So why Libya?

Opinion: Newcomer to Tripoli… and I Like It!
By Sophie McBain
22/11/2008 15:16:00 ( source )

"So why Libya?" I am asked for about the three-hundredth time. And I must confess that, for about the three-hundredth time, I am momentarily stumped. Tripoli is not the most obvious choice for a young British girl who is fresh out of university and speaks no Arabic.

I mutter something incoherent about the flagging job market in the UK, my boredom of London and a minor mid-life crisis that came twenty years too early. And yet, if I am still confused about my motives, I have no regrets about my recent move to Tripoli.

Perhaps I had too little time to think things through during my whirlwind last few months in Britain. After the chaotic scramble for a visa, a hasty stuffing of bags and a few rushed good-byes, there was no time left for contemplation.

Before I knew it I was facing the Libyan customs official, peering at him nervously through a blue haze of smoke as he examined my visa, a cigarette dangling precariously from his lower lip. He conversed quickly in incomprehensible Arabic with his colleague and, ever the awkward Brit, I found myself praying that I would not have to face the humiliation of being sent straight back home. But suddenly I was let through.

I had no idea what to expect of Tripoli. A rushed read of the Lonely Planet guidebook had not helped me much. In any case, I have stopped taking guidebooks seriously since one once advised me that 'if you experience a serious earthquake, the best strategy is to curl up and kiss your ass goodbye.'

One thing I had not anticipated was the friendliness and generosity of the people here. To someone who has not yet been to Tripoli, this might sound overly trite. Anyone who doubts that these things make a difference, should visit London. You could easily spend a year living in London and still feel like a stranger to the city.

The British government recently had to put up posters on buses to remind commuters to give up their seats to old people and pregnant women. Rest assured Libyans do not need reminding of such duties.

I have been in Tripoli for just one week and already I feel welcome. I have experienced a myriad of small acts of kindness.

From the people I barely knew who invited me into their homes and plied me with coffee and cake, to the shopkeeper who insisted on carrying my six huge bottles of water home for me and looked embarrassed when I even tried to thank him.

Other newcomers to the city have noticed this too. One friend recounted how she once accidentally left some very expensive electrical equipment in the back of a taxi.

A few hours later, the taxi driver turned up bearing the forgotten goods and apologised whole-heartedly for his delay in returning and for the fact that he’d opened up the bag to see what was inside. In London, this same event would be nothing short of a miracle.

So, I have swapped the bright lights of Oxford Street for wandering around the old city. It is truly refreshing to be able to explore a middle-eastern souq without the constant pressure to buy endless trinkets at "Asda price, spice girl."

In place of evening bar-crawls I go for cappuccinos on the seafront, and I am sure that if they could see how beautiful the beach looks at sunset, my pub-dwelling friends would be jealous. Maybe I will even start enjoying Celine Dion, who is played almost everywhere, but this might take a little longer.

I still need to make a few adjustments to my Tripoli life. I have to learn how to cross roads like a Libyan, so that I don’t spend ten minutes hesitating by the roadside, until a local crosses upstream from me. It would help if I could pronounce my 'ain without resembling a strangled cat and could manage my raa' without sounding like an inebriated Frenchman. Taxi journeys could be a bit easier if I could just remember exactly where I live.

But for all these miscommunications and dodgy directions, I am happy, for the moment at least, to leave London behind.