10 Days and Countless Taxis in Jordan

Part of the difficulty of keeping my mood up has definitely been the lifestyle change. I needed the last week to acclimate to the mode of transportation, environment, and schedule. One week in I feel like I have to start getting busy or otherwise I won't be able to successfully make the transition. I need to get on a regular sleep schedule and start exercising. I also have a lot of reading to catch up on and a paper to write.

Don't let my complaining fool you, though. I couldn't be happier with where and how I'm living. This is an experience I've been waiting for my whole life.

I live in a hilly area of Amman called Tla'a a Ali, in a three story home owned by one family. My host grandmother, Rhada, lives on the first floor with the house keeper and two other American students studying at AMIDEAST, Chris and Hayden. The second floor is occupied by Rhada's eldest son and his family. The third floor, where her youngest son, Ihab, and his wife and 2-year old daughter live, is where I stay. Its a big apartment with a view of nearly the entire city from the living room window. I sit by it when I'm reading or writing. Looking out onto the city I still feel detached from it, as though I'm looking at a picture or out from inside of a bubble. At least that means I feel safe and at home in this chair.

Rhada has a garden where she grows her own figs (tiin), apricots (mushmush), and a few other things. The first fig picked off the tree this season was given to me to eat. The morning after trying my first apricot, a bowl stood on the breakfast table with barely day old apricot jam. The food in the house is wonderful. I can't imagine a single place in the country where traditional Jordanian fare is made better than in Rhada's kitchen with her and Sally, the housekeeper, at the helm.

I use a taxi to get to anywhere I need to go. I've had a lot of trouble making use of landmarks to get a feel for the geography of Amman because of my perception that many of the buildings, homes, and infrastructure look similar. It doesn't help that neighborhoods have recently had their names changed; as well as streets - most of which are named after a city in the Middle East or a King, Queen, Prince, or Princess. You tend to have to know the directions to somewhere if you want to get there without much trouble.

The taxi drivers are relatively pleasant though. When I take a taxi alone I manage to make it about three or four minutes before I have to identify myself as a foreigner: etekelom arabee shway (I speak a little Arabic). Sometimes they're surprised that I'm from somewhere else, pointing out that my face looks Arab. I've been asked if I'm from Turkey. I reply ehna amreeki (I'm American). Some will ask what I'm doing here. Ehna tawleb fii arabee (I'm a student of Arabic). Others don't attempt to communicate. Welcomes abound; ahlan w'sahlan they tell me. I thank them.

One taxi driver told me he loved Obama. He made a gesture of holding a gun and said something in an excited and grateful tone about Saddam Hussein and then Afghanistan. I want to say he was lauding our military interventions in the region. At least someone in that cab was happy about what our country is up to, I joked with a classmate sitting in the back.

Mohammed, a taxi driver from a few days ago, bought some fruit on the side of the road towards the end of our time together and handed one to me. He knew few English words but we did manage to have a conversation of some sort. He proudly showed me a tattoo that looked like he had done it himself. Philstiin (Palestine) it said fi arabee. Below it were his children's names. We talked about how women in Jordan have so many kids and how in America they have far less. He told me his wife's name. He was so pleased to know the word "fuck" he repeated proudly in several instances of hitting traffic.

Iman, a taxi driver who took a few of us to Wasat al Balat, spoke wonderful English. I mentioned him in passing in my second post. He told Paula how much she should pay for a hookah and that to make sure its from Egypt, they make the best ones. Conor got some advice from him on how much he should buy a John Cena shirt for. Iman told me how much I should spend on a koofiyeh and how the price will tell me where its made. He told me of a hotel his brother manages in Aqaba and that I should mention his name if I call to make a reservation.

Of course, I haven't been spending all my time in taxis and exploring Jordan. My Peace and Conflict class is from 9 am to 12 pm, Sunday through Thursday, the Jordanian work week. It has been pretty enlightening. So far we've had three prominent Jordanian figures speak with us, most recently former Prime Minister Abdelsalam al-Majali.

Amman stretches into the horizon, even seen from its highest point. The window at which I sit faces East. The moon becomes visible in the sky hours before sunset and slowly becomes brighter and brighter as the setting sun steals light away from this part of the world. The call to prayer rings out from a mosque. Where the sky meets the city you can see that night has fallen in the East. The grey darkness stretches across the horizon, the height of a thumb on an outstretched arm. Between the incoming night and the moon an ascending blue sky quickly turns purple, then pink, and finally, slowly, orange. Orange fades into evening's intended blue without hesitation. The almost full moon gets brighter. The colors in the sky follow their creator down below the Western horizon.

