Jenga

Having spent seven out of the last eight days in hospital, it's a pleasure to be back under my own roof.

There's some doubt now as to whether I actually had a DVT, and the consensus seems to be in favour of a pulled muscle, but my blood is replete with thinners now so either way, both angles are covered.

The two clinics were very different. Tripoli was on a building site (Beirut of blogs passim):

and Benghazi was directly opposite my flat:

The care here has been excellent - frequent scans, blood tests, consultations. The same can't be said for the food, but it has been regular, if not entirely to my taste. The Libyan diet is heavily dosed with sugar, and as an inactive bed-bound idler, I didn't need the energy bursts. I think I've probably put on a stone over the past week.

Thank you to all who've sent messages of support and advice - very much appreciated. It can be very isolating being in hospital in a foreign country, so contact with home has been really welcome. Not that I've been short of visitors - my students have been very attentive, even to the point of bringing me beer! Non-alcoholic, of course, but a lovely thought.

Here in Benghazi the nurses are very cheeky - one blew me a kiss yesterday, and another smiled tauntingly as she wiped the scanner lubricant from my groin. What teases.

Ah well, back to work on Sunday. I shall be glad to get stuck back in, and it's going to be a heavy term - being lenient with the marking last term means that some of the students have some serious consolidation to achieve. Each time they've been in to visit, I've emphasised the need to speak English at every opportunity, at work as well as play, so we'll see if they follow my advice.

Having flown back from Tripoli as suggested by the Tripoli doctors, rather than driven, I nipped in to a local clinic here in Benghazi to make arrangements for ongoing out-patient treatment. Ten minutes later, I had been booked in as an in-patient.

It would seem that I had been released from hospital in Tripoli because I had indicated that I wanted to get back to Benghazi whereas I should really have stayed a few more days. Leaving when I did meant that my leg swelled up again on the journey home. No harm done though. Happily, having had another scan, the clot has dispersed, and the muscle is calming down.

The staff here in Benghazi is almost exclusively local, and predominantly mono-lingual in Arabic, although the doctors all speak English; Tripoli was staffed by locals, Indians, Filipinas, and Europeans, and nearly everyone spoke English.

I am certainly not suffering from a shortage of visitors. In Tripoli, Khalid, Mustafa, and Salem came to see me, and I met up with ex-colleagues whilst there. In Benghazi, within minutes of being admitted, two current students, one future student, and the wife of a current student had been in. I am exceptionally privileged to have been visited by Tawfik's wife, especially in conservative Benghazi. Mohamed was less than effusive with his sympathy: "We told you not to do all that driving."

Whilst being taken to be scanned, the nurse referred to me as Haj. This is a term normally reserved for those men who have been to Mecca, are advanced in years, or are figures of authority. I hope she didn't think I was knocking on a bit.

I'll be in for about three days so the effects of the drugs can be monitored, but everything is under control, and there shouldn't be any long-term repercussions, although I might have to take blood thinners for a few months to be on the safe side.

As planned, I left Tunis after the allotted time, not really sorry to be leaving because my dodgy leg had rather limited my activity, and one town is pretty much like another from a pavement cafe, although it was good to spend time people-watching different people from those I could watch in Benghazi.

On the way to the border, I thought I had run a police checkpoint, so stopped and reversed to take my punishment. Actually, it was just a policeman asking for a lift - 150 kms. Too late to refuse his request, he climbed aboard and I modified my driving behaviour in deference to his no doubt finely-tuned observation skills. Gradually, my speed picked up, and my overtaking became more Libyan - I knew when I was pushing the envelope when I heard sharp intakes of breath from my right. I'd remodify my driving, and it would decline again, ad infinitum till we got to Ben Guerdane.

We did have the opportunity for rather staccato discussions, and I asked about the big bottles of liquid for sale along the roads in Tunisia. It is indeed petrol, for sale at a discounted rate, 'smuggled' in from Libya. More of this in a moment.

