The Post-Gaddafi Future

by

Justin Marozzi

There are many reasons to be cautiously optimistic about Libya

The question for Libyans, as they take their first momentous steps into the post-Gaddafi era, is whether they can now build a government and country worthy of their heroic struggle against one of the world’s worst tyrants.

For decades, conventional thinking about Arab nations, especially among the experts, argued that they were best ruled by ‘strongmen’, a western euphemism for pro-western dictators such as the deposed Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak and his former counterpart in Tunisia Zine el Abidine Ben Ali. According to this line of thought, Arabs don’t do democracy. They are too tribal and fractious for such enlightened politics. For western leaders, it has been a case of better the devil you know, and hang the consequences for the Arabs.

Yet the success in Libya, hard on the heels of the revolutions in Egypt and Tunisia and those so far frustrated efforts in Syria, Yemen and Bahrain, suggests that Arabs from the Atlantic in the west to the Arabian Desert in the east are not willing to remain passive victims of dictatorships forever. We need to understand this new dynamic and support it. In the British media, however, there is a tendency to seek out the most pessimistic scenario, for Libya and the Arab world more widely.

Where Libyans talk of creating a new Dubai on the shores of the Mediterranean, sceptics mutter about another Somalia. Where optimists like the lavishly maned French philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy pay tribute to the extraordinary breadth of interests represented by the National Transitional Council in Benghazi, cynics spot al-Qa’eda moving in to capitalise on the instability and point to the emergence of Islamists in post-revolution Egypt and Tunisia. Instead of hailing the council’s success at maintaining security, we are supposed to believe that the single assassination in Benghazi of rebel commander General Abdul Fattah Younes invalidates the entire Libyan campaign. It doesn’t.

When David Cameron took the lead in pushing for a no-fly zone back in February, the doom-mongers were already queuing up to denounce what they considered yet another Iraq or Afghanistan. As the campaign progressed, they were quick to detect a ‘stalemate’. The rebels were inevitably ‘divided’. Nato’s campaign, they argued, was ‘running into the sand’. The Italians wobbled, the French faltered (peace talks, anybody?), but London remained resolute. The prime minister maintains it was ‘necessary, legal and right’ to intervene in Libya. He’s been proved right.

Admiral James Stavridis, Nato’s head of Allied Command Operations, says that the key components of success were the legality provided by the UN Security Council mandate, Nato’s ability to draw on a sophisticated command and logistic structure in the Mediterranean, a shared burden of responsibility among the allies and realistic goals (establishing a no-fly zone, introducing an arms embargo and protecting civilians). To these could be added strong regional support against Gaddafi and an increasingly effective and emboldened opposition.

No one would be foolish enough, however, to suggest that it is ‘mission accomplished’ in Libya. Stavridis tells me that challenges abound: ‘The keys will be the new regime’s ability to establish coherent security and basic services, cope with the return of hundreds of thousands of Libyans now in refugee camps across the borders, avoid bloodshed and retribution, create governance along the lines suggested by the National Transitional Council — which include dates and benchmarks to full democracy and elections — and get the economy up and functioning, principally the energy sector.’

That is a tall order for any established government, let alone a transitional council. There is no question that the challenges facing Libyans after Gaddafi are monumental. After 42 years of monomaniacal rule, it would be perverse to think otherwise.

Pessimists will have plenty to cheer in the coming weeks and months. The age-old differences between Tripolitania in the west and Cyrenaica in the east will resurface from the very outset. Some politicians may prefer pistols to parliaments when vying for power or resolving a difference of opinion. Small tribes may feel disenfranchised by the larger, stronger ones. A predominantly command economy cannot be restructured overnight. Oil, that unrivalled lubricant of corruption, will test the mettle and integrity of Libya’s new leaders. It will also test to breaking point the patience of long-suffering Libyans, who have watched the Gaddafi clan plunder the national wealth for four decades.

Shukri Ghanem, the former oil minister, estimates it will take 18 months for Libya to get back to its pre-war level of oil production of 1.6 million barrels a day. That will be much too slow for all those Libyans who believe they have already waited long enough. A generation of Libyan leaders unaccustomed to addressing their fellow citizens will urgently need to communicate the scale of the challenges facing the country. Chaos is likely to loom on the sidelines. As Ronald Bruce St John writes in Libya: From Colony to Independence, after four decades spent studying the country, the post-Gaddafi era will be ‘a time of considerable tension and uncertainty, with numerous socioeconomic and political groups vying for power’.

So what reasons are there for cautious optimism? Well, so far the rebel leadership has barely put a foot wrong. With few resources, it has kept the peace across eastern Libya. The fact there has only been one high-level assassination to date is a remarkable success, not a telling indictment. Assisted by the UN, the UK and the US, the Council has drawn up a detailed stabilisation plan for the immediate post-Gaddafi era. More impressively, it has drafted a 37-point ‘constitutional declaration’ which, if enacted, moves Libya towards elections for a constitutional assembly within eight months. This body would appoint a transitional government, draft a constitution to be offered to Libyans for approval in a national referendum, and hold direct elections for a democratic government within 20 months. If, as is suggested, Jordan leads the international community’s transition to democracy team, with the West reduced to providing air cover, that is another encouraging sign. Fellow Arabs should make a better fist of it. No one wants another western boots-on-the-ground intervention.

So much for plans and political theory. What else of Libya and its people? If the rebels I met in my two recent visits to Libya are any guide, the omens are good. They were not vicious zealots or Islamists, but civilised and well-educated people intent on restoring peace and order as soon as they possibly could. Unlike Iraqis, who have been cutting each other’s heads off with gusto at least since the founding of Baghdad in 762, if not much longer, Libya is not riven by sectarian division. The tribes may have their tensions, but there is no Sunni-Shia split. As Guma al Gamaty, the UK co-ordinator for the rebel council, says, ‘We have no ethnic, religious or sectarian differences. We’re the most homogenous Arab society in the world.’ Libya’s Berbers might beg to differ, of course, but the point is well made.

Libyans have also been blessed with fortunate resources and geography. With even a half-decent government in place, the population of seven million should prosper from the black gold beneath the sand, 47 billion barrels of reserves and counting, together with 1.3 trillion cubic metres of gas. Given the immense oil reserves on one hand, and the tiny population on the other, the fact that a third of Gaddafi’s Libya has lived at or below the national poverty line shows the extent of his misrule.

Earlier this summer, I spoke to one businessman in Benghazi who told me, ‘I remember Sheikh Zayed of Dubai coming to Tripoli for an eye operation in 1978. He saw the city and said, “My God, I wish I could make Dubai like this.” Can you believe that?’

Since then Dubai has grown and developed, while Tripoli has stagnated. But now can Libya follow Dubai’s example? It might sound preposterous. There is no law which states that Libya must now descend into anarchy and civil war, nor is there any guarantee of freedom and democracy. Yet the chances of success here are higher than those in any other Arab country yet to take on its dictator. The truth, as every Libyan knows, is that the opportunity is theirs for the taking.

Justin Marozzi is a travel writer, historian, journalist and political risk and security consultant. He has travelled extensively in the Middle East and Muslim world and in recent years has worked in conflict and post-conflict environments such as Iraq, Afghanistan and Darfur. Justin is a regular contributor to a wide range of national and international publications, including the Financial Times, Spectator, Times, Sunday Telegraph, Guardian, Evening Standard, Standpoint and Prospect, where he writes on international affairs, the Muslim world and defence and security issues, and has broadcast for the BBC World Service and Radio Four.

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Border Madness

by

Lorraine Chittock

Underneath the floor of my Chevy van is a whole chicken, lamb meat, as well as fruit and vegetables. The vehicle was once used as a surveillance vehicle for the Arizona police department and a long metal box hidden underneath the floor once held four batteries used to power a periscope and other electronic spying gizmos. Normally, I use the space to store valuables such as money, a laptop and paperwork for myself, Dog and Bruiser. A bitter cold winter in the Altiplano is making me leave Bolivia for Chile sooner than I’d planned, and I’m using the compartment to stash enough food to feed me and the dogs for a week.

In LaPaz, Bolivia’s capital, I’d met a German couple traveling in a huge Mercedes RV. “Chilean customs have very strict rules for bringing in agricultural products, almost unheard of in the rest of Latin America. When we were at the border, I pretended we only had a couple of tomatoes,” the woman had said. “I wasn’t going to let the custom officials know how much we were really carrying…”

Earlier in the day, I’d removed all the food from the fridge, and prominently displayed a tangerine, leftover milk and half a lemon—just as the woman had advised. Dog, Bruiser and I navigate through the Bolivian border formalities with lightening speed before driving through a stretch of land uninhabited by people from any country. At over 13,000 feet, the mountain pass is stark, cold and windy.

We roll up to Chile’s immaculate border and are greeted by three sniffer dogs and their handlers. My stash of hidden food… A year before, I’d done a story about the largest police dog facility in Bogota, Colombia. The words of their veterinarian, Dr. Nancy Lopez, rings in my head. “The Labradors are perfect as food trainers, as they have mucho appetites. The only time these dogs eat is during their daily training sessions.”

If I open the sliding side door, the Labs will get a huge whiff of my illegal goods. Before I even have time to contemplate the consequences of my contraband being discovered, an official greets me.

“You’ll need to get your passport stamped over there,” the man says, pointing to a line of people inside. “After that, fill out these forms for your dogs.”

The man escorts me inside, making it difficult to slow a chain of events which could result in a heavy fine or worse. Meanwhile, Dog and Bruiser lean out the open window and bark furiously at the Labs. The furry creatures pant happily, oblivious to the onslaught of fury they’ve unleashed, and to the role they could play in my future. But wait. Could the sniffer hounds be so sidetracked by Dog and Bruiser that their scent glands are deterred from the pounds of hidden meat? “Food is the motivation for Labradors,” Dr. Nancy had said. It’s likely the minds of these mutts are already focused on my smuggled goods.

While my passport gets stamped and a uniformed official looks at the rabies vaccinations, a smile from a portrait of Chile’s first woman president, Michelle Bachelet, a sash draped over her cream colored tunic, soothes my fears.

“This rabies vaccination is good for three years?” the man asks suspiciously of the jabs received in California. “The inoculations in Chile are only good for one year. I’m not sure if we can accept these…”  I feign disappointment while my heart leaps at the possibility of being turned away from the border without further incident. “And where’s the certificate from a vet?” he asks, shuffling through the stack of documents. “And proof they don’t have worms? And we need a form from SAG.” Servicio Agricola y Ganadero is the Bolivian governmental agricultural office which deals with livestock and other animals. I have none of these documents. Most borders I’ve crossed since leaving America have barely acknowledged the existence of my two canine companions and I’d erroneously assumed this one would be no different. “I’m sorry, if you want your dogs to enter Chile you’ll have to return to Bolivia and get the correct documentation.”

After five days, we head towards Oruro, with the intent of completing the veterinary paperwork for Dog and Bruiser. Before hitting town we take a dusty track leading to low hills which I hope will provide a sheltered place to camp for the night. Dust gives way to a white surface. A salt lake! Not the famous Salar de Uyuni, the largest and highest salt lake in the world. This one is more like a large pond, but does have five flamingos, and the dogs and I walk around the perimeter until we find a perfect spot to camp.

“Time to move the van,” I say, following tire tracks across the lake while Bruiser runs alongside, mouth agape in joy. Suddenly the back tires, low on tread and needing to be replaced, begin spinning into the salty surface until hitting dark mud. The van comes to a halt. “I guess we’re camping right here tonight. It’s too late and I’m too tired to deal with it now.” I hope the back tires and mud dry out when the sun rises in the morning.

The next day, it’s impossible to tell where salt ends and frost from the frigid Altiplano night begins. Ice makes everything damp, and by the end of our morning walk my boots are caked with a few inches of spongy moss and salt. Dog is none too happy her paws are covered in the salty mess and tries to clean off a mixture which resembles cow dung without the smell on our bed.

The sun gets warmer and higher, but doesn’t shine on the back tire which is responsible for propelling the van forward. Bruiser follows me back and forth for the next three hours as I haul bucketloads of dirt and stones from higher ground to lay in the path of each tire, and then painstakingly edge the van forward. Ten yards from a firm patch of coarse grass at the edge of the lake, I hit another wet area. The tires sink deeper than before.

I hide in the van for an hour, cry a few tears, and hug Dog. The break gives my mind a chance to find an alternate solution. What if I lay out the van’s rubber floor mats in the path of each tire? After a half hour of shoveling underneath each tire and laying the rubber and a small piece of carpet underneath, I drive out of the muck and mire and onto hard soil. Bruiser runs after me, sharing in my victory. Free!

After a month camped on the outskirts of Oruro in an area, I have all the paperwork completed for the dogs, have bought two new tires, and finish recording the audio version of On a Mission from DOG. Time to head once again for Chile. I veto the idea of visiting the famed Salar de Uyuni, the largest and highest salt lake in the world at 7000 square miles, since the road to get there is horrific. But a trip to Bolivia wouldn’t be complete without at least visiting Salar de Coipasa, a substantially smaller salt lake at 1500 square miles, which is en route to a less frequented border than the previous one we attempted to cross.

Twenty miles past Oruro the raised and paved road turns first to gravel, then corrugation. Bruiser is alarmed by the body jarring motion and trembles. I speed up, then slow down, but the pounding doesn’t change. It quickly becomes apparent the trucks that pass this way leave the raised road during the dry season and create their own paths through powdery dust. I do the same. The van is immediately engulfed in a fine dust which enters every vent and crack in our aging conveyance, as well as coating the occupants fur and hair. The hours and miles pass slowly and the cold winter air receives extra reinforcements from the higher Andes mountains.

140 miles takes the better part of a day as I make sure there’s enough stops so the dogs are able to walk, pee and rest from the journey. At the small town of Sabaya we leave the main track and an hour later reach Villa Vitalina, where a long, horizontal drawing at the entrance to Salar de Coipasa serves as a guide for which mountains to aim for in order not to get lost on the deceptive expanse of white salt.

“Careful,” I think, remembering how easily I was stuck on the tiny lake. I negotiate the van hesitantly, but it’s quickly clear from the numerous tire tracks imbedded into the salt that this lake is frequented by far more traffic. The tires make crunching sounds and we pass several men mining the salt.

At 11,000 feet, the wind is sharp, and shafts of late afternoon light reflect off the salt like billions of crystals. I want to camp on the lake. I drive a mile, then pull away from the tracks and come to a stop.

“Here. We’ll stay here the night,” I announce, stepping down from the van and rushing quickly around to slide the door open for the dogs. I can’t wait to see how they’ll react to this new environment. In our five years of travel, we’ve experienced deserts, swamps, savanna and forest, but never a salt lake. Bruiser, wanting to be with me above all else, jumps out and licks the strange surface. Dog is more hesitant, and after only a few minutes on the hard and sometimes bubbly surface, decides she’s had enough and jumps back inside. I repeatedly try coercing her out for photos, but it’s clear she’s not interested. There are no smells to interest them, and I wonder if the salt burns their pads. Or do they sense that just beneath this hard surface is water and potential danger?

When the sun drops below the horizon, the air turns frigid. I close the doors against a world of sparkling lights which shine above, which are reflected on the hard surface below. Inside the van, the bed covers are sprinkled with pieces of salt. By morning, the dog’s opinion of Salar de Coipasa has not changed: this is their worst camping location ever. It seems pointless to stay if two-thirds of the pack are unhappy. We head back to Villa Vitalina, before continuing onto the Chilean border.

“Do you have meat, vegetables, fruit or dairy products?” the agricultural inspector asks. I’ve already thrown away or eaten the type of foods he’d be interested in, so I pull out some dry goods to give him something to do. I’d read that tea bags of every variety are forbidden, but when I offer mine, they’re ignored.

“Dog food?” he asks. The word no slips out of my mouth, as much a surprise to me as the question. Dry dog food had been difficult to find in Bolivia, and every time I found vendors who divided up huge bags to sell by the pound, I bought some. I now have over forty pounds of dog food stockpiled behind the driver’s seat.

I continue pulling out food items, when I notice the bright yellow plastic sack containing dog food is no longer concealed by my dirty laundry bag. Desperate it not be discovered, I abruptly yank open the passenger door and fling the seat up, thus hiding the yellow sacking.

Just then, four officials appear to check on my vehicle and like ants, they work their way through the van, poking at this, and prodding at that, one man even poking a screwdriver-like tool into the floor to ceiling carpet. Only once since leaving America has the vehicle been inspected.

“Give me sniffer dogs any day,” I mutter, remembering the first aborted crossing with some nostalgia.

I open my secret compartment with a flourish, and fling open the back doors, expecting the team to mutter about the fifteen gallons of gasoline I’m hoping to bring into Chile, where prices haven’t been under $5 a gallon for as long as anyone can remember. All they confiscate are wood chips I’ve been using to cushion two wine glasses.

Meanwhile, the veterinarian on duty is concerned about Dog and Bruiser.

“We have a problem,” he says. I had all the paperwork from a vet in Oruro, along with new rabies jabs, de-wormer and distemper. But somehow I’d forgotten about getting the correct paperwork from SAG. In addition, I don’t have an address in Chile. I bluff this by finding a hotel address in my guidebook, and agree to go there directly once I cross the border. The newest dilemma is that my letter from the vet in Oruro is only good for ten days. This is day twelve. And some of the shots were done after the letter was signed. The border vet has already examined Dog and Bruiser and found both to be in good health. We’ve been at the border two hours. I recognize that despite the ridiculous amount of time this is taking, this man is on our side, hoping to prevent me from having to return to Oruro on a road he knows to be hideous.

