Fun and Adventure Await in Benghazi!

The More Balls Than Brains Tour – Reunion!
After I checked off “193,” everyone—friends, family, co-workers—figured my days of hitting up “risky” spots were behind me. Why would I ever go back to some of those sketchier corners of the world? Surely now I’d just stick to the safe, sun-soaked resorts. Cabo, Ibiza, Tahiti—sounds logical, right? But where’s the fun in that? Real adventures don’t happen poolside with a piña colada. Sorry, Mom.

Libya was my first real dive into “scary” territory. My introduction to Africa. No easing in with a mellow trip to Cape Verde, South Africa, or Morocco. Nope, straight to Libya in 2016, with absolutely no clue what I was doing. Looking back, it was probably nuts—heading into a country still reeling from civil war, barely knowing how to navigate it. Insane, really. Turns out, I was the first tourist to set foot in Libya since Gaddafi’s fall. The whole experience? Absolutely amazing. And if you’re curious, you can (and should) check out the full story here. But trust me, that first trip was just a crash course in what it means to chase real adventure.

>>> RELATED: Leavin’ For Libya – My 2016 Journey to Tripoli <<<

Who Knew?
Here’s the thing—despite being absolutely terrified about going to Libya, here’s the plot twist: I ended up loving the place. Truly. All that fear, weeks and months of anxiety building up in my head, vanished within minutes of touching down. I’d imagined armed militias patrolling the streets, or angry mobs shouting at “the infidel,” while being hurried through town by my nervous guides. Hell, I even had visions of getting kidnapped. But what did I find instead? Families strolling through the main square, kids with balloons, popcorn vendors. I ate incredible food in bustling restaurants, wandered through stunning ancient Roman ruins. Tripoli didn’t just surprise me—I fell for it, hard. One night wasn’t nearly enough, and I swore I’d come back.

Well, that day finally came.

2016 Entry
I should probably break it down here. After Gaddafi’s fall and the ensuing power struggle, Libya’s still a country divided—split clean in half. There’s “The West,” aka Tripoli, which most of the world recognizes as the official government, and then there’s “The East.” It’s messy, and I won’t pretend to fully understand the situation or have any authority to explain it. But damn, is it fascinating, and I wanted to dive deeper.

Getting a visa for Tripoli is supposedly easier now with the new eVisa system. Back in 2016? Forget it. It was one of the hardest visas I’ve ever had to chase down. Tourist visas weren’t even a thing. In 2016, after jumping through hoops with applications, authorizations, and more, I finally landed there on a business visa for that first look. My guides even coached me on what to say if anyone asked—I was now the North African sales rep for Panasonic. As if the whole experience wasn’t stressful enough, I had visions of being tossed into a Libyan prison, charged with espionage. Just another layer to the craziness of that first trip.

>>> RELATED: Leavin’ For Libya – My 2016 Journey to Tripoli <<<

Movin’ on Up…to The East Side
Present day, I hopped online, buzzing with excitement, eager to snag my Tripoli eVisa. Too bad, I got ahead of myself. The visa never showed. Weeks went by, and that excitement turned into the sinking realization that I needed a Plan B. Fortunately, “The East”—yes, Benghazi—had its own visa process, completely separate from Tripoli. With the government split, the East doesn’t even acknowledge Tripoli’s visa. So, Benghazi it was.

Now, let’s be real: Benghazi isn’t just a name on a map for Americans. It’s a loaded word, wrapped up in fear and memories of the 2012 attack. Even I hesitated for a moment. But if I stopped going to places where bad things have happened, I’d never travel anywhere. Caution? Sure. But I was going.

Zee Papers Please
Getting that Eastern Libyan visa? Far from straightforward. There’s no eVisa, no embassy in the U.S. It’s basically a $500 donation to their military. I was in San Diego, clueless on how to actually make it happen. I scoured Libyan message boards, hit up Facebook groups, and got nowhere. But when have you ever seen me give up?

I started texting Benghazi travel agents on WhatsApp. One responded but couldn’t help. Then CouchSurfing—it seemed like a long shot, but I gave it a try. I met some kind Benghazi locals, but still no dice. Finally, I got lucky with an Airbnb host, Husam. The man had connections. Within hours of booking with him, the visa arrived in my inbox. Incredible.

Bound by Honor
Funny side note: I’d already wired $500 to another travel agent who couldn’t get the visa. He could’ve easily pocketed it, but instead, he passed the cash straight to Husam. Faith in humanity? Restored.

The journey to Benghazi was grueling. A 4:15 AM airport pickup in Montpellier, France, after a late-night gala. Yeah, I know—“champagne problems,” right?

A few flights later, I found myself in Tunisia, clutching that precious visa as I waited for approval from Benghazi. Those 15 minutes of waiting felt like forever, but the relief when they finally handed me my boarding pass? Pure joy. Benghazi, here I come.

