Libya and Algeria have a lot in common. Both North African countries encompass vast tracks of Saharan desert and their capitals and major cities are on or near the Mediterranean. Both possess some of the ancient world’s finest archaeological sites and both experienced long periods of European colonization.

In a way, the difficulties modern travelers experience in obtaining visas for these countries are a legacy of their troubled modern histories. While one can land in Morocco, Tunisia, and Eqypt without a prearranged visa, Libya and Algeria have strict entry requirements.

Things have recently become easier in Libya with group tourist visas available upon arrival for members of prearranged package tours. Trouble is, airline officials are often unfamiliar with the change and passengers without proper documentation are routinely denied boarding for Tripoli at European airports. Only those in possession of an advance clearance form in Arabic bearing their name and passport number are allowed through.

Is it worth it? Having just returned from 10 days touring the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, I can say yes without reservations. The Libyans are universally friendly and the country is quite safe to visit. Tour group members will have all the rough edges smoothed out for them (there are numerous police checkpoints along the highways). At this time of year, the climate is cool and invigorating. Even the food is pretty good (although less chicken and more fish would be an improvement on the tour circuit).

The ancient cities of Sabratha west of Tripoli, Leptis Magna east of Tripoli, and Apollonia and Cyrene east of Benghazi are nothing short of spectacular. Modern Tripoli and Benghazi have bustling markets and streets lined with Italian buildings dating from before the war. Tripoli’s Medina or old town is very well preserved with numerous mosques and historic buildings, plus an excellent National Museum in the Al-Saraya al-Hamra Fortress.

But Libya’s most memorable sights lie farther south. The old city of Ghadames near the point where Libya, Tunisia, and Algeria meet remains as it was in the time when Saharan caravans passed this way. Ghadames residents moved to an adjacent new city some years ago, allowing the undamaged old town to remain intact. Deeper into the Libyan Sahara are high shifting sand dunes best explored in 4X4 vehicles. The Saharan lakes hidden in this desert must be seen to be believed, while the rock carvings at Wadi Matkhandoush are thousands of years old.

I visited Libya with Caravan-Serai Tours of Seattle, Washington, which has another trip coming up in late February. Expect to pay around US$3,000 per person including all transportation, admissions, accommodations, and meals in Libya. Delta Airlines can fly you to Tripoli from many American cities for around US$1,200 return. Just make sure you have that Arabic group visa clearance form before heading out! Of the 1,117 photos I took in Libya, my 47 favorites are on my Flickr page.

Set to take place from June 11th to July 11th, this World Cup marks the first time that the tournament will be hosted by an African nation.

Despite concerns about infrastructure, construction, crime and controversies over forced eviction of the poor, South Africans and soccer fans alike are getting excited. Alicia Keys, The Black Eyed Peas, John Legend, Shakira, and others are set to perform at the opening ceremonies and global participation in the event is unrivaled, even by the recent Beijing Summer Olympics. Soccer is truly a sport that is played in every corner of the planet.

As an urban soccer mom and surrounded by a crew of international friends, soccer players and fans, I’m definitely looking forward to the tournament. If you are headed to the event from afar, you will probably want to add on to your trip. Wine tasting in the Capelands sounds like a great balance to the hooligan soccer frenzy that Wold Cup play can inspire.

Looking to book a safari? An article in Cookie Magazine, by Sarah Verdone, offers some great suggestions for a family safari. South Africa also has some of the top surfing destinations in the world, just watch out for those Great Whites!

Whether you plan to watch some games in person or are getting ready to watch from your couch or bar stool, get in the mood by checking out all that the destination of South Africa has to offer visitors.

The list was compiled by Jeff Greenwald and Christy Hoover at EthicalTraveler.org, a nonprofit organization (part of the Earth Island Institute) that urges travelers to spend their travel dollars in ways that protect human rights and minimize impacts on the environment. They acknowledge that no country on the list is perfect (what country off the list is?) but they found lots of hope and inspiration in many places.

Some countries that made the top 10 may surprise you, others may make complete sense to you. Alphabetically they are:

Argentina
Belize
Chile
Ghana
Lithuania
Namibia
Poland
Seychelles
South Africa
Suriname

The Ethical Traveler report discusses the attributes and endeavors that allowed these countries to rise to the top. The next step for us is to see which of these places are on our travel wish lists and start planning.

In fact, seeing the Egyptian Pyramids wasn’t even my top priority when I arrived. I wanted to see Cairo, the fabled markets and crowded streets and the legendary River Nile. Even a visit to the Red Sea ranked pretty high on my list. I figured the pyramids would be another stop on my tourist path, granted an awesome stop, but I hadn’t given them much thought beyond that.

