Cycling around the World and Japan: 42,000 km in total

I set out in the morning amid a light drizzle. Fifty kilometers from Constantine, the rain finally stopped, but traffic was restricted to one lane. Apparently, the constant rain lately had turned half the road into a muddy quagmire.

Just outside the city of Constantine, we came across a bicycle race. It had been a while since I’d heard the sound of wheels whizzing by in a pack.

“There’s a bike race going on. Are the road conditions okay?”
“It’s dried out quite a bit, so it’s fine. Since it’s Friday, it’s probably a weekend amateur race.”
“It’s nice that they have bike races in Algeria, too.”
“Yeah, it is. That might be due to the influence of France, a cycling powerhouse.”

After breakfast, large, round snowflakes began to fall. Before long, the snow turned into cold sleet driven by a crosswind, lashing against us as we rode toward the next town. “My face hurts!” “My hands and feet are freezing!” we couldn’t help but shout.

After taking a break at a café, it was a race against the rain clouds. Still, by evening, when it was time to set up camp, we no longer had to worry about cold rain.

Please move your campsite

After pitching the tent, we gathered dry firewood, built a fire pit out of stones, and started preparing dinner. Just then, two young soldiers appeared out of nowhere; they exchanged a word or two with us and were gone in an instant.

Next, a car circled around our tent two or three times. The middle-aged driver got out and said,
“You can’t camp here. Pitch your tent in the village.” Confused by the situation, we pleaded, “We’ve already pitched the tent and started preparing dinner, so it’s fine here,” and he reluctantly agreed. However, that wasn’t the end of it.

After that, four soldiers in a Land Rover arrived and said, “There’s a military facility 2 kilometers from here, so please move another kilometer further away.” Only then did we finally understand the reason behind the series of strange events that had been unfolding.

Of course, since we didn’t want to move, we showed them our passports to prove we were just ordinary civilians, and the negotiations began. The soldier replied, “I understand what you’re saying. I’ll report this to my superior. If camping here is okay, don’t come back. If not, we’ll come back later. “Dinner’s fine, so please help yourselves.”

An hour and a half later, after we’d finished dinner and were drinking tea, we heard the heartless sound of a car engine. A figure approached, illuminated by a flashlight, and the same soldier from earlier told us we had to move our camp. [What? Move? Talk about bad luck.]

In the darkness, as we were taking down our tents under the car’s headlights, the battery died, plunging us into total darkness—and to our surprise, we all ended up having to push the car, including us.

After moving closer to the village, we set up our tents again in the dead of night, with dogs barking at us. Snow in the morning, moving campsites at night—what a grueling day it turned out to be.

Next →

We woke up to the sound of cows mooing in the morning and set out into a strong headwind.

In front of a village grocery store where we’d stopped to buy lunch, we bumped into two men who looked Japanese as they were coming out of the store.

“Hello? Um… excuse me, but are you Japanese?”
“Yes, we’re expatriates for a Japanese company. In Algiers.”

The older of the two men—probably in his 40s—answered. I continued,

“Wow, that really surprised me. To run into Japanese people in a rural town like this in Algeria.”
“We work for a company that handles heavy machinery like cranes, and we’re on our way back from a business trip to a site in Constantine. Since there aren’t any restaurants around, we’re grabbing this for lunch.”

The bag the man was carrying seemed to contain groceries as well as drinks. The other, younger expat pointed at our bicycles and said,

“Are you two traveling on these bikes? And where are you coming from?”
“Yes, the two of us have been riding from Portugal through Spain, Morocco, and now Algeria.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. So, are you heading to Tunisia next?”
“Yes. That’s the plan.”

“In that case, you should head from Constantine to the Mediterranean port of Annaba. There are lots of Japanese company offices in Annaba, so if you stop by, they’ll surely welcome you.”
“Is that so? Got it. we’ll do that if we get the chance.”
“Well then, be careful on the rest of your journey, and I hope you make it back to Japan safely.”
“Yes. Thank you very much.”

It was W who was most enthusiastic about taking the older expat’s advice.

“If we stop by Annaba, will we be able to eat ‘Gin-shari’?”
“Gin-shari, huh? That sounds great. Japanese rice must be delicious.”

After saying goodbye to the Japanese expat, an uphill climb awaited us ahead. After a sudden rain shower, the wind direction changed completely to a tailwind. Thanks to that, we covered more distance than expected and managed to ride about 45 kilometers in the afternoon.

