Hi there, I can only encourage you to go back to Algeria—one of the warmest welcomes I’ve ever experienced in all my travels. The silence from others is very likely due to the terrible relations between France and Algeria. Here’s a tip: when applying for your visa, frame it as a tourist trip and don’t mention any personal ties to the country. Just for the visa application—they can be a bit fussy...
But I wouldn’t be surprised if, once you’re there, someone invites you to visit the house from your childhood. Keep me posted—I’m curious!
Best,
Philippe.
PS: Below, a recap of my last trip to this stunning country, which is still so little known beyond our shared history!
I wanted to return to Algeria, a country I’d hitchhiked through via Morocco (back when the border between the two was open) in November 1991—just a few months before the civil war—and see if I’d still find the incredible hospitality I’d experienced back then. I wasn’t disappointed!
My guiding thread: the Mediterranean, a few paragliding contacts on the ground, and day-by-day travel. I slept on beaches, in a paragliding school’s storage room, in small hotels where locals go, and especially in these youth hostels that form an amazing network across the country (a relic of the communist era).
For a price that defies competition (between 10/15 €), I sometimes found myself alone with the caretaker in big buildings with sea views. And when a hostel was closed, someone would call the caretaker to come open it for me.
I made friends with young students from Béjaïa—we spent three days together, and I’m still in touch with them—as well as with an oil industry executive and his girlfriend. We toured Algiers together, ending up at a restaurant where they invited me to stay with them. I declined because I’d found a little hotel in the lower Casbah that I really liked. I adored Algiers, the Mediterranean counterpart to Marseille—the only cosmopolitan city in France that hasn’t yet been too heavily gentrified.
As for the paragliders, they’d drive me up to the takeoff spots with their clients and bring me beers back to the storage room, where we’d spend evenings talking about society, politics, and, of course, the *Dark Decade* that left its mark on hearts and minds...
A little advice from an old-school traveler (60 years young): put your phones away, and you might just be more open and available for real encounters. Try to be present with yourself, and you’ll naturally be present for others. I’ve been traveling for over 40 years—hitchhiking, by bike, by sailboat—and I’ve never taken a phone with me. (In France, I only have an old flip phone.) It forces you to talk to everyone, like in the old days!
That hasn’t stopped me from wandering from Turkey to Yemen via Iran (though I’d advise against that now), hanging out in the Stans, biking through West Africa, and crossing the Mediterranean and Atlantic by sailboat...
Maybe I’m at an advantage because of my job as a mountain guide, or just from all these years of travel—I find it easy to connect with anyone, from any social class. I tend to avoid my fellow Westerners (though I do run into them sometimes in remote lodges) and try to blend in with the locals. Sitting on a curb for two or three hours just chatting, I remember—this was in Morocco, I think—going back to the same random souk merchant three days in a row just to shoot the breeze. Pure joy. I don’t even remember what he was trying to sell me, and neither did he...
To echo your point: yes, the visa process is a hassle. I’d asked for a month and a half, but they only gave me a month. You really have to gather all the documents—hotel reservation copies (one is enough) must be legible. I ran into a real gatekeeper at the consulate in Grenoble who made me get my hotel reservation resent (which I never even used!) because the ink wasn’t clear enough. They sent the same one back, and it worked, but I had to come back the next day.
All of this stems from the terrible relations between France and Algeria. Yes, in the wilaya (department) of Béjaïa, I was escorted by cops, but that didn’t stop me from going out that evening to grab a beer (they’d gone back to the barracks) or asking them to put my bike in their trunk while I took off paragliding. They even bought me an orange juice at the landing zone. (I’d struck a deal with them: either they’d take my bike down and go home to their families, or my bike would stay up the mountain, and I’d have to hike back up to get it—making their day *much* longer!)
Military, police, and locals were all concerned for my safety in Kabylie, where a guide (Hervé Gourdel) had been kidnapped and murdered about 10 years ago. That said, I’ve experienced worse—though after two days, I went into a police station to make a scene and demand explanations. It didn’t help.
Anyway, I’ll stop here—sorry for the long reply! But to sum up: go to Algeria. It’s one of the warmest welcomes I’ve ever received (alongside Iranians), and if the regime ever falls, go to Iran too.
Cheers, and happy travels.
Phil...
Image attached:
