The bus rolled to a stop. I grabbed my bags and pushed my way through the crowds and exited the but station. A lone taxi driver waited. I was not known as a French scholar during my school days. Fifteen minutes later and 60 cents poorer I dragged my bag into this very isolated hotel.
I took in the scene. Twenty men dotted the lobby and the adjacent patio, all clutching their mobile phones. Algerian music blared from parts unknown in the hotel. I stood at the unmanned reception desk and scanned the lobby for an employee.
Eventually, a thin young man approached the desk, and welcomed me with a toothy grin. In a smorgasbord of broken English, even more broken French, and Google Translate, I ordered some sort of vegetarian dinner. In some countries, I temporarily convert to being a vegetarian after viewing the handling of meat in a local market.
Omar, the hotel staff employee, informed me there was no restaurant and the food was going to take 90 minutes. I joined the 20 other Algerian men, slouched down on a couch, and stared at my iPad taking advantage of the slow wifi. Sweat trickled down my face, the evening was thick with heat and humidity.
My frustration and hunger grew as time ticked on after my 8 hour bus ride and also skipping lunch. After two hours, I approached Omar with Google Translate in hand. Still calm, but irritated, I asked where my food was. The food had been ready the whole evening. A lost in translation moment had just taken place. I then proceeded to my room, to shower off the humidity, and prepare for my desert trip the next morning. Yussein greeted me promptly at 9 in the morning.