“The only way to get around this problem is for you to agree to keep your two dogs quarantined inside your vehicle for twenty-one days. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” I quickly agree.

“The dogs can’t mix with any local dogs, or with Chilean wildlife.”

The rule is ridiculous. Even America with all its laws, only quarantines pets if the animal displays symptoms of being ill, and then for only fourteen days. But quarantining Dog and Bruiser inside my van? For twenty-one days? I listen intently while the veterinarian makes sure I understand the gravity of the paper I’m about to sign. I nod seriously, grateful of acting classes in college.

It’s after six p.m. before all the paperwork is complete. “I’m sorry, so sorry! I couldn’t do anything to make the crossing go faster.” Dog licks my face while Bruiser whimpers in excitement. “I missed you too… Let’s get out of here,” I say, while waving good-bye to the officials and casually driving through the border. It’s freezing, the sun has set and the wind howling. I have grit in my ears, and my hair is matted and dirty. I long for a scalding hot shower, but the nearest one is over 100 miles away after a drop of over 10,000 feet in altitude.

When I see llama tracks in the dust I drive off the main road and park. Already ignoring the possibility we’ll run into local dogs, and less than five kilometers away from the border I fling open the door to the van and take Dog and Bruiser on a quick walk, all three of us ecstatic the ordeal has ended. A thick layer of dust coats the windshield and everything inside. I have no energy to clean out the mess. I’m chilled to the bone and need to eat, but there are no stores nearby. I light the stove, and the dogs and I share what little food we have: a can of mackerel, pasta, and for Dog and Bruiser, a very generous supply of dry dog food.

In 1991 Lorraine Chittock arrived in Egypt as a magazine photographer
and within months was researching the legendary Forty Days Road. A few
years later she crossed the Libyan Desert with 200 camels and eight
Sudanese men.
After twelve years living and traveling throughout Africa and the
Middle East, Lorraine decided to take her career and two Kenyan
ex-street dogs on the road. The pack of three touched down at San
Francisco Airport and began exploring North America in a Jeep
Wrangler. Two years, 30,000 miles, and twenty-two states later,
Lorraine tranferred her belongings to a $750 Chevy van once used as a
surveillance vehicle by the Arizona police and headed to Latin
America. The pack are now residing in a Chilean cabin overlooking the
Pacific Ocean.

Lorraine’s five travel books explore the world’s unique bond with
animals. DOGS BEYOND BORDERS – TALES AND TIPS FROM THE ROAD includes
interviews with fourteen human-dog packs, and how to bridge cultural
gaps while traveling with your dog. http://LorraineChittock.com

Also see The Long Riders Guild!

Please visit my sponsors Termo who are making it possible for me to write 2 blog reports per week. Just click the logo to find the best underwear on earth.

The Sahara: A Long Way Away from a Cultural Desert

by

Eamonn Gearon

In keeping with anyone blessed with an active imagination, as extensive as my wanderings through the Sahara have been, they are nothing compared to my mental journeys through the Great Desert. The greatest journeys are not always physical, and one can be transported just as easily in an armchair as on a camel.

I was a child the first time I entered the Sahara, sitting on my father’s knee. We were at home in Wiltshire, that fat, green English county best known as the home of Stonehenge. Beethoven’s 6^th Symphony, the Pastoral, was on the record player. My father always played Beethoven when he remembered Egypt in the 1950s.

Although he was there in an official, military capacity – something to do with a canal by the name of Suez – his memories of that country and its people were fond ones, and invariably revolved around the desert.

If this reminiscing seems a long way from the Sahara, it both is and is not. Even unremembered, unremarkable incidents in one’s childhood can have a profound impact on the rest of his or her life.

There is no doubt that I have spent the past two decades in the Greater Middle East because of my father’s tales of a far away country he loved, even if, unsurprisingly, this love was not always equal on the part of the Egyptians.

When I started reading about the Sahara for myself, the first thing that struck me was its scale and its seeming emptiness. A part of the earth roughly the size as the entire United States of America, but with a population of approximately 3 million.

Once these figures had been absorbed, it was not the limited numbers of people that impressed me so much as the fact that the desert was not empty. It was, and always has been, home to a diverse number of peoples, both locals and foreigners.

I next understood that the Sahara had not always been a desert, but was once an ocean, and later variously forests and pastures; that “Sahara” simply means “desert” in Arabic; and that the human records of life in the Great Desert, its cultural history, are as many and varied as the flora and fauna one finds there.

Indeed, the landscapes of the imagination are far more numerous than the various physical landscapes one finds there.

The earliest extent records are those rock paintings and carvings found across today’s desert. These global treasures hold out the promise of great insight into our Saharan-dwelling forefathers, and yet they are frustratingly among the least understood human records, and most open to fantastical interpretations.

Hunting scenes are fairly easy to interpret. Recognisably male figures carrying spears and chasing four-legged animals with horns do not require the observer to have a degree in archaeology or art history. Other images are less straightforward. People swimming? Big cats dancing?

Did the “round-headed” figures come down from outer space? What do you think?

And while men apparently copulating with elephants and rhinoceros might just be examples of prehistoric lavatorial, schoolboy humour, they could easily have another, deeper meaning: we simply do not know.

Rushing forward thousands of years, the artistic records created by European artists who have been ‘discovering’ the Sahara since the late Eighteenth century were created in the same environment. In response to an encounter with their surroundings, the artists were impelled to create, to leave behind some record of a moment in time or a day in the life. They are all saying, “We were here, this is who we were, what we did and what we found.”

Fromentin declared that he only fully came alive in the Sahara, and that the intensity of these feelings grew the further south he travelled into it, while Paul Klee announced that it was the influence of being under North African skies, and the intensity of the light there, that he became an artist.

The paintings of David Roberts, who travelled through Egypt and the Levant in the 1830s, became the virtually canonical interpretation of the East for close to one hundred years.

Roberts’ time in the region was inspired in turn by a far less pacific visitor to Egypt. On Napoleon’s 1798 invasion of Egypt, he was accompanied by two armies: one of soldiers, the other of scholars. These savants were responsible for exposing Europeans to a world they had more or less ignored for centuries. Perhaps this was no bad thing.

Napoleon’s short, inconclusive invasion marked the start of the last great scramble for the Sahara. By 1900, of the 11 modern nations that now make up the Sahara, only Libya remained independent. This too fell after the Italians invaded, snapping up the last slice of independent North Africa in 1911.

But these European invaders were just the last in a millennia-long line of like-motivated imperialists, which included the Greeks, Romans, and Vandals. Non-European invaders included the Phoenicians, Persians and, of course, the Arabs.

It was the invasions by this last group that most permanently changed the cultural face of the Sahara and its people. The eventual imposition, or adoption, of Arabic as the language of commerce, government and worship is the most obvious changes in local circumstances. The spread of Islam, which utterly replaced older, indigenous faith systems, was the most important reason for this.

Returning to the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, this was not just the era of European expansion and domination of the Sahara, it was also the period that saw the proliferation of portrayals of the Great Desert. The artists we mentioned above; these were soon followed by poets and writers of prose.

In the same way that Roberts dominated Nineteenth century painterly portrayals of the desert, so Beau Geste and the French Foreign Legion loom large on the early Twentieth century literary landscape. A kepi-clad bugler and a deserted fort was, for decades, all that most people knew about the Sahara, or cared to.

With the dawn of cinema, the literary visions were added to and exploited mercilessly by filmmakers who understood the instinctive attraction of a shot of sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see.

One of the best-known writers on the Sahara, Paul Bowles of “The Sheltering Sky” fame, very publicly announced that he wished the film of his novel had never been made. Others were less chary.

And in spite of the critics, famous and anonymous, the Sahara continues to attract visitors; to awe strangers and residents; to prove most alluring when revealing itself to those who have the desire to know it, over time.

For my own part, the journey that began on my father’s knee reached fruition 20 years later, when I first entered the Sahara. And now, after nearly another two decades, I am delighted to have sanctified my love for the world’s greatest desert in my book.

The Sahara in which I roamed, first with the Bedu and later alone, but in the company of my camels – Osama, Ibn Kelb, and Baby – was physically demanding. The journeys were tough. They built character and left scars. Today, I look back on those sacred days and nights with love without compare.

Whilst resident of the oasis of Siwa, Egypt, recovering from amoebic dysentery after one of my more adventurous travails, I met my now wife. Such a priceless find, in the midst of the seeming wasteland, daily reminds me of the importance of the Sahara in my life. In this world, it pays to be alive to both one’s physical and imaginary landscapes.

Eamonn Gearon is an Arabist, analyst and author who has lived and worked in the Greater Middle East – from Kabul to Casablanca – for the past twenty years.