Want to see the world through my lens? Follow me on Instagram and check out all my travel photos. Come along for the ride—I’d love to have you here: @rdub

A.P. Geography
It’s funny what eight years and 121 countries can do. I remember being terrified on my 2016 trip to Tripoli. This time? Cool as a cucumber. No extra questioning from immigration, just the satisfying thud of that passport stamp, and I was out into the warm Libyan night. My guide, Tareg, was waiting with a big smile. We were off in his white Kia, winding through the city as nightfall took over.

Tareg and I hit it off instantly. A family man with three kids, he spoke great English thanks to his 12 years in Australia. On the way to the hotel, he bought me eight containers of fresh juice and refused to let me pay. That’s the thing about Libya—everywhere I turned, there were these small, generous gestures. I wasn’t expecting it.

The Miras Hotel wasn’t exactly easy to find—tucked away down a dusty, unremarkable street, squeezed between a couple of residential buildings. But once inside, I was pleasantly surprised. My room? It had the kind of open-concept, high-ceilinged design that made it feel more like a loft than a hotel. Super comfortable. Perfect base camp for the next four days. And for $46 a night? Honestly, it might be the best deal I’ve ever stumbled across in all my travels. I slept like a baby, and the next morning’s complimentary breakfast? That alone would’ve cost more than 45 bucks back home. Absolute steal.

Day 1
That morning, Tareg—ever the gracious host—insisted on giving me a personal tour of Benghazi, free of charge. I couldn’t say no, especially after realizing just how scarce public transportation was here. Over the entire trip, I saw exactly *one* mini-bus and zero taxis. Seriously, not a single one. What kind of major city has no taxis? Turns out, Benghazi does. Or doesn’t, depending on how you look at it. Tareg explained that gas is so cheap—like, a buck to fill the whole tank—and cars are plentiful. Car insurance? Not a thing here. He also mentioned that he’s one of the only guys in town who wears a seatbelt—an old habit he picked up from over a decade living in Australia. Makes sense, but still surreal.

 

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Street Life
The traffic here? Total anarchy. Most of the signals were caked in dust, probably out of commission for who knows how long. The driving? Not even remotely like what you’d see back in The States. It was the kind of chaos you find in parts of the world where road rules are more of a suggestion than a guideline. You don’t politely flick on a blinker and wait for someone to let you in. No, you just go. Push your way into the flow, no apologies. The few traffic lights that still worked? More like gentle reminders than actual law.

I have to admit, I was pretty pumped when we pulled up to Le Géant—probably the nicest grocery store in the city. How did Tareg know I had this weird obsession with checking out grocery stores whenever I’m abroad? It’s a window into a country’s soul. I found myself fascinated by the little details, like why Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes were shipped all the way in from Brasil. But the bakery—that’s where the magic was. It was as gorgeous as it gets, nearly rivaled by the “date” and “olive” stations. Rows of glistening, plump dates, and olives of every kind, lovingly displayed like priceless jewels.

 

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Sweet Life
Next stop: Massaya, a sweet shop where they handed me a plate of pastries as a welcome gift. Just like that, no strings attached. I couldn’t help but wonder, where am I? The generosity was almost unsettling in its sincerity. But that’s Massaya for you—Libya’s unexpected hospitality in a sugar-coated package.

Rodeo Drive
Tareg and I rolled down Venice Street, a shopping avenue that’s risen from the rubble, quite literally. A symbol of Benghazi’s resilience. We parked and strolled through Benghazi Mall—sparkling floors, mannequins showing off the latest styles. It was as if the chaos outside never existed, a quiet moment of normalcy amidst a city still rebuilding.

After the mall, Tareg took me to Bala Beach Restaurant, a well-known seafood joint that’s got a bit of a reputation around here. In the foyer, he casually pointed out two fish chilling on ice, his favorites. No menu needed. The snapper hit the grill, and when it came out, it was perfect—crispy skin, tender flesh, everything you want in fresh fish. But what really blew me away were the sides. A dozen little bowls of sauces, pickles, and dips—each one more interesting than the last. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a whole experience.

FoodFest
Weeks before I touched down, I connected with Libyana Hits, a local radio station buzzing with energy. That afternoon, Omar arrived to pick me up, whisking me off to a food expo at the brand-new convention center—this was their inaugural event. I was gifted my own badge and was greeted by Marwan, the station’s morning show host, who acted as my personal guide through a maze of booths showcasing local food vendors eager to strut their stuff for restaurant owners, hoteliers, and retailers from across the globe.

Day Two
The next morning, I had this itch to break free—just me, the streets, and the thrill of getting lost in a new place. But not two minutes into my solo expedition, there was Tareg, barreling towards me in his Kia. “Good morning! Get in!” Well, who was I to refuse?