There was nothing around, so we decided to pitch our tent in the woods off the main road. We must have already been above 1,000 meters in elevation, so it looked like it would get bitterly cold at night. W put on his down jacket, and I decided to bundle up as much as possible and wrap myself in my sleeping bag.

Next →

We couldn’t find the gas cartridge we were looking for, so we decided to leave after staying just two nights at the Hotel Africa in Algiers.

We can see the Port of Algiers on our left. We plan to drive south from the international terminal and head out onto National Highway 5 in the suburbs.

The Port of Algiers—which the French writer Camus described as “too beautiful” in his novel *The Stranger*—was filled with numerous ships at anchor. It seems to perfectly symbolize Algeria’s ongoing development.

Our next destination is Constantine, Algeria’s third-largest city and an ancient capital. The journey will likely take about a week.

The climb began again. That day, we’d been climbing steadily for half the day: we’d covered 10 kilometers since morning, gaining 100 meters in elevation, and then covered another 20 kilometers, gaining 350 meters.

At a café in a village along the way, W and I polished off a 1-liter bottle of lemonade (about 135 yen) between the two of us, then set off for the day’s final mountain pass. About 8 kilometers before the pass, we washed our faces in a small stream and took a short break. Then, with less than 1 kilometer to go to the pass,

“Alright, let’s go. Ready?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
“On the count of three… Go!”

Once again, just as usual, our little race between the two of us began. The speedometer read 12 km/h, and the pass came into view. W made his move first.

We were both going full throttle. When we reached the summit, we both practically tumbled off our bikes and collapsed right there, our breathing ragged, gasping for air, and to top it off, coughing uncontrollably. The result is always the same—W is the first to cross the finish line. Even these races between just the two of us served as a nice break from the monotony of the ride.

Perhaps because both we and the locals had some free time, whenever we happened to meet someone by the roadside, one of us would casually strike up a conversation, and we’d shake hands, leading to a brief chat.

The questions they asked us were, “Where are you guys from?” and “So, what nationality are you?”
Our questions were, “How many sheep do you graze?” and “What do you grow in this field?”

The conversations were quite trivial, but we just wanted to connect, even if only a little.

Our campsite that night was at an elevation of 550 meters, about 100 kilometers inland from the Mediterranean. The national highway to Constantine was a series of ups and downs, and another mountain range lay ahead, waiting for us.

In the bars of Algiers, just as in Morocco, I saw local people drinking alongside us foreigners.

I’ve heard that in the early days of Islam, drinking alcohol was permitted to a certain extent. Later, however, according to the teachings of Muhammad—who received divine revelation—drinking came to be regarded as a sin, and this view appears to have persisted to the present day.

Having actually witnessed Muslims drinking in Morocco and Algeria, I was curious and decided to look into it after returning home.

Approximately 25% of adult men in Algeria—that is, one in four—report having had some experience with alcohol since birth. For women, the figure is just over 10%. Looking at the past year specifically, the figures are 13% for men and 5% for women.

Furthermore, when it comes to those who have more frequent opportunities to drink, the percentage is a few percent for men and less than 1% for women. This suggests that, while only a very small number of people do so, there are those who drink habitually. The figures for Morocco are roughly the same.

As for the types of alcohol consumed, beer and wine account for nearly 100% of the total, with beer making up 65% of that.

Attitudes toward drinking—including whether it is punishable by law—vary significantly by country and region across the Islamic world, which spans from Africa to the Middle East, Central Asia, and Southeast Asia. It’s likely that the figures would differ depending on the country.

In recent years, Algeria has been producing beer and wine domestically and exporting them to Europe. Given this, it’s possible that alcohol consumption figures in Algeria may change in the future.

In Algiers, we werre so busy looking for things that we didn’t get around to sightseeing. If we had to name one thing that could be considered sightseeing, it would be visiting the Kasbah, the old city in the northern part of the city (similar to the walled medinas found in other cities; it was designated a World Heritage Site in 1992), while we were out looking for things, and gazing out at the Mediterranean Sea from the top of the hill.

〈Pop Song “The Woman of the Kasbah”〉
Have you heard of the song “The Woman of the Kasbah”? It was a hit released in Japan in 1955 and has since been covered by many singers. The chorus of the first verse goes:

♪♪“………
Here at the edge of the earth, Algeria
I’ll bloom anyway in the Kasbah’s night
………

In contrast to the atmosphere conveyed by these lyrics, I sensed the very natural daily lives of the people in the Casbah. (I heard that during the War of Independence, gunfights with French troops took place in the back alleys of the Casbah, but I couldn’t sense any trace of those days at all.) Apparently, the lyricist of this song had never even visited Algeria. It seems the lyrics were written with the French Foreign Legion in mind.

