Inflight
In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow.
According to the inflight console, I'm 12,498 metres above Lake Turkana, in northern Kenya. The screen shows a 3d cartoon of our plane—it flickers over Google Earth. As if from the gods, yellow arrows bolt down at Mount Kulal and the Chalbi Desert. The screen blinks while we ride out the turbulence.
Presumably, I'm rendered within the cartoon plane on the screen (although I can't zoom in to see). It's very meta: I'm writing about myself, watching a simulation of myself write about myself in a plane, writing. I could go on. Ekhart Tolle would offer insight, but I shan't. The Boeing is bound for Addis Ababa, and from there, I'll be jetting off to Europe.
This quiet moment, alone on the plane and typing, illustrates a discovery I've made over the last year. I've discovered it's important to be in silence and express creativity, to learn more about ourselves.
It was close to a year ago that we left the UK. Mont and I were fleeing a looming lockdown. When packing up my Nairobi bedroom last night, I found a rough A4 pad where I'd sketched out some notes I never sent.
29 September 2020, writing from Moda in Istanbul. When writing about holidays or travel, it is easy to sound glib, gimmicky, or nauseating. It's a cliche when the "bazaar is bustling", when the "cafes' spill into the street", or even when the crowds "bustle" (do they bustle?!). It's boring to write, and it's worse to read. Rather than bustle, the crowds groan; they sweep the pollution into the streets from a distance. … [I go on for pages and pages]
I think now (as I did back in September) that travel writing is dry. Unless it's about isolating in a cabin or written by Sylvain Tesson, or both, I'm not interested. As such, I've spared you scenic descriptions over the last few months. Nevertheless, every week the best moment of my week is when I write this email to you. It's my quiet time, and it's essential. The time spent writing is never fixed, but it is sacred. It's a silent endeavour, and because of this peace, it gives me room to reflect. My notifications are off, I often have a Moroccan mint tea by my side, and I'm still. Moreover, week by week, my love for this quiet time has compounded. However, the realisation of the utility of this time has come in two waves.
The first realisation was a weekend spent in a cabin by Lake Naivasha to the northwest of Nairobi. I was all-up-in-my-head, stressed, battling with where to live. I sat in silence on the lake and wrote for a weekend (all the while looking out for hippos that never came). Through writing, I unpacked the life I'm aiming for and worked backwards to today. I'd been wrestling with a decision for months in the racket and the heat of the city. When I was alone, clarity appeared—like a rising fish from the lake itself. 'Aha!'
Mushrooms induced the second wave. I was staggered to realise (mid-high) that we enjoy music not only for the sound but also for the gaps between the notes'. Likewise, we want chocolate because we don't live in a chocolate factory; it's a treat. More generally, time without a thing allows us to appreciate the item itself. Yet this isn't how we're brought up: We a fed a diet of more being better. More money, more messages, more massages, more flat whites, more parties. Even the late Roger Moore attracts an unreasonable amount of our attention. It's a hurricane of more—a blizzard we willingly withstand.
On the contrary, doing less and having less allows us to focus on the essential things in our lives. I'm clearer-headed and happier when I'm not snowed under by a busy life. Leaving the UK has made this change more acute. In his excellent podcast, Tyler Cowen recently interviewed the philosopher Elijah Millgram. Cowen asks, 'what is the big thing that people are missing in their lives?'. Elijah says we don't intentionally listen to ourselves. He goes on: Often, only when life gets very uncomfortable we note 'ah-ha, I see now… this thing makes me unhappy, or angry'. We rarely have the space to hear ourselves. And time spent being creative alone is a great way to listen.
Finding this creative time is especially important when we live in a city. Nairobi is as hectic as it is corrupt. Pre-pandemic London was frantic, too. Now Boris has unshackled the country, it's probably mental again. I'm inspired by the following quote from Pico Lyer that inspires me to slow up, sit down, and listen to how I feel:
In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. In an age of distraction, nothing can be feel more luxurious than paying attention. And in an age of constant movement, nothing is more urgent than sitting still.
My week in books 📚
The AI-First Company by Ash Fontana
Fontana lays out, in Steve Blank style, the playbook for starting an AI company. It's excellent and will no doubt inform Yokeru's broader strategy. Recommend for anyone who's in building a company that deals with big data or AI.
Berezina by Sylvain Tesson
I should make a point of reading a Tesson once a month—his attitude to exploring the world is refreshing and inspires me to go wild. In Berezina, Tesson, driving a Ural (motorbike with sidecar), follows the route of Napoleon's tragic retreat from Moscow to Paris. On the journey, Napoleon's Grande Armee was decimated not by the Russian army, but by the Russian weather on the Russian steppes. It's beautifully written and for anyone interested in adventure.
Have a great week
Hector