Friday, January 15, 2010
A Surprise Visit
It was a Friday and we got up early because Sue's mum, Connie, was flying in from London to visit us and our newly-born daughter in Tripoli. She would be arriving in the afternoon and we wanted to tidy up the house.
We had just started on the housework when someone rang the doorbell. Probably Mustafa popping in for breakfast, I thought.
I opened the front gate - and there was Connie, complete with suitcases! A Libyan man I didn't know was sitting in his car nearby. When he saw me greet Connie, he waved to us and drove off.
Once we'd brought her in and made her a nice cup of tea, she told us what had happened.
Somehow - and I still can't think how - we had got confused about the dates and so she had actually arrived the previous day. She waited for us at the airport but we never turned up. After an hour of two, she started to get worried.
She couldn't phone us because we didn't have a phone. The waiting period for residential phones in Libya at that time was about 11 years and it was in the era before cellphones.
She couldn't take a taxi either, since she didn't have our address. There were no residential postal deliveries in Tripoli and so, whenever she wrote to us, she sent her letters to a post office box.
Evening fell and still there was no sign of us at the airport. Now she was really worried.
She needn't have worried, though. This was Libya. As she sat waiting with her luggage, a Libyan couple approached her and the man asked her, in English, what she was doing. She explained. The man conferred with his wife and they both agreed that the only thing to do was for them to take Connie to their home for the night and then to bring her to our house the next morning.
And that's exactly what they did.
Of course, it wasn't quite as straightforward as that, because none of them had any idea where our house was. Connie didn't even know which district of Tripoli we lived in. However, she did remember that we'd once mentioned that there was a hospital nearby.
So in the morning the man loaded Connie and her bags into his car and started driving around the areas of the city that had hospitals. In each area, he went into the local corner stores and asked if anyone knew an English couple who had just had a baby. It didn't take long. The third or fourth store he visited was our local shop. The people there knew us and had a rough idea of where we lived. So they directed him to our area and he knocked on a few doors until he found someone who pointed him to our house.
Libya was a difficult place in many ways but the people were certainly nice.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
A Border Incident
.
On one of our visits to the oasis village of Ghadames, two of our friends from the village wanted to show us some nearby ruins. They knew I had trained as an archaeologists and they thought the ruins might interest me.
We set off across the desert in one of their trucks. Sue, myself and Saleh squeezed into the front. Mustafa and Abdusalem sat in the back, with Dopey, our dog.
Mustafa had strict instructions to keep tight hold of Dopey's lead. Inevitably, though, as we hit a particularly large bump, Mustafa let go of the lead and Dopey leaped over the side. We stopped. Dopey stood and grinned at us. Then she took off across the desert. We chased her. She stopped. We stopped. She grinned at us. And then she took off again.
We played this game for quite a while.
Dopey Playing the Game
However, the game stopped when we almost ran headfirst into an army truck. An Algerian army truck!
Three extremely scruffy soldiers in Algerian Army uniforms got out of the truck and walked over to our truck. They had big guns. We were all under arrest, they told us. For illegally crossing into Algeria.
Saleh and Abdusalem were outraged. We were in Libya, they told the soldiers. And they said it was the Algerians who had crossed the border illegally and who were now under arrest.
Oh, no, said the soldiers. We were in Algeria and were under arrest.
Not at all, shouted Saleh and Abdusalem. It was the Algerians who were under arrest.
The arresting and counter-arresting went on for a while.
Dopey, a staunch patriot, played her part by crouching down and snarling ferociously at the Algerians every time our Libyan friends arrested them.
Eventually, everyone calmed down. We all shook hands. We all said goodbye. The Algerians got back into their truck and drove away.
"So was that an Algerian border patrol?" I asked Saleh. "Have we accidentally crossed into Algeria?"
"No, I'm sure we're in Libya. Well, pretty sure," he replied. "In any case, that wasn't an official patrol. They were smugglers."
"Smugglers?"
"Yes. Their truck was full of cases of whisky. They were smuggling whisky into our country. Algerian soldiers do it all the time."
I had long wondered how, in a country where alcohol was strictly prohibited, our Libyan friends' houses always seemed to be well stocked with bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now I knew how they got their supplies.
BTW, as soon as the Algerians left, Dopey jumped back into our truck and sat there grinning, as if to say, "Now, wasn't that fun?"
.
