Leavin’ For Libya

IMPORTANT NOTE: This article is part of a 12-chapter series on my trip to Africa: Libya was the eleventh country of twelve African nations I visited in December of 2016. It’s best to read the chapters in order, as they build on one another. To see countries number one through six, please go HERE. It’s best to read the stories/countries in order.

The captain’s voice boomed through the cabin: three resounding “Allahu Akbars,” and my spine tingled. The cabin door slammed shut, sealing my fate. There was no turning back now.

You see, there are a million moments to pull the plug on an adventure, and they start the moment you book the ticket. You can second-guess yourself right up until you sink into that airplane seat. As long as that cabin door stays open, you can just get up and walk away. But once you hear that unmistakable “ker-clunk,” you know you’re committed. Buckle up; the ride has officially begun.

So, why Libya? Out of all the incredible places I could be, why choose one of the most unstable countries on the planet at such a chaotic time? Since Gaddafi’s demise, Libya has become a battleground for rival militias, making it one of the most dangerous spots on Earth. It’s a place without an official government—essentially, a lawless wonderland. So, what possessed me to venture there now?

The answer, though it may seem reckless: I was just too damn close to resist. I had mapped out a 12-country journey through West Africa, but a flight change forced me to reroute north, swinging through Tunisia, which happened to be the closest I could get to Libya. A flight from Tunis to Tripoli felt like a hop from LAX to Vegas. I had to investigate. Unfortunately, I have a habit of “dreaming it, then doing it.” Just weeks later, I found myself with airline tickets, a visa, and a hotel reservation. I was actually going to Libya—one of my proudest, or perhaps my dumbest, “WTF” moments ever.

But let me tell you, this was no walk in the park. Booking a trip to Libya turned out to be tougher than getting into North Korea. The obvious reason? The country had completely halted the issuance of tourist visas. That should’ve been my first red flag, right alongside the State Department’s stern warning for all Americans to “leave Libya immediately.” Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?

But no, I wasn’t ready to back down. I found a tour company that would somehow secure me a business visa to get into the country. Seems legit, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Weeks—or maybe months—later, after a bank wire to the tour company, an official invitation from the Libyan Businessmen’s Association, and a stack of forms and a check sent off to the Libyan Embassy in New York, I was finally all set to go.

The in-flight meal did little to ease my nerves, but at least it distracted me for a few moments as I tried to decipher what the hell I was staring at. It was some cold, cut-up, omelet-like cake. Yep, that’s exactly what it was: a cold, cut-up omelet-cake. But hey, a terrified traveler with a full stomach is always better than one with a rumbling gut. I’ve got to hand it to these African airlines; they actually serve food on short flights. You just had to eat like your life depended on it—wolfing down your meal before the flight attendants came back ten minutes later to clear your tray.

So here I was, on a flight into Tripoli, blissfully ignoring all the warnings that had been screaming at me for weeks. Friends and family were practically begging me not to go. The State Department had slapped a big ol’ no-go sticker on the place, reminding anyone daring enough to visit that they’d be on their own if things went sideways. What really got under my skin were the locals I met in Africa—every single one of them urged me to steer clear. “Not now,” they said, shaking their heads like I was walking into a lion’s den.

But the universe really piled on the signs. Take Ghana, for example: I check into my hotel, and what’s playing on the monitors? CNN, covering a live Libyan hijacking—on the exact airline I was booked on! Yeah, that was a solid warning if there ever was one. But somehow, I was still on my way, drawn like a moth to a flame.

At the airport in Ghana, on my way to the Ivory Coast, I spotted a fellow traveler checking in for his flight to Libya and thought, why not ask the expert? Turns out, the guy owned an African tour company—so yeah, I figured he’d have some solid intel. Well, he didn’t hold back. With a face that looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon, he sternly advised me not to go.

And get this: the night before my original flight to Libya, I missed it. Yep, the plane took off an hour early—without me. How many signs does a guy need before he finally gets the message that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the right time to be visiting a war-torn country?

But here I was, descending into Tripoli’s Mitiga Airport. Oh, and just to add a cherry on top, Mitiga isn’t even the main airport; that one got blown up. So now, all flights are rerouted here. Fantastic.