Next →

A strong headwind had been blowing since the day before, but at least it wasn’t cold, which was a relief. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be climbing, so I really hope the wind dies down. That day, we decided to pitch our tent on the riverbank, just off National Route 4. There’s a village right nearby.

“W, come take a look. The river water is so clear. Should we do some laundry?”
“You’re right. Let’s do it, let’s do it. We’ve got quite a pile of laundry anyway.”

For us, besides relaxing at the hotel, there’s another important task: doing laundry. However, the hotel in Mascara didn’t have a bath, and to make matters worse, the water pressure was so low that doing laundry was out of the question. We had no choice but to wash just our underwear at a hammam (public bath), all the while worrying about what people around us might think.

“H, let’s get the laundry done before sunset.”
“You’re right. The weather looks good for tomorrow, so let’s prepare dinner after we finish the laundry.”

Having a water source nearby is convenient for all sorts of things—not just rinsing rice, but also washing dishes, washing our faces, brushing our teeth, and washing up.

Before going to bed, I lay in my tent thinking, “Since we have a river right in front of us, why don’t I go fishing tomorrow morning while I wait for the laundry to dry? It’s been a while.”

River Water Quality Testing

While I was preparing breakfast, a large group of people suddenly arrived, and the area around our tent instantly became noisy. There were over 20 of them in total; it seemed they were conducting a river water quality test. After collecting several samples in small plastic containers, the entire group left, and silence returned as if nothing had happened. [Could it be that the river is contaminated?]

Back then, Algeria—like Morocco—still lacked a fully developed water and sewage system. This was especially noticeable the further one got from the cities, where domestic wastewater was essentially dumped directly into the rivers. I’d seen scenes where the water in ditches dug alongside the roads had become stagnant, with black oil floating on the surface, turning them into cesspools; sometimes, the wastewater would overflow and block the road.

“Is it okay if I go fishing while my laundry dries?”
“Sure. I’ll just have a smoke and some tea.”

I took out my trusty compact fishing rod and reel. It had been a while since I’d gone fishing—the last time was on the Tagus River in Lisbon. For bait, I used chopped sausage and hobos.

After two hours of fishing, I caught a fish similar to what we call “moroko” in Japan, but it was only about 10 centimeters long. While it might have been suitable for tsukudani, it was simply too small to be worth boiling or grilling.

My laundry had dried, and I didn’t leave until after 11:00 AM; the strong winds from yesterday had died down.

Next → Two Things to Find

As usual, we were being treated to tea at a café.

Even after the two of us drank two glasses of orange juice each—four glasses in total—the owner wouldn’t accept payment, saying, “It’s on the house.” At another café, the owner told us, “The customers who were here a little while ago paid for your drinks, too.” [Wow, that’s so cool.]

As the days went by, we came to realize that in Algeria, it’s standard practice to greet people with a handshake—whether at a café or anywhere else. It seems they shake hands first, regardless of whether they know each other or not.

That day, we were looking for a water source. We decided to ask a man passing by where we could find one. Of course, we didn’t forget to extend our hands for a handshake.

“Bonjour. Saba?”
“Saba.”
“We’re looking for a water source.”
“What? You want water? This way.”

Saying that, he led us to his home. He filled our bottles and plastic jugs to the brim from a simple water supply drawn from his well. After we thanked him, it didn’t end there. He then treated us to coffee and even gave us some houbs to take with us.

Along the highway, people drinking tea and chatting, others leisurely tending to their sheep, and farmers working in the fields—they all seemed very friendly and would call out to us as we rode by.

In those moments, too, a handshake comes first. “Communication begins with a handshake”—that seems to be the Algerian way.

Daily Passport Checks

The more towns we passed through, the more often we naturally encountered police officers, and—perhaps as part of their job—we frequently underwent passport checks. Unlike in Morocco, in addition to our passports, I was asked to show a currency exchange certificate issued by a bank, and W was asked to show his student ID.

That day, while drinking coffee at a café, we were called over by a police officer—our second consecutive day of checks, following the previous day. To top it off, we weren’t just checked on the spot; we were taken all the way to the police station.