On one of our visits to the oasis village of Ghadames, two of our friends from the village wanted to show us some nearby ruins. They knew I had trained as an archaeologists and they thought the ruins might interest me.
We set off across the desert in one of their trucks. Sue, myself and Saleh squeezed into the front. Mustafa and Abdusalem sat in the back, with Dopey, our dog.
Mustafa had strict instructions to keep tight hold of Dopey's lead. Inevitably, though, as we hit a particularly large bump, Mustafa let go of the lead and Dopey leaped over the side. We stopped. Dopey stood and grinned at us. Then she took off across the desert. We chased her. She stopped. We stopped. She grinned at us. And then she took off again.
We played this game for quite a while.
Dopey Playing the GameHowever, the game stopped when we almost ran headfirst into an army truck. An Algerian army truck!
Three extremely scruffy soldiers in Algerian Army uniforms got out of the truck and walked over to our truck. They had big guns. We were all under arrest, they told us. For illegally crossing into Algeria.
Saleh and Abdusalem were outraged. We were in Libya, they told the soldiers. And they said it was the Algerians who had crossed the border illegally and who were now under arrest.
Oh, no, said the soldiers. We were in Algeria and were under arrest.
Not at all, shouted Saleh and Abdusalem. It was the Algerians who were under arrest.
The arresting and counter-arresting went on for a while.
Dopey, a staunch patriot, played her part by crouching down and snarling ferociously at the Algerians every time our Libyan friends arrested them.
Eventually, everyone calmed down. We all shook hands. We all said goodbye. The Algerians got back into their truck and drove away.
"So was that an Algerian border patrol?" I asked Saleh. "Have we accidentally crossed into Algeria?"
"No, I'm sure we're in Libya. Well, pretty sure," he replied. "In any case, that wasn't an official patrol. They were smugglers."
"Smugglers?"
"Yes. Their truck was full of cases of whisky. They were smuggling whisky into our country. Algerian soldiers do it all the time."
I had long wondered how, in a country where alcohol was strictly prohibited, our Libyan friends' houses always seemed to be well stocked with bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now I knew how they got their supplies.
BTW, as soon as the Algerians left, Dopey jumped back into our truck and sat there grinning, as if to say, "Now, wasn't that fun?"
.
Atheists Need Not Apply
When I went to the Libyan Embassy in London to get my first residence visa for Libya, I ran into a problem. I could not get a visa without producing my baptism certificate, because atheists were not permitted to enter the country. You could only get a visa if you could prove you were a member of an organized religion. Christians, Muslims or Jews - yes, Jews - were welcome but not atheists.
I was pretty sure that I had been baptised but I had no record of it. I called my mum. She was pretty sure I had been baptised but had no record of it.
So I popped into a local church and asked the vicar if he could give me a baptism certificate. "Have you been baptised?" he asked. "I think so," I told him. "Into which church?" he followed up. "Not a clue but probably Church of England," I answered.
It seemed that this information was not enough to justify his issuing me with a baptism certificate. The only way to do this, he told me, was for him to baptise me. I explained that I didn't want to be baptised; I just wanted a certificate. He wouldn't give me one. Very inflexible, some of these religious people.
I tried the Libyan Embassy again but they were still adamant that I needed to produce a document showing I was a member of a church or temple or something similar.
So I had to improvise. I went to Woolworth's and bought a John Bull printing set. These were wonderful little toys, consisting of wooden trays, little rubber letters and numbers, a pair of tweezers and an ink pad. You made words by assembling rubber letters on the wooden trays. You inked the letters and then printed them onto paper. Pretty much the same technique that they used to print the Gutenberg Bible, except I'm not sure they used tweezers for that.
I typed up a letter confirming that I had been baptised into the Church of England at St. Ollie's and St. Stan's Church on December 25th 1945, and I signed it with the name of one of my high school friends. (His dad worked at Carlisle Cathedral, so I thought this added an authentic touch.) I then made up a nice stamp for St. Ollie's and St. Stan's with an arbitrary address in Carlisle, my hometown. I stamped the letter and took it along to the Libyan Embassy.
I got my visa.
I think Ollie and Stan would have approved.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Three Wise Men
.
Every few months I would have to drive out to Tripoli International Airport to collect books or other school supplies I had ordered from the UK. As often as not, I would return from these trips empty-handed. This was not usually because the goods hadn't arrived. It was not usually even because I didn't have all the correct paperwork. It was almost always because of problems with what I called the Three Wise Men.
