Sasha back in Algiers, Sirina was hoping to spot a Chinese. She was delighted to discover my Vietnamese father, and insisted on photographing us and exchanging social media information, explaining how she wished to have friends around the world. It was a touching, almost melancholic, sentiment to see young Algerians desperately wishing to interact with and learn about the relatively limited visitors to their nation. A few snapshots eventually turned into a lengthy photoshoot high on the cliffs above the deep wadi, in the shadows of the triumphal arch.
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| Inside the lush gardens of Constantine's Palais d'Ahmed Bey |
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| Colors of the historic 19th century Ottoman estate |
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| Shopping streets in Constantine's old medina district |
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| The plains of northeastern Algeria from the Constantine plateau |
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| Sirina posing at the memorial arch |
We eventually bid her farewell and headed down the road, where across from the 18th century hospital, we discovered one of three stations belonging to a commuter gondola tramway. With nothing else planned and each ride only ten cents, we set off on a cheap impromptu tourist activity, soaring high above Constantine's terracotta tiled roofs and deep ravines, eventually dropping us off near Al-Kantera Park in the gorge. By evening, we crossed the Mellah Slimane suspension bridge to the whimsical Igherssan Restaurant perched precariously on the cliffside, a popular eatery decorated with sculpted plaster elements of a pirate ship and random giant fish tanks that conveyed and almost Disney-esque maritime theme, which was an instant hit with every patron under ten years old. With the help of our hospitable Tunisian waiter, Anwar, we navigated an endless menu of North African and European dishes, ultimately settling on two Constantine specialties: chakhchoukha (not to be confused with the completely unrelated chakchouka) and tagine. Interestingly, Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco all have tagine, though they are completely different dishes in each of the respective countries. The chakhchoukha turned out to be a dish of trida, or tiny square pasta, topped with mutton and chickpeas flavored with a savory tomato sauce, while the tagine was a lemony golden broth soup with chicken, beef, and kefta meatballs. The scrumptious meal was completed with mint tea and almond baklava, a pleasantly different flavor profile from its Middle Eastern counterpart.
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| The edges of the old medina district, perched precariously above the gorge |
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| The 1925 Mella Slimane foot bridge, with Igherssan restaurant perched to the right |
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| The chakhchoukha/trida and Constantine-style tagine |
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| Preparing an after dinner mint tea tray |
For two and a half hours we cruised through the desolate open plains of Algeria's equivalent to Central California, in the private taxi of Monsieur Riyadh, the friend of an elderly local travel agent I had casually met the two days prior. Passing through nondescript towns specializing in car parts and industrial farming tools, the terrain grew hotter and drier with the foothills of the Aures Mountains vaguely visible in the summer haze. When we finally arrived at a small town seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we slowly drove down its quiet main street spanning a few blocks until it eventually terminated at the sprawling site of the UNESCO-protected ruins of Timgad. This ancient Roman outpost town was originally founded by Emperor Trajan in 100 CE during the conquests of North Africa, thriving and struggling for nearly six centuries before its abandonment due to successive raids by Berbers, Vandals, and Arabs. Now, Timgad was a literal ghost town silently situated on an open plain beneath the searing sun. Aside from a man in the ticket booth and a few guards snoozing under an olive tree, there were essentially no other souls wandering amongst its silent stones. Ironically, this wasn't the first time we'd had an entire two thousand year old Roman city to ourselves, the first time over two decades earlier in the ancient citadel of Dougga, just over the border in Tunisia. Nevertheless, it still struck me as utterly remarkable that one of the most important and unique archaeological sites in both Africa and the Mediterranean could be completely devoid of visitors, while far less impressive sites in Italy and Greece would likely be overwhelmed with an entire tourism industry built around them. For only sixty cents each, we entered one of the most well-preserved Roman outposts ever excavated, a perfect example of their civil engineering and grid-like urban planning in microcosm. The blazing heat beat down over a treeless grassland as thousands of stone columns, pillars, pediments, walls, and slabs littered the area as far as the eye could see. Unlike the clean and manicured ruins of southern Europe and the Middle East, Timgad was magically raw and overgrown with tall golden grasses and prickly flowering shrubs that perpetuated the surreal feeling of having stumbled upon a city lost in antiquity. Hundreds of grasshoppers, locusts, and beetles fled the trampling of our heavy footsteps along stone paved roads overtaken by weeds and vines. In silence but for the breeze and chirps of insects, we strolled along the main axis through the town, lined by the colonnades and brick walls that once separated merchant shops and food halls from imperial buildings and public baths. At the original entrance to the city, a massive triumphal arch of Trajan towered above the other structures, as the road continued onwards towards more baths and a distant necropolis. From the tallest towers of the capitol, we crossed a the foundations of an ancient neighborhood towards a quaint amphitheater built into the side of a natural hill, reminiscent of the theaters we'd seen at Ephesus and Epidaurus but in miniature, and whose acoustics still echoed perfectly between the stage and the audience. From a young olive grove at its peak, we gained a panoramic view of the entire city, a still-life snapshot lost to time, with a staggered chorus of the Islamic call to prayer echoing in the distance from the village's mosques. Miraculously, a dark cluster of clouds formed in the once clear skies, creating stunning optical effects and shielding us from the sun's harsh rays, transforming the landscape into a darkening sea of serenity. Like a divine response to the muezzin's call, an afternoon thunder crackled and boomed, with flashes of lighting strikes in the distance. Our four-hour leisurely visit ended just in time as heavy raindrops began to thud upon earth, releasing the nostalgic scent of wet hay into the air around the ruins, a beautifully cathartic rinse after a long day. Every aspect of this long awaited visit felt influenced by a sense of pure magic. We found Monsieur Riyad's dirty Fiat, the only vehicle in the monument's carpark, and set off on a two and a half hour return.
