So I Got That Going For Me. Which Is Nice.

And a quick posting dating back to my visit to Istanbul in December. Even though they are eminently cheesy, I always like those opportunities to "insure" that you'll return to a city - like rubbing the pig's snout in Florence or the dog on the Charles Bridge in Prague. However, I did pass up the opportunity to drink from the River Nile to guarantee that I would return to Egypt, for the obvious reason. So, I guess that this post chronicles somethin akin to the Turkish equivalent, except that in this case it relates to curing any lingering illnesses. In a corner of the astonishing Hagia Sophia in Istanbul there is the Weeping Pillar. You stick your thumb in a well-worn hole in the pillar and attempt to turn it 360 degrees without losing contact. Now, if you do that and your thumb gets wet then whatever is ailing you will be cured. Fortunately, I did manage to successfully make the spin without losing contact - or dislocating my shoulder - and my thumb did end up moist. I don't know if my creaky hip or sleep apnea are necessarily cured, but it did wonders for my mental health because the memory of it still makes me smile.

Home Security

After that brief trip to Oman, it's back to Zanzibar. Here's a picture of the corner of my little villa at the Dolphin Bay Resort. From the beginning I thought they looked suspiciously like evil eye symbols designed to keep away dark forces (such as the popobowa, but that's another post). A couple different times I asked folks in the restaurant or the front desk what the circles were, but they claimed to have no idea. Well, actually, they initially didn't claim to see what I was talking about, which led to me making them stand by the table while I walked the fifty yards back to my villa to touch the dots with my hand, and then tramping back to quiz them further. One of my favorite answers, given with complete sincerity, was that they were windows. After pressing them further they suggested that maybe they were "fake windows." Obviously, this is not something that they wanted to discuss. So, as is always my approach in cases like this, I went to my excellent friends Kerry Noonan and Steve Wehmeyer so that I could tap into their big UCLA brains. Kerry responded that they looked very much like the eyes/circles on boat prows. She then pointed out that even if they were now truly considered "fake windows", they still probably began as evil eyes; just as blue doors initially were designed to ward off evil spirits, but then just became an aesthetic choice (which I did not know). Anyway, it is very cool, and makes me miss Zanzibar - and Kerry and Steve - all the more.

Job's Tomb

I'll take a break from blathering on and on about Zanzibar to get caught up with some earlier posts, in this case with another place I love: Oman. It's funny how some memories are so powerful and others, even of places that you really enjoyed, somehow fade away. I was reading Colin Thubron's wonderful Shadow of the Silk Road and he starts his tale, naturally enough, in Xian, and it brought back very pleasant memories, but also memories that for some reason weren't floating very near the surface. I had very few "present" memories of Xian, and absolutely none of Beijing. It's like the month I spent in China has been completely reduced to Kasgar and far western China. Now, this may relate to the fact that I teach a class on the Silk Road, and because of my own fascination with the desert and central Asia, but it's odd how I have to make a concerted effort to dredge up seemingly amazingly memories of the Great Wall or the Forbidden City, whereas I think of Jordan or India practically every day quite naturally.

So what does that have to do with this posting on Oman? I guess it just makes me want to get more serious about posting pictures and reflections on places to help lock in those memories. It also means that you can expect some long delayed posts from China as well.

On my last trip to Oman I loved Salalah, and can't wait to go back. One of the best parts of the trip was a trip up into the foothills of the mountains to visit the tomb of Job (although, much as with the different places you can visit to see where Jesus was baptized, there are multiple claimants to this title). Job, or Ayyub as he is known in the Quran, is one of those characters wherein subtle differences in interpretation can tell us a lot about the differences between the monotheistic faiths. In Judaism Job has served as something akin to a tool that Jews have used to sharpen their faith by struggling with the question of why bad things often happen to good people. As Job struggles with the question and remonstrates with God it represents our own challenge to understand the complexity of monotheism. In Islam Job is rewarded because his faith never wavers, so you have a definite, although seemingly subtle, difference that tells us a lot about the two religions. It's also interesting because Satan in the Old Testament version of the story is so much diffrerent than the later Christian concept of the Devil, but that's another story.

