Benghazi Rappers

The art explosion after the end of Col. Moammar Ghadaffi included dozens of musicians of different genres. Most of them are rappers. Unfortunately I was only able to meet two in person during my week in Benghazi. Many of the serious musicians were actually busy in school, because they put their studies on hold because of the revolution.  

 This is "Bugie." He is 18 and has aspirations of rapping for a living. He said getting music to rap over is difficult, as few Libyans have computers and software to produce beats of their own. Bugie said most rapping happens at parties.


The scene in Benghazi resembles rap in the U.S. in the early eighties; it is still very underground, its members misunderstood.

At the moment, there are also no places to perform in public, except parties. Mydey, 17, (below) has never performed before, and downloaded his beats offline. He reminds me of many rappers I've met from my home town of Flint, MI. The music gave him a chance to have some swagger and agency of his own, in a place where freedom of expression was lacking.

Guys like Mydey and Bugie are among many musicians whose bootlegged music can be found on
revolution compilations on CD's sold in stores in the main shopping district in Benghazi. 


The goal isn't necessarily to make it big; they just enjoy they're new found freedom of expression.

About to leave Tunis

It is time for me to pack up and head to Libya. I'll get up what I've been meaning to, and then I'll be doing what I've meant to be doing since June- cover the Libyan revolution, and give it a local angle.


The Flight leaves from Tunis at 9 a.m. I'll stay for an entire week, seeing Tripoli, and Benghazi, and areas damaged by the war. I'll have intermittent internet access, that I'll use to get stories and photos to my newspaper.


I'll have a lot to cover over there, but Mustafa is doubling as 'subject,' and 'guide.' I can't wait, and I am also very nervous, that I can do the work I came here to do. 

This is outside the Libyan embassy, where Libyans are trying to get medical care thru Tunisia. 

The two above are from the old market in Tunis. I need to pack and hop on a plane to Libya.

Lois and Mustafa

These are the people that have linked me into the Libya story. This is them in their suite in Tunisia, on a brief holiday before Lois flies back home, and Mustafa flies back to work, in Benghazi Libya, where I'll follow him. Mustafa is going to be working on building water distribution points, and getting his countrymen politically involved to make democracy happen. They're lovely people, I feel fortunate to have met them.


In a rare occurance, they managed to get me to put the camera/pen/recorder down for wine, dinner, and beer. There isn't much beer and wine in Libya, said Mustafa.

Tunisia

 'Wow,' is what I said when I pulled the curtains to my room aside, to reveal the scene of Tunis business district below. I had lucked out again. So far although difficult, the trip has been 'lucky.'


Start with my checked luggage making it all the way from Flint to Tunis. The two things that I was worried about, exchanging my U.S. dollars into Tunisian dinars, and getting and using a taxi were easy.. though I still don't like taxis. I learned quickly that traffic lights don't mean anything in Tunisia, and people just 'go,' when they want.


I stayed in a different hotel on Wednesday night, and arrived here Thursday morning. My first goal Thursday was to get my passport stamped with a Libyan visa at the Libyan embassy.


The embassy was in another stroke of luck,  1/2 block away. There were dozen or so Libyans talking with the embassy reception through barred windows and doors. The people were trying to get the free Tunisian medical help, and were arguing over documents. With the help of two Europeans, I learned that the Libyan government worker had come through for me; they received my invitation to work form. They took my passport, to verify  my ID.

 I paid the embassy $40 dinar through the gate, but they said I also need to provide two photos for records, which I didn't have. At that time is was 9:30 a.m., and the embassy closed at 12. I had to get photos taken and return by then.

What ensued was a humorous on-foot scavenger hunt through Tunis, with a scrap of paper the hotel reception desk provided with a business that takes photos. I had to stop people and point to a word in Arabic. At least five people tried to help, and I ended up several blocks from the hotel, and embassy.




I never found the business, but I found a place just in time that also sold older model cameras, and took mug shots.. not literally mug shots. As you can see, I look really, really intense, and laughed about it with the guy at the counter. It really sums up the morning though. I returned to the embassy with about 20 minutes to spare. After edging my way into the crowd to get the embassy worker's attention, I eventually made it inside the embassy to sign more forms in a large marble room. I paid them $100 dinars (about $70 USD.) 


