Oran's Drummer's Diary: Rhythms in the High-Pressure Air

i just touched down in oran after a flight that felt like it lasted longer than my last relationship. dragging my drum kit through the airport was like wrestling an octopus in a phone booth - chaotic, sticky, and surprisingly loud. someone told me the best local gear is at *marché de la mer but honestly, i just need a decent cup of joe before i start banging things.

i just checked the pressure and it's...there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. the air feels like it’s been vacuum-sealed and left in a warehouse - dry, thin, and constantly reminding me how much my lungs miss moisture. humidity levels are practically nonexistent, which is great for drum tuning but terrible for my nose.

the local scene here? man, it’s like finding a beat in a hurricane. played at le dhow last night and the crowd moved like they were connected by invisible drumsticks. but someone warned me that the promoter tends to disappear after gigs - not exactly confidence-inspiring when you’re hauling 50 pounds of cymbals. if you get bored, algiers is just a short drive away.

"heard the french bakery near the port uses real butter - which is basically treason in this heat"

"that hotel? yeah, they’ll charge you extra for looking at the pool. true story"

found this hole-in-the-wall joint called café sidi chabab* where the espresso shots could wake the dead. or at least the drummer. locals swear by their merguez sandwiches, but honestly after 12 hours of travel, i’d eat cardboard if it had paprika. grab their details on yelp before they change their menu again.



the ground-level pressure here is bananas - 915 hpa or something? feels like my eardrums are doing interpretive dance. but hey, the temp’s holding steady at 10-ish, which means no swampy armpits during soundcheck. still, i heard the real action happens when the mercury drops - like that time the band froze our sticks to the floorboards in rabat. check the travel forum for horror stories.



tomorrow’s mission: find that sweet spot where the sea breeze meets the desert heat while lugging a snare drum up seven flights. wish me luck. or don’t - either way, my biceps are getting shredded.