The stub of plane ticket is stuck between the pages of my notebook. It's from June 27, on a Precision Air flight from Dar es Salaam to Arusha. That day I was supposed to leave Tanzania and fly to Dubai. Instead, I jumped off the plane in Dar, canceled my ticket and flew back to Arusha. I stayed in Africa for another month, days that shook how I viewed the world, writing, travel and my role in all of it. When I finally flew back to Seattle, tears (discreetly) streamed down my face. I didn't want to leave.
Lost in that, however, was the aborted visit to Dubai. Now I'm here. Judging the Middle East from Dubai is a bit like drawing conclusions about the U.S. from Las Vegas. But the region fascinates me, even through the fog of jet lag. Cranes fill the skyline outside my window. They might as well be Dubai's symbol. The sprawling boomtown feels like a giant construction zone. Traffic is hellacious. The diversity is surprising, feeling as if Arabs are in the minority, with millions of workers from Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and Indonesia. You can buy anything here. Eat any kind of food. Stay at the world's best hotels. Entertain yourself in every imaginable way. Money drives this place, with the call to prayer at the mosques mixing with honking cars as the soundtrack for a city that grows before your eyes.
And it's not cheap. Good luck finding a decent hotel for under $150 per night. That's where Marriott points come in handy. They're the quiet obsession of most every sportswriter with a beat requiring heavy travel. Like my former life covering University of Michigan basketball, which left me with hundreds of thousands of points. So, after a year filled with unique lodging (from five nights in a tent on Mount Kilimanjaro to the compound run by Irish Catholic nuns for $6 per night to the guest house with no power or running water to more hostels, ferries, buses, trains and airplanes than I can keep straight), I'm at the five-star J.W. Marriott in a room bigger than my apartment. I don't much fit into this maze of marble and 13 restaurants, with men in tailored suits and flowing robes and huge leather briefcases wielding multiple cell phones.
I'm tired, but don't much care. Not after flying into Dubai over Iraq and the Persian Gulf, staring out the window at the outlines of tankers and cargo ships plowing through the night and dreaming about what mysteries the darkness hid. Not after the rush of freedom from being on the road again. The thrill of being in the middle of an unfamiliar place, not knowing a word of Arabic, with stories to tell, adventures to seek out and places to explore. I'm at my best, most alive when I'm uncomfortable, challenged and away from what's familar. I crave that.
But for now, the jet lag wins. I'm going to bed.
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1 comments:
You are a brave soul, Nathan. Henry David Thoreau once wrote that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
I never fully understood or appreciated what he meant until after I had a wife, children, etc... Not that I don't love them, I do. I believe in my heart that I would give my life for any of them.
But to have that family, to do what's best for them, to have a job and the like, you sacrifice your freedom. For the hope of security, most men-including me - sacrifice years of their lives doing things that hold little or no value to them.
What you have done, Nathan, is extraordinary. You are being true to yourself, living without convention or safety nets. You have paid certain prices, some of which you have described in this blog. No doubt you will pay in other ways, too.
But when the dust settles, you will have something no one can touch, something no 40-hour work week or dull hum of monotany will ever be able to strip away.
I admire you, greatly.
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