Ryma Tchier takes a trip down memory lane and reflects on a holiday that taught her thirteen-year-old self a little something about belonging…. I drank it all in; I just knew this trip was going to be epic. It was official; I was finally heading back to my homeland. Algeria is found well off the beaten track. But as our plane slowly descended, revealing an aerial view of the web of roads, high walled buildings and green pastures that make up Algeria, I really wondered; how could they have missed it?
The airport was a shocker. It looked… modern. Shiny marbled walls lined the domestic terminal as we lined up for customs. The signs were sleek, written in both Arabic and French, and when my sister Sarah and I went to use the bathroom we almost leapt for joy to find regular toilets complete with toilet paper and soap dispensers — the works.
It beat the run-down box filled with rows upon rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs I saw during my last trip! Houari Boumediene A e roport Internationale had a three year face lift, it seemed, and I was impressed.
Like any country, the entire economic spectrum could be found in Algeria populace, from absolute poverty to the old money families and business tycoons. The French have influenced architecture in the country, but the village in the middle of nowhere still has its place. Algeria has a weird relationship with the world; it likes to keep to itself, but it wants to let people in all the same. When I heard the officer speak in Algerian slang as he showed us to the conveyor belts, my cheeks hurt from grinning too hard.
As we set off for the grueling six hour drive ahead, I felt that I had come home. But that feeling later jumped and plummeted to its rocky death as the car crawled through traffic in the middle of a canyon.