Eamonn’s life in the region started in the Sahara, where he lived and travelled with the Bedu, learning a vast amount of desert lore from them before engaging on a number of lengthy solo, camel-powered expeditions in the Great Desert.

His book “The Sahara: A Cultural History” came out in the UK in June 2011 (Signal Books), and is being published by Oxford University Press in the USA in October.

Eamonn is now writing a cultural history of Kabul, to which city he took his wife for their honeymoon, in 2008, during the Taliban’s resurgence in Afghanistan.

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Flying the flag of freedom: Even the young in Tobruk are swept up in the revolution

by

Justin Marozzi

(Photos Jabril Darwish)

Dr Rida ben Fayed, a Libyan orthopaedic surgeon back from Denver, Colorado, introduces his team like an announcer rallying the audience at a live Hendrix concert.

“We’ve got Ahmed on ground information, Walid on IT, Abdullah on medical supplies, Majdi on press, Ahmed on logistics, Colonel Farah on air defence, Colonel Sanusi on naval affairs…”

Midnight in Tobruk and the daily digital diwan is in full swing. Around 20 men, cross-legged on cushions, are gathered in a ground-floor sitting-room. There’s no one on drums tonight, but that doesn’t mean there’s no music. From a bedroom in Manchester a Libyan girl is singing live online about the Libyan fight for freedom. Smoke, laughter and revolution in the air. Tiny glasses of tea so sweet they remind you why diabetes is endemic in the Arab world. Surfing across satellite news channels.

These men are doctors, engineers, businessmen, human rights activists, military types, many from abroad, others entirely home-grown. Half have laptops. Facebook and Twitter to the fore. The familiar underwater jangle of an incoming Skype call regularly punctuates the hubbub. My neighbour is editing a video cartoon mocking a typical, fist-pumping Gaddafi harangue. Others upload and download photos, coordinate medical supplies, pass on information to colleagues across Libya. A former colonel is planning a dangerous 50-hour mission on a fishing boat to take weapons to opposition forces in the besieged city of Misrata.

“This is our digital operations room,” says Dr Rida with pride. “We’re all volunteers.” He thrusts a laptop and a pair of headphones into my hands. “Here, speak to Perdita in Benghazi. She can tell you what she thinks about all the reporting on al-Qaeda infiltrating the Libyan revolution. Her husband was killed three weeks ago by Gaddafi’s forces. She’s eight months pregnant.”

Perdita’s husband, Mohammed Nabbous, was the 28-year-old founder of Libya al Hurra (Free Libya) television station in Benghazi. He was shot in the head by Gaddafi’s forces on March 19, barely a month after the channel was launched, after transmitting videos and pictures of regime forces suppressing the uprising with indiscriminate brutality.

A young voice cuts through the ether, dignified and precise. How many more women have lost their husbands to the widow-maker since Nabbous’s assassination? Perdita’s first experience of life after Gaddafi, what it could be like in the future, was intoxicating. “When Benghazi was liberated, we started rebuilding our city. We started to live, to be free for the first time in our lives. Women have taken up positions in the media and are looked up to. We are living in a totally different atmosphere. For us to go back to how it was before is impossible.” She says the first time Gaddafi mentioned the al-Qaeda threat in Libya during the uprising, everyone laughed. Libyans are used to the lies of “The Great Thinker”. They have had to listen to them for 41 years, seven months and counting.

There’s fierceness in Perdita’s new-found freedom. Like thousands of her fellow Libyans since February, she has already paid a savage price for this challenge to the regime. “It was my husband’s dream that our son would be born in a free Libya. Now I’m going to do everything in my power to support the revolution and make this dream come true.”

Foreign visitors in eastern Libya, especially those from the UK, US, France and Qatar, receive daily, often exuberant, expressions of gratitude for their countries’ support. Travelling to Libya for more than 20 years, I have always been humbled by the hospitality of its people. In the 19th century, British explorers and campaigners against the Saharan slave trade remarked upon the same trait. I was constantly struck by this self-denying generosity years later, during a 1,500-mile journey by camel across the Libyan Sahara. The only sour note came from Gaddafi’s security thugs, uneducated, intimidating cowards who arrested us for a week in the storied desert oasis of Kufra. My father, who used to do business in Libya in the Eighties and Nineties, died a decade ago after introducing me to this fabulous country. A great Libyan family friend, whose family’s whereabouts and security in Tripoli are unknown as Standpoint goes to press, still calls my mother regularly to ask after my family. This is what Libyans are like.

Dawn in Tobruk. Under a sliding sky we plunge south on the desert road that leads only to Jaghbub, the remote oasis town, once impenetrable to foreigners, that was the former seat of the Sanusi Order. The Sanusi story — compelling, romantic, ultimately tragic — began in the Arabian desert, where in 1837 Sheikh Mohammed ibn Ali as Sanusi, known as the Grand Sanusi, established an Islamic revivalist movement, a fiercely orthodox order of Sufis.

It quickly spread to North Africa and seeped as far west as Senegal, through a network of zawias or religious lodges. The first zawia in Libya was founded at Baida in 1844. In 1856, the Grand Sanusi founded one at Jaghbub. In time it grew into Africa’s second greatest university, after Cairo’s Al Azhar. The Sanusis derived strength, respect and affluence from their role mediating tribal and trade disputes in the Sahara in the days of the desert slave trade, and for providing education for the unschooled masses.

The sun rises, blazes overhead. The road runs across the desert like a pasted ribbon, blurring off in the distance into a pool of steaming mercury. After an hour, a black smudge drifts in and out of sight on this sun-bludgeoned plateau. The tall, triple- barbed-wire fence, a surreally disfiguring structure amid these wide horizons, was constructed in 1931 by General Rodolfo Graziani, despatched by Mussolini to bring Western civilisation to Italy’s “Fourth Shore”. Libyans called him Butcher Graziani. Rome preferred Pacificatore della Libia. This was, in the Italian’s words, “una guerra senza quartiere”. Graziani herded tribesmen into desert concentration camps behind barbed wire and machine guns, poisoned their wells, condemned men to excruciating deaths in roasting salt pans, and dropped canisters of poison gas on to desert oases. Between 40,000 and 70,000 were killed.

Sanusi fighters led the heroic, doomed resistance to the Fascist occupation under their charismatic chief Omar al Mukhtar. He was captured in 1931 and, after a 30-minute show trial, hanged in front of 20,000 tribesmen. Today his face appears on flags, street hoardings and car stickers throughout eastern Libya, a symbol of the post-Gaddafi order. His call to arms: “We will never surrender. Victory or death.” The picture of a handsome old man in profile, with white beard and white skullcap, was taken by Mukhtar’s Italian captors.

Jaghbub is an unremarkable little cluster of concrete houses. Its heart is an extraordinary expanse of rubble laid bare beneath a pitiless sun. Shattered blocks of white stone, smashed slabs of marble, sections of date-palm trunks, ancient nails, rusting spikes of wire. This is all that remains of the great zawia, architectural jewel of the oasis, that Gaddafi razed in 1988. The local preacher, Sheikh Mohammed Sanusi, a follower rather than a family member, says it took bulldozers 11 days to destroy everything within a compound measuring 47,000 square metres. “Then they finished it off with 17 explosives.”

For Gaddafi, the Sanusi name was anathema, forever associated with the benign, if somewhat ineffectual, pro-Western monarchy of King Idris Sanusi, which he overthrew in the military coup of September 1, 1969. He had the body of the Grand Sanusi disinterred and removed to an unknown   location. The sheikh says the body was miraculously preserved.

The interview with Sheikh Mohammed, a trim, slightly stooped figure of 76, begins awkwardly. He reprimands Christians and Jews for their supposed scriptural inconsistency, invites me to read the Koran, convert to Islam and earn my place in paradise. Some traditions live on. When the Egyptian diplomat, explorer and writer Ahmed Hassanein Bey travelled across the Libyan desert during an epic, 2,200-mile journey by camel in 1923, he described the order as “an ascetic confraternity [...] intolerant of any intercourse with Jew, Christian or infidel”.

As Libyans ponder a future without Gaddafi, some wonder whether a constitutional monarchy might yet return, using the widely praised 1951 constitution as some sort of basis for a future settlement. This was the document, drawn up with the UN’s assistance, with which Libya declared independence as a democratic, federal and sovereign nation with a constitutional monarchy and bicameral parliament.

The sheikh shakes his head. “After King Idris, the Sanusi family involvement in politics is over. No more king.” The otherworldly veteran would rather relate famous miracles of the Grand Sanusi and the Prophet Muhammad than discuss the Libyan revolution. “I don’t care about Gaddafi or politics. I am only interested in God.” In Tobruk’s digital diwan, opinions range from an emphatic “No way” to “It’s up to the people to decide”, a line also taken by the exiled, London-based Crown Prince Mohammed Sanusi.