That said, the checks are always friendly—as usual, they start with a handshake. I answer their incomprehensible French questions in English, saying, “We’re not suspicious. We’re just Japanese travelers,” and that’s the end of it, but honestly, having this happen two days in a row is getting a bit tiresome.

On another occasion, while riding along a highway, we ran into a pair of police officers on patrol on motorcycles. They asked us all sorts of questions for about 30 minutes—though the conversation was far from a “police interrogation”; it was really just about our travels.

Next → Fishing for the First Time in a While

Although the cost of living is higher than in Morocco, the money we exchanged seems to be enough to get us through a month. After all, it’s Algerian currency that we won’t be able to exchange back anyway. “Let’s take it easy on the road, and use whatever money we have left to splurge (?) at a luxury hotel at the end.” That became our agreement.

It looks like it will take about five days to reach the capital, Algiers, from here. National Route 4 continues as a flat road with a general downward slope. The surrounding countryside began to open up, and colorful wildflowers blooming along the roadside seemed to signal that spring was near.

The number of cars on the highway has also increased considerably. Rather than European cars like Renaults and Fiats, large Hino trucks and medium-to-small Toyota and Mazda trucks stand out. Among the tractors and combine harvesters working in the fields, Japanese-made models from Hitachi and Sakai are particularly noticeable.

Islamic Prayer Time

As we were driving, a small truck passed us and then stopped; the driver got out. He spread the straw mat he was holding on the side of the road, slowly knelt down, raised both hands, and began the familiar Islamic prayer. It seemed that the driver’s prayer time had arrived.

For devout Muslims, in addition to the communal prayers held at mosques on Fridays (in villages and towns, music and announcements are broadcast over loudspeakers to signal the gathering), there are five daily prayer times on weekdays. These include upon waking and before bed, as well as three times in the afternoon—just past 1:00 PM, just past 5:00 PM, and just past 7:00 PM—for a total of five prayers, each with its own name.

The three prayers from afternoon through evening seem to vary slightly by country. Whether it’s a quick prayer during a work break or a prayer taken after a proper rest, people seem to decide to some extent freely, depending on their individual circumstances.

Not all of them, but many cafes in Algeria have a separate room about the size of two or three tatami mats, which serves as a sacred place—a mosque—for offering prayers. I asked the café owner if I could take a look inside, and I saw that customers were praying at their own pace—either before or after drinking tea.

Unlike in Christian places of worship, this separate room—the mosque—contains no symbols such as crosses, statues of Jesus, or statues of the Virgin Mary. However, a section of the wall is recessed and marked with tiles of a different color, making it immediately recognizable.

This recess in the wall, called a “mihrab,” points toward Mecca in Saudi Arabia—the birthplace of Muhammad—and everyone prays facing this mihrab.

I learned after returning home that there is a special compass for determining the direction of Mecca, and apparently, even when traveling, the direction for prayer remains accurate. The driver who stopped the car to pray at that time surely knew the direction of Mecca as well.

Next → Start with a handshake

Traveling about 350 kilometers north on National Highway 6 from the town of Ain Sefra—the gateway to the desert—we arrived in Mascara, a medium-sized city in northwestern Algeria. From here, we’ll head east on National Highway 4, which runs north of the city, toward Alger, the capital of Algeria, which faces the Mediterranean Sea.

That day, we decided to stay at a hotel for the first time in Algeria. One night for two people in one room cost 50 Dr—about 2,700 yen. The water in the room’s toilet trickled out slowly.

We had dinner at the restaurant downstairs. Spaghetti with a little meat and tomato ketchup, harira, khobz, and two oranges for dessert came to 18 Dr—about 970 yen.

Prices in Algeria and Morocco

After staying in Algeria for about a week, I’ve gotten a general sense of the cost of living. Everyday items like khobz, rice, and coffee are inexpensive, just like in Morocco. The Algerian cigarettes I was smoking, “Foggar,” cost 120 yen per pack—about 30 yen cheaper than in Morocco. However, other items seem generally more expensive. For example,

Morocco | Algeria
・Oranges (1 kg)　　　                 70 yen　   300 yen
・Beef (1 kg)　　　                    1,100 yen   3,000 yen
・Canned sardines (1 can)　  　 75 yen　  300 yen
・Budget lodging (per room) 1,000 yen  2,500 yen

However, wages seem to be higher in Algeria; for example, the truck driver who gave me a ride on my first day earns a monthly salary of 85,000 yen.