What had me sweating bullets wasn’t just the fact that I was landing in a hot zone; it was getting through the airport. From my research, I learned that different militias controlled different parts of Libya, including the airport. How would they treat an American trying to waltz in and out? Even worse, I heard stories from a couple of contacts about immigration officials accusing foreign visitors of being spies on entry. I mean, what other business would an American have in Libya? Alone? You can bet your last Dinar they’d think I was a spy.

Honestly, I’ve never been so scared in my life. At least when I flew to North Korea, there were other tourists on board, and I was under the watchful eye of a government-sanctioned tour. This trip? It felt like something straight out of a James Bond flick—except I’m not packing suave charm and I’ve got a bad back. What could possibly go wrong?

To my surprise, getting through immigration was a breeze. I found myself as the sole occupant of the “Non-Libyan Citizen” line—maybe that’s a hint of what I was getting into. Sometimes, visiting unstable countries has its perks.

Once I got my stamp, it was time for the second moment of truth: stepping into the arrival hall. That’s always a nerve-wracking moment in a sketchy country. You’ve just left the safety of airport security and uniformed officials, only to be thrust into a chaotic sea of locals—complete with hustlers trying to sell you overpriced taxi rides and black market money exchanges. It’s like jumping out of a plane: you can’t turn back, so you just have to power through. Time to put on your game face and pretend you belong, or at least act tough like you know what you’re doing.

But, of course, I had no clue what I was doing. All I knew was I had to find my contact, Salem, who was supposed to be standing right there, sign in hand with my name on it. But there was nothing—no sign, no Salem. I’d survived Caracas Airport, proudly labeled “The World’s Most Dangerous Airport,” so I knew not to panic. Just act natural. But inside, my heart was racing, and my inner voice was screaming, “F___, f___, f___, f___.” No one was there waiting for me.

So, I had no choice but to wait it out. Taking a taxi into town alone? Not a chance. In places like this, the rule is to talk to no one. As my heart rate finally began to calm, I feigned a phone call, all the while recording video of the airport with my phone. Just trying to look busy while I waited for my ride.

To make matters worse, there was no WiFi, so I couldn’t reach out to my tour guide through WhatsApp or email. In the back of my mind, I figured the worst-case scenario was hopping the next flight back to Tunis. But just as I was about to sink into despair, through the crowd came a guy in his fifties, rocking a Members Only jacket and holding a sign with my name on it. This was Salem, one of my guides, and let me tell you, I was over the moon to see him. We shook hands, and then out popped Yousef, my second guide. Finally, we were ready to roll.

The first drive into a place like Tripoli—or Caracas, for that matter—always fills me with a mix of fear and paranoid observation. It’s like being a cat that’s just bolted out of the house for the first time: treading lightly, wide-eyed, taking in everything. In Caracas, we hit a roadblock with soldiers toting machine guns within the first mile. Luckily, our drive into Tripoli was uneventful, thank the travel gods.

Fifteen minutes later, we were parked, and there I was, standing under the Arch of Marcus Aurelius. This marble marvel, still standing proud in the center of town, was built back in 165 A.D. I couldn’t believe it—I was actually under it, snapping selfies and running my hands over the cool stone…in Libya! It was surreal, a moment that felt like history coming alive.

And not a single tourist in sight. Absolutely incredible. In that moment, everything clicked. This was why I travel the way I do. All those months of doubt and anxiety suddenly felt worth it; the fear and trepidation gave way to pure appreciation, excitement, joy, and a deep sense of humility. It was that sweet moment of triumph—the mouse who finally got the cheese after risking it all. You risk life and limb, and then you get to savor that elusive reward.

For the next couple of hours, Salem, Yousef, and I wandered through the Medina, soaking in the ancient buildings that were crumbling before our very eyes. Yousef was a walking encyclopedia of architecture, and I wish I’d thought to record his passionate lectures as we strolled. He pointed out which structures were built by the Italians and which ones dated back to the Ottoman Empire. You could feel his heartbreak over the deterioration of these once-majestic edifices, many of them collapsing and left to decay. It was like watching history fade away, and he was visibly affected by it.

