![]() ![]() Most pressingly, Steinmetz was convinced that one of their party-Jafar, a kindly and cataracted ancient they had picked up in Tamanrasset, who was serving as the group’s navigator-was going to get them all killed. ![]() They were doing seventy-five hundred miles a week, and tensions, as they do in the company of maps and men, had arisen. George Steinmetz, a freelance photographer, and Abdarahman Daoudi, a translator and fixer, were thirty-four days into a six-week trip that had taken them and a caravan of Toyota Land Cruisers, stuffed with tarps, blankets, bananas, drums of water, jerricans of gasoline, guides, drivers, a cook-it was, by then, an eight-man expedition-on a snaky north-south route from Béjaïa, through the palm groves of El Oued and the casbah of Ghardaïa, the rippling ergs of Timimoun and the forêts de pierre of the Hoggar Mountains, to Djanet, an hour’s drive from the border with Libya. It is not possible, George.”Īt a café on the main road of Djanet, a scraggly frontier town in southeastern Algeria, a spread of lentil stew and strawberry soda was gathering flies. “Abdu, you’ve got to fire this motherfucker.” ![]()
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