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| The empty ruins of 2nd-century Timgad, a Roman outpost town and major archaeological site |
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| Walking the silent main avenue towards the triumphal Arch of Trajan |
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| Solo performance in a totally vacant amphitheater |
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| The unmanicured site only adds to the feeling of antiquity and thrill of mystery |
Our last day in Constantine was a slow day of recovery from an unexpected bout of food poisoning, though that didn't stop me from continuing to seek out culinary treats. After a visit to the grand Emir Abdelkader mosque, the second largest in the nation, we found ourselves in a small neighborhood alley where a tiny restaurant, Kaadet Zman, advertised traditional dishes from the Constantine region. Inside the converted home, two women tended to a salon decorated in handicrafts over folkloric pillow seating with large brass trays. We ordered the only dishes they had that day: tlitli (a type of local orzo) with chicken, savory chorba soup with fried borek, and kefta meatballs in a savory broth, all of which were made in the home's quaint kitchen. Having struck up a lengthy conversation with the owner's wife, who was surprised and delighted with my Arabic, I eventually found myself leaving the restaurant with a bag filled with homemade date-filled makrout and other sweet biscuits. The gesture felt like the most appropriate send off from our time in the eastern part of the country, as we anxiously embarked on the journey to the deep south, to the geographic heart of the Sahara.
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| Quick stop at Emir Abdelkader Mosque, Algeria's 2nd largest |
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| Feeling like home at Kaadet Zman restaurant |
Djanet - Heart of the Sahara
It was two in the morning when I found myself half awake in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser being driven by two fully robed and turbaned men, their dark silhouettes contrasting with an illuminated highway surrounded by pitch black. The road seemed endless traveling from an isolated airport runway towards the town of Djanet, a strip of black asphalt slowly being invaded by sand. Djanet was surprisingly lit brightly and colorfully from solar powered LED bulbs, revealing clusters of beige dusty compounds with towering date palms sporadically scattered throughout. At the end of a narrow alley, we reached the only substantial hotel in town, Zeriba, where someone unfortunately had to be awakened to unlock the massive metal gate. The inner courtyard was unlike the town beyond its walls, a pleasant little manicured paradise of palms, orange trees, and flowering plants that we crossed to get to a large but stuffy room full of mix-matched furniture and a non-flushing toilet. Noureddine, the young Tuareg man with whom I had spent three months conversing, told us in a soft but very deep voice to settle in and take a long overdue rest. My well-defined, anxiously planned and prepared Californian mentality naturally kicked in when I wanted to know all the details of our next meeting and that adventure I had spent decades envisioning. Calm and collected, Noureddine simply said, "Relax. Don't worry. You'll hear from me". And with that, he vanished into the shrubs and we finally went to bed.
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| The oasis courtyard of the Zeriba Hotel in the heart of Djanet |
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| Our Tuareg guide and chef, Noureddine |
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| Our Tuareg Land Cruiser driver, Nouie |
After a few hours of sleeplessness, we awoke to bright light pouring in through the cracked glass and slats of wooden shutters of our window. A red hued cliff rose above the tops of the date palms and a relentless sun beat down on the dusty town. Rather than jumping straight into the adventure, I requested a day to rest after the odd and inconvenient flight schedule between Algiers and the deep south. But we had finally arrived in the Sahara and I simply couldn't waste another second sitting in a dark room with a struggling AC. We left the Zeriba compound to visit the Tuareg market down the street, passing scenes that seemed to mirror those from films and documentaries shot in remote desert towns like Timbuktu or Agadez. Men in long blue robes and bulbous white turbans that partially concealed their faces, as well as completely veiled women wearing flowing melhfa drapery, chatted leisurely on streets dominated by Land Cruisers and flatbed Fords, a light breeze relocating sand from one pile to another amidst the ever-haunting call to prayer echoing from a distant minaret. All eyes were on us as we strolled to the market, a sense of local curiosity and suspicion that left me unsure of how to respond. In the dark recesses of the Djanet's little souq, Tuareg blacksmiths beat metal into stunning works of silver jewelry and traditional long swords, while other shopkeepers lounged besides colorful tunics, leather saddlebags, hand sewn sandals, and household wares. Despite the many staring eyes, the merchants were welcoming and mostly unassertive. It was my long-anticipated time to go on a full nomad shopping spree, grabbing the necessary tunic, turban, and silver accessories needed to properly attend the upcoming festival. An hour into our visit, a Tuareg approached us and introduced himself as an associate of Noureddine, the one who in fact wrote the letter of invitation for our Algerian visa application. After greetings and formalities, he kindly informed us that our roaming was technically illegal, as foreigners were not allowed to wander the town without the supervision of a guide, for some highly vague security reasons that no one could seem to explain. While we would likely not experience any supposed problems, he and Noureddine could later face chastisement by the authorities for not keeping us on an invisible leash. I suddenly grew embarrassed, for it hadn't even been twelve hours since our arrival and we were already getting my guide and other locals into trouble over some unspoken security regulation we knew nothing about. We quickly started to make our way out of the market when I was suddenly stopped by a police officer who questioned my identity, residence, and the absence of a guide. Thankfully, he seemed surprised and actually delighted that I could speak Arabic, which I nervously turned into a rambling sweet-talk monologue praising Algeria, her police, and her many wonders (a moment that felt all too familiar to an incident several years ago in Saudi Arabia). Amidst so much haphazard flattery, he smiled, placed his hand over his heart, and wished us a beautiful journey, while also kindly telling me to only return to the market with a guide.
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| Exploring a Saharan souq, with lots of stores devoted to turban fabric |
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| Having a Tuareg silversmith adjust my new rings |
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| Tuareg silver is some of the finest and most highly desired in the world of ethnic jewelry |
Before heading out again (this time with Noureddine), I was stopped in Zeriba's courtyard by an Algerian journalist and his film crew, all employees of a national television channel, looking to film a news broadcast on the viewpoints of tourists visiting the Algerian Sahara. With so few foreigners in town, I suddenly became a highly sought target, practically coerced into giving an interview. I ultimately attempted to give the interview in a rough, but news-worthy academic Arabic, my own little surprise in response to the news crew's sudden ambush, which resulted in an even brighter welcome and longer segment featuring my sweaty disheveled self. Seeking to increase tourism in an area that has long been closed off due to security issues, the story hoped to use our personal statements to highlight the government's goal of turning Algeria into the new top Saharan destination, an endeavor to challenge Morocco and Tunisia that I was told wasn't actually that important in the eyes of the locals. After finally escaping the takes and retakes of the news crew, we managed to explore the market once again, without the pressure of stalking police officers, as well as the citadel-like El Mihan commune before returning for dinner at Zeriba, as restaurants seemed to be limited in town. The hotel's restaurant was a truly peculiar establishment that had very specific and brief hours of operation, with dinner not commencing until 8:30 PM or later. The dining room, though in a state of neglect, nevertheless possessed one of the few air conditioning units in town, which alone was a reason to dine there in cool comfort. The African waiter, a youthful gentle giant of few words, directed us to a set table where we waited for a whatever dishes the chef decided to prepare that day; that night was a braised mutton over mixed rice with fries and grilled peppers that was remarkably one of the most flavorful meals I had consumed on the trip. To pay for the meal, one simply left the restaurant and walked across the compound to notify the front reception. With both hotel guests and local residents eating and simply leaving, it perplexed me to think that the hotel didn't find a need to track who was dining and actually paying. Nevertheless, the honor system still managed to function in Djanet, where nothing seemed serious and everything felt lackadaisical.