The hotel where we stayed that night had neither a bath nor a shower. So, after dinner, W and I decided to take a bath at a hammam (public bathhouse) near the hotel. Afterward, the two of us—who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in about a week—wandered around town looking for a bar. Unfortunately, by the time we finally found one, it was already closed.

Back at the hotel, I had something to do: write a letter to Japan asking them to send me a replacement for my broken camera. Since I didn’t want to burden my mother too much, I decided to address the request to my older sister instead.

While I was at it, I also asked her to send me a hand towel and the ear pick I’d lost. Although bath towels and face towels are available overseas, there aren’t any hand towels—the perfect size for washing my back.

It seems cotton swabs are the norm for ear cleaning here, so I couldn’t find an ear pick either. I also asked her to send me a guidebook for Eastern Europe—which I’d need if I were to travel there again—as well as the Japanese cold medicine I’m used to (which I’d used once in Spain and also lost) and some antiseptic.

Considering the time it would take for the package to reach Japan, I decided to have it sent to the Japanese Embassy in Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, where we were expected to arrive in a month.

Actually, Mr. Y from the Japan Overseas Cooperation Volunteers, who had helped me out in Oujda, Morocco, had given me the addresses of the Japanese embassies in Algeria and Tunisia as emergency contact information.

I never imagined I’d end up using them this way. Of course, I also sent a letter to the Japanese Embassy in Tunisia, along with a copy of my passport, explaining the situation and asking them to hold the package sent from Japan for me.

Next → Heading for the Capital, Algiers

There aren’t any houses along the national highway, just a monotonous series of ups and downs. At times like this, in search of some excitement (?), a race between just the two of us begins.

“H, how about we have lunch once we climb that pass over there?”
“Lunch, huh? Sure. Alright, let’s race to the top!”
“Sounds good. Let’s do it!”
“Ready? On the count of three… Go!”

Although I reached the pass after W, I was gasping for breath—I guess I’d gotten a little too carried away—and for a while, lunch was the last thing on my mind.

From the pass, we could see a long, nearly straight descent stretching out before us. After finishing lunch, we were both in the mood again,

“You don’t come across a descent this long very often. And it’s straight, too.”
“There aren’t any cars coming, so let’s go for it.”
“Okay, let’s go then.”
“Go!”

The descent was, so to speak, a no-brakes chicken race. Whoever hit the brakes would lose. Our speed kept increasing, the bikes vibrated slightly, and the speedometer was showing over 60 kilometers per hour. We continued this pointless battle of pride against each other.

“Waaah!”
“Wooooo!!”

Perhaps to drown out our fear, we found ourselves shouting at the top of our lungs. The result of this ridiculous race was practically a tie.

My Flashlight Got Stolen Again

We ended the day by riding up a seemingly endless, meandering uphill stretch to Saida, a town at the foot of the Tell Atlas Mountains. It was already 5:30 P.M., so we hurried to do some shopping. And would you believe it—while we were inside the store (both of us had gone in and taken our eyes off the bikes), our bike flashlights were stolen again, just like in Spain.

I suppose they must think it’s our own fault for getting them stolen—it was probably the work of some mischievous kids. It was all the more shocking because the people of Algeria had been so kind to us.

I didn’t feel like going through the trouble of finding a flashlight that would fit the bike’s mounting strap, so we decided to spend the night using W’s light and candlelight for a while.

Next → Ordering by Mail to Japan

It’s my fourth day in Algeria, and it’s March (1983).

I want to shout, “It’s spring!” but in reality, it doesn’t quite feel like it yet. Still, once the sun rises and it passes 8:00 A.M., it feels warm, and for the past two or three days, I’ve been able to step out of my tent and eat breakfast on a spread-out groundsheet.

During the day, I can ride without a windbreaker, but the temperature swings here are extreme, and the nights get bitterly cold, so I’m still bundling up tightly and wrapping myself in my sleeping bag at bedtime.

As I continue heading north, one thing that’s clearly noticeable is how the ground where I pitch my tent changes day by day. On the first day of my ride, it was sandy; on the second day, it was hard, grayish, and gritty soil; and on the third day, it had turned into hard, brownish soil. And along the national highway I rode today, I finally started to see green plants and trees.

My Camera Broke

The day before, for some unknown reason, my camera broke. I had originally set out with two cameras, but since they were such a burden, I’d sent one back from the U.S. Photos are essential as souvenirs of this trip, so I plan to write a letter asking for a camera to be sent from Japan. (Until I receive the camera sent from Japan in Tunis, the photos taken in Algeria and Tunisia from here on out were taken with W’s camera.)