The next day we arrow fast down the coastal road towards Benghazi, headquarters of liberated Libya, along a shoreline that has seen a succession of foreign invaders come and go across the millennia. The Greeks were the first, Herodotus tells us in his swashbuckling masterpiece Histories, when a settlement was founded at Cyrene in 630 BC, following divine instruction from the oracle at Delphi. Berenice, the Benghazi of today, followed four centuries later, around 250 BC.

As Gaddafi has never tired of reminding his countrymen — one of the few things with which they would agree — the history of Libya is a relentless procession of colonial invasions and occupations. After the Greeks came the Romans and the foundation of provincia Tripolitania —province of the three cities of Sabratha, Leptis Magna and Oea (as Romans knew Tripoli) — created by the Emperor Diocletian in 284 AD. Then there were the Arabs who surged across North Africa in the mid-seventh century, whose Islamising influence proved longest lasting of any invader. The firebrands of Islam were succeeded in turn by the stultifying embrace of the Ottomans (1551-1911) and the wretched, blood-filled interlude of the Italians (1911-1943). During the fighting in the Western Desert in the Second World War, the Germans, French and British joined the fray until independence was achieved at last in 1951. After 18 years of monarchy, during which time Libyans of a certain age will tell you there was just one execution, the Gaddafi occupation began.

Canine carcasses line the road at intervals. I count five between Tobruk and Benghazi. Dead dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Mad Dog and his puppies snarl 800 miles to the west. The road winds through the astonishingly beautiful, verdant landscape of the Jebel Akhdar, the Green Mountains, and at once one understands the invaders’ age-old, land-grabbing appetite, from ancient Greeks to the Italians who saw in Cyrenaica’s fine red soil and fertile fields a Tuscany on African shores. With rolling slopes, slanting cypresses and enchanted orchards and citrus groves, it is hard to imagine that such a gentle environment, with shades of pastoral Italy or carefree Switzerland, could belong to a dictatorship.

Through the city of Derna, piled on to the shoreline like a shipwreck, and the outpouring of roadside graffiti, daubed in English, French and Arabic: “We are freedom addicts not drugs”; “No to extremism”; “Yes to pluralism”; “Libya is a unified country, Tripoli is our capital”; “Our struggle is for democracy”.

At the next town of Baida a banner hangs from a partially burned-out former regime building on the far side of the square: “Tout le monde doit savoir que les insurges Libyens n’appartiennent pas à Al Qaida. Nous nous sommes sacrifiés pour la liberté.” Opposite is an open-sided crimson tent whose sides are covered with photos and stories of the many victims of Gaddafi’s serial outrages, from this latest conflict and the wars he sent Libyans to fight across the continent in exercises in lunatic adventurism. Here are the dead from Chad, Egypt, Algeria, Uganda and the ongoing revolution. Cartoons of Gaddafi strapped to a rocket, as devil-horned, forked-tailed monster. This is the beginning of the long reckoning ahead.

A group of young men Bluetooth me photos of the recent protests in quickfire succession. One plays a mobile-phone video which he says shows Khamis Gaddafi, who runs his own brigade of killers, training African mercenaries. Hapless black recruits approach a table where they are cuffed over the head and forced to eat large chunks of dog flesh. One by one, they grimace, retch and vomit. Then they are shoved across to the back of a truck and made to French-kiss the dogs’ severed heads.

Night-time in Benghazi. City lights twinkle, doubled in the dark waters of Benghazi Lake. Until a few weeks ago it was known as July 23 Lake, in honour of Gamal Abdel Nasser’s 1952 military coup in Egypt. Soon Libyans may call it February 17 Lake.

Precise details of the post-Gaddafi government to come are yet to emerge, understandable amid the chaos and Twitterfog of war in the west. The quietly spoken Mohammed Fanoush, former director of the National Library in Benghazi, is the local director of communications. He says the National Transitional Council (NTC) is working on a proposal for a new constitution, to be drafted by an elected committee and then submitted to Libyans in a future referendum. No one envisages a five-year government of national unity or anything so protracted.

“I used to be optimistic, even in the darkest days,” Fanoush says. “My brother was hanged in the streets. We were always determined to get rid of Gaddafi but we worried it would take 20 years or more.   Now things are changing immensely, and quickly.”

Underpinning his confidence in the future is a demographic quirk, an unexpected consequence of dictatorship. “Unintentionally, Gaddafi did us a great favour by emptying the country of its people. We have 100,000 intellectuals, professionals and young people who left Libya to live and work all over the world. They have expertise in so many areas and now they’re coming back.” I recall a cigarette break on the road to Benghazi when a Libyan stranger offered to translate for an impromptu conversation with a rebel soldier manning a checkpoint. He was a PhD student studying biology from Sheffield.

To tread the corridors of provisional power in Benghazi is to encounter an inspiring corps of Western-educated doctors and lawyers, engineers, human rights activists, businessmen, former political prisoners. Unlike in Iraq, where fears of the returning diaspora’s venality were all too often justified in displays of brazen klepto-cracy, so far the attitude towards the stream of exiles appears overwhelmingly positive. If revolutions could be won on goodwill alone, this one would have triumphed already.

Dr Abdulkadr al Gnein, a hyperactive Danny DeVito lookalike, returned from Ottawa a year ago, sensing the end of the Gaddafi regime. Nowadays he’s busy helping fund the opposition, setting up a humanitarian NGO, arranging medical supplies and assisting the media.

He says Gaddafi crossed a “red line” with Iman al Obeidi, the law student who burst into the Rixos Hotel in Tripoli and publicly declared she had been gang-raped by Gaddafi’s men. “Women and children are sacred here. This united everyone in Libya against Gaddafi. Every free city in the west accepts the Council is the legitimate government of Libya. We won’t be split.”

The unquestioned chief of the political prisoners, a godfather of the Libyan revolution, is Haj Ahmed Zubair Sanusi, the world’s longest-serving political prisoner. Now 77, he spent 31 years in prison from 1970-2001. His greatest crime was his surname. Libyans may not want another constitutional monarchy, but their respect for the family’s distinguished reputation endures.

We meet in a VIP suite in Al Fadhil Palace, where members of the NTC gather daily. Acres of white sheets on a kingsize bed. A tasselfest of sumptuous soft furnishings. Every bit of furniture in sight is covered in the sparkling decoration so beloved of Arab furniture designers. It is as far removed from his prison cell as possible.

Ahmed Zubair says his death sentence was never commuted during this unfathomable captivity. “Every time a door opened, I never knew if it was going to be someone taking me to my execution,” he says, unbowed in pinstripe suit and tie. The work ahead is immense. “Now we are trying to build a new country under the rule of law. We are united. Tripoli is our capital, Benghazi is our city. It will be difficult after 42 years of Gaddafi. It will take a long time. But the Libyan spirit is there. The people understand. They can wait.” A friend suggests that with his uniquely painful backstory, Haj Ahmed would be the perfect successor to Gaddafi. A Mandela moment in the offing?

Benghazis still smart from the violence meted out by Gaddafi’s forces on March 19, the final catalyst for Nato’s more muscular intervention. Adel Ibrahim, a Benghazi hotelier who owns the Al Fadhil Palace, has a ringside seat at the revolution.

“You know what Gaddafi told the soldiers before they attacked? ‘Kill every man under 50 and the women are yours. Do whatever you want with them’.” He describes a confrontation he witnessed on the streets. “Three men walked up to a machine-gunner with their arms outstretched. The first man said, ‘Shoot me’. The soldier shot him dead. Then the second went up and said the same thing. The soldier shot him in the knees, then the chest. Dead. Then the third man came up, arms open wide. The soldier dropped his gun, turned round and fled.”

At this stage, the al-Qaeda threat appears negligible. Gaddafi poses a far greater menace, both to his people and to the West, whose credibility diminishes with every day he is allowed to remain in power. Noman Benotman, a former senior member of the jihadist Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, says al-Qaeda has no “real presence” and “few, if any, active operatives” in Libya.  Dr George Joffé, Middle East and North Africa expert at Cambridge University, argues that fears of a significant al-Qaeda presence in Libya are “totally” overblown. “I think al-Qaeda has been completely marginalised by the recent upheavals in the region,” says the terrorism expert Peter Bergen, a programme director at the New America Foundation. “No one’s burning American or Israeli flags or carrying placards of Osama bin Laden. Al-Qaeda is losing the battle of ideas in the Muslim world.”

When Gaddafi is gone, it is only a matter of time before the enormity of the crimes his regime committed over four decades is revealed. History’s verdict will not set much store by former Labour Party MP Tam Dalyell’s 1993 prediction: “I believe that in the 21st century, Colonel Gaddafi’s government will come to be seen as one of the most effective ‘ecologically imaginative governments’ of the 20th century.” Nor will it agree with Gaddafi’s delusional braggadocio of 1987: “History should show that if there was any mould, I have contributed towards its destruction. If there has been any shackle binding the Libyan people, I have participated in its demolition until the Libyan people have become free.”

