bejaia's damp charms: a botanist's messy wanderings

i'm sitting in a tiny cafe in bejaia, nursing a coffee that's almost as bitter as the wind whipping off the mediterranean. i just looked at my phone and it's showing a nippy 6.9°C but feels like a freezing 3°C, with humidity sitting at a sticky 87%--i'm already dreaming of a hot mint tea. the pressure's up at 1031 hpa, which apparently means the air is heavy, and it totally feels like it, like my lungs are working overtime. i swear i could see my breath fogging up the window as i type.



i've always been a plant nerd, so bejaia's coastal scrub and olive groves are like a living textbook. the landscape here is a mosaic of carob trees, wild pistachio, and those spiny, silver-green cistus bushes that smell like cheap incense when you rub the leaves. i walked down to the port and spotted some sea lavender (limonium) clinging to the rocks, its purple flowers defiant against the grey sky. the humidity's actually a godsend for these guys; they love the salt spray and the gritty limestone soil.

someone told me that the old market (souk) near the kasbah sells the freshest figs you'll ever taste, but i heard from a local that the best ones are in late august, and right now they're just tart little things. i did try some anyway, and wow, the skin was papery and the flesh was jammy with a hint of wild grass-i could practically taste the sun that never came. i guess that's what you get when you visit in november.

if i get bored, i can always zip over to Constantine or Algiers for a change of scenery. constantine's suspension bridges are supposedly breathtaking, and algiers has that chaotic casbah vibe that i'm both terrified of and drawn to. but bejaia has its own rhythm, a slow, damp pulse that's easy to fall into.

i checked TripAdvisor and saw a review that said the nearby tichy beach is "a stunner even when it's overcast." i haven't made it out there yet-i'm too busy botanizing the cracks in the sidewalk where chamomile and dandelion push through. there's something magical about a city that lets wild edibles grow between the cobblestones.

speaking of reviews, i overheard two tourists at the hostel arguing about the best tagine spot. one swore by Yelp that "Dar El Hana" was the best, the other claimed Algeria Travel Forum mentioned "Le Pêcheur" had the freshest seafood. i ended up at le pêcheur, and the grilled sardines were indeed melt-in-your-mouth, though the wine list was a sad, warm bottle of something local. still, the view of the fishing boats bobbing in the mist was worth the price.

i also found a thread on the algeria travel forum where someone posted a map of the "rare orchids of the kabylie region" (just a couple hours inland). i'm itching to go, but the thought of renting a car on these narrow, misty roads gives me the shivers. maybe i'll hire a local guide-there's a guy, malik, who does treks and apparently knows every medicinal plant in the area. i read on Flora of North Africa that some species are protected, so i'm sticking to observation only. it's harder than it looks, especially when every inch of this place is sprouting something edible.

the weather's been doing this thing where it drizzles lightly for an hour, then clears for ten minutes, then drizzles again. i love it-the light gets all soft and the city looks like a watercolor painting. i just checked my pocket barometer (i know, i'm a dork) and it's still hovering around 1031, so the air feels thick, like i'm drinking the humidity. it's perfect for the mosses and lichens that carpet the old stone walls. i even saw a patch of saxifrage growing out of a gutter, its tiny white flowers like fairy lights.

i've been scribbling notes in my field journal, trying to identify all the wild mints (mentha) that pop up in the hedges. there's at least three distinct types: one with round leaves that smells like peppermint candy, another with ragged edges that's more spearmint, and a third that's subtly citrusy-maybe a lemon balm relative. i'll have to send samples to the herbarium back home. but of course, you're not supposed to just start plucking plants in a foreign country without checking regulations. i read on Flora of North Africa that some species are protected, so i'm sticking to observation only. it's harder than it looks, especially when every inch of this place is sprouting something edible.

i'm starting to think that bejaia's real charm lies in its unpretentious, slightly decrepit beauty. the peeling paint on the buildings reveals layers of history-french colonial, ottoman, even roman influences if you look close. the locals are friendly but keep to themselves, unless you ask about plants, then they'll launch into stories about grandmas using rosemary tea for digestion or bay leaves to ward off the evil eye. it's like every plant has a folklore attaché.

as i sit here, the rain taps against the cafe awning, and i'm reminded why i love traveling as a botanist: you get to connect with a place through its greenery, through the tiny, often overlooked parts of the ecosystem. sure, i could have gone to the beach or the museum, but i find myself drawn to the weeds, the cracks, the places where life stubbornly pushes through. that's where the real story is.

anyway, i should probably get up and go find that fig tree someone raved about before it gets dark and the drizzle returns. i'll leave you with this: if you ever find yourself in bejaia, pack a warm jacket, bring a notebook, and don't forget to look down. you might just discover a whole new world under your feet.