Who were the Three Wise Men? They were three old men who worked in the customs office at the airport. Dressed in traditional Libyan clothes, they sat at a long table and they were responsible for one part of the processing procedure for imported goods. Anyone bringing goods into the country had to start the customs approval process by taking their completed import forms to the old men's table.
The first old man's job was to take the papers and shuffle them until they were in a tidy pile. Then he passed the pile along the table.
The second old man would carefully - and very very slowly - count the papers to make sure you had given in the correct number. He would then pass them along.
The third man was probably the oldest because he had the most important job. He would staple the papers together and then stamp them with the date before handing them back to you.
This all sounds like a well-oiled system. And it was - unless one of the old men was sick. If any one of the Three Wise Men was absent, your papers could not be processed, because neither of the two remaining old men was authorized to stand in for the missing official. So you had to drive back to town and return the following day, hoping that the absent member of the team had recovered and was now at work again. Sometimes he would be there the next day, and sometimes he would still be absent. I remember I once had to make five trips before the team was back up and running smoothly.
Towards the end of my time in Libya, I had a student who was fairly high up in the Libyan Customs Service. In the nicest possible way, I mentioned the Three Wise Men and hinted that it might perhaps be more efficient to replace them with one younger person. A younger man, I suggested, could probably handle the whole process himself - and he would be less likely to be ill and therefore absent.
My student looked puzzled. "But what would we do with the three old men?" he asked.
"You could give them a pension and they could stay home with their families," I said.
"But think of how they would feel," my student replied. "They would feel useless because they would not have a job. If men don't have a job, who respects them? These are very old men and they deserve respect. So we must give them jobs."
"Okay," I answered. "Maybe there is another solution. They could keep their jobs but someone else could step in if one of them was sick."
My student thought about this for a moment.
"No, that would not work," he said. "It would make the old men feel their jobs are not really important and so they are not important."
"But it would make the system much more efficient," I argued. "People like me wouldn't have to keep driving back and forward to the airport."
"True," said my student. "But which is more important - efficiency and your convenience or the feelings of those three old men?"
Maybe I had been in Libya too long by this stage, because I have to admit I was convinced by his argument.
Every few months I would have to drive out to Tripoli International Airport to collect books or other school supplies I had ordered from the UK. As often as not, I would return from these trips empty-handed. This was not usually because the goods hadn't arrived. It was not usually even because I didn't have all the correct paperwork. It was almost always because of problems with what I called the Three Wise Men.
Who were the Three Wise Men? They were three old men who worked in the customs office at the airport. Dressed in traditional Libyan clothes, they sat at a long table and they were responsible for one part of the processing procedure for imported goods. Anyone bringing goods into the country had to start the customs approval process by taking their completed import forms to the old men's table.
The first old man's job was to take the papers and shuffle them until they were in a tidy pile. Then he passed the pile along the table.
The second old man would carefully - and very very slowly - count the papers to make sure you had given in the correct number. He would then pass them along.
The third man was probably the oldest because he had the most important job. He would staple the papers together and then stamp them with the date before handing them back to you.
This all sounds like a well-oiled system. And it was - unless one of the old men was sick. If any one of the Three Wise Men was absent, your papers could not be processed, because neither of the two remaining old men was authorized to stand in for the missing official. So you had to drive back to town and return the following day, hoping that the absent member of the team had recovered and was now at work again. Sometimes he would be there the next day, and sometimes he would still be absent. I remember I once had to make five trips before the team was back up and running smoothly.
Towards the end of my time in Libya, I had a student who was fairly high up in the Libyan Customs Service. In the nicest possible way, I mentioned the Three Wise Men and hinted that it might perhaps be more efficient to replace them with one younger person. A younger man, I suggested, could probably handle the whole process himself - and he would be less likely to be ill and therefore absent.
My student looked puzzled. "But what would we do with the three old men?" he asked.
"You could give them a pension and they could stay home with their families," I said.
"But think of how they would feel," my student replied. "They would feel useless because they would not have a job. If men don't have a job, who respects them? These are very old men and they deserve respect. So we must give them jobs."
"Okay," I answered. "Maybe there is another solution. They could keep their jobs but someone else could step in if one of them was sick."
My student thought about this for a moment.
"No, that would not work," he said. "It would make the old men feel their jobs are not really important and so they are not important."
"But it would make the system much more efficient," I argued. "People like me wouldn't have to keep driving back and forward to the airport."