Instead, future historians, less distracted by his eccentricity and sartorial pomp, less seduced by Libya’s black gold, will elevate Gaddafi to the top tier of 20th-century tyrants. His regime vies with Saddam Hussein’s for murderous supremacy.

A new and very different Libya will emerge after Gaddafi. However great the uncertainty, whatever the risks of an east-west split, however vicious the predictable tribal disputes that will follow his departure, the prospect of any future government — or even governments if Libya became two Libyas — being worse than this regime is unthinkable.

The country has the potential to become a model for North Africa and the Middle East, open to the world after its traumatic removal from the community of nations. The foundations for success, which will be a tumultuous test of will, can quickly be discerned. Rich in oil, with a tiny population of seven million, Libya has been blessed by nature with favourable resources, demographics and geography, yet under Gaddafi a third of the population lives at or below the national poverty line. Libyans do not have the devastating Sunni-Shia divide, with the resulting bursts of bloodshed that have plagued Baghdad, City of Peace, ever since it was founded by the Abbasid caliph Mansur in 762. The flow of talented, highly educated Libyans returning from exile could become a stampede.

If the words of politicians in the liberated east of Libya are anything to go by as harbingers of a settlement emerging from the wreckage of Gaddafi’s Libya, the desire for national unity is formidable and the aspiration to build a modern nation sincere. That said, expectations, will be unrealistic and major disappointment is inevitable. Many Libyans isolated from the world since 1969 will equate more democratic governance with full employment and a short path to riches generated from the lake of oil on which the country sits.

At present it produces around 1.6 million barrels a day, though after Gaddafi’s attacks on eastern oil installations and the mass exodus of expatriate workers this has slowed to a trickle. Failure to see quick benefits will destabilise the fledgling state. Any new government will therefore need to communicate to its people a realistic assessment of the many challenges ahead. You do not quickly recover from the scorched-earth abuse that has been the hallmark of the Gaddafi regime. “As for the future, with no formal mechanism in place to ensure a smooth transition of power, the post-Gaddafi era, whenever it occurs, can be expected to be a time of considerable tension and uncertainty, with numerous socio-economic and political groups vying for power,” writes Ronald Bruce St John in his 2008 history, Libya: From Colony to Independence. It is difficult to counter such an argument. Ultimately what will be needed, both to remove Gaddafi in the short term and rebuild the country in the long term, is something Libyans have had to demonstrate for far too long already. A senior army officer taken prisoner in Benghazi, terrified for the lives of his family in Tripoli, puts it in one word: “Patience.”

By complete coincidence, my father bumped into Gaddafi on the day of the military coup in which he dethroned King Idris and seized power. It was a year before I was born. The then 27-year-old army captain eyeballed him and gave a brusque warning to get out of town. “You better leave Tripoli before you get killed,” he shouted. “This is a revolution!”

More than 41 years later, it is immensely moving to see — and share — the delight of the countless brave Libyans whose revolution is bringing this unspeakable regime to an end.

Justin Marozzi is a travel writer, historian, journalist and political risk and security consultant. He has travelled extensively in the Middle East and Muslim world and in recent years has worked in conflict and post-conflict environments such as Iraq, Afghanistan and Darfur. Justin is a regular contributor to a wide range of national and international publications, including the Financial Times, Spectator, Times, Sunday Telegraph, Guardian, Evening Standard, Standpoint and Prospect, where he writes on international affairs, the Muslim world and defence and security issues, and has broadcast for the BBC World Service and Radio Four.

This article have been published in Standpoint Magazine.

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African Hoofprints

by

Christy (Christine) Henchie

If ever you want to meet “the people”, I mean really get to talk to everyone whose path you may cross on a journey, then take a horse with you! They are the perfect icebreaker. Everyone we meet, whether they are young or old, shy or outgoing, english speakers or non – english speakers are so interested in the horses that they overcome any misgivings, language barriers or fear of the unknown, to stop us and ask exactly what we are doing and why!

Well the answer to that question is fairly simple! My partner Billy (William) Brenchley and I are riding our horses from the most northern point of Africa to the most southern point through Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Sudan, Southern Sudan, Uganda, Tanzania, Zambia, Namibia and South Africa. We started our journey in December 2005 and misguidedly thought we would be finished at the end of 2006! What was to be a quick ride has turned into a way of life. After 5 years we are only half way but have learnt, experienced and overcome more than we ever imagined possible.

Our two horses Chami and Ennahali (Nali) have become our best friends. We bought them from a government stud in Tunisia, the first of many things that the Tunisian Government helped us with. Chami is a chestnut Barbe, now 13 years old. Nali, an Arab Barbe was dark grey when we bought him but has lightened with age – now 11 years. These must be two of the most travelled horses around! They have dealt with pouring rain and very cold wind, crossed 4 deserts in temperatures exceeding 50 degrees celcius, stood on a barge for 27 days up the White Nile, survived a number of sandstorms, one of which blocked out the sun for 4 days, put up with crowds of people surrounding them, pulling their tails and touching them all over without so much as pulling a face, taught children to ride and overcome various diseases and injuries. They are the reason we have taken so long on this journey. Without them, there wouldn’t be an expedition and we are determined that they will take the final steps as they took the first. We are prepared to wait for them to recover from any disease or injury and we will not go to any country where we cannot take them.

The first reason for our ride is pure adventure! We want to meet everyone, learn their cultures, languages, religions and way of life. We want to be good ambassadors for our country (South Africa). We want people to understand that they can do anything they put their mind to. Many African people believe that in order to be successful and achieve, one has to be in the west or from the west. We are trying to cultivate self belief! The Qu’ran has a lovely saying that goes something like this – “If you believe enough, you can join the angels in heaven.” I wish to write a book about our journey and with it, dispel the belief that travel in Africa is dangerous. Billy is doing some research on how to keep horses barefoot.

Let’s go back to the beginning. We arrived in Tunisia with far too much equipment and only a telephone number for a government stud. It turned out that that was all we needed. From the moment we made the call, we were looked after. We bought our horses at a hugely discounted rate. We had imagined we would get scruffy ponies out of carts but we came away with two stallions with pedigrees from one of the oldest horse breeds in the world. Our new friends had our horses castrated for free, gave us free livery while we trained them, organized TV and newpaper interviews and sent us on our way with not 1 but 3 celebrations with camels, the mayor of Bizerte and a marching band. As we had become minor celebrities, the National guard were charged with escorting us the length of Tunisia to ensure our safety. After 4 days of travel and less than 100km completed we were forced to stop as we were having trouble getting our Libyan visas. It took another 75 days before we had them in our passports! During this time we had a magical time living at the stud where we had bought the horses, a caserna built in the 1600′s. We had never before experienced such kindness, generosity and hospitality. This was to become something we experience all the time!

Crossing the border into Libya was rather daunting. All of a sudden we were on our own! All the stories we had heard were negative and it was with trepidation that we ventured forth. The first thing we did was find some water for the horses at a tap in the middle of the road. We looked at eachother wondering if we would get in trouble for using it but went ahead anyway. A shout from the side of the road stopped us in our tracks. A young man came running over with a bucket for the horses to drink out of. It was to be like this everywhere we went! We were not allowed to pay for anything even in smart shops as the Libyans viewed us not as tourists, but as travellers – guests in their country. We and our horses were fed and watered and welcomed as part of the family. In Libya, we purchased Rahaal, a little local horse,  to became our pack horse. It saddens us to think of the current difficulties in Libya and we hope all our dear friends are safe.

Egypt, being such a tourist destination, was a little different. However, once you get past the hustlers and beggars, you find real ‘salt of the earth’ people, the same kind giving people that we had met all along the way. Visiting the pyramids and the Cairo museum was fun but by no means the highlight of our stay. Living at the sea scout camp in Marsa Matruh, becoming honorary scouts and participating in their Eid celebrations by taking sweets to all the patients in the local hospital, seeing the Nile for the first time, going to a wedding and being offered a camel to sell to enhance our bank balance far outdid the usual Egyptian delights.

Our first challenge in Sudan was to cross the Sahara. We followed the railway line relying on the trains to drop off food at the unmanned stations for us, all of which had water. The second challenge was to do this with a horse that wouldn’t eat and was suffering from severe colic. Stubborn as he is, he survived! As we reached the Nile we also had to deal with biliary (tick bite fever) as the horses were exposed to ticks for the first time in their lives. A few injuries, sandstorms and heat waves later we arrived in Khartoum at the confluence of the Nile. With 3 horses not in the best condition and not a cent left to our name, there we stayed for 3 years! Sadly our little Rahaal died of biliary. Chami and Nali recovered well and became favoured mounts in the riding school that I ran for the Khartoum International Community School.