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| Coerced into giving an interview in classical Arabic wasn't in the plan! |
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| View of Djanet oasis at dusk from the citadel of El Mihan commune |
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| One of the best mutton stews I've ever tasted, at the Zeriba restaurant |
At around 10:30 PM, after the air had cooled considerably and my elderly father had gone to bed, Noureddine returned with our driver, Nouie. We drove towards the north of town until we reached a large well-lit plot of land in the middle of a dimly lit neighborhood, silent under the warm glow of moonlight. From all over the hidden depths of Djanet, women and children began to arrive in groups as Land Cruisers full of men pulled up to the park's perimeter. As the area gradually became alive with activity, a line of colorfully draped women began to pound small handheld goat hide drums, clapping their hands while chanting repeating phrases in unison. To the entrancing rhythm, men and boys in black and white robes with turbans that barely revealed their eyes slowly entered the park, slowly bobbing up and down while brandishing long swords and handkerchiefs. Despite the gossipy chatter of the village women and gleeful cries of playing children in the background, the scene still conveyed a mystical ambience combined with the warmth of the Tuareg community. This was one of several timoulaouine, or dance rehearsals, to take place on the nights leading up to the Sebiba gala, where troops of men and boys slowly circled their way around the hypnotic female chorus well into the early morning. Noureddine lamented that fewer young people were interested in making an effort to attend these practices steeped in ritual and tradition. It was the first moment since I arrived where I genuinely felt as if the exotic characters of my National Geographic collection were actively rising from its pages, only to learn that the pages were apparently running out. How many more generations could sustain the Sebiba before it potentially disappears?
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| Observing a pre-festival dance rehearsal at 11 PM in the community square |
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| Women chanting and beating drums |
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| Men brandishing traditional takoba swords |
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| Even the kids were practicing for the big event later that week |
With a Land Cruiser packed full of food, supplies, and gear, we set off early the next morning southeast of Djanet, meandering off-road from Ifri into a barren wilderness of breathtaking beauty and vastness. Rolling fields containing millions of black rocks extended into the distant horizon where hazy pinnacles of solid stone and jagged cliffs sprang up out of the earth in some violent clash of prehistoric geology. The mighty massif of Tassili N'Ajjer shot thousands of feet into the heavens like a gigantic solid wall. At one point, we stopped at a fork in the only highway, with directions heading towards either Libya or Niger, both of which were only a few hours away. Noureddine commented that visitors always demanded to be photographed with the signage, a concept that made little sense to him, yet nevertheless it became an easy attraction to take a short rest. I didn't mention to him that I had already planned on asking to be driven to that very sign, for who wouldn't be excited straddling the remote frontiers of three different nations? The terrain seemed to constantly change within the passing of mere miles, for soon a nomad's herd of grazing camels spread out over a new stretch of desert dotted with thorny acacias and newly sprouted shrubs from a recent flash flood. Following the wadi, our vehicle slowly twisted and turned around monstrous boulders on a newly created path that opened into a completely flat and endless plain of compacted sand. Nouie gassed the pedal to a solid 60 MPH, accelerating us as quickly and smoothly as if we had been driving on an asphalt highway, only no man-made road was visible where the pristine earth met an endless sky. Some rocky hills formed little coves into which wide canopy acacias provided limited spots of relief from the blazing sun. The temperature in the acacia's shade felt delightfully ten degrees cooler than beyond, the dry air oddly comfortable and soothing compared to the humidity of the north. We parked the Toyota under a tree for the afternoon and unloaded the mattresses and cooking gear. In effortless routine motions, Noureddine lit a coal fire from scattered branches and began to wash and dice vegetables while Nouie pulled out two red enamel teapots to begin brewing atay, the most essential Tuareg energy drink of heavily sweetened, gunpowder green tea. Into an old-school manual pressure cooker went chicken, carrots, and onions placed directly onto the coals, yielding a savory stew that was accompanied by a surprisingly fresh and crisp salad of lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, and olives. Following an obligatory shot of tea, it was time to take an hour nap during the peak height of the sun, a much needed slumber even despite sharing the mattress with scurrying silver ants. Once packed up and back on a nonexistent road, the vegetation halted and we entered the zone of Erg Admer, one of the Sahara's many wide stretches of pure undulating sand dunes, soaring both majestically and ominously in a foreboding shimmer of sunlight. White sand eventually turned golden in color, flowing and rippling around isolated sandstone outcrops that seemed as if they had been scattered by giants, an area known as Tegharghart. On one of these stone monoliths was carved a neolithic artist's masterpiece, a series of wide horned cattle, each possessing a tear-shaped marking under its right eye. The roughly 8000 year-old "Crying Cows" engraving was a well known bass relief in the field if prehistoric archaeologically, dating to a period when the Sahara was a lush and thriving savannah full of cattle, antelopes, giraffes, and even elephants. The entire region was a snapshot of the Stone Age immortalized in stunning rock art scattered throughout the Tassili.
