Oran Chrestomathy II

Oran has long been known as "Haraam City" in Algeria (Haraam meaning "forbidden" in this context). This is largely because of the ready availability of alcohol, other intoxicants, and, well, prostitutes - available at least in comparison with other cities in Algeria and across the Maghreb generally. It also means that for those who are of the drinking persuasion it has been a destination spot. Thus the oil-truck drivers who picked me up in the desert told me that visiting the south was for suckers, but Oran was really the place to be. One of my normal cab drivers also got a big smile on his face and said, "Oran...hehehe, its a great city!" and then kept chuckling to himself after I told him I was going.



It has also been labeled (by some sociologist whose name I don't remember) as one of the last remaining "true" Mediterranean port cities, along with Naples. What this means is that it is dirty and there are plenty of places for a lonely sailor to spend his hard cash during an all-too-short shore leave. If you put on "Rain Dogs" by Tom Waits you could probably get an idea.



Of course, as an alcohol-imbibing foreign visitor to the city I took in the sights. In particular I should tell you all about The Meloman, the most rockin' bar on the continent (maybe an exaggeration, maybe not). The Meloman is located, as is everything else in Oran, on a dark and dirty street, free from any overhead lighting save the moon. About a block out you start to hear the music, and the shapes staggering past in the night begin to materialize in the red glow of the neon sign outside. Push through the door and you are met by a giant, grizzled bouncer who actually could (and would) kick your ass if you got out of line, past whom is a little wall blocking your view to what by now sounds like a Stooges concert circa 1972, with a little more keyboard.



Turn the corner around the wall and you are transported through space and time (and reality) to a scene straight out of everyone's favorite Patrick Swayze vehicle, "Roadhouse." Dark wood tables and booths, a long bar, people smashed into every square inch, a small dancefloor with people sweatily shaking it, and a live karaoke band with a man singing, when you first get in, Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall (pt.2), and the whole bar screaming along with the chorus: "we don't need no education! we don't need no thought control!" in English and everything. Squeezing through the crowd is the team of prostitutes who work the bar, some eating dinner with patrons, others dancing on the tables, and most just looking surly (which is the appropriate look, considering). There is little room to stand, and you have to watch like a hawk to get a table when people leave, but in the Meloman everyone is your best friend (as long as you don't act like a gringo). People will buy you beers, women can come into the bar and remain entirely unmolested (as compared to, say, walking down the street in Algiers), can drink and smoke with the men, and leave by themselves. They serve beer, whiskey, tequila if you wish, wine, and all of it costs 250DA a glass. The music really makes the place, however, as the live karaoke band plays everything from old honkeytonk (special for the Americans) to Europop to '90s rock to Algerian Andalousian to Rai, and the owner comes out and tops it off by serenading the bar with Sinatra.



So then you stumble out into the cool night, check to make sure you're not being followed (hey, it still is Algeria: a bit o' the paranoia is always in order), wander home, and fall asleep dreaming of a man with a bad haircut, giant mustache, three-piece suit, and a thick accent belting out "Like a Virgin" with all his heart.