It is an easy, and well-marked, drive up to the tomb and is barely an hour from downtown Salalah. Plus, you get the benefit of seeing dozens and dozens of camels loafing along the road. There is a mosque there, as seen in the first picture with the flowers, but the tomb itself is smaller and around in the back. I was there on a Friday morning, which probably explained why there were so many folks praying there. I didn't see any women inside the tomb, although I don't really know if they are forbidden. Just inside the front door an older religious scholar seemed to be in charge, but didn't say a word to me other than exchanging a polite smile. Outside the tomb, and completely unmarked, is what appears to be the entrance to a cistern, but is really a walled monument that protects the footprints of Job.

Recently I came across another retelling of a trip to the tomb on another blog, which was embarrassingly disrespectful of the Islamic story of Job/Ayyub, and, for that matter, Islam. I guess I just don't understand that level of smug self-importance, although I probably should. Christianity does not have a particularly strong history of tolerance, which is amazing when you consider how much Jesus stressed the concept in the Sermon on the Mount. Even with some well-documented short-comings, which, truthfully, are usually societally/culturally rather than religiously based, Islam has always been a much more tolerant faith. As the Quran stresses, we are all Peoples of the Book. Anyway, if you're in Oman you should definitely make a trip to Salalah and a sojourn out to Job's tomb. It's a moving experience.

Serenity - or Not Fighting with Monsters

You should expect way too many pictures like this one, although I suspect that's not really a bad thing. At the Dolphin Bay Resort there is a long dock that stretches out into the Indian Ocean, which is probably quite busy during the high season. Fortunately for me, as it was the low season it was lovely and deserted. In the late afternoon, when the flies became too annoyingly persistent, I would grab my Kindle and make my way out to the end of the dock to read. The gentle winds provided a cool respite from the heat as well as keeping the flies at bay. Inevitably I ended up staying until the sun went down, and I'm sure I snapped over a hundred shots of the sun going down and fishermen gliding back and forth on the waves. Beyond enjoying the beauty of the place, however, it also made me think about the impact of beauty. In Beyond Good and Evil Nietzsche reminds us that, "He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you." I know that my philospher friends Kite and Capone will roll their eyes at the mention of Nietzsche (of course, they also roll their eyes at Marcus Aurelius so, really, can they be trusted?) but I do think there is an important point here that is lost when Nietzsche is popularized (and trivialized). Now, having said that, does it also work the other way? That is, when you gaze into beauty does beauty also gaze into you? So, when I came back from Zanzibar was I actually a better person, not because I was relaxed, but because I came into contact with beauty and let it wash over me? If that is true then it's not really necessary to head off to Zanzibar (although I am much in favor of it), but instead to pursue beauty actively in your everyday life. Sometimes when I come back from the Middle East I will download a program onto my computer that automatically plays the Islamic call to prayer five times a day. It's not that I take time to pray, per se, but rather as a reminder to take a break from the trivial grind of day to day life and focus on something more transcendent. Maybe if we all took more opportunities to gaze into the beautiful, no matter how you define it, we would in turn be more beautiful. Any student who has ever suffered through a class with me has heard me repeat Rumi's admonition to "judge a moth by the beauty of its candle"; that is, judge a society (or person, for that matter) by what it holds beautiful. Now, does it matter what they hold as beautiful or just that they hold something as beautiful? I am enough of a snob to think that it would be much better if the definition of beauty focused on something transcendent or spiritual as compared to something that can be surgically augmented. No matter how one defines it, I think that Zanzibar did me a world of good. Or, to paraphrase Scrooge's nephew on Christmas, "I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

Breezes of Zanzibar

Sometimes it takes a while to come back from a holiday trip, and in some instances maybe you don't ever come back. I don't think I've quite reached the stage of the latter in regards to my recent trip to Zanzibar, but it has definitely been dominating my thoughts. Part of it relates to some great emails I've been swapping with my friend Trish, who should really recount some of your own Zanzibar stories in her cool blog, and my student Katie (although that mainly relates to her hectoring me for more pictures of tortoises). Some of my memories are related to very tangible objects, such as dolphins or monkeys or tortoises or the winding streets of Stone Town, but I also keep reflecting on more ethereal things like the gentle breezes that kept blowing in off the Indian Ocean. I couldn't quite get a picture of the wind itself, so here is a dhow riding the wind.