There's no way the man knew what seeing that simple stamp on page 10 of my passport meant. It was the crux of difficulty with getting there.  It easily could have gone the other way, and despite what I thought before, I could not have gotten on the plane to Benghazi without it.

That night, I also found a translator to work with to return to the embassy, but this time as a reporter. More on that.

Shooting is difficult in North Africa- there is no law giving journalists the right to take photos of people in public. Fortunately, there are always people that want to share stories.

Paris to Tunisia- Leg #3

Tunde was right. Paris De Gaulle airport was a pain in the ass. It took the entire two-hour layover to get from one terminal to the other, and re-check my equipment bag. It was an amazingly complex, disjointed facility. It was though, exciting to see everything in French, and to know I was way out of my comfort zone. I didn't hear anyone else speaking English. 

As I said, I had to recheck my bag, which normally entails pulling everything out, but the agent settled for 70 percent with all the crap I carry with me.

I ended up sitting next to a French man, who only spoke French. The instructions on the plane were in French, Arabic, and English. I wondered who else on the plane spoke English.

I tried with some success to sleep on the flight, despite being crammed into the window seat. I was surprised and grateful to be woken up with in-flight dinner I was distractedly, and uncomfortably hungry.

It was a kind of salty, thin sliced boiled fish and rice salad, with a tin-foiled cheese wedge, bread, a stick of dark chocolate, and a type fruit muffin that was more like crepes in texture. I was ecstatic to eat again. 


I was amazed at the expanse of craggy mountains as endless and detailed as the clouds that rolled below the plane.


I was surprised that Tunis on Wednesday was a lot like Michigan in late September- cooler, and rainy, and even got dark at 6.m. Soon we landed in Tunis, Tunisia, in North Africa.

Second leg- Atlanta to Paris

Airplanes are an interesting place to observe people, and probably be observed. With no one to talk to, you absorb more. To my left is a pair of energetic five-year-olds, to my right, across the aisle is a French couple. I have begun to notice to attractiveness of people who travel by air.

The airport in Atlanta began my international experience. The first woman waiting for the flight to Paris was Algerian. Algeria is a primarily French and Arabic speaking country West of Libya. She spoke English with a heavy French accent, and was very enthusiastic about my trip. She spoke with the flair of an French teacher, gestuclating; she said 'Ooh la, la' a lot. I guess  the expression is not related to just sexy things. If you want the condensed version, watch the video above. 


"It's gotta be turned off if it's not keeping you alive," said an Atlanta flight attendant, on the plane several hours later. I ended up sitting next to two bi-lingual kids who were traveling with parents, and fidgeted and played in their seats. The little girl directly to my left repeatedly pulled out the tethered remote for the headset displays lodged in the headrests of the seats in front of us. She figured out how to turn on the overhead light before I did. 


I'm a little jealous how much more seat room the two had on an eight hour flight. I only then noticed that it was raining out.


Watching 'Bridesmaids,' and  'Hanna,' on the headrest monitor, and being fed dinner and breakfast made the 8 hours 'fly' by. 


They didn't fly by, at all. I made a pun for my writer buddy Will. I slept a little, and kept myself busy with trying to learn more Arabic. More on that later.


When my watch finally said 4:15, Michigan time, it was brilliantly bright out. I watched the icon of the plane creep across the Atlantic via large GPS monitor at the front.


At 4:15 in Michigan it's 10:15 in Paris, and North Africa. I hope I can convince my body it's after 10 a.m. also.

First leg of the trip

The CRJ200 jet we're flying out of feels like a bus, inside. My camera bag is at my feet, and (hopefully) my checked bag somewhere in the back. 

It's a perfect clear sky, and the passengers are in good spirits. This is the short flight. I still can't believe I'm doing this.


The plane's walls have a faint repeating pattern of bubbles. "Calm as Hindu cows," comes to mind, looking over the rest of the passengers.  

 The engines spin, and vibrate the cabin like a car 

revving in neutral. Overhead fans lend a white noise.
We move tentatively, the sun through the window
lighting my hands.


The captain announces "One minute to departure," and then the minute passes. I see the long path ahead briefly as the plane surges decisively, impressively forward.

Very soon, there is no runway, and we are pushed back into our seats. Flint falls away and shrinks and tilts as we bear south. This is less scary than a hot air balloon. Here we go!