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| A few Tuaregs at the intersection of Libya and Niger |
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| A herd of camels out for grazing, which is becoming more difficult with climate change |
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| Camels are cutest when you grab their attention |
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| Nouie modeling and marketing Tuareg atay tea |
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| Taking a stroll into the beautiful wilderness, with the edge of the Admer dunes in the back |
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| The rich golden colors of the sand flats |
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| The "Crying Cows" prehistoric engravings |
Returning to Djanet in the early evening, the town was already alive in anticipation for the small opening parade ushering in the Sebiba gala that would officially commence two days later (after three date changes in two weeks, I was told this was the final decision). Hundreds of turbaned men and colorfully draped women lined up along the sides of the main road passing through the center of town, where a stage with seating for local dignitaries had been set up along with sound and camera equipment. After much delay waiting for the fashionably late entourage of the town's mayor, cultural troupes from both Algerian and Libyan Tuareg communities paraded through the town center in a truly stunning display of nomadic warrior attire. Men with massive tagelmust turbans wielded long swords, spears, and wooden shields painted with neolithic figures, swinging them over their heads while marching in a regiment formation that could have easily stepped right out of the Middle Ages. They performed the tagouba, a traditional choreographed sword fight with spins and strikes that originated in celebration of early victories over French military expeditions. The Libyans of Ghat and Fewet oasis wore shimmering indigo robes with belts, whirling in circles like dervishes while swinging and cracking whips that pierced the air filled with thunderous drumming. The audience anxiously awaited one local group in flowing white robes and bulbous twisted turbans carrying long vintage rifles, which they acrobatically rotated in circles throughout their folkloric dance before firing them in the street with enough explosion, sparks, and smoke to send unsuspecting tourists running for cover. The welcome ceremony had already been such a visual feast for the eyes, that one could only imagine what cultural wonders the grand Sebiba gala would have in store for us. We concluded that evening with another delectable "mystery" menu at the Zeriba restaurant, this time a meal of spiced roast chicken with moussaka, roasted vegetables, and mutton lentil soup. The same giant African youth greeted us in western business attire, a total anomaly in a land of robes and turbans, directing us to our usual preset table closest to the air condition. I complimented his services in Arabic, to which he blushed. I still couldn't comprehend the juxtaposition of eating well presented, 5-star quality meals from a faceless master chef while sitting in a dusty, semi-abandoned dining room left to the flies and one very ambitious cat. The Zeriba may not have been up to code or always had running electricity, but it certainly possessed its own rustic charm.
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| The opening parade through town, featuring regional groups as well as clans from Libya |
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| The Takassit troupe marching through the town center |
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| Different Tuareg cultural groups performed their folkloric battle dances |
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| Ready to perform the Tagouba sword and shield dance |
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| One group dancing with rifles just before firing them |
We embarked early the next morning northbound towards Ilizi, passing stunning orange dunes that blanketed the land in an iconic scene that embodies the merciless Sahara. Turning off the empty paved road onto an invisible trail eastward, we eventually found ourselves in a wide wadi bordered by soaring cliffs of at least a thousand feet, their sheer vertical rock faces gleaming in the sunlight. Millennia of erosion had shaved off layers of sandstone, with massive piles of rubble and even car-sized boulders gathered around the base. The valley began to narrow the further we progressed, ultimately transforming into a narrow canyon filled with lush green vegetation, broad acacias, and tall palms. The well-known Essendilene Canyon could only be explored on foot, and the boy who was supposed to take us on the trail couldn't be found, a task that was eventually passed to his slightly less than enthused father. The older Tuareg guided us through the gorge at an exceptional speed, walking effortlessly on sand and rocks in a pair of broken flip-flops while leaving us in the dust, panting and scrambling to keep pace. The trail through the gorge twisted and turned through dense clumps of tall flowering oleander, horsetail, and vines, a completely unexpected gem and hidden paradise nestled between the towering beige rock walls. About a mile in, a green turquoise pool rippled between the cliffs like a genuine mirage, as a couple of local youths plunged into rejuvenating waters whose shimmering reflections bounced off the cliff walls in a kaleidoscope of shapes. One of the biggest misconceptions is that the Sahara is completely bare and void of life, yet these secret oases and watering holes clearly supported a uniquely adapted array of flora and fauna. The weather was also surprisingly pleasant with a light breeze that felt refreshing in the shadows of the rocks and trees. My biggest concern up until arriving was that by mid-June, we'd be boiling at all times of day and struggling to sleep at night. While the sun's rays were sharp, the 39°C (103°F) air temperature in the shade was surprisingly bearable, with a much-welcomed coolness descending in the late evening to early morning that made it possible to sleep. By mid-day, we took lunch under another acacia where Noureddine and Nouie had set up another makeshift kitchen in the ground, using a tiny fire to make a savory pasta with meat in the pressure cooker. A dessert of fresh juicy apricots further cooled us down, just in time for the scheduled hour-long nap. A few acacias over in the wadi, another group of Tuaregs sang and played a drum, the soothing vocals and rhythms echoing off the rock walls like a distant African lullaby. After a two hour hike and with a full belly, it wasn't hard to fade off into peaceful slumber, even despite the ants and scarabs crawling over your face.
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| Nouie's father's Land Cruiser was certainly used and abused out here |
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| Entering the fertile Essendilene Canyon in Tassili N'Ajjer park |
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| Locals taking a refreshing dip |
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| The disgruntled father that had to make up for his son's absence |
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| A beautiful thorny acacia in the gorge |
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| The father cheered up with the complimentary lunch after the hike |
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| The camp of Tuaregs who are still nomadic, a gradually disappearing group |
As the sun began to slowly descend, we departed Essendilene, crossed the only highway, and sped off across an untouched flat plain of compacted sand along the towering Admer dunes that stretched in the west. It amazed me that we could simply drive right off the paved highway at any moment and into the oblivion of wilderness, yet somehow Nouie knew exactly where we were heading without any signposts or distinguishable landmarks. We stopped frequently on the open expanse to allow Noureddine to conduct his daily prayers, as well as retrieve firewood, the thought of which initially seemed ridiculous since not a single tree existed in the area. Noureddine pointed to the ground and showed me tiny wooden twigs that were curiously scattered across the barren earth, without any detectable arboreal origin, the perfect kindling for our cooking fire. The sandy earth was so unusually flat and uniform, that while driving at high speeds the ground began to visibly blur, giving the impression that the Land Cruiser was hovering and flying above the beige surface. It felt surreal cruising at the world's edge in the back of a beat-up 4x4 driven by a couple of stoic veiled men in aviators, the setting sun illuminating a trailing cloud of golden dust behind us. The alien landscape, the mystical sounds of a Tuareg blues playlist I already knew by heart, and an ancient ambience imparted a dreamlike quality to every aspect of the journey, whether gliding across dunes or merely watching tea bubbling on amber coals. We set up camp at Tisras, amidst silky orange dunes flowing between black rock escarpments that had eroded into natural sculptures, our tent perched high above with a view of faint lights from Djanet in the distance. Under a brilliant full moon beside flickering flames we took another fine stewed dinner, lounging upon a large carpet on the sand. After boiling on crackling coals, the trickling pour of sweet tea could be heard bubbling into a thick froth, a task only Nouie was responsible for after every meal. The air was actually cool and light, with far-off sounds of Tuareg music drifting over us on the breeze. For the first time in a while, I felt complete serenity.
