They said that we weren't allowed to take public transportation in Algiers because "The taxi drivers might rip us off." It is nice of them to be so concerned with our financial well-being. However considering that we weren't allowed to leave the Hilton:
Cafe au lait and croissant at Hilton: $10
Cafe au lait and croissant at airport: 75 cents
Dinner at Hilton: $35
Dinner at the kebab place down the street: $7
Mint tea at Algiers Hilton: $5
Mint tea at the kebab place down the street: 25 cents
Monday, February 27, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Covert Operations
We snuck out.
---
The first night, it was to a traditional Algerian restaurant. We made reservations and arrived in the rain in our taxi, er, contract vehicle, and the windows were barred and the thick wooden door had a worn knob in the middle. It opened and the old man stood there looking at us, expressionless. "We have a reservation..." His expression didn't change. "We have a reservation for 8 o'clock for four people..." He stepped aside, but not enough to signify a welcome. "Our reservation is under the name..." He stepped aside a little more and we barged in as politely as we could manage--it was cold and drizzly outside. When he saw that we definitely had made up our minds and were not going to leave him alone, he closed the door behind us and went into the kitchen to find the owner. She came out and was all French convivilatiy as she sat us in the dining room--a room of whitewashed woodwork in intricate detail, curlicues and Arabic script around the moldings, red cushions, blue tile floors, candles that burned to the last of the wick. The owner was delighted to bring us whatever we wanted, and what we wanted was "brick," lamb and kefta appetizers, couscous, lamb, chicken, Algerian red wine, and a little Turkish coffee to finish it off.
Poulet avec citron confit-I chose it because I have the recipe in my fantastic Claudia Roden cookbook (which you should go out and buy *right now* if you are at all interested in making Middle Eastern food) and I keep turning to it, eyeing it, wondering about it, and never trying it, usually for lack of citron confit. But here! In its native land, I had to try it. It is exactly how you expect it to taste, all buttery chicken and bitter green olives and tangy lemon sauce.
---
Two nights in a row, we have used our, ahem, "contract vehicles," to visit the Slaughterhouse. There are three restaurants, simply named "Rotisserie," if that even counts as a name, flashing neon and christmas lights in the dark alley. The roads on the way there cross many dark alleys--some have signs, some do not. The signs are Parisian--green with blue rim, "Rue des Martyrs," "Place de la Concorde," "Rue des Anges" with the Arabic equivalent snaking beneath. The glass showcases in front of the Slaughterhouse restaurants are filled with skewered raw meat, les brochettes, and some, sometimes, have mechouie, spits of lamb rotating over a fire, sizzling and spurting. The first night, they were out of le mechouie, to our great disappointment, but the brochettes were delicious, and the mergez sausages. The local soda, Hamoud, and the fluffy bread, the bitter green pepper spread (for which I don't particularly care, but it's good with a dash of harissa) the sugary tea to wash it all down. The second time they had le mechouie--heaps of lamb with french fries soaking in the juice, enough to keep us busy for an hour while Samia told her story of witnessing an honest-to-goodness brawl on her Air Algerie flight from Frankfurt to Algiers.
---
We had an organized tour (i.e., legit) of the Monument des Martyrs, a national museum of Algerian history. The museum - the "National Museum of the Army" - is dedicated most particularly the war for independence, which comprises one-third of the museum's shelf space, although they do give a nod to other eras. Not much more than a nod, though. As far as national museums go, this one is blatantly political, shocking in the graphic descriptions and pictures of Algerian martyrs from the war against France. Our guide was clever and fluent in English, and amiable until he discussed the injustices of the war.
As we left the museum to wander up to the monument itself, the rain started coming down harder--many of us decided that a vew from afar was sufficient, and we explored the little shops under the canopy while waiting for the bus. I bought the last roll of 200 speed film, although the man seemed disgruntled that I didn't want 100 speed, for he had many rolls of 100. Why did I need the last of the 200? I shrugged and gave him my money.
---
Algiers has much potential--two or three languages are mixed together in a charming dialect, the food is superb, the old city is beautiful and Mediterranean, wrought iron gates, white buildings, gardens, promenades. The people are friendly, the history is rich and interesting. It's but 2 hours from Paris. But it's decidedly, deliberately inaccessible to tourists, and the general feeling of disrepair is depressing. If you came here for a vacation-which, given my experience with the embassy, might be impossible-I'm not sure what you would do with yourself. Besides eat lamb and couscous, I mean.
And if you ever do find yourself in Algiers, do not stay in the Hilton.