Getting to the border was OK. Getting through it took 3 hours - searches, paperwork, searches, stamps, passport checks, stamps - it went on and on, but eventually I was through. Stopping off to fill up at the first garage in Libya, I saw the smugglers loading up their gear. In the first pic, the bloke is filling up a big tank in his boot from which he will siphon petrol when back in Tunisia; this is the 'subtle' method:

In the second pic, the overt method is used - fill bottles of all sorts of sizes, materials, and suitabilities, chuck them in the boot, and sell prepackaged volumes to your clients:

The flammability of petrol is not a worry in this commercial enterprise, so people carry out their trade regardless of any ignition considerations. I was glad when I was back on the open road.

I eventually made it to Tripoli after 13 hours. The next day I checked my email. Well, there was a rather direct message from my mother instructing me to go to hospital, do not pass Go, do not collect .... and so on, so, as I always do, I did what she said. She had contacted various members of the family who are rather more aware of medical matters than myself (doctors of various specialties), and they had said I should get my leg checked out immediately.

Well, thank goodness for email. I went to a clinic I know in Tripoli, and they told me to stop moving about, start resting my leg, and start thinking about replanning my next few days - it wasn't a torn muscle, it was probably a deep vein thrombosis, and could, if dislodged, give me either a heart attack, a stroke, or a pulmonary embolism, any one of which sounded like something best avoided, so I was booked in there and then.

I was given a Doppler ultrasound scan:

The BBC World News told me today that it's stormy in the Balkans. Yes, and it's stormy in the leg too. I daren't wear shorts, despite the heat. My leg is in a shocking state - red, black, blue - you name it. Too much walking probably.

Anyway, Sidi bou Said was lovely, and, at the same time, dreadful. Lovely because it was beautiful;dreadful because it was full of tat. Not surprising - it's a tourist hot spot.

All the doors and window frames are painted blue to repel the flies, just like in Cyprus.

It's a great place to have a marina - close to France, sheltered, and lovely climate.

It was so hilly - Dartmouth in the sun. A gorgeous location. It's about two kms from Carthage on the same trainline.

I spent yesterday in Tunis just having a general wander round. Inevitably I met some very helpful people, but I managed to fight them off until finally a doorman from the hotel recognised me, and offered to give me a tour of the medina. Well, I thought he'd be trustworthy, so we headed straight for his friend's carpet store. I explained I had enough carpets already, even government approved ones, so I wouldn't be buying any more, not even a small one. I did go up on the roof of the building, though, to see a panorama of Tunis:

After leaving the carpet shop, my guide just wanted to visit his father - who happened to own a perfume shop. I was totally lost by this time so went along and ended up buying a specially discounted bottle of jasmine oil from my new brother. Deal done, I made my apologies, and fought my way back to the mean streets of downtown Tunis.

Today, I've been to Carthage, Hannibal's home town, and it's gorgeous. It's quiet, well kept, clean, and there's loads to see. I caught the suburban train - it's about 10 miles away. Because it was a hot day, the locals jammed the doors open to provide a through-breeze when the train's moving:

The Goths and the Vandals destroyed most of the the city when they arrived, but they left the foundations behind, so you can see the scale of some of the buildings, and also the settings. The Antonine baths were in a fantastic spot, right on the coast. The president liked the position so much, he built his palace next door. No pictures of that I'm afraid; the machinegun-toting soldiers weren't too keen.

Then I climbed the hill which was where the town was first estabished, in about 800 BC. As you can see, it's quite lush, and is a really gorgeous place. I might buy a house here - it's bound to become a popular place to visit.

Off into the museum, which was well organised, but the signs were only in French and Arabic, so took a little time to take in. Great mosaics. Most of the excavations have only been done since the 1950s.

Finally I blagged my way into the Roman theatre. There was a festival being set up, so it was really closed, but they said it was OK for me to have a quick look. Imagine: there have been gigs happening on this very spot for the last 2000 years.