Gas Queue Redux

One of the things that does my head in (to paraphrase my British friends) about living here is the absolute paucity of gas stations. Seriously, how can one of the world's leading oil producers have so few gas stations? Granted, they're a lot nicer than the ones in the US. They're much cleaner, feature better food and are all full-service, but there are simply not enough of them. To be fair, out here in the area of the campus and out towards Yas Island we're in a fairly new and developing area so maybe ADNOC will respond to the need and build more. Still, the queue this morning was so long that I finished listening to all of Elgar's Cello Concerto while waiting. The guys who work the station are actually very hard-working and efficient, so it was mainly the result of the crush of cars.

Emperor of Yas Island

Played to the tune of the Emperor of Wyoming. The Remnants have officially disbanded and I am the only one left out on Yas Island. Tony left two months ago at the beginning of the new term and is back in Portugal; Laura received a full-time position at Zayed and already has her new place downtown; Liane is currently in Ireland and will eventually make her way to New Zealand (although she, like Laura, has been hired full-time and will be back teaching at the Dubai campus in the fall); Peter is back in Sri Lanka; and Tanja is heading back to Serbia (although she also received a full-time job and will be back teaching here at the Abu Dhabi campus in the fall). I have a sinking suspicion that Tony and Peter will be back in the fall as well. Of course, I already miss them all, and it's strange to have Yas to myself (well, there are the ostriches, but that's another story . . .).

More Tortoises

OK, to placate my excellent student Katie King, I'll post some more pictures of the giant tortoises out on Prison Island. We'll start with a picture of the boat ride out from Stone Town, and then a mixture of shots. I especially love the picture of the one ancient turtle, well over a century old, with the very battered shell. They seemed almost completely oblivious to the world, and I suppose if you're a century old armored tank that would be your natural response. As much as I loved swimming with dolphins, I may have actually liked the tortoises more. They were just so magnificent and ridiculous at the same time.

It is some part amazing and humbling and amusing and befuddling to think of how old some of these tortoises were. What an odd little evolutionary niche they had carved off for themselves. My friend Trish told me about how one picture I sent her brought back memories of the place, and it was really nice to think of her sharing the same experience and how the passage of years in between her visit and mine would have meant nothing to the tortoises. And so someday my son or (insh'allah) grandson or great-grandson could pay a visit to Prison Island and the same tortoises would still be there hanging out, just living the tortoise equivalent of the sweet life and not getting too concerned with the petty events of the world. The Dude abides.

Livingstone Beach Restaurant

After the giant tortoise odyssey (and I guess I owe you some more pictures of the old guys) I began my trip around Stone Town by eating at the famous Livingstone Beach Restaurant. It has quickly become one of my all-time favorite spots, even though I spent a grand total of around an hour there. It's located in the building that housed the old British Consulate and thus at times people like David Livingstone (for whom it it named) and Richard Francis Burton passed through there. The Burton connection was especially cool because I was reading his account of travelling in East Africa. It's got a great location on the beach, good food (can't beat the barracuda) and live music a few nights a week.

Pole Pole

And here's a nice picture taken from the veranda of the villa where I was situated in Zanzibar on my recent trip there. One of the lessons I've learned over the years is that there is a certain beauty in heading someplace during the low season, and you couldn't get more low than when I was staying at the Dolphin Bay Resort (it was technically the rainy season, although the weather was amazing every day). Of the forty villas one was occupied, mine. So, three bedrooms, two living rooms, a veranda, a balcony and my own private pool (well, come to think of it, the big pool up by the main building was my own private pool as well) - all for around $180 a night. I don't normally stay at places like that, but I thought it might be fun to do something different and Hotels.com said that this was the last room at that price so I jumped on it. I'm sure that a place that posh doesn't normally cost $180 a night, so maybe it was the last room at that price, although that's not what I thought they meant. Still, it was lovely. I swam with dolphins and cavorted with monkeys and raced giant tortoises and strolled around Stone Town, but I also spent a lot of time doing nothing, which is not something I'm especially good at. As my best friend David is wont to opine, no of us ever survive our childhood - and I came out of mine believing that I'm the laziest person in the world. So sitting around and doing nothing is really hard for me because it seems to reenforce my own worst self-image. I had to laugh the other night when I went out by the pool here to relax, bringing with me two books, my Blackberry and my Nano - again, I'm still trying to get my brain around this whole relaxing thing. I tried to get into the spirit of the Swahili words pole pole, which is pronounced something like poe-lee poe-lee (although I'm sure my good friend Trish, who speaks Swahili, would roll her eyes) and it means something like "slow slow" or maybe "slowly slowly" (again, I should have asked Trish first). I did manage to spend a couple entire days just reading and staring out at the ocean. See, I can learn.