Yousef pointed out that many of these buildings had been taken over by squatters since the war. The wild part? Most of the new constructions going up were happening without permits or even any claim to the land. People were just throwing up houses and apartments on a whim, no zoning laws to worry about, no one around to enforce the rules. It was a total free-for-all in Libya right now. While there was a certain thrill to it, it also sent a jolt of reality through me. I had to stay sharp and watch my back—if things went south, who would come to my rescue?

The narrow alleys twisted and turned as we passed locals of all ages going about their day. Unlike Caracas, where I had to keep my iPhone under wraps, my guides gave me the green light to shoot whatever I wanted—well, except for the cops and soldiers, of course. Old habits die hard, though; I still found myself asking before clicking away. From my time in Algeria, I’d learned that it’s always a good idea to be mindful of women in the frame, so I had to time my shots just right. I’d already been scolded at least half a dozen times on this trip through Africa, so I was getting the hang of capturing moments quickly and discreetly.

Yousef had a way of peeling back the layers of Libyan history that made everything come alive. As we wandered through the old Jewish quarter, we stumbled upon an old synagogue. Yousef pointed out the special “exit” the Jews used to have to leave the neighborhood—a quiet back way. It was a chilling reminder of a time long gone, before they were expelled from Libya, and worse things followed. The weight of that history hung heavy in the air, and it made me appreciate the stories hidden in every corner of this city.

Stumbling upon a Christian church that was actually open felt like a minor miracle. Yousef was thrilled—he told me it hadn’t welcomed visitors in as long as he could remember. The head priest, a guy named David from India, greeted us with genuine warmth. I was taken aback that a Christian church could even exist in Libya, let alone be accessible. David laid out the rules like a curious guide: no ringing church bells, no crosses displayed on the building, and no printed material with any cross imagery. It left me wondering which was more astonishing: the existence of a Christian church in Libya or the fact that they couldn’t do normal church stuff like ring a bell or proudly display the cross. It was a stark reminder of the tightrope faith walks in a place like this, where tradition and restrictions dance a precarious waltz.

Next up, I found myself invited inside a mosque, and let me tell you, my nerves kicked in. I’d always been told that mosques were off-limits to non-Muslims, and visions of getting arrested and tossed into a Libyan jail started flashing through my mind. But instead of being dragged away, I was welcomed to remove my shoes and step inside alongside Salem and Yousef. The moment I crossed the threshold, I was hit with the beauty of the place—the intricate designs, the serene atmosphere. It was a genuine privilege to experience it from the inside. This was the kind of moment that reminds you why you travel—sneaking past those invisible barriers and just soaking in the richness of another culture. It felt pretty damn cool.

Next, we meandered over to an indoor market bursting with life—dozens of stalls hawking everything from glimmering gold to rustic copper, and a winding row dedicated to stunning textiles. I couldn’t resist slipping into a souvenir shop, my eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. My two small bags were already stuffed to the brim, but I was determined to snag a piece of Libya to take home. I loaded up on goodies: magnets, a gorgeous engraved plate, quirky keychains, a passport cover, and a photo book showcasing Benghazi. I had no idea how I’d squeeze it all into my bags, but I was ready to sacrifice some clothes if it came down to it. After all, who cares about a few extra shirts when you can bring back a slice of Libya?

We found ourselves in the main square, buzzing with life. Families were out in force, kids running around and feeding the pigeons like it was the most normal thing in the world. It filled me with a sense of hope to see those small joys: a cotton candy vendor with a bright smile, stalls overflowing with colorful balloons and toys. It was heartening to witness these simple pleasures thriving in a place that’s been through the wringer of civil war and chaos. In a world that often feels heavy, these moments of lightness remind you that life finds a way to endure.

After wandering through the maze of history etched into the architecture around me, the stomach growl finally became too loud to ignore. We piled into the car and cruised over to a local spot that promised a feast fit for kings. The table was soon piled high with a spread of local delights: crisp salads, tender lamb, and fluffy rice. I was starving, and by the time we finished, I rolled out of that place completely stuffed. The food was fantastic, but the company? Even better. It’s these simple, shared meals that remind you what travel is really about.