---
The first night, it was to a traditional Algerian restaurant. We made reservations and arrived in the rain in our taxi, er, contract vehicle, and the windows were barred and the thick wooden door had a worn knob in the middle. It opened and the old man stood there looking at us, expressionless. "We have a reservation..." His expression didn't change. "We have a reservation for 8 o'clock for four people..." He stepped aside, but not enough to signify a welcome. "Our reservation is under the name..." He stepped aside a little more and we barged in as politely as we could manage--it was cold and drizzly outside. When he saw that we definitely had made up our minds and were not going to leave him alone, he closed the door behind us and went into the kitchen to find the owner. She came out and was all French convivilatiy as she sat us in the dining room--a room of whitewashed woodwork in intricate detail, curlicues and Arabic script around the moldings, red cushions, blue tile floors, candles that burned to the last of the wick. The owner was delighted to bring us whatever we wanted, and what we wanted was "brick," lamb and kefta appetizers, couscous, lamb, chicken, Algerian red wine, and a little Turkish coffee to finish it off.
Poulet avec citron confit-I chose it because I have the recipe in my fantastic Claudia Roden cookbook (which you should go out and buy *right now* if you are at all interested in making Middle Eastern food) and I keep turning to it, eyeing it, wondering about it, and never trying it, usually for lack of citron confit. But here! In its native land, I had to try it. It is exactly how you expect it to taste, all buttery chicken and bitter green olives and tangy lemon sauce.
---
Two nights in a row, we have used our, ahem, "contract vehicles," to visit the Slaughterhouse. There are three restaurants, simply named "Rotisserie," if that even counts as a name, flashing neon and christmas lights in the dark alley. The roads on the way there cross many dark alleys--some have signs, some do not. The signs are Parisian--green with blue rim, "Rue des Martyrs," "Place de la Concorde," "Rue des Anges" with the Arabic equivalent snaking beneath. The glass showcases in front of the Slaughterhouse restaurants are filled with skewered raw meat, les brochettes, and some, sometimes, have mechouie, spits of lamb rotating over a fire, sizzling and spurting. The first night, they were out of le mechouie, to our great disappointment, but the brochettes were delicious, and the mergez sausages. The local soda, Hamoud, and the fluffy bread, the bitter green pepper spread (for which I don't particularly care, but it's good with a dash of harissa) the sugary tea to wash it all down. The second time they had le mechouie--heaps of lamb with french fries soaking in the juice, enough to keep us busy for an hour while Samia told her story of witnessing an honest-to-goodness brawl on her Air Algerie flight from Frankfurt to Algiers.
---
We had an organized tour (i.e., legit) of the Monument des Martyrs, a national museum of Algerian history. The museum - the "National Museum of the Army" - is dedicated most particularly the war for independence, which comprises one-third of the museum's shelf space, although they do give a nod to other eras. Not much more than a nod, though. As far as national museums go, this one is blatantly political, shocking in the graphic descriptions and pictures of Algerian martyrs from the war against France. Our guide was clever and fluent in English, and amiable until he discussed the injustices of the war.
As we left the museum to wander up to the monument itself, the rain started coming down harder--many of us decided that a vew from afar was sufficient, and we explored the little shops under the canopy while waiting for the bus. I bought the last roll of 200 speed film, although the man seemed disgruntled that I didn't want 100 speed, for he had many rolls of 100. Why did I need the last of the 200? I shrugged and gave him my money.
---
Algiers has much potential--two or three languages are mixed together in a charming dialect, the food is superb, the old city is beautiful and Mediterranean, wrought iron gates, white buildings, gardens, promenades. The people are friendly, the history is rich and interesting. It's but 2 hours from Paris. But it's decidedly, deliberately inaccessible to tourists, and the general feeling of disrepair is depressing. If you came here for a vacation-which, given my experience with the embassy, might be impossible-I'm not sure what you would do with yourself. Besides eat lamb and couscous, I mean.
And if you ever do find yourself in Algiers, do not stay in the Hilton.
In response to the comments...
No--no postcards even of the Hilton. There's no gift shop in this Hilton. No toiletries for sale, no books about Algeria, no maps, no film. And thusly, I am stuck in the Hilton with little to occupy my time exept my Naguib Mahfouz book and all the delicious cafes au lait, and my blog...I am surprised, in fact, that I have not blogged more, with all this free time. But I read a lot, and I talk to the waiters and staff and practice my French and my Algerian Arabic, which I don't even understand.
I like the haiku idea.
I like the haiku idea.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Il n'y a pas de...
cartes postales. There are no postcards in Algeria--so if I promised you one, which I probably did, I can offer a rain check and send one from...somewhere else.