Instead of taking photos, I decided to find time to sketch the surrounding townscapes, buildings, and other scenery.

Generous Algerians

That day, we had planned to ask for a piece of khobz for lunch at a café, but some truck drivers who happened to be there struck up a conversation with us and treated us to a full lunch: a lamb dish, a soup called harira, khobz, and a soda after the meal. On top of that, the café owner gave us not only coffee but also some khobz and olives as a souvenir.

“Still, those guys sure do give out food and treat us to tea a lot, don’t they?”
“Yeah. It was like that yesterday, and it’s the same today, isn’t it?”

The day before, I’d received eggs and hobz at the market, and at the café, the owner had treated me to coffee (1 Dr) and orange juice (1.5 Dr).

“H, remember how the Arab people in North America said, ‘Since they’re originally nomads, they’re kind and generous to travelers’?”
“Yeah. But it’s not just that—don’t you feel like Algerians are laid-back, or that they have a certain sense of ease about them?”

“Is that it? Maybe because it’s a socialist country, and everyone’s basically a civil servant?”
“True. Salaries—or whatever you call them—their income is probably stable. Unlike Morocco, Algeria has natural gas and oil reserves, so it’s a fact that they have a solid economic foundation.”
“Exactly. That’s why everyone seems so relaxed.”
“Also, since Japanese companies started expanding there soon after independence, I think there are quite a few people who are pro-Japan.”

Next → A Race Just for the Two of Us

According to my English teacher, Aïn Sefra is a town built by the French army in the late 19th century and is known as the gateway to the Sahara Desert.

The town seems to be changing in recent years; large, brand-new gas stations have sprung up along the highway, and other new buildings are under construction.

From here, we’ll head north on National Route 6 toward the Mediterranean coast. Once we left the town, the reddish-brown landscape stretched out before us again, and 2,000-meter-high mountains began to appear on both sides.

No live chickens allowed

While we were having lunch along the highway, a boy on horseback approached us. He was pointing at some oranges placed beside him and saying something from atop his horse.

“……??……”
“This? This orange?”
“……??……”

The boy was speaking Arabic—I couldn’t understand a word. W was communicating with him in Japanese. Apparently, the boy wanted the orange we’d received at the market that morning.

“What should we do? Should we give it to him?”
“Since it was a gift, let’s give him half.”

When W handed over the orange, the boy said something again.

“……Dick? Dick!”
“What’s a ‘Dick’? Huh? I mean, what’s a ‘Dick’?”

It wasn’t until a little while later, through gestures and imitating the sound, that we figured out the Arabic word “Dick” meant “chicken.” Apparently, he was asking, “Do you want a chicken?”

Maybe he was hungry—as soon as W replied, “Yeah,” the boy immediately rode off on his horse.

“H, do you think he’s going to bring us some chicken?”
“I don’t know. You probably shouldn’t get your hopes up. We’ll be lucky if he brings one.”

Just as we finished lunch and were about to set off, we heard the sound of hooves. The boy had returned. To our surprise, a chicken—tied with a string to the horse’s saddle—was thrashing about.

“Hey, it’s a live chicken. This is a problem.”
“No, no. We can’t have it alive.”
“……Dick, no?”
“Sorry, sorry. We can’t take a live chicken.”

Obviously, we can’t carry a live chicken around, and we certainly can’t butcher it either. It was a shame, but we had the boy take the chicken back with him. Unfortunately, the orange we’d been given didn’t quite turn into a live chicken. Still, I feel like I’m starting to like Algeria.

Next → Memories of Chickens and Goats

Right away, W and I decided to walk through the town of Aïn Sefra while picking up a few things. At the entrance to the market, they were just unloading a truckload of oranges from the back. I asked the older man standing below, who was receiving the oranges,

“I’d like one kilo of oranges, please.”
“……??……”

It seemed he was telling me to “buy them inside the market.” Just as I gave up and started walking away, the man stopped me and had a young man on the truck bed bring me six or seven oranges.
When I asked, “How much?” he replied with a gesture, “No money needed—they’re free.” W and I both said, “Shukran, Monsieur.”

“What are you looking for?”

Suddenly, a young man who looked to be in his late 20s spoke to us in English.

