Watching the sad news about the Libyan floods back in September 2023, I was reminded of my first visit to that country…
Back in 1981, I was sent there to obtain research data. It was just a couple of months after the USA shot down two Libyan fighter jets over the Mediterranean. Maybe not the best time to be seeking information.
No one greeted me at the airport so I took a taxi to my contact’s office.
He wasn’t there.
Two men lounging in reception told me he was “in the desert.” I had no idea why he would travel into the desert and miss our appointment. Asked when he would return, they simply shrugged. No hotel room was booked for me, so I asked them to book one while I waited for my contact’s return. After exchanging glances one of them complied.
My “hotel” was a beached, old-style car ferry with two suited men hanging around at the top of the vehicle access ramp – clearly armed guards. The ferry-cum-hotel’s cabins were occupied by European and American businessmen gathered together for easy surveillance, I suspected.
I wanted to call my office, but we had no iphones back then. The only way for a visitor to make an international call was via the post office. The staff there insisted that Luxembourg was in Belgium, so my call could not connect. Option two was to send a Telex from the only office I could trust, SwissAir, located on “November the 3rd Street.”
I headed off into Tripoli seeking out this location, despite having no Arabic. I asked local passers-by for directions. They shunned me: maybe I looked or sounded too American? Finally I saw an approaching blond-haired, blue-eyed, stocky man carrying a briefcase.
I caught his attention with, “Do you speak English?” Looking puzzled, he shook his head. I tried French, German, Italian, a smidgen of Scandinavian… He stared blankly at me.
Finally, he pointed to himself and said “Ya Russki.”
Ouch! I thought about it. There were many Russians working in Gaddafi’s oil drilling industry back then. Okay, I’ll risk it. I pointed up and down the street saying, “Tri Noyabr Praspyect?”
“Da! Da!” Nodding vigorously and smiling, he pointed down the street and burst into a cheery animated, but one-sided, conversation. My Russian was pretty basic. I apologized and headed off down the street. He looked disappointed.
I found SwissAir and they kindly agreed to send the telex for me. (It never arrived.)
After three days, my contact hadn’t turned up. I decided it was time to grab a flight home: SwissAir to Geneva, an overnight train to Brussels where I’d parked my car, then a bleary drive to Luxembourg.
I was told later that “in the desert” was a euphemism for… shall we say “permanent removal”? Maybe that was just propaganda – but I was happy to get out while I still could.
Oh, yes. The joys of “business travel.”
Andy McKell, Speculative Fiction Author 