"True," said my student. "But which is more important - efficiency and your convenience or the feelings of those three old men?"
Maybe I had been in Libya too long by this stage, because I have to admit I was convinced by his argument.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Proud to Be British!
.
When I first travelled around North Africa and the Middle East, I was always rather wary of telling people that I was British. Given Britain's imperial history, I was never sure of how people would react to learning my nationality. I needn't have worried, though, because most Arabs seemed to harbour remarkably friendly feelings towards Britain in spite of its past actions in the area. Here are two anecdotes that illustrate this.
Cairo, Egypt
I was standing on the steps of a government building in Tahrir Square in Cairo. As usual, the square was a swirling and totally chaotic mass of thousands of people and cars. While I was deciding where to go next, I noticed a middle-aged Egyptian man in European clothes walking smartly through the crowd. He seemed to be looking straight at me. He climbed the steps, his eyes still focused sharply on me. Perhaps he was someone I'd met while visiting the ILI school in Cairo? But, no, I was sure I'd never seen him before. He walked right up to me and stopped.
"Excuse me. Are you British?" he asked in English.
A little warily, I told him I was.
"Well, I would just like to thank you for Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Dickens."
He shook my hand warmly, turned around and headed back down into the chaos of Tahrir Square.
Fernaj, Libya
We lived in a small village called Fernaj, a few miles outside Tripoli. I was shopping in the village one day when an elderly Libyan man struck up a conversation with me. When I discovered I was British, he seemed pleased. According to him, British troops used to be garrisoned in the area. I asked him how they had behaved.
"They were very nice," he said. "Much better than the Italians. When the Italians ruled Libya, they treated us badly. They wouldn't even let us walk on the sidewalks. We had to walk in the street."
"And when the British were here?" I asked.
"Oh, they were much better. They were not like the Italians."
He paused, obviously lost in nostalgia. Then he continued.
"The only problem we had with the British was on weekends. The soldiers would get drunk. Then they would drive their jeeps through the village and run over our children. But, apart from that, they were nice. Much better than the Italians."
.
When I first travelled around North Africa and the Middle East, I was always rather wary of telling people that I was British. Given Britain's imperial history, I was never sure of how people would react to learning my nationality. I needn't have worried, though, because most Arabs seemed to harbour remarkably friendly feelings towards Britain in spite of its past actions in the area. Here are two anecdotes that illustrate this.
Cairo, Egypt
I was standing on the steps of a government building in Tahrir Square in Cairo. As usual, the square was a swirling and totally chaotic mass of thousands of people and cars. While I was deciding where to go next, I noticed a middle-aged Egyptian man in European clothes walking smartly through the crowd. He seemed to be looking straight at me. He climbed the steps, his eyes still focused sharply on me. Perhaps he was someone I'd met while visiting the ILI school in Cairo? But, no, I was sure I'd never seen him before. He walked right up to me and stopped.
"Excuse me. Are you British?" he asked in English.
A little warily, I told him I was.
"Well, I would just like to thank you for Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Dickens."
He shook my hand warmly, turned around and headed back down into the chaos of Tahrir Square.
Fernaj, Libya
We lived in a small village called Fernaj, a few miles outside Tripoli. I was shopping in the village one day when an elderly Libyan man struck up a conversation with me. When I discovered I was British, he seemed pleased. According to him, British troops used to be garrisoned in the area. I asked him how they had behaved.
"They were very nice," he said. "Much better than the Italians. When the Italians ruled Libya, they treated us badly. They wouldn't even let us walk on the sidewalks. We had to walk in the street."
"And when the British were here?" I asked.
"Oh, they were much better. They were not like the Italians."
He paused, obviously lost in nostalgia. Then he continued.
"The only problem we had with the British was on weekends. The soldiers would get drunk. Then they would drive their jeeps through the village and run over our children. But, apart from that, they were nice. Much better than the Italians."
.
One Law for All
.
I drove out to Tripoli Airport with a Libyan friend to pick up a new teacher who was arriving from England. As soon as I walked into the terminal, I knew something unusual was happening: It was packed with people and there were heavily armed soldiers everywhere.
My friend asked someone what was going on and we were told that Ghadaffi was there to welcome the Foreign Secretary of some other Arab state. I think it was Syria but it could have Iraq or Jordan.