With Southern Sudan on the verge of becoming its own country we once again hit the road. With few passable roads through the Sud, a huge swamp, we were forced to take a barge from Kosti to Juba. It was filled with cargo and southerners returning to the south. The same generosity that we have experienced everywhere was evident here. A group of guys clubbed together everyday to cook and eat and we were invited to join them. Jambo, a jack of all trades, was an excellent fisherman and so we had fresh fish almost every day! You can imagine how difficult it was for the horses to stand still for 27 days but they did it without complaint. We were in Juba for the referendum, a happy time when everyone was excited about the future of their country.

Arriving in Uganda was rather like being a celebrity walking down the red carpet with everyone craning to get a look or take a photo! All the horses in Uganda were wiped out during Idi Amin’s time and consequently, most people have never seen a horse before! We are always being asked whether they are camels, donkeys or horses? One woman even asked if they were kangaroos! Do they grow horns? Do they eat people? As we ride down the road, it takes about 2 minutes to empty out schools of 800 children. As soon as we are spotted they come flooding onto the road in great excitement! The horses are so well behaved as we stand surrounded while Billy gives an impromptu lecture about our journey and horses in general!

Sadly we currently have a large challenge to overcome. On arrival in Kampala we decided to have some blood tests done. It turned out that Billy had such a low blood count that he was rushed to hospital in Johannesburg where he was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. He is undergoing chemo and is responding to treatment well. We remain focused on our goal of riding to Cape Agulhas as soon as he is better. Our lovely horses are waiting patiently for us on the banks of Lake Victoria. They are being looked after by a wonderful family who stepped in at short notice and have relieved us of any stress or worry we may have had about their welfare. We miss them terribly but know that they are in great hands!

We have learnt so much about ourselves, our horses and the people of Africa. We have discovered that the most important things to pack on a journey like this are: Patience, Perserverance and Politeness! They are far more useful than any language dictionary, water filter or even clean underwear! I never got around to going to university, but I could not have asked for a better education than this adventure…

Christy (Christine) Henchie

You may wish to follow us on Facebook – Christy Billy Africanhoofprints or www.africanhoofprints.blogspot.com

Christy’s CV

• Born in Harare, Zimbabwe and lived there for twenty years!
• Started riding as an 8 year old.
• Participated in pony club, show jumping, eventing and dressage.
• As a teenager I rode and competed horses for other people.
• In 2002 and 2004 I worked for Matt Ryan, a triple olympic gold medallist in 3 Day Eventing – an australian living in England.
• In 2003 I moved to Cape Town, South Africa due to the problems in Zimbabwe.
• In 2003 and 2005 I worked for Sleepy Hollow Horse Riding as a riding instructor for both able bodied and disabled riders.
• I met Billy in 2003 and we left on our expedition in November 2005!

Billy’s CV

• Born in South Africa.
• Moved to a farm as a 9 year old where he had some horses and taught himself to ride.
• In 1987 and 1988 he was a national serviceman in the mounted infantry of the South African Defence Force.
• In 1990, he joined the permanent force and started his apprenticeship as a farrier.
• In 1992 he qualified as a Master Farrier.
• He left the army soon after and had his own business until 2005 when we left on this journey. He is not a conventional farrier and works towards having all his horses barefoot.
• In 1995 he crewed for 2 people riding from Windhoek, Namibia to Cape Town South Africa.
• In 1998 he crewed for a woman who rode solo across the 20th parallel – from the coast of Mozambique, through Zimbabwe and Botswana to the coast of Namibia.
• These two journeys fueled his ideas for our journey – the most northern point of Africa to the most southern point with no crew… just us and our horses!

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]]> http://www.mikaelstrandberg.com/2011/04/26/african-hoofprints-5-years-on-horseback-through-africa/feed/ 9 http://www.mikaelstrandberg.com/2011/02/28/libya/ http://www.mikaelstrandberg.com/2011/02/28/libya/#comments Mon, 28 Feb 2011 02:20:24 +0000 mikael http://www.mikaelstrandberg.com/?p=4172 Gaddaffi is still in around, but no doubt on his way out. Amazing I think. Who would have thought that only 3 months ago? Christian Bodegren tried last year to cross the Sahara by camel but got stuck in Libya. He went through some really hard times, but fell in love with this part of the world. And he has followed the dramatic changes which are taking place in the Arab World. So, of course, I asked him to write an article about his thoughts. Compared to many a journalists trying to get in, he has been deep into the sands and heart of Libya, their deserts.

Mohamed Bouazizi shakes the Arab World

by

Christian Bodegren

Who would have thought that a 26 year old fruit and vegetable salesman named Mohamed Bouazizi, would get an entire Arab world to shake? And who could have known that he would be the one that triggered people in Tunisia to rise up in anger against a tyrant who’s dominated their country for 24 years, and chase him out of the country?

I would not have thought it, that day I stood before the court in Tunisia in 2010 on charges of an illegal sale of my dromedaries, with my Sahara expedition fresh in my memory. My female lawyer told me:

“I’m sorry for everything, but it’s probably best that you do not come back to Libya for at least five years.”

I managed to leave the country after my second attempt, sure that I wouldn´t be able to return for a long time. Maybe never. That was also the end of my Saharan dream. Two days later I walked into a church in Sweden where my big brother was getting married, who knows, maybe everything has a purpose. Several months later Ben Ali fled, and the people of Tunisia were raising their hands to the sky, and they could take their first deep breath of freedom. After days, months and years of dictatorship where television, radio, press and regular access to the internet which was completely in the hands of the regime. This has been a revolution like a glass of water under a dripping tap, which slowly fills up and overflows. And that last drop in this case was the young man named Mohamed Bouazizi.

Somehow the Tunisians wrote a manual on how a modern revolution of today can be made and they even exported it to Egypt. In my mind, it is not difficult to understand that the Libyans took the courage after 40 years of oppression and began their revolutionary journey after the Egyptian people succeed. Mubarak was backed by a strong police and security apparatus, which had a very good track of people who actively worked against the regime. And Egypt was also an indispensable ally for the United States in the Arab world. If the Egyptians managed to overthrow Mubarak, I thought it wouldn´t be impossible for the Libyans to overthrow Gaddafi.

I remember my friend Mohammed shouted to me, as he left me on the shores of the Red sea to start my journey with three young camels in October 2009:

“There are as many police officers in Egypt as grains of sand in the Sahara!”

And I spent a major part of my Expedition money on bribing the police. I have had a few thoughts about Kaddafi and Libya:

Muammar Kaddafi has almost written a manual how to succeed as a dictator in a country. A man with a best before date, I hope. He has been in control since 1969 and has made Libya to North Africa’s now most closed, controlled country. Because he sits on the North Africa’s largest oil reserves. Which means the uprising in Libya will push up the oil prices. This is going to make the global recovery of the economy to slow down. And that is going to make the USA and Europe to handle this situation completely different compare to what we have seeing before whit Tunisia and Egypt. Everything is linked, and when it comes to supporting various regimes with export and import, most countries are guilty, and all should take responsibility for that too. As long it iss not making any fuss which can have a effect on the economy we have no reason to interfere. It is all about the money.

Khadafy’s eccentric approach to running the country in his personal day to day mood, have repeatedly destroyed the lives of the people in Libya. I did also became involved in his family’s problems during my time in Libya. It happened during my time in southern Libya, along with my four dromedaries, when I was trying to get the necessary permits so I could cross into southern Algeria, and whilst I was trying to get an extension of my visa. I didn´t get any of them. And it was all due to Mr. Gaddafi’s youngest son, Hannibal and his heavily pregnant wife in 2008, who had an incident when they had poured boiling water on two house maids in the suite at a luxury hotel in Geneva, and got arrested for it. That made the mad Gaddafi call out for jihad against Switzerland. It killed my chances to get needed permits. Isn´t this politics at its best or what?

My journey ended in the same country this great Arab revolution started. Tunisia. This is where I fled. A country where a 26 year old fruit and vegetable salesman named Mohamed Bouazizi was working.

One person can make a difference.

Christian Bodegren is now preparing for a new Expedition.

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by

Arita Baaijens

‘He’s gone, the Pharao is gone,’ I shouted when I received a text message that Mubarak had stepped down on 11 February. I had just come back from Cairo to Amsterdam and sat there, dazed, happy, not knowing what to do. The only thing I wanted was to join the crowd in Cairo and celebrate, but I had obligations at home.

Back to Tahrir Square

To cut a long story short – I went back a week later, last Friday, and arrived on time to join the festive crowd in Tahrir square on the Day of Celebration.

‘We have our country back!’  people told me time and again with a big smile on their face.

A positive vibe surged through the city and the whole country. Don’t forget that also elsewhere in Egypt people had taken to the streets to protest and fight for freedom. My eyes popped when I saw young and old cleaning the streets. Others painted lamp posts and bridges.

‘We want a clean start.’