My leg is agony, so I'm having a slower day tomorrow - Sidi Bou Said is a haven for artists, apparently, so it's a must-see place to visit, and there's a good beach at La Marsa just up the coast a little.

It's been a busy few days. Exams finished on Monday, marking was completed Monday night, ratification of results was done on Tuesday, and that was the end of term chores put to bed.

So, my marathon journey started a day ahead of schedule on Wednesday. I managed to do Benghazi to Tripoli in about 10 hours, so that was an average speed of about 110 kph. Very satisfying. Once there I met up with an old colleague, and my replacement, for a bite to eat near where I used to live in Ben Ashur. It was like going back home. Later on I met up with a couple of my old students, Khalid and Salem, and they brought me up to date with all the gossip, all of which is too boring to relate, but quickly made me settle back into Tripolitanian mood. I'm glad I met them because they told me what documentation I'd need to be able to take my car into Tunisia.

That night I stayed in Annette's flat - she's in England - and quite a shock it was when I got there. It'd been gutted - no beds, no furniture, no bathroom. So I ended up on a mattress on the floor. Luckily I was knackered, so slept well enough, ready for the next stage.

First of all, though, I had to get my paperwork sorted. Khalid met me in the morning, and we trawled round various places getting bits and pieces. By the time we were finished, I had insurance for going abroad, lifetime membership of the National Automobile Club of Libya, and loads of other bits of paper, all duly stamped with the inevitable green ink. Khalid went off to meet his lawyer (he's getting divorced; "I'll be like you, John," he said!) and I went off to Tunisia. Not before, however, pulling a muscle in my calf whilst dodging a particularly speedy driver in Tripoli. It felt like I'd been shot, and continues to be very uncomfortable. I'm thinking of buying a stick to help me in my shuffling.

Getting to the border was the easy bit. Getting over it needed the help of Steve McQueen. It's a good job I'd got all the right bits of paper: the guards on the Libyan side went through everything. Car, papers, my reasons for travelling, how long was I staying - you name it. It took two hours, and I was so relieved to get to Tunisia. When I crossed over, I said to the Tunisian guard: "Am I in Tunisia yet?" He beamed at me and said: "Yes. Welcome." Since getting here I haven't been stopped once despite there being checkpoints every thirty or so kilometres.

By the time I actually hit the Tunisian tarmac it was getting quite late, so I thought I'd aim for Sfax rather than Tunis. However, when I stopped for petrol in Gabes, an unforeseen problem reared its ugly head - money. I had American Express, Visa, Mastercard, British pounds, Egyptian pounds, and Libyan dinars. They wanted euros, Tunisian dinars, or dollars. And I couldn't take any cash out of an ATM because I'd already reached my limit for the day in Libya buying bits of paper and paying deposits for various things. And the banks were shut.

So, I found a hotel which took plastic, and stayed where I was. It was a bit of a one horse town, but the hotel was comfortable and cool, the food was great, and the people were friendly. One of the waiters asked if I would like to go to a party he was having at the weekend. Of course I couldn't, but what a friendly gesture. Obviously I'm still in the Magreb, and I was reading a book about Islam and Mecca over dinner which always goes down well.

All along the roads here there are stalls selling fruit, hats, etc, and bottles of something which I haven't worked out yet:

At first I thought it was petrol - petrol here is over five times the price of Libya - but it may well be olive oil. I'll make some enquiries.

Up and out early this morning, I managed to get some local cash, so I hit the road again. The roads here are excellent - no potholes, plenty of signposts, and signs in Roman script as well as Arabic. Almost everyone speaks French, so conversation is a little easier too.

On getting to Sfax, there was a wonderful surprise waiting for me - a motorway. It was practically empty, almost new, and went all the way to Tunis. What bliss. The central reservation is planted with flowers, and I also saw what I think was a giant aloe with enormous sprouting shoots which you can see on the rise:

Almost prehistoric.