My friend insisted that we squeeze through to the front of the crowd to watch the welcoming ceremony. It was impressive. Ghadaffi was out on the tarmac flanked by a brass band and an honour guard of very smartly dressed soldiers.
The foreign dignitary came down the steps of the plane and he and Ghadaffi embraced. After reviewing the honour guard, the two men walked hand in hand to the terminal, chatting as they walked.
They strolled past the immigration desk, which was manned by an immigration officer who looked about 18 years old.
To everyone's amazement, the immigration officer suddenly stood up and shouted out, "Hey, you! Stop!" Ghadaffi and the visiting dignitary stopped and turned around.
My friend translated the dialogue that followed.
Ghadaffi: Do you mean us?
Officer: Yes. (He pointed to the dignitary.) I need to see his entry visa.
Ghadaffi gave his guest an apologetic look and walked back to the immigration desk.
Ghadaffi: You know who I am?
Officer: Of course I know who you are, Muammar. But I need to see your friend's visa.
Ghadaffi: You don't understand. He's the Syrian Foreign Minister. I've invited him here.
Officer: That's very nice. But I need to see his visa.
Ghadaffi: He doesn't have a visa. He's here at my invitation on an official visit.
Officer: I'm sorry but if he doesn't have a visa, I can't let him through. Everyone who comes to Libya has to have an entry visa.
Ghadaffi: Well, yes, I know that's the law but he's my guest. I'll vouch for him. You can let him through.
Officer: The law says every visitor must have a valid entry visa.
Ghadaffi: But you can make an exception in this case. He's my friend.
Officer (visibly exasperated): Look. I'm just trying to do my job. You say I should let this man through without a visa. Fine, if that's what you want, I'll let him through. But then somebody else will turn up tomorrow and say that his friend is arriving without a visa and I'll have to let him through. Then the same thing will happen the next day. And the day after that. Personally, I don't care. It's up to you. Do I let people through without visas or not?
Ghadaffi thought for a moment. Then he turned around to his guest and told him that he would have to get back on the plane and go home to get a visa.
The young immigration officer sat down at his desk again and all of us in the crowd applauded.
.
I drove out to Tripoli Airport with a Libyan friend to pick up a new teacher who was arriving from England. As soon as I walked into the terminal, I knew something unusual was happening: It was packed with people and there were heavily armed soldiers everywhere.
My friend asked someone what was going on and we were told that Ghadaffi was there to welcome the Foreign Secretary of some other Arab state. I think it was Syria but it could have Iraq or Jordan.
My friend insisted that we squeeze through to the front of the crowd to watch the welcoming ceremony. It was impressive. Ghadaffi was out on the tarmac flanked by a brass band and an honour guard of very smartly dressed soldiers.
The foreign dignitary came down the steps of the plane and he and Ghadaffi embraced. After reviewing the honour guard, the two men walked hand in hand to the terminal, chatting as they walked.
They strolled past the immigration desk, which was manned by an immigration officer who looked about 18 years old.
To everyone's amazement, the immigration officer suddenly stood up and shouted out, "Hey, you! Stop!" Ghadaffi and the visiting dignitary stopped and turned around.
My friend translated the dialogue that followed.
Ghadaffi: Do you mean us?
Officer: Yes. (He pointed to the dignitary.) I need to see his entry visa.
Ghadaffi gave his guest an apologetic look and walked back to the immigration desk.
Ghadaffi: You know who I am?
Officer: Of course I know who you are, Muammar. But I need to see your friend's visa.
Ghadaffi: You don't understand. He's the Syrian Foreign Minister. I've invited him here.
Officer: That's very nice. But I need to see his visa.
Ghadaffi: He doesn't have a visa. He's here at my invitation on an official visit.
Officer: I'm sorry but if he doesn't have a visa, I can't let him through. Everyone who comes to Libya has to have an entry visa.
Ghadaffi: Well, yes, I know that's the law but he's my guest. I'll vouch for him. You can let him through.
Officer: The law says every visitor must have a valid entry visa.
Ghadaffi: But you can make an exception in this case. He's my friend.
Officer (visibly exasperated): Look. I'm just trying to do my job. You say I should let this man through without a visa. Fine, if that's what you want, I'll let him through. But then somebody else will turn up tomorrow and say that his friend is arriving without a visa and I'll have to let him through. Then the same thing will happen the next day. And the day after that. Personally, I don't care. It's up to you. Do I let people through without visas or not?