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| An iconic Sahara scene, taken at the edge of the Admer dunes |
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| Collecting twigs to serve as firewood for cooking |
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| View of Djanet oasis in the distance and the mighty Tassili plateau behind it |
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| Camping at the stunning Tisras area outside of Djanet |
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| Noureddine preparing a fresh salad and dinner of stewed meat over pasta |
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| Enjoying ginger mint tea as the air begins to cool to a soothing temperature |
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| Classic Tuareg desert kitchen |
Following an early breakfast with the rising sun, we circled back to the northern side of Djanet, where we climbed up to the most historical part of the Azelouaz commune, the 9th century Tuareg ksar of Imlouaz built from stones and palm beams. The ancient hilltop village, a thriving center of Trans-Sahara trade between West Africa and the Mediterranean, had long since been abandoned and was in a dire state of collapse. Yet strolling through its vacant narrow alleys and taking in stunning views of the entire oasis still felt like I had taken a direct passage into the historical past, a fortified caravan town in a remote forbidden territory of fierce warriors and rogue bandits. A tall whitewashed minaret in the Sahelian style towered over large natural boulders that were beautifully incorporated into the physical structure of the ancient mosque and adjacent madrasa, the same Quranic institution Noureddine attended as a child. With similar architecture and material culture, I figured this was likely the closest I'd get to the legendary desert town of Timbuktu for now, another dream journey still delayed due to neighboring Mali's civil war and struggle with jihadist terrorism. We climbed back down to the road where Nouie picked us up, then quickly inflated the tires at a local garage and drove northeast to an area known as Timghas, or "teeth" in the Tamahaq language, due to the sharp rocky cliffs and buttes jutting from the sand dunes. A torrential rain had fallen a month earlier (yes, it does in fact rain up to three times a year in Tassili), resulting in the most bizarre landscape where tiny plants had sprouted and taken root on the sand dunes. Never could I have imagined a "green" Sahara, yet there before us stretched a very light layer of lawn in an otherwise lifeless place. Noureddine pointed out one rocky alcove where Grammy-nominated Tuareg band, Tinariwen, recorded their fifth album "Tassili", a recording session he had actually joined and a little piece of celebrity trivia he knew would immediately excite me as if I'd just spotted a star in Hollywood. He was surprised to hear that I had actually attended more Tinariwen concerts than he had, amazing nights of nomadic music that have since been halted under Trump's racist visa regulations.
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| Ruins of the 9th century ksar of Azelouaz |
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| Timeless portals into Tuareg history |
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| The fortified ksar is aided by boulders larger than vehicles and houses |
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| The historic Azelouaz mosque and its iconic Sahelian style minaret |
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| Three Tuaregs went to the market... |
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| The mysterious green plants of Timghas that will last for only a few months |
We stopped among one outcrop with a large ledge that stretched out into a natural overhang, the perfect place to take shelter from the relentless summer sun. Apparently, this had remained a popular rest location for at least the last 8 thousand years or more, for simply leaning back and gazing upwards revealed a low ceiling covered in exquisite prehistoric ochre paintings featuring men hunting with spears, animals, slender couples, a hunched elderly figure, and even a chariot-like depiction. The Sahara in the Stone Age was a giant fertile savannah that supported a wide array of African wildlife and ancient hunter-gatherers, with Tassili N'Ajjer designated a UNESCO-protected repository of their enigmatic art. It was a sentimental moment for me, to be taking a rest in the very same place that some neolithic individual deemed important enough to document their daily life for posterity, in an era long before the written word. I felt truly humbled by this human connection spanning millennia, whereas when I asked Noureddine how it felt to be born and raised in one of the oldest inhabited places on earth, he shrugged and casually smiled. "It's okay, I guess". Onward from the rock paintings, the terrain completely transformed into a whimsical dreamscape of an almost extraterrestrial nature. The area of Adhayek, known colloquially as the "Stone Forest", thousands of stone columns, pinnacles, and formations full of arches and window-like holes sprung up through the silky sand. We playfully explored this magical area on foot, like wandering through an orange tinted maze, losing ourselves among the narrow passages that wound their way among eroded caverns and clefts. In many places, the sandstone had weathered in a way that resembled melted wax candles and buckets of bubbling tar. The orange sand that surrounded this sedimentary forest was so fine, that stepping into it felt like sinking into a liquid that flowed around into every crevice of your sandal. After a magical afternoon, we slowly off-roaded over a black rocky hamada towards the highway that returned us to Djanet on the eve before the festivities.