Oh, and I had this odd epiphany. I was thinking back to Woody Allen's Radio Days where he recounts his mother and father arguing all the time, including one on whether the Atlantic or the Pacific is the greater ocean. Upon mature reflection - and shaped by my own amazing memories of Zanzibar, Salalah, Fujairah and Mumbai - I'd have to pick the Indian Ocean.

Driving (Me Crazy)

Here's a really interesting article that appeared in the paper today.

"The Grand Mufti of Dubai has said it is a sin to violate traffic rules and that failure to wear a seat belt reflects ignorance of Islamic teachings.

'Islam impels every road user to comply with traffic rules . . . it is a sin not to,' said Dr Ahmed bin Abdul Al Haddad, Grand Mufti and head of the fatwa department at the Dubai Fatwa Centre.

'There are quite a few fatwas clearly stating that it is obligatory to observe traffic laws and haram to violate them,' he said.

He rebuked reckless drivers who argue that safety precautions demonstrate a lack of faith in God or those who claim that their strong faith means they are exempt from traffic safety rules."

Actually, the thing that I found most interesting about this piece is that this one of the theories that I came up with to explain the terrible driving. It's both reassuring and odd to see my theory validated. The Emiratis are famous/infamous for being really crazy drivers, and, sadly, it is true. And keep in mind that I've spent months of my life in India, so if I call someone out for being a bad driver I know what I'm talking about. It's not that Emirati drivers are technically deficient; rather, it's just that too many of them drive like utter lunatics. I've been passed on a single lane exit ramp on a cloverleaf (try to get your brain around that one). One time I was driving back from Dubai and was in the next to fastest lane (normally I don't drive that far to the left, but I had passed a truck) travelling around seventy miles an hour. Suddenly, a car blew by me in the fast lane going somewhere around one-hundred miles an hour (rough estimate, but he made me look like I was standing still). At the very same time another car, probably going around one-hundred-ten miles an hour passed that car - on the shoulder of the road, with about two feet on either side between the car in the "fast" lane and the guard rail. And the action on the roundabouts here demands its own separate posting. I suppose if I drove in Boston or Atlanta I wouldn't find all this so unnerving, but my years of driving in the tranquility of Vermont has put the daredevil in me to sleep. Of course, the other thing that I think which is important about this story is that it helps to show how seriously the political and religious leaders are taking this problem, which I think is a great sign.

Getting There

One of the things that drives me crazy about people - and here I'm mainly thinking about my fellow Americans - is the misguided belief that foreign travel is especially difficult. Usually it's not really that much more challenging than domestic travel, except that the flights are longer and you have less chance of being mugged. All you have to do is type in Zanzibar instead of Orlando in the destination window of your Travelocity website and, huzzah, you have your tickets. Or you just call the amazing Rochelle of Child Travel and, huzzah, you have your tickets. For that matter, you can also just type in Zanzibar in your destination window at Hotels.com and, huzzah, you also have your hotel room. Now, of course, sometimes you might have to take flights that are slightly outside of your comfort zone, but that's actually a very good thing. And this brings me to the flight from Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar.

Like a lot of places overseas the international and domestic terminals in Dar es Salaam are not in the same place, so when you fly into Dar es Salaam you have to catch a taxi to the domestic terminal (which costs either $5 or $10, depending upon your taxi driver - always ask up front). There are several local airlines that fly to Zanzibar, and I flew on ZanAir, which a perfectly nice little operation. Fortunately I had taken care of the visa in advance by stopping at the Tanzanian Embassy here in Abu Dhabi (more on that later), which made thing a lot easier.

