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NOTES FROM A LIBYAN LURKER X - ON THE ROAD AGAIN

The military stalemate meant that it was time to zag while everyone else zigged. Journalists are bored. The big war photographers long gone. We were driving to Al Beida, roughly 200 kilometers east of Benghazi. Safe, in other words. Safe and scenic.

His fingers moved delicately across the air below the rearview mirror as though he was seated at an invisible piano. Fidel, as I’ve taken to calling him, was arguing with the driver. Fidel is the epitome of rebel fashion: bearded, thick curly hair, tight sweater, leather jacket, tapered jeans, and a Burberry print shirt underneath it all, hanging over his jeans and concealing the pistol stuck in his waistband. The argument was inconsequential. It’s sport here.

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The driver poked Fidel’s leg with his pinky as they argued. Fidel wasn't listening as he stared straight ahead through his aviators. He started growing his beard when the revolution began. His English isn’t as poor as he thinks it is but he’s too shy to use it much. The driver stroked Fidel's beard, pulling it down gently.

We crossed the bridge and stopped on the other side. I hate heights. We walked around a checkpoint where two men argued while the guards hung back with their AK-47s. The driver, a friend, and Fidel coaxed me onto the bridge, which spanned high over a canyon. Caves dotted the rock walls on either side. They camp there in the summer. The driver and my friend were talking about how nice it is in the summer, but I couldn’t go farther because the slight breeze was enough to convince me I'd be blown off into an untimely death. I will take gunshots over heights any day.

When we returned to the car two men at the checkpoint had gotten into an argument and were trading punches. The guys with guns stepped further back as kicks and knees flew. Then they were separated, and the driver ran down the road and grabbed large rocks the size of softballs. People around them began to stress out. We took a long loop around them. An older man stepped between them, his arms around the guy with the rocks.

They finally made up and we drove on. The scenery, the mannerisms, the music—Tupac, Drake, Kid Cudi, and bad techno—reminded me of Italy. The driver played a country western song about lost love and, essentially, alcoholism.

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My friend suggested that we wear green underwear in case we were stopped by Gaddafi loyalists. He reasoned that when they tried to rape us they would see our undies and let us pass.

It was only a little over a week ago that I traveled this same road going the other direction, into the unknown. It feels like much more than a week has passed. I've stopped expecting a Gaddafi loyalist to pop out from behind a tree like some Hindi movie villain. Maybe I could even vacation here.

PHOTOS AND WORDS BY JEREMY RELPH

Also by Jeremy Relph:

PRESS CONFERENCES ARE FOR SUCKERS

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