NOTES FROM A LIBYAN LURKER VI

We left the hotel today amid rumors that the front had shifted to just outside of Ajdabiya. Rumors are the norm here. We listened to Libyan metal and the national anthem. We had two jerrycans of gas in the back and I felt good knowing it was there. We arrived in the city, booked a hotel, and moved forward.

A friend called last night and told me that snipers in Ra’s Lanuf had shot at a few of the journalists as they left their hotel that morning. The frontline is now somewhere east of there, between Ra’s Lanuf and Brega. I’m glad we got out when we did. Our new challenge is not to overshoot the ever-shifting frontline, which would put us in real danger of running into a Gaddafi checkpoint. I have started to recognize green, Gaddafi’s color, as a sign to haul ass in the opposite direction.

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We drove to Brega, a ghost town. There were no rebels, no checkpoints, and we had no way of telling where the frontline was. When the older journalist said, “I just want to go to the front,” I wanted to lean forward and crack her in the head. But she must be doing something right; she’s been in a lot of conflict zones and is still walking around, looking for the next big fight.

We passed TV journalists in their blue flak jackets at the western gate of Brega. Rebels told us they heard explosions in Al-Uqayla, the town just ahead. “Where’s Sarkozy?” a rebel asked. The rebels here may be lacking in training and weapons, but they have an abundance of heart. The older journalist asked if I was OK to press on. I mumbled something and we continued.

Ambulances, followed by pickups with mounted machine guns, streamed past us heading east. I didn’t want to go forward, but I didn’t want to turn around either. I was wary of stopping and getting out and talking to the rebels outside, but that’s what we did. I was in a dick-swinging contest of sorts with the older journalist, and it’s been apparent the whole time that she’s packing a big one.

The rebels spoke in the same fashion as all of the rebels we’ve met: “We can’t see them but we can hear the bombs,” Tahar Araft said.

Rockets went off behind us, flying south across the desert. Another round of cars, heading back east and choking both sides of the road, drove past us. We talked to a couple of Spanish photographers who estimated Gaddafi forces were 15 kilometers away, and that their bombs and rockets were landing as close as 3 kilometers from us. The booms were loud and the frontline was in full retreat. The excitement, and the idea that the rebels could get to Sert had evaporated. A rebel leaned out of the window and urged us to leave. We practically jogged back to the car and argued over who would next wear the flak jacket and helmet. As always, we tried to give it to the driver but he refused.

At this point nobody was driving west. We were in a pack of cars heading east on a two-lane road all clocking in at about 100 kilometers an hour. We blew by Brega—the rebels were ceding territory rapidly. I had to take a piss, so I thought about the two hotel rooms I was paying for tonight to take my mind off of my full bladder and other things.

Ajdabiya had become the new fallback position. We stopped and caught a flash and boom on a ridge some 3 kilometers away. Gaddafi’s forces seemed to be moving at the same pace as us. We sped back the other direction.

I was rapidly loosing my taste for this shit. I saw a pickup parked on the side of the road. Beside it a man was kneeling and praying toward the desert. Just beyond him a kid was pissing on a wire fence.

Back at the hotel in Ajdabiya I talked to a journalist from Al Jazeera. She described getting caught in the crossfire between rebels and loyalists. She laid on the floor in the van and cursed her job: “Why do we do this?” she asked.

We ate cold chicken sandwiches and half-cooked French fries in the hotel. The driver went for gas and I took a nap. The power was out but the older journalist was still playing absentmindedly with her TV. She mused about heading back toward the front for a bit, and then the power came back on. I watched Drake and Nikki Minaj—Drake’s shockingly low hairline, Minaj’s formidable breasts and swaying head.

I was almost asleep when I heard voices in the hallway. Journalists were leaving. “They’re at the western gates,” a guy said as he rolled his equipment by. We packed and went outside. The retreat was in full force.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY JEREMY RELPH

Also by Jeremy Relph:

BLOOD AND MONOTONY IN AJDABIYA

TAILGATING IN BEN JAWAD

THE PRISONERS

BENGHAZI OR BUST

THE BORDER