Getting into the airport was a bit of a challenge because I had to get the approval of a guy who viewed the gateway - and his wooden desk - as his own personal fiefdom. I've always believed that no tyrants is ever as tyrannical as the petty functionary whose tiny domain you've had the misfortune to stroll into. This guy wouldn't let me through the metal detector (which I think worked) because I didn't have my ZanAir ticket, and, of course, I needed to go into the domestic terminal to get my ticket (somewhere Joseph Heller is smiling). When I checked in Qatar Air gave me my tickets for the first two legs of the journey, but not for the switch over to ZanAir. Plus, I had the temerity to put my bag on his wooden desk and he was not at all happy. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I have a terrible temper so this was definitely heading in a bad direction. It also got me thinking of how many airports, both domestic US and international, at which I should have been arrested for bad behavior and I could come up with five without even thinking. Luckily, a remarkably nice young man from ZanAir heard the commotion and came out and sorted things out, while smiling at me and rolling his eyes at the bad behavior of the Lord of the Wooden Desk. He took my itinerary and worked everything out.

The flight itself was utterly painless and only took twenty minutes. Now, who knew that you could actually get ten people, including the Kiwi pilot Ian, on that little plane. It was actually quite the experience. And, oddly, I found the crack in the passenger side control calming - they must have made that flight safely many times to have a steering control that banged up. I actually met Ian out on the tarmac before take off and he, seemingly like everyone from New Zealand, was really friendly. We talked about their victory in the recent rugby world cup. On the way back I just missed out on the opportunity to sit up front next to the pilot, and I'm really regretting it. Next time.

Paka

I will continue to try and post as much about Zanzibar as I can in the coming days while the trip is still fresh in my mind. What I've learned over the years (yes, strangely, I have been maintaining this blog for years, in one of my more onanistic chores) is that sometimes the best blog posts are just snap shots (much like one of Matsuo Basho's haikus from Narrow Road to the Deep North). Provide the image or the moment or the scent or the taste and the memory, or even the imagination, will take care of the rest. So here is a picture of Paka, the eponymously named cat (Paka is cat in Swahili) who prowls the grounds of the Dolphin Bay Resort in Zanzibar. She is young and on the small side, and had the bad habit of appearing out of the darkness during the nightly power outages to mooch for food - often waiting until the lights were completely out before bumping up against your leg. It was a little unsettling even if you knew she was coming, and maybe especially because you knew she was coming as you waited with an almost Hitchcockian suspense for the inevitable. Still, she was a more welcome visitor than the popobawa or voodoo midgets (but more on that later). I am sure she will be a lot happier when business picks up, especially since she is pregnant.

Songs: This House Is Not For Sale

As I've pointed out before, it's amazing how many of the performers I really like were brought to my attention by David Kelley - and then vouchsafed by Mike Kelly (no relation, obviously, although their musical tastes are eerily similar). David had been telling me about Ryan Adams for a couple years but I finally broke down and downloaded a couple of his CDs after listening to This House Is Not For Sale on Pandora a few times. Well, I also read an interview where Adams said that every time he listens to Neil Young's On The Beach it reminds him of how much he still has to learn about song-writing, and that's obviously going to get my attention. Since then I've completely fallen in love with his album Love Is Hell, and it's on a permanent loop on my Nano. Like most folks, I suppose, I associate certain periods of my life or even decades with certain bands or songs. If there is an official song of my 50's it is This House Is Not For Sale. To me, it's really a song about the fact that there is still something going on ("Tell 'em that the house is not for sale; We're still livin' here, how come nobody can tell") whether it is a relationship or just life itself. A few years ago I decided that the house was not for sale. Unfortunately, in the process I caused some people that are very dear to me, especially my ex-wife, a lot of pain, and for that I feel guilt every day. I guess I've been thinking about the song a lot because trips to places like Zanzibar or Beirut - or the potential trips to cities like Samarkand or even Sanaa - are part of that affirmation. Of course, the key to all of this is to not let that desire, like Henderson, the Rain King, become nothing more than an endless litany of "I want. I want. I want."

Which One Is Slower?