“Bread and sugar, right?”
“Okay. Let me show you to a store.”
“Your English is good. How come?”
“I teach English.”
“Huh, you’re an English teacher? No wonder you’re better than me.”

At the bakery, we bought one hobs for 1.1 Dr (about 60 yen).
Next, at a grocery store, we bought 500 grams of sugar for 1 Dr (about 54 yen).

He seemed to have some time to spare, so he invited us to a café and treated us to coffee. For us, it was a great chance to ask the English teacher all sorts of questions.

“We’re heading north from here—are there any towns or villages further along the way?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t ride for a whole day without coming across anything.”
“Oh, good. Food and water are our biggest concerns on a bike trip.”
“That’s true. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

W’s question reminded me of something. When I want water, I often have trouble getting my point across.

“Oh, that’s right. How do you say ‘Please give me water’ in Arabic?”
“You mean ‘Please give me water’? In Arabic, it’s ‘Milfodrik Atini Ma’.”
“Water is ‘ma’?”
“Hmm, that’s a little off. To be precise, it’s ‘ima.’ But I think ‘ma’ will get the point across.”
“And for ‘Please give me some bread,’ is ‘atini hobbs’ okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”

It seems like I’ll be able to apply this in various situations.

While drinking tea with him, I was able to ask him all sorts of other things. I think it was a lucky encounter.

Next → Heading north toward the Mediterranean coast

All I could hear was the sound of the truck cutting through the wind and the tires rolling. Bathed in the light of the setting sun, the sand dunes glowed brightly.

As I watched the dunes gradually recede, I found myself thinking, “I’m driving right along the edge of the desert right now.” [Even though it’s a truck doing the driving!?]

After driving for two and a half hours straight—with only a five-minute rest stop along the way—the truck arrived in the town of Ain Sefra. Covering 150 kilometers in two and a half hours means we were traveling at 60 kilometers per hour. As expected, there were no real towns along the way—just a single small settlement along the national highway.

When I asked the driver where the bank was, he pulled the truck up in front of Banque d’Algérie so I could exchange money, but it was exactly 5:00 P.M.—unfortunately, it had just closed. Since it was set to open at 9:00 A.M. the next morning, I decided to come back the following day.

“Shukran, Monsieur.”
“Bon voyage.”

Though we exchanged only a word or two, I shook hands with the two kind truck drivers to thank them, and then decided to pitch my tent on the sandy ground on the outskirts of town that night.

“Watch out for scorpions.”
“Oh, scorpions. I’d completely forgotten about them. Are there any around here?”
“I think you’ll be fine, but seriously, let’s be careful going in and out of the tent.”
“Yes. You’re right.”

I hadn’t noticed it during dinner, but once I blew out the candle and it got dark, I could faintly see the lights of the town in the distance. Looking up from inside the tent, the night sky was absolutely brimming with stars. [There are this many stars? It’s true what they say—the sky is a hole where rain falls.]

Finally Finished the Mandatory Currency Exchange

It seems the rules have changed slightly depending on the country recently, but since Friday is the Islamic holiday—and today is Sunday—banks are open in Algeria. I went to the bank first thing in the morning and deposited the mandatory currency exchange: 1,000 dinars’ worth of U.S. dollars.

$230 = 1,039.6 Dr (1 dinar = approximately 54 yen. Since the black-market rate at which W exchanged his money was $100 = 1,200 Dr, there’s a difference of more than double.)

I was forced to exchange about 55,600 yen on a one-month tourist visa, which was quite a blow for a budget traveler like me.

After gaining independence, Algeria was a socialist state, and in communist bloc countries, it was common practice to force foreign travelers to exchange currency in order to acquire even a small amount of foreign exchange. (Later, when I traveled from North Africa back to Europe, I would face forced currency exchange again in Eastern Europe.)

Next → How do you say “Please give me some water”?

The two drivers had finished unloading their cargo and, after taking a break at a café, were apparently on their way back to Oran. We hopped into the back of the truck along with our bicycles and hitched a ride.

Camel Pasture

Thanks to the friendly drivers, we traveled 150 kilometers by truck. Right after leaving town, along the national highway, something caught our eye:

“Whoa, look—there are camels!”
“Oh, you’re right, they’re camels. There must be 20 to 30 of them.”
“W, those camels might actually be grazing for food.”
“Oh, come to think of it, someone we had lunch with in Morocco mentioned that—that camels are eaten.”
“They said camel meat is delicious.”
“H, why don’t you try it next time you get the chance?”
“Huh, camel meat? I’ll pass on that. W, you should give it a try.”
“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot sometime.”