From Sfax to Tunis, about 250 kms, I drove through thousands of acres of olive bushes, for as far as the eye could see:

and my journey was unimpeded, for the most part, by other cars. Driving here is so different from Libya; I was a little apprehensive at first, but it's just like being in France. I'm having to unlearn some of my bad Libyan habits, particularly on roundabouts - they operate something called 'right of way' here, and I keep forgetting who has it.

When I eventually arrived in Tunis, I was so happy - it's a long way from Benghazi. It's a small place, and the motorway took me almost to the centre. I did have a map, but didn't need it; my hotel is right in the centre, on the main street, on a wide boulevard:

There's hardly a headscarf in sight (the President thought they were insulting to women so banned them many years ago), the atmosphere is very French, and the people are helpful and friendly. Despite my current disability, I shall be out flaneuring tomorrow - there's a lot to see, and it's all quite close by.

Having finished setting the exams, I was able to have a slightly extended weekend, so my plan to visit Egypt (or Masr in the vernacular) finally took flight.

My first way point was Derna which I reached in a comfortable 3.5 hours. From here, I was into uncharted territory, never having driven this far east before. Next stop: Tobruk. The roads were remarkably good, apart from when they were being rebuilt as happens all over the place in Libya:

The land was flat - this was an extension of the Jebel Akhtar plateau which stretches into Egypt. There was very little vegetation, and very few villages. As I got closer to Tobruk, signposts started to appear in English - doubly unusual, a) signposts, and b) English, so when I finally got there after about 5 hours it was more in expectation than hope - a very pleasant change.

Tobruk itself is quite a modern city, and a fair size, so it took a little while to find the road to the frontier, but a couple of chaps I asked for directions jumped in the car and personally guided me to the outskirts of town, pointing towards Alexandria.

A couple of hours later, I arrived in Imsaad, the last town on the Libyan side of the border. Following advice from my students, I left my car here in the hands of a hotel receptionist who promised, for a small fee, to look after it as though it was his own. Hmmm.

I took a taxi to the border, about five kilometres away. There I was met by the usual friendly faces of the border guards, but emigration didn't happen very fast. I hadn't bothered to get an Egyptian visa before leaving because I knew I could deal with that once I got into Egypt, but this plan didn't gel too well with my Libyan hosts. They seemed to be concerned that the plan wouldn't work. At this particular crossing, people normally turn up with visas already in place, with their own transport, in a party of more than one, and not British, so they had a lot to think about.

In the end, following various phone calls and walkie talkie conversations with the other side, I was driven to the edge of Egypt, and directed to the appropriate office across the border.

After a cursory flick through my passport, and a brief exchange of pleasantries, I walked the few yards into Egypt, and the next set of officials, one of whom was carrying a big stick, greeted me. I introduced myself in my best Arabic, impressed them, and was promoted to doctor after I told them I was a teacher. One of the party appointed himself my security detail, and he took me to the immigration hall. It was teeming with people, but with a few sharp slaps from my bodyguard's hand, people melted away to give me a clear path to the desk. The official there told me that I'd need a visa, so we then went off to buy one, returned, again with much slapping, had it stuck in my passport, stamped, and that was that. My minder then took me out into the yard, pointed at some gates, and said: "There, Egypt. Welcome" in English.

Once through the gates, I was adopted by an Egyptian who could see I looked rather fazed by my arrival, and he said he'd sort me out whatever I wanted. So, a number of us piled into a taxi, we went down a long winding road into Saloum (the first town on the Egyptian side of the border), and all decanted there. The town looked very attractive as we glided down the mountainside - a long sweeping bay lit by street lights and a bustling town looking out onto a calm sea lapping against a sandy foreshore. It looked very different close up.

My agent booked me into a hotel just beside the bus station so it would be convenient for my early morning bus to Alexandria, and he bade me farewell. I asked him if he'd like to stay for a coffee, but no, he had to get home. And off he went.

