Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25059
they are ng to convince they have found a tourist, I scuttle sideways like a crab down the sidewalk with my driver in They scuttle with me, their upraised palms pressed against me like a crossing guard. When hit a light pole I keep scuttling. Not knowing how to keep smiling, working the walkie-talkie and scuttling, they resort to chasing after us. As we jump in the car and start to pull away, the policemen hop in the back seat. I introduce myself. They smile and say their names are Omar and Kamel. They politely suggest to my driver that we head to the police station. They keep smiling and say, "For your security, monsieur." Inside the military HQ I am greeted by a rogues' gallery of glum, bearded mujahideen. A few have a line drawn across their picture with the word "Tueur"-kil ler. I am separated from my dri ver and plopped in some high-ranking person's office. The office is neat with few accessories. There is obviously not much to occupy the milita ry police here. After some polite banter and questions the chief gives me the general gist that I am in big trouble and he wants to know why I am here. I explain that I am not in trouble because I am a tourist and as far as I know there are no laws against tourists sightseeing in Algeria. After we go around in semantic circles, two disheveled men poke their head in the door and demand my passport. They yank it out of my hand and start yelling at Kamel and Omar who are trail ing them like dogs. One fat, thick-necked fortysomething man sticks his head back in, grabs my Leica and starts yel ling in French that I have been taking pictures of the "Post." I tell him, "I pictures of everything because I'm a tourist and give me my goddamn camera back. " I grab Leica and he yells a little longer. Finally they move into another office and I can hear them yell at each other. After 20 minutes with the police chief I am moved to a gray cell with one tiny window propped open and a messy desk in the center. Behind the desk is a cot with a rumpled mattress. ___ -rL - desk is piled high with thick dossiers and paperwork. There is a map, and I peruse the thick files ':: information on people and their activities. But I , don't have time to do a lot of reading. One of the , ,'and documents on the desk. A lot of in-depth ;xt0rtf,\!i\)/[i:�l)' :he might have been sleeping here before we were :, :dragged in. He takes my camera and peers in all , it:t ;.', \' \;;; .:�]I:, r , ' , glass orifices as if there is something inside. " , He puts it down on the desk and starts typing out ,.'a large form. ii,�I;: I keep up a light banter in my bad French " ,and wonder why with all the beautiful scenery and , �'sites outside his office he doesn't take some pic and put them the wall. He turns to me coldly and says flatly in per English, "Monsieur, you are not in a hotel." A I runs through my heart. "Where did you learn English?" I ask. He and says, "When I was in what you call the Marines. I was trained by the Americans." It hits me-I have found what I was looking of the govern- I am talking to an "eradicator" -one of e secret police who take : disheveled men comes back. He wears gray :: sweatpants, a Fila T-shirt and sandals. It looks like ment's irty work. I have no s on me that this is a man who works at night, has no uniform and is in charge of the police and the plainclothes security guards. I wasn't on vacation anymore. He asks me the same old questions. "What are you doing here? Where is your security detail?" I respond in my usual fashion. He goes out for another shouting match with his friend and then after a few crackles on a walkie-talkie he comes back in a funk. He grabs a stack of forms, inserts well-worn carbons and jams them angrily in his manual typewriter. He wants to know my mother's maiden name, where my father was born. After I sign the form we are free to go; back and quickly. My driver was asked to list every person I had talked to, every picture I had taken, every place I had been and what I had talked about. He assured me that I was just a tourist taking pictures of the scenery. Like yesterday's driver, he told me that I should be with the military and not on my own. "Monsieur Robert, you know I like traveling with you. It's dangerous but I like it. Where do you want to go tomorrow?" the cabbie asks. I give him a conspiratorial grin and tell him to meet me tomorrow at 7 AM and we'll find out. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE At Hotel Aurassi, who do I bump into again but Mr Ray Ban. He politely asks me where I was. I say I don't remember the name of the place. "My friend, today you were lucky. Don't do it again," he tells me, with a look that says "You owe me one, pal." I recall the walkie-talkie exchange. He saved me from being eradicated. I think he grudgingly admires me for my cat-and-mouse game. Is Mr Ray Ban nemesis and guardian angel? Learning that I am off to the Casbah with two journal ists, Mr Ray Ban lines up an escort for me and my friends, whose main goal is to have an interview with "The Only Tourist in Algeria." I have never had a police escort before. The experience is kind of like a low-budget roller coaster ride. We sit politely in a cab waiting for take-off. The screeching of tires from the police details means the ride has begun. We race down Algiers' twisting curving streets at ridiculously high speed. A nice way to dodge snipers but an ideal way to end up wrapped around a street light. Our four escorts in two cars wear tight pants, gold chains and photo vests to hide their pistols and machine guns. They have obviously been trained in executive protection and evasive driving. As they swoop, dodge and swerve, our cabbie, untrained in any method of driving, labors to keep up without being rear-ended or side swiped by our dodge 'em car protectors. The restaurant is closed because of a power outage. The exact scenario on the eve of a vi l lage massacre, when the phones and power are cut before the slaughter begins. Our guides block us front and back, leaving their lights on. I am ner vous. The dreaded Casbah is just behind us. We are well-lit sitting ducks with policeman arguing and discussing which restaurant we should go to next. I am wondering if lurking terrorists are hold ing their attack thinking this is so obvious a target that it must be a setup.