For some reason I really like this picture, although I am in it – and I hate pictures of myself. However, I really seem to be enjoying myself. One of the tours you could take is out to Prison Island, which was never actually a prison, but instead a quarantine stop for ships coming into Stone Town in Zanzibar. Now it is mainly known as a sanctuary for giant tortoises. There are dozens of them, several of them over a hundred years old. My guide wanted me to actually ride the tortoise, but I explained that I probably weighed more than the tortoise and that it might be a bad idea. Several of them were much larger than this one. The bigger ones would groan mightily when they stood up, take four steps, and then just collapse. Oh, and they stunk to high heaven, mainly because they live off of a diet of rotten cabbage - and you haven’t really lived until you’ve experienced a giant tortoise breaking wind. My brother Eric thinks the guy on the right has a more sleek design.

Swimming with Dolphins

There are times, especially overseas it seems, when it really hits you where you are at a particular moment - and how you can't believe that you're there at that moment. I remember walking through the siq at Petra for the first time with my good friend Faith and she kept saying, "I can't believe that I'm here. I can't believe that I'm here." And I knew exactly what she meant. I've been lucky, really lucky, to have had more than a few of those moments; although, to be fair, it's also a product of a lot of hard work and a lot of smart decisions - and also the courage/idiocy of saying, quite often, "sure, why the hell not, I can go there." As great as the Zanzibar trip was, the truly transcendent moment was swimming with dolphins out in the open ocean. It may have meant so much to me simply because it's not normally something that I would do. As a historian I am much more likely to gravitate to museums or ruins. On this trip I made a concerted effort to do other things, and this led me to the dolphins. It was one of the choices for outside activities at the aptly named Dolphin Bay Resort where I stayed (more on that later). According to the schedule the dolphin tour was a half-day event, although it was also very inexpensive. My thinking was that I would hop on a big boat and that we'd spend two hours tracking down the dolphins - and nothing could be further from the truth, happily.

The boat was tiny and we stumbled across a group of dolphins in around ten minutes. The guide told me to put on my snorkel and fins - and was in the midst of explaining that there were good and bad dolphins - when he suddenly yelled, "Into the water." That was all the preparation, but I figured that he knew what he was talking about, so I dropped off the side. A few seconds later a dozen or so dolphins, including babies, swam right beneath me. And then they were gone. I popped up, the guide told me to climb back into the boat (which required me taking off my fins), and off we went chansing the dolphins. I put back on the fins, just in time to follow his directions to jump back into the water. This was repeated four times, and every time the dolphins swam right next to me, seemingly oblivious to the large clumsy oaf right above them. The last time four of them came so close to me that I reached out my hand and came within six inches of touching the dorsal fin of the nearest one.

After that the guide took advantage of the fact that the tide was in to drop me off at the beach of the resort, and I rushed in to change before he came back to pick me up to go check out colobus monkeys. The entire event took maybe an hour, and since I was rushing on to do something else it almost seemed unreal. Of course, it's also something that I came back to in my mind again and again for the rest of the week. I don't know if I can truly do it justice even now. Maybe I need even more distance from it to truly put it into words. All I know is that it has clearly and firmly moved into my top ten all-time favorite moments.

Asante Sana Zanzibar

I guess if you're going to celebrate your 500th posting then this is about as good a topic as you could imagine. Yesterday I made my way back from a week in Zanzibar, Tanzania. The trip back was exhausting, especially considering that it began with me throwing up for the first time in almost twenty-five years. The natural supposition would be that I picked up some dreaded African bug, but instead it was my utter idiocy of taking Doxycyline (my anti-malarial medicine) and Panadol (the Middle Eastern version of Advil) on an empty stomach. Doh! After clearing my stomach I launched an eighteen hour trip that took me from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam to Nairobi to Doha to Abu Dhabi, which was not as romantic as it sounds; the high point was sitting in a coffeeshop in the Dar es Salaam airport, counting the cockroaches on the wall and wondering why all the Chinese guys were pounding beers at 9:00 in the morning (probably to prepare them for all the wine they had on the plane). I'm opening up with the exhausting part of the journey to explain why I'm just too tired (and busy getting back to work) to go into details on the time spent in Zanzibar. It was magical; truthfully, I can't think of a better way to describe it. My great friend Trish has always waxed poetic about Zanzibar and identified it as her favorite place on the planet, and she, as usual, didn't steer me wrong. Doubtless this blog will be dominated by Zanzibar for the near future. I swam with dolphins in the open ocean. I mean really, come on. As my good friend Sarah Cohen loves to opine, "Do you know who has your life? Nobody has your life!"