Maybe I can do some sleuthing later. Contraband postcards?
Maybe I can do some sleuthing later. Contraband postcards?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Hotel.
It's raining on the Barbary Coast. I'm on the first floor of the Hilton Alger. The view from our operations center is the blue gray sea and the textured gray cloud cover, looking out over the clay tennis courts and the kidney-shaped swimming pool. Between the courts and the sea is a line of lush but stubby foliage. Flocks of birds swoop in long ribbons over the horizon, over the huge ships that lurk in the fog in the Bay of Algiers.
---
One of our coleagues here, we love him, and he is a wonderful man, and he speaks clearly and strongly, and repeats everything at least twice in different words so as to provide you with the most flawless information; that is, he will say everything again in case you did not quite understand the first time. If you need him to repeat, he will gladly do so, because one should never be without instruction; all employees should, in fact, have instructions for every part of their day, so do not hesitate to ask him, as he will gladly fill your ears with every possible combination of words in answer to your request. He will reword his instructions in order to convey the most sound interpretation of his words. He rose today and addressed the group.
"What I understand, and correct me if I am mistaken, is that we are not allowed to use any form of transportation besides a government of Algeria vehicle, a US Government vehicle, or a Hilton bus, and that all other forms of transportation are prohibited?"
Yes sir, that's right.
"So personal taxis, public busses, local taxis, they are not to be used."
Yes, sir, that's right.
"If you want to leave the area, you must use a government vehicle or a US embassy vehicle; otherwise you may not leave."
...yes, sir. That's right.
At our general, if subdued, outrage that we were not allowed outside the hotel grounds unless in a government vehicle or Hilton bus, a fearless woman asked, "So what you're saying, effectively, is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week?"
"Well, no, you may use Algerian government or US embassy vehicles."
"We don't have access to any of those vehicles. So what you're saying is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week."
As this realization sank in, the group shifted uneasily. Six straight days in this hotel? He noted the unease.
"I will consult with the US government and the Algerian government to see if there are any solutions that will both keep us securely according to US regulations and allow us to leave the hotel to see some of Algiers. I will arrange this to prevent cabin fever from setting in, because as the transportation situation is now, we will all grow very weary of each other very soon."
We nodded as a group with a general sense of incredulity. 6 days in this hotel, this hotel which doesn't even have a gift shop; from which we can see, but not get to, the beach; this hotel which offers the most expensive buffets of any Hilton, anywhere; which substitutes Fanta for Orangina and thinks you will not notice. 6 days!
---
We might sneak out.
---
One of our coleagues here, we love him, and he is a wonderful man, and he speaks clearly and strongly, and repeats everything at least twice in different words so as to provide you with the most flawless information; that is, he will say everything again in case you did not quite understand the first time. If you need him to repeat, he will gladly do so, because one should never be without instruction; all employees should, in fact, have instructions for every part of their day, so do not hesitate to ask him, as he will gladly fill your ears with every possible combination of words in answer to your request. He will reword his instructions in order to convey the most sound interpretation of his words. He rose today and addressed the group.
"What I understand, and correct me if I am mistaken, is that we are not allowed to use any form of transportation besides a government of Algeria vehicle, a US Government vehicle, or a Hilton bus, and that all other forms of transportation are prohibited?"
Yes sir, that's right.
"So personal taxis, public busses, local taxis, they are not to be used."
Yes, sir, that's right.
"If you want to leave the area, you must use a government vehicle or a US embassy vehicle; otherwise you may not leave."
...yes, sir. That's right.
At our general, if subdued, outrage that we were not allowed outside the hotel grounds unless in a government vehicle or Hilton bus, a fearless woman asked, "So what you're saying, effectively, is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week?"
"Well, no, you may use Algerian government or US embassy vehicles."
"We don't have access to any of those vehicles. So what you're saying is that we aren't going to leave the hotel for a week."
As this realization sank in, the group shifted uneasily. Six straight days in this hotel? He noted the unease.
"I will consult with the US government and the Algerian government to see if there are any solutions that will both keep us securely according to US regulations and allow us to leave the hotel to see some of Algiers. I will arrange this to prevent cabin fever from setting in, because as the transportation situation is now, we will all grow very weary of each other very soon."
We nodded as a group with a general sense of incredulity. 6 days in this hotel, this hotel which doesn't even have a gift shop; from which we can see, but not get to, the beach; this hotel which offers the most expensive buffets of any Hilton, anywhere; which substitutes Fanta for Orangina and thinks you will not notice. 6 days!
---
We might sneak out.
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