My itinerary gave me one afternoon to wander around Cairo before flying to Sharm el-Sheik. When I returned to Cairo three days later I had a window seat on the aircraft and was awed by the desperately dry Sinai below and the sparkling Gulf of Suez, a dramatically incongruous conjoining of land and sea. A short time later my seatmate, who had been keeping up a pretty good stream of monologue while looking over my shoulder, bellowed: “The pyramids! The pyramids!”

Every soul on the plane now knew that the pyramids were visible out the left side of the aircraft. I looked and sure enough, there was a stout brown edifice rising from the desert just beyond the Nile. It was a thrill to see, but from the air it appeared less pyramidal than I expected, less impressive than I thought it would be. A moment into these thoughts I discovered why. Suddenly, a little farther north, two huge, perfect pyramids and a smaller third rose above the surrounding landscape. My breath caught.

They were gigantic. They dwarfed the crowded stretch of buildings composing modern Cairo that marched toward the Nile and then stopped, as if turned back by the grandeur of these ancient structures. The pyramids of Giza appeared to cover several square blocks, incomprehensibly vast monuments that towered above the buildings of today’s city, looking as if they could swallow whole neighborhoods without a burp.

I stared at those structures until they passed from view, contorting my body trying to keep them in sight. When they were truly gone I sat back feeling as if I’d just seen a man from Mars, proof of an afterlife, or an angel on the wing. I’d had no idea the pyramids had such power, and suddenly I knew I had to see them up close. I’m sure I wasn’t the first person to underestimate the accomplishments of the ancient Egyptians, and my visit to Egypt took on a whole new dimension.

Simple embroidery decorated the shirt pocket. A buttonless slit ran from near the pocket to the collarless neckline. Cut like a t-shirt but elegant in its whiteness in the desert sun, the shirt flapped like a flag in his brown fingers.

I walked directly up to him as his eyes caught mine. He instantly brightened, knowing perhaps before I did that he would sell me that shirt.

“Hello my friend,” he said. “Look, very nice shirt for you.”

“Hello,” I said, reaching out to feel the fabric.

“It’s beautiful cotton, touch, you see. I give you good price.”

It was beautiful cotton, soft and plush yet light for the desert heat. The cartouche on the pocket was understated yet elegant, reflecting the reliefs of the temple I was about to visit.

He held it up to my shoulders to show it was the right size. I gestured to ask if I could try it on.

“Yes, yes. This is the right size. Nice for you.”

“Not now,” I said. “I have to catch the boat to the temple.”

I was using the oldest ruse in the book, deferring any decision until later, not facing the reality of the trade, the back and forth of false anguish and protestations of a price too high, an offer too low. Plus, maybe I didn’t really want the shirt, maybe he wouldn’t see me returning with the hordes of tourists.

“You come back, I give you good price. What is your name?”

“‘Larry,’” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Mohammed. You come back, I wait for you. I give you good price.”

We shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Mohammed had the face of an honest man, a good guy. It was the first rule of sales: make the customer like you.

I went off with the group and wandered about the temple on the hill dedicated to Osiris, returning filled with awe at the depth of the legend, the richness of ancient Egyptian life.

I’d also decided that I would pay no more than $10 for the shirt, because I didn’t need it, could get something similar for not much more money at home, and if it wasn’t a bargain I didn’t need to add it to my load of luggage.

When I’d climbed a few steps up the ramp on shore I spotted Mohammed, waiting in a line of merchants before the row of shops, scanning the crowds looking for me, the shirt draped over his arm.

I waited until he spotted me, knowing he would, and waved to him. His hand shot up, his face brightened, and he strode toward me.

“Come, come, my friend, I give you good price.”

We shook hands again, and rather than haggle on the street, as I expected we would, Mohammed led me up the road to his shop, the last one in the long row, the first when we got off the bus. When we stepped inside we were alone.

Again Mohammed held the shirt up against my shoulders to show it would fit. I took off my hat and glasses and set them aside, then took the shirt and pulled it on with Mohammed’s help. He was right, it did fit.

“I give you the shirt for only 150 Egyptian pounds. Very good price for you.”

Roughly thirty dollars.

“No, that’s way too much, Mohammed,” I said. “I’ll pay twenty pounds.” Less than five dollars.

“Oh, my friend, that’s not a good price. I must pay for the material and sewing, and something for me. You understand, I must make some profit. One hundred fifty is a good price for you.”

“No, Mohammed, 150 pounds is way too much. That’s very expensive. I will pay twenty pounds.”