As night fell, it was time to call it a day. The guys led me to my digs for the evening: The Awal Hotel. I had a sneaking suspicion I was the only guest in the place; the halls felt more like a ghost town than a bustling hotel. It was so dark when I arrived that the power didn’t even kick on until I’d settled into my room. Guess when you’ve got no guests in a five-story hotel, there’s no point in wasting electricity.

After Yousef and Salem waved their goodbyes, I was left alone to contemplate my existence in this strange land. Not exactly how I pictured spending New Year’s Eve, but wandering around the block solo didn’t seem like the best idea either. So, I parked myself in front of the TV and scrolled through hours of CNBC—the only English channel I could find. The heat refused to cooperate, so I huddled under the covers in my clothes, trying to shake off the chill and the surreal feeling of being in Libya.

At the stroke of midnight, the air erupted with gunfire—celebratory, I hoped. It sounded like a scene out of a war movie. Eventually, I drifted off around 2 AM, but not without a restless mind. I was in Libya, for crying out loud! Come dawn, I was up at five, packing my things, grabbing a couple of croissants, and gearing up for the ride to the airport with Salem.

God bless Salem—what a stand-up guy. He surprised me with a box of Libyan dates as a parting gift, and we shared a coffee at the airport before the inevitable goodbyes. I asked him to stick around just in case I hit a snag at immigration, and he graciously agreed. Both Salem and Yousef were absolute pros and genuinely good folks. They were knowledgeable, responsive, and welcoming, clearly thrilled to have me around. They mentioned I was their first tourist since the civil war, which made the experience all the more special. They took exceptional care of me, and I’ll carry the memory of their kindness with me always.

As I strolled to the departure gate, I accidentally breezed right past a checkpoint and caught an earful from a young soldier. Crap! I quickly backpedaled, presenting my docs for inspection before he waved me on. Smooth move, genius!

Then, of course, I hit a snag at immigration while trying to leave. They gestured for me to step around the desk, and next thing I knew, they were rummaging through my bag—everything, I mean everything! They went through my toiletries, combed through all my documents, and this officer—who wasn’t even in uniform—was on a mission. He took a particular interest in my stash of souvenirs, zeroing in on my refrigerator magnets.

When he pointed to one featuring a man’s face and demanded, “Gaddafi???!!!” my heart dropped. Holy crap, was I about to be locked up for a fridge magnet? Gaddafi is a still a touchy subject in Libya. “I don’t know,” I stammered, feeling the sweat start to bead up. And then, out of nowhere, he laughed. Was he just messing with me?

He did snag my shiny new plastic passport cover that proudly proclaimed “Libya,” telling me since I wasn’t a citizen, I couldn’t have it. It was just a souvenir, but I wasn’t about to argue—take it! He also had a hard time wrapping his head around my packet of Emergen-C powder. “Vitamins,” I said. When that didn’t register, I tried again, this time in Spanish. “Vitaminas.” What was I thinking? We weren’t in Mexico!

After they rifled through my bag, they spent ages poring over my passport pages, grilling me about where I worked and what I was doing in Libya. “Hello??? I’m just ramblin’, duh!”

When the officer excused himself and strolled into an office with my passport, my stomach dropped. “Here come the spying accusations,” I thought. But thank God, he returned, handed my passport back, and waved me through. I swear those last five minutes felt like a lifetime—talk about intense!

Thirty minutes later, we were wheels up and headed back to Tunis. I’d done it. I’d really done it. Against the advice of many and a million warning signs, I’d made it into Libya and back out again. What a stunning country with an incredible history. Here’s hoping for the good people of Libya—that they get the stability and peace they deserve. I left with so many questions, so much more to learn, and an insatiable hunger for more. I’d love to come back someday, spend way more time there…and pick up a whole lot more refrigerator magnets.

SEE PART TWO: My 2024 Trip to Benghazi HERE.

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Interested in visiting Libya? Do your research first, and if you still want to go, contact Sherwes Travel here. Tell ’em Ramblin’ Randy sent you.

This entry was posted in Africa