When I had a meal with some Moroccans in Oujda, I heard that while Muslims don’t eat pork—which is considered unclean according to the teachings of the Quran—they do often eat camel meat. According to them, camel meat is cheaper than beef and actually tastes pretty good, and cheese made from camel milk is considered a delicacy.

Overlapping Scenes of Wyoming

As the sandy terrain stretched on, the truck sped along the highway at a good pace. Even though the weather was nice, it was still late February and the wind was cold, so we wrapped ourselves in the sleeping bags we’d pulled out and sat with the driver’s seat shielding us from the wind. Before long, sand dunes began to spread out on our right.

I found myself superimposing the passing scenery on the landscapes of Wyoming in the U.S., reminiscing about those days and telling W about them.

“This happened in Wyoming. It was 60 miles from the café where I had lunch to the next town. But just like this, there was absolutely nothing around me. In the end, we didn’t make it to town by nightfall, so I ended up sleeping under the freeway.”
“How far was it from there to the town?”
“About 20 miles, I think. I’d brought more than two liters of water, but with temperatures over 30 degrees, it was just so hot—I’d run a bit, drink, run a bit, drink.”

“Was that enough?”
“I gave up with just one bottle left—even though I’d been riding until 9 P.M. I was at my limit.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to ride at night? Cars are going fast on the freeway.”
“Yeah. Plus, there’s only one road. I set off at dawn, and as soon as I got to town, I dashed into McDonald’s. I used the restroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and I might have even shaved. Then it was time for breakfast. The hamburger and orange juice were so good. Oh, and scrambled eggs, too.”

“So McDonald’s was practically an oasis, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. By the way, I’ve been driving for a while now, but there’s still absolutely nothing along this highway. You know, hitchhiking might have been the right choice after all.”

Next → The Night Sky Over the Striking Sand Dunes

Another problem arose here. I tried to exchange money as the border official had instructed, but in Douanne, they don’t accept anything other than cash, so I couldn’t exchange my traveler’s checks.

“There’s a town called Ain Sefra up ahead, so please exchange your money at Banque d’Algérie there.”
“Huh? Isn’t there a bank in this town?”
“It’s a small town, so there’s no bank or currency exchange office.”

Fortunately, as far as money was concerned, W had 1,200 dinars ($100) that he’d exchanged on the black market in Morocco, so we didn’t need to worry for the time being.

As for the information we had on Algeria, all we had was a single map we’d obtained from the Algerian representative office in the city of Oujda. Of course, neither of us intended to go into the desert, but we had to gather information in the town of Beni Ounif, including details on the route ahead.

At that time, there were two main highways running through the Sahara Desert in Algeria. One was National Highway 1, running from the capital, Algiers, to the Republic of Niger. The other was National Highway 6, running from Oran—Algeria’s second-largest city on the Mediterranean coast—through the town of Mascara to the Republic of Mali. National Highway 6 runs right through the town of Beni Unif.

The town of Ain Sefra, as mentioned by the official, is located about 150 kilometers northeast along the highway. However, there are no towns marked on the map along that route.

Gathering Information from Truck Drivers

It was 2:00 p.m. If I set out at this hour, I might end up having to spend two nights on the road, depending on the circumstances. Considering the need to replenish water supplies, the best option was to depart the next morning and ensure I would only have to spend one night along the way.

Going straight down the road leading from the customs office, we soon came upon the national highway cutting right through the town center. A medium-sized truck was parked at a café along the highway. In my experience, truck drivers always provide the most accurate information.

“W, there’s a trucker right there. Let’s ask him.”
“You’re right. I’m curious about what lies ahead.”

“Pardon, monsieur. Ain Sefra…”

I tried addressing the pair of drivers, who appeared to be in their 40s, but they didn’t continue speaking. I unfolded my map and asked in English, using hand gestures to help me explain. One of the drivers nodded. It seemed he understood that I wanted to know the route to Aïn Sefra.

“……??…… Come, come!”
“Aren’t they telling us to hop on the truck?”
“Yeah. I think so too.”

They’re speaking Arabic, but I can sort of figure out what they’re trying to say from their gestures.

“Are they giving us a ride?”
“……??……Okay, okay!”
“What should we do? Should we hop on?”
“Yeah. It might be nice to ride in a car for a change.”

Next → Unexpectedly, we ended up hitchhiking