It didn’t take long before Mohammed dropped to 140…130…120. I came up to 30…40…and I finally got to my last price, 50, but only when I told him I had to leave now, that he wanted too much.

“Okay, 50,” he said with a gentle hand to my arm as I started out of his shop.

“Do you have change?” I asked as I showed him a 100 pound note.

“Yes, yes,” he said, pulling a fistful of wadded bills out of his galibeyah. It took a moment but he found correct change, then reached for a plastic bag.

“No, no bag, Mohammed, I’ll put it in my pack. But  may I take  your photo?” I pulled out my camera to show him.

“Yes, yes,” he said. He backed up to his wall full of garments, a perfect background.

I took two shots of his handsome face, the rightward tilt suggesting tranquility, insouciance. We were friends now. We shook hands.

Then he reached to a rack behind and pulled out a red shirt, back to business. “Buy two, good price, this color—” he draped the shirt over my arm and reached back for a blue one “—this color also very nice on you.”

I handed the shirt back. “No, Mohammed, I need to go.”

He draped the red shirt over my arm again. “Good price, my friend, not fifty, forty for this one.”

Again I handed the shirt back, then headed out of the shop into the sunshine. Mohammed was right behind me.

He insisted I needed another shirt for such a good price. I was equally insistent that I didn’t need one. But the closer I got to the bus, the closer I got to offering him something and taking the shirt. Hey, it occurred to me, I could give it to my friend James.

I stopped short of the bus steps and said, “Twenty. I’ll give you twenty.”

“Oh, my friend—”

“Twenty,” I repeated. “No more.”

His friendly smile returned. “Okay, twenty,” he said, handing me the shirt. I gave him a 20 pound note, thanked him, and reached out my hand. He gripped it firmly, smiled, then turned and headed back to his shop.

On the bus I found James and held up the red shirt.

“James, do you like this shirt?”

“Yes. Very nice.”

“Do you like the color?”

“Yes.”

I tossed it to him. “It’s yours.”

And it was. For not much more than the cost of a coffee latte in San Francisco, it was no longer Mohammed’s shirt. Now it was James’s.

The gnarled, web-like fists of Rosa Santa Maria mystified me.

“It’s good for luck, and smells good in the home,” one shopkeeper said.

The overflowing barrels of dark red whorls?

“Hibiscus.”

The green reed-like stalks. Lemon grass?

“No lemon grass. Lemon tea,” he said.

“And that?” I pointed to a barrel of what looked like gray hay.

“Bedouin tea.”

Tasty, no doubt, and refreshing, I’m sure, especially on a cold desert night.

“Alabaster” pyramids, “jeweled” boxes, stylized cats, hookahs, sand paintings in vases, papyrus paintings, decorative plates, pharaohs’ busts, cotton head scarves and belly-dancing wraps, the list goes on and on. Almost every shop sells the same merchandise and their only hope for business is to befriend visitors without being pushy.

I must say that the shopkeepers of Sharm el-Sheikh’s Old Market do a very good job of it. My friends and I were engaged in friendly banter, cajoled into entering shops, women in our group were patiently costumed from head to foot in colorful Egyptian scarves, but never in a couple hours of wandering were we ever hassled.

The end result? We bought some things we didn’t need and probably wouldn’t have purchased otherwise. We parted with our funds happily and felt we’d made a personal connection with the merchants. And we put a small amount of money into the local economy that wouldn’t have circulated without us. Sure, we bought only tourist souvenirs, but my daughters will like the two pyramids I got for them and they’ll always remember I brought them home from Egypt.

Maybe the voice of God was speaking quietly, because my friends and I were sitting across the street from where a terrorist bomb exploded in 2005, destroying an entire row of shops and killing many people. The shops have been rebuilt, the neighborhood is friendly, especially in the evening when the shadows soften the harsh sun and the lights of shops cast a festive glow over the streets. A crescent moon and resplendent Venus added to the spell.

I sipped Turkish coffee, my friends drank mint tea, and we commented on the burning bush, a scrawny conifer the size of a small Christmas tree that was so ideally-shaped it might well have been a fake. There it stood, with an identical friend, two symbols of greenery atop an otherwise barren rocky ridge, flashing with light every second or two.

The absurdity of it made me laugh, and prompted me to shoot a six-second video of it just for fun. A moment later I shot another video, of a big flashing sign just down the street proclaiming, “Merry Christmas 2009.” The merchants of Sharm el-Sheikh are taking no chances after a poor tourist season. They’re getting an 11-month jump on Christmas.