Ghadaffi thought for a moment. Then he turned around to his guest and told him that he would have to get back on the plane and go home to get a visa.
The young immigration officer sat down at his desk again and all of us in the crowd applauded.
.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Libyan Rage
.
One of the great things about living in Libya was that Libyans were very laid back. Unlike in most Arab countries, it was rare to hear any very heated arguments. Whenever people got into an argument and seemed to be heading for a real confrontation, one or other of the participants would somehow defuse the situation and all would end well.
This would happen at the school where I worked. From time to time, an unhappy student would come into my office with a complaint. Perhaps he thought he should be in a higher class, for example, or maybe the teacher had said something to upset him. It was usually easy to solve the problem but very occasionally a student would reject my offered solution and would escalate matters. These cases always ended the same way. The student would threaten me with "I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" I would hit back with "Oh, no, you won't. I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" Then we would both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation, we would shake hands, and the student would leave.
In my four years in Libya, there was only one occasion when I ran into a Libyan who refused to be mollified. It happened when I was driving home after a bad day at work.
I passed a car and, distracted by work problems, I pulled back in a little too quickly. There was no danger of an accident but my action caused the car I passed to brake. This infuriated the driver. Perhaps he'd had a bad day at work, too.
Seconds later, the other car pulled up alongside me and forced me off the road. It stopped and the driver got out.
Before he could say anything, I apologized in Arabic. This didn't help. He was really angry. He told me, in English, that I had been very naughty. (All Libyans who knew any English seemed to know and use the word "naughty," usually in very inappropriate contexts.)
I apologized again but this made him even more angry. He was so angry that he called me a donkey, the ultimate insult throughout the Arab world.
I couldn't help but laugh at this. There is just something ridiculous about being called a donkey.
This totally infuriated him. He was speechless with rage and literally hopping mad. He started to approach me but then stopped. From the look on his face, I could see that he had made some kind of decision. Oh, oh. Perhaps this wasn't going to end well.
He walked back to his car, got in, and revved up the engine. He opened his window.
"Surely he doesn't have a gun," I thought to myself, getting ready to dive behind my car.
He played his ace. "I don't like your queen," he shouted. "I don't like your queen." Then, clearly fearing that he'd gone too far, he raced off down the road.
"I don't like her either," I yelled back.
I could hardly get back into my car for laughing.
One of the great things about living in Libya was that Libyans were very laid back. Unlike in most Arab countries, it was rare to hear any very heated arguments. Whenever people got into an argument and seemed to be heading for a real confrontation, one or other of the participants would somehow defuse the situation and all would end well.
This would happen at the school where I worked. From time to time, an unhappy student would come into my office with a complaint. Perhaps he thought he should be in a higher class, for example, or maybe the teacher had said something to upset him. It was usually easy to solve the problem but very occasionally a student would reject my offered solution and would escalate matters. These cases always ended the same way. The student would threaten me with "I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" I would hit back with "Oh, no, you won't. I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" Then we would both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation, we would shake hands, and the student would leave.
In my four years in Libya, there was only one occasion when I ran into a Libyan who refused to be mollified. It happened when I was driving home after a bad day at work.
I passed a car and, distracted by work problems, I pulled back in a little too quickly. There was no danger of an accident but my action caused the car I passed to brake. This infuriated the driver. Perhaps he'd had a bad day at work, too.
Seconds later, the other car pulled up alongside me and forced me off the road. It stopped and the driver got out.
Before he could say anything, I apologized in Arabic. This didn't help. He was really angry. He told me, in English, that I had been very naughty. (All Libyans who knew any English seemed to know and use the word "naughty," usually in very inappropriate contexts.)
I apologized again but this made him even more angry. He was so angry that he called me a donkey, the ultimate insult throughout the Arab world.
I couldn't help but laugh at this. There is just something ridiculous about being called a donkey.
This totally infuriated him. He was speechless with rage and literally hopping mad. He started to approach me but then stopped. From the look on his face, I could see that he had made some kind of decision. Oh, oh. Perhaps this wasn't going to end well.
He walked back to his car, got in, and revved up the engine. He opened his window.
"Surely he doesn't have a gun," I thought to myself, getting ready to dive behind my car.
He played his ace. "I don't like your queen," he shouted. "I don't like your queen." Then, clearly fearing that he'd gone too far, he raced off down the road.
"I don't like her either," I yelled back.
I could hardly get back into my car for laughing.
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