Shukran, Arabia

The dead heat was keeping me awake when a sudden gust of wind shook our camper van. Though the cool wind helped me finally nod off to sleep, I awoke in the morning to a landscape much-changed. The sand in the air was so thick we couldn’t see the glitzy skyscrapers and hotels or the clear blue Gulf waters we’ve awoken to this past week on Dubai’s Palace Beach. It was as though Dubai was wishing me a gloomy farewell – I was departing for Istanbul that day.

The topic for this blog post has been ruminating in my mind for several weeks. Once Bruno and I my travel plans were solidified and I began to think of my imminent departure from the Arabian subcontinent, I knew I had much to thank it for and many reflections to share. But I didn’t expect to write it from my airplane seat at Dubai International Airport. The sandstorm outside is getting worse, and our flight is set to be motionless on the tarmac for another hour, at least. Since I haven’t actually left Arabia, perhaps it’s too early to write a nostalgic letter of thanks, but a travel blogger must make use of those rare, free moments of transit.

My family has expressed concerns about my travels the past few months, both before we’d arrived on the Arabian Peninsula and throughout my stay here. Iraq, Syria, Lybia, the nuclear threat of Iran, bombs blowing up in Tunisia, kidnappings in Algeria and Yemen… It might seem they have good reason to worry.

Yet, aside from a brief uncomfortable moment with the tourist collection of Tiwi (which was primarily humorous, and actually a wonderful glimpse into Omani family culture), our experiences on the Arabian Peninsula have been overwhelmingly positive. The levels of safety and hospitality we’ve experienced here have left me wondering what exactly my family has been so worried about.

The Saudi Arabian man who offered us tea and croissants at the port in Jeddah set the stage for our time here. There was the Omani man who gave us a free copy of his CD and invited us to dinner; the man at the Iranian Embassy who showered us with Iranian snacks after a thirty-second conversation; the police officers who offered us dates and milk; the family who wanted us to use their satellite phone to call home; and the random freebies from coffee shops and produce stalls. Even when we weren’t been given things, we were often approached by curious people wanting to learn about our lives and stories, and especially wanting to welcome us to their country. And between the friendly encounters, Bruno and I were able to bush camp in total safety and security – something we rarely did in Africa and will never do in dangerous Europe.

I had an inkling my time in Arabia would be like this. My brief experiences in other Muslim nations – like my week experiencing Ramadan with a Mauritanian family in Nouakchott, my encounters with the beautiful people of Egypt, and sharing afternoon coffee with locals in Sudan – have taught me that Islam and a warm welcome to travelers go hand-in-hand.

Bruno’s experiences are even more telling. During his first trip ever – through the Sahara Desert – he encountered car troubles in rural Algeria and had to stop in a tiny village for help. The village mechanic not only refused payment for the extremely costly repairs – despite the fact that Bruno had a load of Algerian money, useless elsewhere, that he kept trying to offer the man – but gave him a haven for the day while he went out to search for the spare parts needed. The lesson for Bruno was that, the entire night he spent in the man’s home, he’d been worried that his vehicle was going to be robbed.

A decade later, while driving through Pakistan, Bruno was in a life-threatening accident. When he awoke in a Pakistani hospital, he was informed that a man had brought him there and would be transferring him to a comfortable hotel while his limbs recovered. The hotel and hospital both refused payment, and the man remained anonymous, contenting himself simply with knowing that this guest in his country was being taken care of.

I knew these stories before even stepping foot on the Arabian Peninsula. But when I found myself in an Omani Police Station being forgiven for crashing into their pricey security camera, I was nonetheless shocked. Once the shock wore off and was replaced by remorse instead of joy, I knew I had to write this blog post. I felt remorse because I knew, almost definitely, that if am Omani couple had crashed into a border post security camera in a Western country, the outcome would have been vastly different. Bruno and I were treated with respect and sympathy, as though we were intimate friends the Omanis felt duty-bound to help. Was it out of a desire for us to see their country in a positive light? Was it because of an ancient obligation to aid travelers? Was it because of their Muslim sense of hospitality and generosity? I will never know, because I come from a culture that cannot comprehend this type of behaviour. All I can say is that it is only in Muslim countries that hospitality – from complete strangers! – extends to when you’re in deep shit.

The freedom that I was given when the police finally released us from custody should have felt amazing. Instead, it was mixed with guilt. Guilt that the media continues to portray this region in a solely negative light; that people choose to equate Islam to Fundamentalism; that racism against Muslims persists. The truth is that we have felt safer and more welcome on the Arabian Peninsula than anywhere else in the world. It is time for Westerners to see this side of Islam.

Bruno is now in Iran, a country I was looking forward to seeing. Contrary to popular opinion, I’ve heard nothing but positive things about Iran and its people from travelers who have actually been there. A family we met (Iran is Great) was so touched by hospitality in Iran that they’ve embarked on a campaign to change western perception of this ostracized country. I was looking forward to sharing my own experiences in Iran, which I knew would undoubtedly be positive.

I am now in Turkey, and when Bruno joins me here, we will spend another six weeks visiting this Muslim country. I have no doubt that we will continue to travel in amazing hands, with a hospitality and generosity unequalled in any other region of the world. Family and friends, you needn’t worry about us.

And if you still don’t believe me, I have only one piece of advice: Go. Travel to Arabia – or any Muslim country for that matter – and see for yourself. Then we’ll talk.

The dust outside my oval airplane window has lifted enough for our airplane to finally take off. In a few minutes, I will officially leave the Arabian Peninsula. All I can say is shukran, Arabia, for the warm welcome, safe-haven, and lifelong lesson.