To the Shores of Tripoli

July 3rd
Tripoli, Libya

30 hours by air from DC to Dakar, Senegal. DC to Munich. Munich to Paris. Paris to Tripoli. Tripoli to Dakar. Needless to say I got my flight from a cut-rate discounter. The only benefit outside of spending 5 hours in Charles De Gaulle airport--pronounced shar d gaw in French as best I can tell--was spending 3 hours in Tripoli. For a scary sounding place like Libya, Tripoli was surprising. Neat, orderly rows of houses and olive trees as far as the eye could see. Though the Sahara rides herd on the small fertile belt by the Mediterranean. At times the desert is only a few kilometers from the shore. The farmers and shepherds have to subsist in that narrow band. At the airport, I poked my head outside, walked around for a bit and then retreated out of the sun to send a postcard. It was a kitschy tourist print of a nomad riding a snowboard down a sand dune. Nothing but the best for my friends.

While I was on the plane to Tripoli, there was something about the enormity of my upcoming trip that stuck with me and made me tear up a bit. I'd been reading a biography of Warren Buffett for business school. That reminded me of a friend of mine who had died a few years ago in a swimming accident. My friend was the only person who I've ever met who could truly think for himself. He was someone who brought a unique perspective to *everything* from April Fool's day pranks to the stock market. In the seventh grade, we'd played the stock market game in our math class. I bought the standard run of blue-chip stocks--IBM, Caterpillar, Coke, etc. He bought Berkshire Hathaway. Sixteen years later that is so awesome it is hard to describe. Whenever I think about independent thinkers, Kyle Hurdle and Warren Buffett always stand above the rest.

Before we took off from Tripoli to Dakar, two African passengers got into a fistfight over their seats. One man had to be restrained by the flight attendants. I wasn't sure whether to cheer or fear for my life. Thankfully there was no more violence over the next five weeks.

The flight to Dakar was interminable--massive thunderstorms blocked our path, but we finally arrived. The Dakar airport is the smallest international airport I have ever seen. If there were more than two terminals, I would be surprised. I walked out into a smothering humidity that seemed to suck the light out of the air. I paid a guy 1 US dollar (an actual dollar bill, mind you) to help me find my guide. 4 minutes later, I was in a cab to my hotel in Yoff, a surprisingly run-down neighborhood 6 km outside of Dakar. When I got to my hotel I drank a beer, turned on my fan and slept like a rock for 10 hours.