Teenagers kept up signs on  Tahrir square to show citizens what they could do for their country: Keep it clean, learn about the constitution, do not pay bribes, pay decent salaries, become active.

Khaled

That Friday I stayed out till late at night and ended up in a coffee house in a small alley in down town Cairo. ‘Hey, Arita.’ It was Khaled, a young sound technician with whom I had worked two years ago when he had been my guide into the world of young writers and bloggers for a feature I was working on. As  I remember, it was quite depressing to listen to these kids with talent and who had lost hope. The only thing that kept most of them going was the dream about leaving the country and start a life elsewhere although leaving Egypt is the very last thing an Egyptian wants to do.

One of the organizers

Khaled happened to be one of the organizers of the demonstration on 25 January – ‘the day I was born’ as he and others refer to that day. We talked for hours about the events that had taken place. The organizers were not a movement or a political party, they knew each other from Facebook.

‘We are fast,’ explained Khaled the main tactic during the revolution. ‘Someone has an idea, others join in and we act.’

Khaled in the middle

Because of their speed and unpredictability the government was always light years behind the demonstrators. There wasn’t one leader on the square so nobody had to wait for orders. Ideas could be carried out instantly. The group was amorphous, which is why bribes and pressure did not have any effect. Since this revolution took place I believe in miracles again. Not only did the people on the square do the impossible – stick together and beat the system – they didn’t stop there. Take yesterday. I spent all day with Khaled and his friends and went with them to Qasr el Eini hospital. The group wanted to find out how many seriously wounded  people were being treated there. ‘We feel responsible for them and want to help them.’ The director of the hospital stated there were only 3 injured people left. One was in a coma, two others in intensive care. Nobody believed him but the group didn’t press the director. They were more clever than that and sent in an under cover girl. She talked to all the nurses, searched the wards and came back with a long list of patients who had been shot, beaten or who suffered from injuries because of stones thrown from roof tops. The girl was pretty upset when we met her a few hours later in a down town café. She had seen gruesome things and wondered why the director had lied.

Did he receive orders? If so from whom? Were authorities afraid that more deaths would trigger violent reactions?

The group is going to find out in a meeting today with doctors and with the press. They will not rest until there’s a list with patients. Patients who need support and money for treatment because they fought and protected the boys and girls who now walk around free. This is only one example of what is going on in post revolutionary Egypt.

Old System still in place

The old system is still in place and demonstrators realize they have a long way to go to change this country. ‘But we’ll do it because this is our country now and our responsibility.’

Arita Baaijens is one of the worlds most famous desert travellers. You can read more about the fantastic personality at http://www.aritabaaijens.nl andhttp://www.linkedin.com/in/aritabaaijens

Arita has featured or written 3 articles already on my site here.

1. Thoughts after meeting a female explorer

2. Exploration, an outdoor activity or what?

3. Female leadership in the desert.

4. Article on ExWeb: From the saddle Arita Baaijens in Cairo; Those kids really pulled it off!

Arita Baaijens - desert explorer

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Why Yemen is not Egypt

by

Kyle Anthony Foster

With the winds of change blowing across the Arab world, many news organizations are focusing on Yemen as a potential next Egypt. My analysis is that Yemen will not descend into chaos as Egypt, or at least Cairo, has. Why? Simple. The people of Yemen do not hate President Ali Abdullah Saleh.

President Saleh has a remarkable touch with the people of Yemen. He’s actually a pretty hard-working president who is seen regularly on television at various ribbon-cutting ceremonies across the country. From large-scale projects to small schools, Ali is there, with the people, promoting the interests of the country. President Saleh’s sons have a respectable reputation and — unlike other sons of Arab leaders — they have not run rampant over the population.

In the 2006 Yemen presidential election, Ali Abdullah Saleh won the vote with a reported 77 percent. International election monitors were welcomed and the results were reported as generally fair. In a region where president/dictators generally win with 99 percent of the vote, this result was monumental as a standard for transparency and fairness in elections for the region. Furthermore, it may not have been too far off the mark.

The Saleh regime has managed to keep the faith with the people of Yemen. Yemenis enjoy perhaps more freedoms than the people of any other Arab nation. Civil society institutions are permitted and encouraged by grants from the Yemen Social Fund For Development. The Yemeni press has issues with the government; however, relative to other Arab states, it enjoys an incredible amount of freedom of expression.

Yemenis understand that their country faces some monumental problems. Yemen is the poorest Arab state, and unemployment and illiteracy are rampant — both figures hover around 50 percent. The nation faces a crushing water shortage. The list of development concerns is endless, and if not faced now, there will be trouble later.

The winds of change are blowing across the Arab region, and if they continue to do so for an extended time, the Saleh regime could be vulnerable. Most Yemenis do have concerns about the pace of change and the level of commitment to democracy that the Saleh regime embraces. But they are generally willing to extend President Saleh more time, with limits. For now, the social contract that President Saleh has earned through genuine concern for the nation will stand.

Kyle next to me at a kat chew in Sanaa

Kyle Foster is an international development and political consultant.

He studied at the University of Nebraska and the School For
International Training in Brattleboro, Vermont.  He lives in Sana’a,
Yemen and the United States.

Read previous article by Kyle on my site here!

And don´t miss this slide show from Yemen here!

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Female leadership in the desert!

Venus and Mars in the desert

During the past twenty years I’ve spend most winter seasons exploring the desert of Egypt and Sudan on camel. Sometimes friends kept me company during a leg of the journey, which was great. Camels are wonderful animals, but a conversation with them can be boring because they are only interested in food. So it was fun to have a friend around, although, to be honest, with some of them the fun didn’t last very long. A week at the most. After that the top-dog type of guys – never seen a desert, let alone knew a thing about camels – would point out how I could and should organize my caravan in a much better and more efficient way.

“This is the limit,” one of them shouted with a face turned purple. I was repairing a broken saddle without consulting him. A terrible insult, according to him. “Well, do you know how to do it?” I asked genuinely surprised. “No, but you don’t have to rub into my face.”

Another friend was annoyed because I made him feel insecure whenever he walked with the camels. Why? Picture the following scene: my friend climbs steep hill after steep hill with heavily laden camels and after two hills I, of course, tell him to circumnavigate those hills. Something he would have done automatically if he would have been the one to carry the load. Anyway, my friend was not amused and our never ending arguments threatened the relationship. So in the end I decided to give it a try and shut up in order to let him learn from mistakes. It worked. Until one of the camels seriously injured herself because of a stupid and unnecessary mistake my friend make. ‘No more soft approach,’ I decided there and then.
My top-dogs friends had a problem with female leadership, I decided. But as the list of incidents grew doubt crept in. ’Maybe it is me,’ I thought. After all, I was the only constant factor in all those stories. A man in my position would never question his leadership style, but being a female, I wondered what I could do to avoid future fights. I searched for female role models in the desert and hoped they could teach me a few tricks. But alas, female caravaners were hard to come by. All the local desert guides where male and they couldn’t care less about the feelings of their staff. On the contrary. A guide, or chabir, does not accept any criticism during a dangerous desert crossing. Which makes perfect sense. A guide is responsible for the lives of people and animals in the caravan and conflicts create tension and confusion, which in turn may affect his judgement.
Imagine my joy and disbelief when about five years ago I came across a thesis about trade in west Africa. The historian who wrote it claimed and proved that women in the region played an active role in caravan trade. As a merchant, investor and even as a caravaner.

Recently I travelled to Mauritania and met two female caravaners, both well into their seventies now. I also met the sons and daughters of a locally well known woman who had worked as a trader and a caravaner. One of her sons, now a grandfather, rubbed his knees and shins with a painful grimace when he talked about the long journeys with his mother. The whole family went together, parents and children, and they were on the road for several months. The children walked or sat on top of salt loads, hour after painful hour. The caravan would only come to a stop after sunset. And after such an exhausting day the mother still had to cook. Women were also responsible for selling goods at foreign markets. The profit was used to buy local products they could sell back home.

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When I asked men and women about the daily routine in a trade caravan, nothing indicated that women had an inferior position. “Men and women worked together,” an old man commented. Many others confirmed this. In I learned that in Mauritania women have always had a very strong position in society and within the family. Women are also well educated. When I explained to a few young women that their Dutch sisters, in order to keep their marriage intact, pretend that their husband is the boss, the girls laughed and laughed. They just couldn’t believe what I said. In Mauritania, they giggled, it is the other way around. Men like strong women. Indeed, if a spouse bosses his wife around she knows something is wrong. Very wrong. When a husband acts out of character he usually fancies another woman.

Needless to say that I had the time of my life in Mauritania, where I met a lot of bold, bright and strong women. The Mauritanian caravan model functions, these role models taught me, because next to every strong woman stands a gentle man.

You can read more about the fantastic personality at http://www.aritabaaijens.nl and http://www.linkedin.com/in/aritabaaijens