Our first stop was a local spot that fancied itself the “Starbucks,” a charming little joint called Rancillio. I ordered a cappuccino and a croissant filled with sweet cheese that was dangerously good. I mean, we’re talking about a pastry that could bring tears to your eyes.

After fueling up, we strolled along the water—this concrete-framed bay, an odd juxtaposition against the parliament building looming nearby. It was the kind of place where you could just soak in the atmosphere, feeling the pulse of a city finding its way back to life.

Old Town Road (Closed)
I asked Tareg to take me to the old city, but when we arrived, it was like stepping up to a closed door. The place was completely barricaded. Tareg explained that the whole area was being torn down for a fresh start, courtesy of some hefty investments from the UAE. It was a bummer, to be honest. I had my heart set on wandering through the medina, soaking in the vibe of those time-worn buildings and getting lost in the narrow alleys.

But it quickly became clear that Benghazi is a city on the rise, dusting itself off after the chaos of war, embracing growth, and welcoming foreign investment. While I mourned the loss of the “old” Benghazi, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of optimism for the locals. They’re poised to benefit from all this transformation, and that’s something to celebrate. Change can be painful, but it’s also a sign of resilience, and these folks are ready for their next chapter.

Next up was Falafel Station, where we dove into a classic Egyptian breakfast that was nothing short of a flavor explosion. We sipped tea, tore into fresh bread, and devoured some crunchy falafel, but the real star was this egg skillet packed with peppers and tomatoes that made my taste buds dance.

Waterslides and Rollercoasters 
From there, we cruised over to Golden Palm Resort. Tareg couldn’t contain his excitement about this beachfront waterpark, though, let’s be real—it was too early for the party to start. The place felt like a ghost town, waiting for the sun to rise and the fun to kick off. Still, there was something magical about the quiet anticipation in the air, like we were on the brink of some kind of adventure, just waiting for the world to wake up.

On the way back, I spotted this massive, multi-colored building with a sign that read “Disney Benghazi.” I had to check this out! Unfortunately, they were closed for the day, but that didn’t stop me from snapping photos of the outside to send to my friends back home. I mean, I’ve seen little piñata shops in Mexico shamelessly using Mickey Mouse without a license, but an entire theme park? This was a whole new level of awesome. I couldn’t help but wonder if Disney even knows about this place.

Kabobs and Kleenex
In the afternoon, we rolled over to Al Damaschy for some Syrian kabob wraps. This joint was a gem—huge copper ovens blazing away and friendly cats lounging around the outside tables, hoping for a few tasty scraps. After devouring those wraps, we headed back to Golden Palm to check out the scene. Kids were frolicking everywhere, and a dozen vendors were peddling their wares like it was a festival. The vibe was electric, a perfect snapshot of life buzzing along the Libyan coast.

I’m not sure if it was an allergic reaction to the dust or a cold from all the travel, but I found myself spending the next 20 hours holed up in my room. I had too many adventures on the horizon to let a little bug knock me down. So, I took it easy—flipping through TV channels, squeezing in some work, and dozing off here and there, waiting for whatever cooties were trying to take me down to work themselves out. It was just me and the room, a necessary pit stop before diving back into the chaos of this three-week African journey.

Day Three
The next afternoon, my third day in this whirlwind of a trip, Tareg swung by and took me to his friend’s printing shop. There, the owner, Dr. Osama Ahneash, greeted me with a plaque to commemorate my visit to Libya. I was speechless—just managed to mutter a heartfelt “thank you.” I’ve traveled a lot, but I’ve never felt so cherished and valued as I did here. I hadn’t done anything special; I just showed up, and suddenly, I was being treated like family. I still hadn’t even paid for a single meal, despite my insistence—this place had a way of wrapping you up in warmth and hospitality that was hard to shake off.

Wrong Side of the Tracks
Next, I joined Tareg on a mission to pick up a new coffee machine for the hotel, and it was the closest I got to the old city. My eyes lit up as we cruised past an outdoor market framed by the old, crumbling buildings, with demolition equipment parked nearby, ready to erase the past. Trash burned at the edges, the smoke curling up in a way that made my inner adventurer itch to break free from Tareg and capture this chaotic beauty—what looked like a warzone, though it clearly wasn’t. But that boyish thrill surged through me; it felt like a scene straight out of a movie.

Tareg, however, wasn’t having any of it. He shot me a look and warned me to keep my English on the down-low, saying there were some shady characters around. We navigated through a row of stalls, cutting through the produce market to get back to the car. I get it—Tareg wants to show off the new, shiny parts of Benghazi, and rightly so; there’s a lot to be proud of. But I’m the kind of guy who seeks out the gritty, questionable corners of a town. I crave mingling with the locals, feeling that rush of uncertainty that comes with it—it’s all part of the thrill!