The hotel was out of this world - I didn't know places like this existed. It was disgusting from the front steps to the back offices. It's at the back right below:

I suppose for £2.50 I shouldn't have expected a palace, but a towel and some sheets would have been pleasant. I made a quick journey into town to get some beer - the town was dry, so no luck there; I looked for somewhere to eat, but felt sick at the thought of sharing my plate with the wildlife; so I read for a while, and then, unable to put off sleep any longer, I gritted my teeth, and went to bed. More accurately, I lay on the bed, fully clothed, waiting for morning, and the bus out of this dump.

Come 5 o'clock, I was ready to go, so I went for a quick stride around town, and then back to catch the 6 o'clock bus - except Egypt is an hour ahead of Libya, and it was actually 6.45 already, so the bus had gone. The next bus was at 9.00.

Great, I thought, I've got time to have a proper look around. I didn't think that really, as I'm sure you can guess. But I did make good use of my time. I walked all around the town, and spent time in the war cemetery thinking how lucky I was that I only had a bus timetable to worry about:

I spent an hour or so wandering around the graves - British, Australian, Indian, Kiwi, and many others. So sad. Most of the dead were younger than my own children. Really very upsetting.

Come 9 o'clock, I boarded the bus for Alex, a seven hour drive away. I thought we'd probably make good time and do it in less. Fat chance. Despite it being a Friday and there being little traffic, we kept stopping for extended breaks at service stations along the road:

We passed through el Alamein and the cemeteries of the German, Italian and British war dead, but I'll have to visit another time. After nine hours, we reached Alex, or more accurately, the centre. It actually starts about 50 kms before then with tourist villages, business parks, and retail outlets. Very different from Libya - most of these developments are finished or are being actively worked on. Perhaps The Leader and The President should get together to discuss project management styles.

I wasn't expecting to hear hits from the Sixties on the sound system of the bus, but I didn't feel very comfortable listening to someone ranting about jihad, Afghanistan, and Iraq. These diatribes were interspersed with prayers, and occasional light music, but every hour or so, the rant came back. I had visions of Daniel Pearl going through my head, and started imagining if I would still be alive after my throat was cut, and for how long. Since you're reading this, obviously I arrived in Alex in one piece.

As was to be expected, I got ripped off by a taxi driver taking me to the hotel, but I was past caring and just wanted a wash and some food - I hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day through fear of what might be served up. The doorman at the hotel helped me sort out the contretemps with the taxi, and he then plied me with a beer - ice cold in Alex:

I'm sure it's changed a lot since John Mills and Sylvia Syms fought their way there from the desert. I don't think I'd fight my way there again - it's crowded, smelly, noisy, expensive, and just not very pleasant. Pretty much as I'd expected, but then I didn't spend much time there, so perhaps I'm being unfair. With a bit more time to spare, I'd have a chance to look around. However, my return bus was due to leave early the following morning, so I drank my beer, ate some food, and went to bed - in sheets, in air conditioned comfort.

The return journey was uneventful until I got to the border at 6.00 pm. My passport was checked eight times: twice in Egypt, and the remainder in Libya. On four occasions, my passport was taken away for 'further investigation'. I don't know what it was all about, but the final check was cut short when I pulled my Libyan driving licence out, and showed that to them. We all had a laugh about my car - a hamburger - and I showed them photographs on my camera which went down well. When I said I thought Libya was meea meea (100%), it was handshakes all round, and back into the country.

All the delays at the border meant that it was dusk when I started driving home:

The hotel receptionist had been true to his word, and my car was ready and waiting for me. I eventually got into my flat at 3.00 am on Sunday morning, and was up again at 6.30, with exams starting at 9.00. I don't really like travelling in the dark because of the risks from other drivers, wildlife, and the state of the roads, but there wasn't really any alternative. I kept myself awake by singing - well, it would keep anyone awake, wouldn't it? Tonight, Matthew, I was Bob Dylan, singing Hey Mr Tambourine Man.

It was an interesting weekend, and distances here are certainly very different from in the UK - a four hour trip to Harrogate is an afternoon jaunt in Libya, but a planned journey in Britain. Tunisia next weekend - 1600 kms each way? I'll have to have a think.