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| Neolithic ochre paintings of a couple and elderly person |
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| The wonderland of Adhayek "stone forest" |
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| It was packed with pinnacles and eroded towers of sandstone |
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| A truly mesmerizing place to wander in the afternoon |
The day of Sebiba had finally arrived. The culmination of everything Tuareg that had mesmerized me since childhood was finally to be displayed in one enchanting gala, the largest Tuareg festival in Algeria and one of the most famous celebrations in the entire Sahara. This festival unique to Djanet oasis and the Tassili region dates back 3000 years, a syncretic spiritual and folkloric fête infusing indigenous costumes, dances, and nomadic chants within the later Muslim framework of Muharam, the Islamic new year, and Ashura, the day commemorating the prophet Moses' parting of the Red Sea and victory over the pharaoh of Egypt. To add a more local layer of significance to the festivities, the dances also appeared to be a form of dance competition between the two major communes in Djanet, El Mihan and Azelouaz (the latter to which Noureddine and Nouie belonged). Nevertheless, every English-speaking Tuareg I encountered that morning insisted that, contrary to how foreign documentaries emphasized the symbolism, Sebiba was not a true village feud, but rather a mock battle that in the end sought peace and brotherhood over enmity. Whether you supported El Mihan or Azelouaz, all of Djanet was one unified people, a clan of Tuaregs called the Kel Ajjer that ruled as the dominant ethnicity of southeastern Algeria and southwestern Libya. Noureddine and Nouie picked us up and drove us to El Mihan to observe the murids, or participating dancers, preparing their elaborate costumes. A large crowd of locals and tourists had descended upon the elaborately decorated men donning wide indigo robes tied with red and gold sashes. They were meticulously assisted by friends in mounting tall red, box-like headdresses with long blue fringes atop their turbans, each decked out in shimmering and jingling triangular talismans of tribal silver. The long flowing attire with tassels and ornaments was further complemented by long takobas, traditional Tuareg straight swords that were a specialty of the Ajjer clan's renowned blacksmiths. Following the preparations that had started in the early morning hours, we hopped back into the Land Cruiser and made our way to the large sandy riverbed passing through the center of the oasis. A cordoned rectangular arena had been set up in the middle, where two lines of exquisitely adorned women were stationed at each end, rhythmically clapping and chanting along to older women striking goat hide drums. One phrase was often repeated, something that sounded akin to "Ey ey elemado es-sebiba", an invocation to commence the festivities and invigorate the dancers. Dressed in long robes with maroon and green accents, covered by loose head scarves of deep indigo, the women showcased a dazzling collection of elaborate silver jewelry displaying elegant geometric designs and finely chiseled patterns. Large hoop earrings, necklaces of woven chains, and antique coin hair pieces graced their smooth complexions, lightened with a yellow tint from powdered tumeric. Their hands and arms loaded with rings and bangles were stained deep orange with henna. Unlike the rest of strict Islamic Algeria, the festival was a more relaxed moment to photograph these refined desert ladies, many of whom coyly permitted a pose if politely requested, and were even interested in seeing the resulting shot.
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| Men assisting with a heavily decorated headdress |
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| If Morgan Freeman was an old Tuareg... |
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| The finished outfit of a traditional Sebiba murid |
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| A young boy wearing his finest shesh and boubou |
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| The festival is also a time of gathering and social reunion |
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| Traditional Tuareg women's attire and accessories |
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| Stunning Tuareg beauty |
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| A women carrying a ganga goat-hide drum |
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| Smart phones now accompany tribal accessories |
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| A woman shows off her intricate Amazigh style jewels |
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| Traditional Tuareg silver rings and bangles compliment designs of orange henna |
The fully costumed Tuareg knights then entered the arena, slowly bobbing up and down while grasping the blades of their
takobas in the right hand and colorful handkerchiefs in the left, all parading around like a tribal war party returning gloriously from battle. The swords represented strength and prowess, while the fluttering handkerchiefs signified a call for peace, commemorating the ancient reconciliation between the two rival clans. Most of the men were completely veiled and faceless behind heavily ornamented headdresses or massive coiled
tagelmusts that seemed almost comically bulbous. Between the deep echoing thuds of the
ganga drums and the slow two-step circular procession, the scene felt oddly reminiscent of a Native American powwow in the Southwest, only with a distinctly Saharan twist. In a second type of dance, the men held out the wide sheet-like sleeves to their
boubous while moving in a circle, a playful taunting of the opposite commune by displaying the superiority of their own robes. Every movement and gesture, every article of clothing and prop, was steeped in a rich symbolism that at many times Noureddine couldn't find words to properly explain in English. Nevertheless, we were already completely mesmerized by the surface level beauty of the people, the mystical sounds, and the magical location, a memory that could captivate me for multiple lifetimes.
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| The march of the murids, the main warriors of the Sebiba ritualized battle procession |
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| A sword of strength in one hand and a handkerchief of peace in the other |
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| Spear guards kept order in the sacred arena |
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| Even young members must adhere to the Sebiba specific dresscode |
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| One of the warriors with hands stained blue from indigo dye |
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| A dance playfully mocking the opposing clan by showing off their fine boubous |
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| Families using elevated roof racks in the absence of stadium seating |
Like all aspects of life in the Sahara, the festival too was subjected to a four-hour siesta, which would come as an even greater relief to the dancers wearing dense layers of fabric in a temperature around 103°F. We were invited to Noureddine's home on the northside of town, at the base of a tall sandstone butte called Timbar, a simple sand-colored building in a quiet neighborhood of identical buildings with indigo blue light posts. The rooms were stark and the walls bare, with only a large rug and some floor mattresses with pillows forming a typical majlis style seating area. The basic room was blessed with a struggling yet functional air conditioning unit, which certainly made it easier to enjoy a surprisingly lavish lunch. He prepared a large tray of couscous and chunks of mutton with a hearty vegetable sauce, along with another colorful salad and fresh honeydew melon. While all of his dishes cooked on bushfires had been wonderfully tasty and well-prepared, Noureddine's classic couscous prepared in his very rudimentary kitchen absolutely exceeded the quality of restaurants back home. It was a real treat to savor this special dish on the festival day, as properly prepared couscous is a rather labor intensive dish.
