The Algerian embassy in Washington, DC, had told me I might be allowed to cross over into their nation from Morocco (with whom they are at odds), but most certainly I was not to let anyone at their visa offices know that I am a journalist.

An aristocratic French with whom I had stayed in Revel, France, and who had lived in Algeria before the Algerians gained their independence from France in 1962, had descibed the Algerians to me as being reckless, militaristic, and largely insensitive to strangers.

Then there were the American consular officails in Rabat, Morocco: They had seemed to know even less than I--except that I would have to purchase 1,000 Algerian dinars as soon as I entered that country and, again, that I was not to let anyone know I am a journalist. I might get in, they said...and I might not.

And as for the Moroccans, well, they simply desribed their neighbors to the east as racist, stupid, and just plain crazy and beligerent.

All of the above, together with what I did know of Algeria--that its government is socialist, that tourism or visits by outsiders (except to work) is highly discouraged, and that most of of the geography is desert or semi-desert--was hardly encouraging.

Ever since Day One of my walk I'd worried that the Algeria/Morocco border might be the end of my walk across North Africa. And, as events did unfold, I would hardly have been blamed for re-routing my walk's path back to south Europe.

At the grimy Algerian consular offices in Oujda I was told I could cross into Algeria, but only if I went 400 kilometers south into the Moroccan Sahara Desert, to a small Moroccan town called Figuig. There I would have to walk across the "frontier" (the border) to the tiny Algerian village of Beni-Ounif. So, even though Algeria was but 14 kilometers from Oujda, I could not cross there, not even in a bus. The only persons allowed to cross at the Oujda post were those who had their own vehicles, or who worked or lived inside Algeria.

As tempted as I was to return at once to Europe and escape all the incredible pettiness and arrogance I 'd found in my dealings with the Arab governmental personnel, I nevertheless went ahead and got my visa,and took a long, bumpy, dusty bus ride to Figuig. Quite truthfully, when I stepped off that bus in the middle of the night in bitter cold Figuig, with a sandstorm tearing at my flesh and with nowhere to sleep but in a dilapidated, cinder-blocked, spider-infested place on a dark alleyway called the "Motel Sahara," all I could think of was how quickly I might be able to run to Tunisia and catch a boat to Europe. But, of course, there was first the problem of getting past the border guards in the morning. And, as it would turn out, that was to be quite nerve wracking.

First there were the Morocco police and military. They checked through nearly every bit of my gear for anything resembling drugs, or alchohol, or weapons. And then there was the obligatory paperwork. Once we'd finished, they sent me on my way with a warning that the Algerians would be sending me back soon enough. The last I saw of Morocco, as I disappeared down a camel path that traversed the several miles of no man's land between the two countries, was of four large canvas tents billowing beside a palm tree-ringed oasis.

At the stark metal shed that was the Algeria border checkpoint, I was ordered to strip to my underwear, and both my gear and my person were thoroughly checked for any contraband. Since I knew I would be listing my profession on their entry papers as "photographic artist," I had hidden beforehand any papers that might identify me as a journalist. To my relief they didn't check closely the object into which I'd hidden those papers--my English-language dictionary.

However, the commanding officer did find in my jacket a sealed envelope which conatined a personal letter from a student in Morocco to a friend of his in Algeria. And, to my horror, the letter writer identified me as "Mr. Steven Newman, an American journalist." My heart sank, as the officer looked me in the eyes and demanded to know if the student writer was correct in saying I was a journalist. Long aware that just such a situation may come along somtime on the walk, I had a ready lie.

"No, no, no--the Moroccan student is mistaken," I replied immediately and firmly. "I am as I told you--a photographic artist." Then, nodding confidentally at my gear, I added, "Perhaps because my photography sometimes appears in journals, the student thought I am a journalist."

The officer seemed stumped by the quickness of my reply. After several awkward seconds, during which he stared blankly at me, he turned and joined the other policemen standing just outside the door. They talked amongst themselves in low voices. The sun beating on my back through the open window seemed awfully hot. Then, at long last, the officer returned and ordered me to sit on a crude wooden chair. He sat on the edge of the only other peice of furniture, a desk, and stared intently into my eyes. It was if he was searching for some hint of dishonesty in my face. I had a feeling that, if I blinked, I was doomed.

To my shock, the officer, after what seemed a short eternity, let his shoulders relax, and he simply said sofee. I recognized the word immediately. It was Arabic for "That's all." It meant he was okay with me, and I could go on into Algeria.

The letter from the student, however, was not allowed any further. That he put carefully into the desk's main drawer.

Steven