Mother has been an unwitting resource provider this week: I was teaching paragraphs, so I used one of her emails as an example of how not to do it - one long stream of consciousness is not ideal when it comes to creative writing. Not only are all the students masters of paragraphs now, they also know a lot about my family, and the culture of England. And they may well contact my mother to thank her for her help.

Despite my thinking that my car had escaped unscathed from last weekend's adventure, there was a niggling noise from the brakes, so one of my students took me round to a garage to have it checked out. Part of the brake housing had broken loose, and was rattling around, so this was fixed, and all was right as rain. No charge of course - all part of the service of being friendly to foreigners.

I thought I might as well get the handbrake fixed as well (it hasn't worked since I bought the car), so arranged to take the car back this morning. In Libya, you go to one garage for electrics, another for engines, and another for bodywork, and you take the parts you want replacing with you from another place. I arrived with no parts, so the proprietor drove me to various places in town to get the bits, and then fixed the car. Whilst I waited, I sat in the morning sun, being fed sweet, mint tea at regular intervals. Two hours labour: 6 pounds. Parts: 6 pounds. Happiness: Priceless.

On a roll, I thought I might as well get a new windscreen wiper (one of mine had mysteriously disappeared during the week), and I really need a jack in case I have a puncture on one of my long excursions, so I went round the shops getting these.

All of the discussions were conducted in Arabic (and sign language), so I am feely pretty chipper.

Whilst waiting for the car to be fixed, I reflected on all the time I used to spend with oily hands, mending my old cars, and I began to feel guilty sitting watching, rather than doing. Looking back, I quite enjoyed messing with engines and things. I also remembered emptying my house ready to come to Libya, and throwing away all my nuts, screws, bits of wire, old tools, switches, and so on which I'd accumulated over the years, including some bits of my 1957 Bantam motorbike, and my Mini Moke - I'd held on to them for 35 years 'just in case they come in handy'.

Yesterday, I finally made it to Apollonia. When I got to Susa, I decided to treat myself to a proper meal, the first since I've been in the east of the country. I went to the best hotel in town, and settled down for a full Sunday lunch, Libyan-style, and it was lovely. Four courses, and delicious. Then I was ready for the afternoon's exertions.

As I'm sure you'll guess, the site was stunning - right by the sea, under the Jebel Akhtar:

There had been an enormous earthquake in the 4th Century, affecting the entire north coast of Libya, including Sabratha and Leptis Magna, and the harbour of the city had been dragged below the sea. The outer harbour wall was surmounted by a lighthouse on top of the island to the right of the picture above.

The city itself had been established about 7000 years ago by the Greeks, but was then absorbed by the Romans, and finally the Byzantines who were in residence at the time of its demise. It was the port for Cyrene, higher up in the mountains, so its destruction precipitated the end of Cyrene.

It was a major ecclesiastical base for the area, and one of the largest churches in North Africa was sited here:

Although the churches have long ceased to function, prayer still takes place here. In the picture below, on the beach, there are two chaps doing one of their five daily prayer sessions. When I've been out with students, wherever we are, they always stop to pray, the oldest member of the party leading the 'service'. I used to find it mildly embarassing, but now recognise that it's a way of life here. On one occasion in Tripoli, I was out with Khalid and Mustafa in a shopping centre, and suddenly they decided that they needed to pray; just round a corner was a carpet laid out for that express purpose, so off they went.

The Greeks seem to have always been able to find idyllic spots for their theatres, and Apollonia is no exception:

On my way back to the car, I met an Iraqi who was over working on setting up electricity stations for the Libyan government. Perfect English. He bemoaned the pillaging of historic sites by the Italians in Libya, and then said the same has happened in Iraq, but in Iraq's case it has been done by the Iraqis themselves. Syria is a major centre for the transhipment of ancient relics, so I'm beginning to have some ideas on where my travels might take me next.