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NOTES FROM A LIBYAN LURKER IX - PRESS CONFERENCES ARE FOR SUCKERS

I was talking to a journalist outside of a press conference when a photographer walked up and said, "We should have gotten really drunk before that thing." He affirmed my suspicions that we should be skipping events scheduled by the Revolutionary Council.

A convoy of supplies heading toward the front drove past us. Perhaps that meant a new sort of command on the frontlines, some semblance of discipline. Although the movement of supplies was a positive sign, I had doubts about going to the front. But other photographers will most certainly be heading there; the rebels will flash "V" signs and yell "Allah Akbar" and some of them will die, and eventually a few more journalists will perish too. The older journalist decided to go; it was a long and dangerous drive for a couple of photos.

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The allies attacked Gaddafi loyalists in Misrata and near Brega last night. Some soldiers died. It's still unclear if they were Gaddafi loyalists or confused rebels who shot at allied forces. I'd know if I watched more television or went to a press conference every once in a while.

Over the past few days I've done lots of interviews and driven aimlessly around much of Benghazi. Good things tend to happen when you do that. My rule has been to get out of the hotel. I've found that as long as I get out of the hotel I'll learn something.

I talked to kids on ATVs who were charging one dinar to ride with them along the corniche. They told me their crew was around a hundred strong, and they wouldn't all ride together again until Gaddafi was gone. "The important thing is to get ahead, to do what I have to do," 16-year-old Abdul Hamid said.

Cars squealed past me as drivers made use of every iota of horsepower their engines had. That's normal here. We drove by a kid setting fire to a stream of hairspray. He seemed to be walking aimlessly around the city. We passed a limping man wearing what appeared to be a tourniquet on his blood-stained upper thigh. It didn't make sense. There didn't appear to be a car wreck or any signs of violence close by, just that man with a look of agony on his face limping across a litter-strewn field, the bottles and plastic catching in the grass as the sun beat down on him. He was edging toward the road and after a moment he was gone. I began to wonder if I imagined him.

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There was another demonstration at a hastily erected checkpoint on an entrance ramp to the highway. Four kids with a shotgun and a handgun. Why not?

PHOTOS AND WORDS BY JEREMY RELPH

Also by Jeremy Relph:

PICNICKING IN BENGHAZI

FAST TIMES IN BENGHAZI

A FULL RETREAT

BLOOD AND MONOTONY IN AJDABIYA

TAILGATING IN BEN JAWAD

THE PRISONERS

BENGHAZI OR BUST

THE BORDER