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| Lunch of homemade lamb couscous at Noureddine's place |
At around 4 PM after a long nap, we returned to the riverbed where over a thousand more people had arrived compared to that morning, both local families and regional visitors coming out to enjoy the festivities in the cooler evening. The El Mihan and Azelouaz clans resumed their circling dance before hundreds of women and children sitting on the sand behind the metal barricades, all ululating with every passing of the sword-wielding warriors. The dust had picked up with the afternoon breeze, creating a mystic haze amidst the dancers and a growing audience. In the absence of bleachers, whole Tuareg families began to pile onto the roof racks of their Land Cruisers to gain a better vantage point above the vibrantly chaotic crowds filling the empty riverbed. Having already seen and photographed the dances that morning, we found it equally as intriguing simply to stroll around the arena and observe the locals in their splendid festival finery, with special attention to the elaborate jewels that adorned the women. Suddenly out of nowhere, a 7-foot tall camel topped by an elegantly dressed rider barreled through the crowd, causing everyone to flee its path in excitement. The most resplendent group of Tuareg camel knights I'd ever witnessed finally gained control of their gurgling beasts, lining them up for photos by both excited locals and tourists alike. I was completely awestruck by the most recognizable image from the Sahara, a scene of the infamous "Blue Men of the Desert" in their shimmering indigo robes, veiled with wide-rimmed tagelmust turbans, sitting stoically upon their regal single-humped steeds. They towered upwards of nine feet above the crowd, conjuring an enormous sense of pride and inspiration in the Tuaregs of all generations seeking to briefly reconnect to their ancient nomadic heritage as the most feared masters of the wild Sahara. Dancers kicking up dust clouds in the setting sun, chants and drums echoing in the distance, lines of grunting camels at standing attention, and colorful robes fluttering with every turn of the head - the Sebiba festival was an absolute cultural feast for the senses in a place seemingly at the edge of the known world.
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| Afternoon procession of the murids |
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| Man wearing a bulky tagelmust turban, the emblem of a noble |
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| Training the next generation to maintain the traditions |
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| A group of camels ploughing through the parking lot |
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| An archetypal Tuareg noble couple in traditional attire |
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| Close-up of the camel knight in traditional indigo dyed textiles |
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| Only members of the aristocracy would look this elegant |
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| The Tuaregs call themselves Imuhagh, or "noble free men" |
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| The best seats in the house are on top of Land Cruisers |
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| Women and children sitting on the sand around the arena |
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| Dancing into dust and dusk |
Rather than trying to set up camp in the dark of night, we returned to sleep at Noureddine's place (in the much appreciated air-conditioned room). We drove back the next morning into Tassili N'Ajjer, veering off the road into the middle of nowhere before suddenly coming across a stone sign at the base of a butte. We had entered one of the park's many subregions, Immourouden, characterized by more jagged cliffs and giant stone piles. We spent the morning cruising through narrow sandy canyons and grass filled gorges, visiting hidden clefts in the stone escarpments to view prehistoric paintings of elegant females and hunting parties. In one valley, a veritable orchard of whimsical wild Calotropis procera trees were thriving, their globular fruits another curious specimen that Nouriddine explicitly cautioned us against, for apparently they had a tendency to "explode" if agitated, releasing both seeds and blinding toxins. Around noon, we found a wide canopy of acacias to take lunch and a siesta, which by now had become naturally routine in our pace of daily life. As Noureddine prepared lunch, Nouie inspected one of the tires and a massive gouge in the rubber that he incurred hitting a rock on a sharp turn up a sand bank. Though it was a bit concerning to us, Nouie smiled unbothered. "Mafish mushkila, not a problem, I'm from here" was the broken response of a Tuareg who tried assuring us that he had enough experience to know that the busted tire wasn't going to be an issue. We simply had to take his word, even though it didn't escape our notice that there was no longer a spare tire hanging off the back rack, nor had we crossed paths with any other Land Cruisers that day. Inshallah. Following a casual vehicle inspection, Nouie gave me a full course on how to prepare his classic atay, the traditional Tuareg sweetened tea. As I didn't understand Tamahaq, nor was I fluent in Algerian Darija, he did his best to transmit the lesson in broken classical Arabic, which I will translate as follows:
Tuareg Atay: Fill a small enamel teapot with water up until it just covers the interior holes of the spout. Add one teacup of gunpowder green tea, as well as some sprigs of mint if desired. Place over coals for 30 to 40 minutes. If the tea starts to boil over, remove the pot and readjust. The first batch of boiled tea will be concentrated and bitter. Pour this tea into a second teapot, then refill the first pot and place back onto the coals for a second lighter brew. Before serving, add up to one teacup of sugar to an aluminum mixing cup. From a height, pour the tea into the mixing cup. Alternate pouring between the teapot and the mixing cup to aerate the tea, cool down the brew, and create a thick foam (the tea color will also gradually become more yellow). Pour a little bit of foam into each cup, followed by the mixed tea. Besides presentation, the foam will act as a barrier to any flying dust or ash when drinking the liquid portion beneath.
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| The curious toxic fruits of Calotropis procera |
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| A typical lunch set up among the boulders |
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| A natural rock tunnel, one of many formations in Immourouden |
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| The sublime rippling sands of Immourouden |
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| The colors of the dunes shift with the changing light of the sun |
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| Noureddine takes a discreet break to perform prayers |
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| Training with Nouie on making atay tea |
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| Aerating the gunpowder green tea with sugar |
Learning the ways of the nomad, with regards to cooking, camping, and even jokes, was deeply meaningful to me, all while being surrounded by a vast natural scenery that had slowly begun to feel like home. After climbing pristine dunes and weaving our way through towering mesas turning red in the golden hour, we found an open space between two massive outcrops to set up camp. As Noureddine got to work with the cooking fire and cleaning vegetables, Nouie set up a traditional woven reed mat to serve as a low wind shelter for our majlis eating area. In the absence of any camping lanterns or flashlights, a full moon illuminated the sky with the black silhouettes of the cliffs cradling us from behind as we relaxed overlooking an open view of a massive dune. There was a beautiful silence and stillness that evening, with only the sound of tea pouring into small cups and the faint red glow of cooking embers. Mars brightly sparkled over the towering rocks, though the rest of the night sky was drowned in silver moonlight. All of that romantic peace would come to a halt around midnight, when we awoke to gale force gusts trying to lift the tent into the air with us and our luggage still within. The winds seemed to attack from a different direction every couple seconds, channeling through tunnels of rock like flash floods of air. The howling wind created a peculiar and haunting audible phenomenon unlike anything I'd heard before, resembling the sounds of musical notes caused by air whistling through metallic pipes out in the distance. At around 1 AM in the darkness, we desperately tried to relocate the tent and its contents to a sheltered area behind one butte, with little difference felt from the ongoing windstorm. By 3 AM, the gusts brought enough sand through the tent's mesh fabric to coat the luggage, mattresses, and even our bodies in a layer of gritty orange sand. We wrapped our heads in layers of fabric to continue our disrupted sleep, trying not to inhale the fine dust that had already infiltrated our eyes, ears, and noses. Half awake, I suddenly had the urgent need to urinate in the worst possible moment, breaking out of the tent and eventually losing myself while walking through the sandblasted desert solely in my underwear, staring upwards into the heavens that now sparkled with infinite celestial bodies. Even in the harshest conditions, there was a majestic wonder in the desert that obliged me to take a moment to admire in awe.