>>> RELATED: Leavin’ For Libya – My 2016 Journey to Tripoli <<<

 

The Great Escape
Back at the hotel, I finally pulled off the great escape—sneaking away for a solo stroll just as dusk settled in. The kids were curious, waving and shouting “Hello!” and “How are you?!” as I wandered through a nearby park, soaking it all in. I drifted onto the street, snapping photos of the Gaddafi graffiti—a colorful testament to his unpopularity here. The locals? They despise him, and you could feel that disdain echoing off the walls.

As I walked, I passed a couple of boutiques selling classic Libyan menswear, and damn, did I wish I had more room in my suitcase. These outfits were stunning—bold colors, intricate patterns—a far cry from the bland threads back home. It was the kind of place where you could feel the history woven into every stitch, and I could only imagine the stories those clothes could tell if they could talk.

Want to see the world through my lens? Follow me on Instagram and check out all my travel photos. Come along for the ride—I’d love to have you here: @rdub

The General
The next morning, as I prepped for my early pickup, I stepped out onto the balcony and was hit by a chorus of “calls to prayer” echoing through the neighborhood—like a bunch of dysfunctional air raid sirens. It took me back to that same moment in Tripoli back in 2016. The sounds were haunting and strangely beautiful.

Soon, my driver arrived, a non-English speaking guy in a flowing white robe, ready to shuttle me to the airport. No seatbelts in this ride, so I clutched the “oh sh*t” handle above the window as we barreled out of the city and onto the smooth highway. Before heading into the terminal, I snapped a few last photos of General Haftar, whose larger-than-life presence loomed over everything.

The digital display outside showcased Haftar’s army obliterating the enemy in a relentless loop. On one side, video of ISIS committing heinous acts, and on the other, a patriotic montage of the “new” Libya under Haftar—fireworks, smiling faces, and endless shots of The General strutting around, waving like a rock star. You know the drill: classic dictator poses, all part of the show.

Since my trip to North Korea, I’ve been fascinated—maybe even a bit obsessed—with dictators and their propaganda. You know, the kind of places where you can’t walk fifty feet without bumping into a billboard of “the leader.” Benghazi felt like one of those spots, plastered with images of General Haftar at nearly every turn. And let me tell you, the guy deserves some credit—at least according to the stories I got from Tareg.

Haftar is the one who supposedly kicked out the bad guys, brought safety back to the streets, and is at the forefront of building a thriving eastern Libya while Tripoli drags its feet. Don’t take my word for it; these are just the tales I heard. But candidly? I believe them.

 

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That pricey visa and all the hoops I had to jump through to get here? Totally worth it. I had an absolute blast diving into the heart of Benghazi, all thanks to Husam and my good buddy Tareg. It blows my mind that I didn’t shell out a single dime for a meal the entire time I was here. Hell, I didn’t even bother changing money! Without public transportation, I’d have been lost without Tareg navigating the way. The way everything unfolded felt almost magical.

Tareg even threw out an invitation for a trip to The Green Mountains next time. Sounds like a plan, my friend, but mark my words: this time, I’m picking up the tab!

Contact, Airlines and Visa Info:
You can book Husam’s Airbnb right HERE. Now, I can’t say for sure if he’s sorting out visas for all his guests, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. He was a hero in my case.

Who knows, maybe Tareg will consider ditching the hotel manager gig and dive into the tour guide business. In my case, though, he was just GM who turned into a friend, and honestly, I can’t imagine he has the bandwidth to pull this off for every traveler. I got lucky—real lucky. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, but this was a guy who genuinely cared about showing me the heart of Benghazi, not just the sights. That kind of connection is rare, and I’m grateful for it.

And let’s talk air travel. After several failed attempts to buy a plane ticket online, I ended up using a travel agent in Benghazi—had to send the guy money. It worked out, though. Here’s his WhatsApp number: +218 92-6245904. And he only speaks Arabic, so fire up your translator app. I did this before even finding my Airbnb. Now, I can’t speak for Husam, but maybe he can help you with the ticket too. He is 100% English proficient.

Do yourself a favor and book with Berniq Airways. It’s a newer airline with clean planes, on-time departures, and its own slick, modern terminal at the Benghazi airport. Way better than the other options, where canceled flights seem to be the norm.

And heads up: PayPal, Venmo, and all those other digital payment services we take for granted? They don’t exist in Libya. So, if you’re sorting out visa payments or buying airline tickets, you’ll need to go old school and use Western Union. Obviously Husam is a champ, and the Benghazi travel agent mentioned above also took care of me—they’re solid.

>> RELATED: Leavin’ For Libya – My 2016 Journey to Tripoli <<<