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| Contrary to what many think, the Sahara is a wonderful mix of terrains and colors |
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| Camping among the cliffs overlooking a great sand dune |
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| Given the open terrain, Nouie set up a traditional woven reed mat for shelter |
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| Basking in the full moon's light with dates and tea |
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| Just a taste of what we woke up to in the tent after the sand storm |
Despite being thoroughly exhausted, we managed to continue the next morning with our meandering through the various terrains and landscapes of Tassili. We entered the subregion of Tikoubaouine, known for its labyrinth of vertical eroded cliffs, a popular day trip from Djanet for Tuareg families seeking an evening dinner or an overnight camping excursion. In mid-June, however, no one was around except for the few groups of tourists brave enough to bear one of the hottest times of the year. One of the most recognizable features of the area was the massive Elephant Arch, a sandstone archway with a separate eroded window above it, a masterpiece of natural architecture. After a brief stop at a water source, followed by stops to admire more prehistoric hunter rock art and The Keyhole, a large neolithic tomb mound arranged from black stones, we cruised across the open desert for nearly an hour before taking refuge in the shade of a low overhang protruding from the cliffside. Noureddine and Nouie were constantly in a state of calculation before lunchtime, discussing and encircling countless cliffs before finding the most ideal location, factoring in the direction and movements of the sun. Shade was always crucial, as the temperature could differ by as much as ten degrees, and it needed to last for at least three to four hours until the hottest time of the day had passed. The same routine commenced: starting a fire with the wood we would collect along the way, then immediately putting on a pot of tea. The vegetables would be washed and diced for a salad, followed by preparing the meat for the pressure cooker that would be placed on the newly formed coals. Once the meal was nearly ready, the first brew of tea would be decanted and a second lighter batch would be started. Following lunch and tea, an hour nap commenced, during which Noureddine would clean the dishes and Nouie would rest from driving. And by 4 PM, after one more little cup of tea for energy, the car would be packed up and ready to go. Our last day of the journey was coming to a close and the two men had one final surprise for us waiting on the southside of the highway. We drove straight into the sea of dunes, the most iconic realm of the Sahara, which rose hundreds of feet and extended off into the horizon. Remarkably, as with every location that they had taken us, we simply sped off indiscriminately into the wasteland without any signage or perceivable landmarks, only to somehow precisely arrive at a site that I certainly would never be able to renavigate back. Amidst the open sands, the site was a random and mundane collection of boulders that were dubbed the "singing stones". Pounding fist-sized stones against the boulders magically yielded an impressive range of metallic melodic notes and timbres, with the boulders themselves possessing deep dimples after having been used for millennia by waves of indigenous peoples. Like a tinkering orchestra, Noureddine and Nouie both began rhythmically striking the giant lithophones, chanting the same poetic lyrics that we had heard earlier during the Sebiba festival. Everything felt as if it had come full circle, the perfect conclusion to a weeklong adventure that had brought all of my desert dreams into an unforgettable reality.
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| The massive Elephant Arch of Tikoubaouine |
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| A large neolithic tumulus (tomb mound) covering one side of a rocky hill |
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| View from high on a cliff ledge, where we climbed to observe more prehistoric paintings |
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| Either a neolithic war or hunting party on the march |
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| A lone camel in the middle of nowhere |
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| Taking a rest near the "singing stones", also in the middle of nowhere |
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| One last view of Erg Admer |
Our last meal at Noureddine's place was a savory mutton soup. As he had done all week, he graciously brought us a large tray with tea, fresh fruits, and ice cold water (our favorite). We left that evening in Nouie's Land Cruiser for the last time, taking one last stop for him to get a cup of atay at a roadside tea kiosk. Having bought my own Tuareg teapot at the souq earlier that evening, he said that he expected me to properly prepare it back in California on my desert trips in the Southwest. The ride through the dark desert back to the Djanet airstrip was challenging, as I felt as if it was leaving a place and a people with whom I had always possessed a deep connection. Tinariwen was playing on the car radio, an appropriate choice of song to finish off the night. Noureddine said that I was one of the best clients he'd ever had, likely on account of my previous knowledge of his people and appreciation for his culture. Nouie was simply grateful that he could actually communicate with me rather than simply remain in the silent background. In Arabic, I told them that after this trip, I had officially become Tuareg in my heart, to which he replied "Next time, you'll say it in Tamahaq". Inshallah.
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| Noureddine meticulously preparing salads |
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| Nouie resting every couple hours from driving |
Returning to Algiers with mixed feelings after having left my heart in the Sahara, I spent our last couple days replaying fulfilled childhood dreams in my head. A very long local bus ride to the seaside town of Tipaza, with its azure Mediterranean spirit of coastal Roman ruins and endless seafood restaurants, felt cathartic and relaxing yet strangely foreign, like I'd been exiled to a completely different country from the dusty orange world that had consumed me over the past week. Camping in the deserts of California, complete with my hand-made shesh, makeshift tea set, and Bombino playlist, had brought me closer to the Tuareg culture in ways that exceeded simply glossing over exotic images in the National Geographics of my youth. But making the journey to Algeria and taking part in the Sebiba gala, while gradually developing relationships with real Tuareg guides, confirmed for me just how familiar I had become with the people themselves. What I witnessed and learned directly from them about their way of life felt like the culmination of years spent in fascination, admiration, and emulation. While I'll never fully be part of their world, I couldn't help but be honored by the words of everyone we met on this wild journey, expressions of welcome, acceptance, and approval for my commitment towards understanding them. Overall, the entire trip to Algeria was a fulfilling endeavor that only confirmed what I already expected of this enchanting country and its gracious people, a nation that has so much to offer if one is willing to veer off the paved road.