Street lights turn on. Some don't work. Mosques across the city illuminate their minarets in a green light. Another call to prayer, this time from further away. The air has cooled. The skyscrapers I see from my window, which you can count on two hands, tower above the city. Most stand unlit, either under construction or currently unoccupied. The city lights in the distance score the horizon. Another place to draw a line, a border to fight over, an attempt to make different us and our side from them and their side.

I haven't completely unpacked and settled in yet even though I've done laundry. I'm going to do that now and then go watch the Spain v Italy soccer game with my classmates.

Salaam.

Sleeping on a Falafel Sandwich

I offer you two explanations, of which you can pick one, for the title of this post.

The first is that sleeping on a felafel sandwich, noom fi shautiirim felafel in arabee, is a profound metaphor meant to describe the underlying relationship between all of the different communities in the Middle East. It is meant to suggest that no matter what your religion, ethnicity, or nationality, you have likely fallen asleep on a felafel sandwich in your lifetime. It is an expression infused with the hope that instead of focusing on the differences between cultures, you must focus on the commonalities.

The second explanation is that at the end of the tour of Amman yesterday, I fell asleep on the bus. I shifted in my seat to find a more comfortable position having forgotten that I had placed a felafel sandwich in my seat just an hour before. I woke up upon arrival to the AMIDEAST building with felafel and sauce on the seat of my pants.



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We toured Amman yesterday and saw some interesting things. It was less of a tour and more of a drive with some stops. From the window of our bus we saw the US Embassy, one of HRH King Hussein's palaces, Al Husseini Mosque, and several different neighborhoods. Amman is broken up by neighborhoods and proximity to roundabouts, referred to as circles, on one of its main roads. I'm nearest the 7th Circle. I haven't gotten used to the terminology yet so when I hear that I reference Dante's Inferno and laugh to myself at the irony.

We stopped at the Roman Amphitheater and The Citadel near downtown Amman. Both are quite old. The Citadel includes one of the earliest churches in the world on its grounds and its likely one of the highest points in Amman. There you can see an enormous flag flying over the King's residence. It height and size were meant to make it the tallest flag in the world. My understanding is that is now holds 3rd place.

In the evening a few of us headed downtown for some shopping. With the advice of a very friendly taxi driver, Iman, and two new acquaintances, Mohammed from Gaza and Dylan from the States, managed to get a few good deals on a keffiyeh and a pair of sandals.

Apparently John Cena, the wrestler, is a big deal here so there were a few shops selling t-shirts with his face on them. Conor mentioned John Cena on the street and a young boy near by gave a big smile and a thumbs up and repeated his name. I can't wait to have a greater grasp of arabee so that I can interact better with the people I meet here.

 
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A story I promised to tell in the last post was about an incident that occurred in Hyde Park.

My classmates and I lived in a flat overlooking Hyde Park and we took advantage of that almost daily. A few of us would go for runs in the park. Some of us rented bikes. In my second and last attempt I began my run looking for an excuse not to do it - those who run know the feeling. About 4 minutes in I reached the opposite end of the park and noticed a crowd forming around a man who was lying on the ground and bleeding from the head. I ran over to see what was going on. Someone had knocked him to the ground.

I asked if anyone had anything bandage-like and upon their blank stares I took off my shirt to use as a an alternative. This shirt became the most expensive bandage I've ever used. He wasn't bleeding much but he had been drinking so it was thin and flowing at a gentle and continuous rate. The laceration was about an inch and a quarter long near his left temple. He was in and out of consciousness but I had stopped the flow of blood and maintained his airway - about all I could do. It took the police around 25 minutes to show up and the ambulance 40 minutes. Despite knowing the nature of the incident I had to ask the police to go get a first aid kit with real bandages for me after they arrived. When the ambulance arrived I gave a verbal report and helped move him on to a scoop - something they called a backboard (semantics I guess) - and into the rig. They have lifts similar to trucks so they don't have to lift the stretcher. Luxurious, eh?

I asked the police for a ride back to my flat since I was now shirtless and they unconvincingly said they were headed in the opposite direction. I felt so weird on my walk back to the flat because no one walks around shirtless in London. I walked 15 minutes across Hyde Park and out onto the street without my shirt on. I was uncomfortable the whole time.

So if you ever see me without my shirt on I'm either at the beach or providing emergency first aid.

“We are the same family – no matter what your religion.”

I’ve slacked off on getting this travel blog started and I’m not sure why. I guess I wanted to make the most of my time in London with my friends and try not spending it at a computer typing away. That’s something I learned the first night of my Birthright-Taglit trip last year and didn’t want to make the same mistake again. There’s more down time in Amman though. I take a taxi back to my host family’s home by 11 pm, my curfew every night except Thursday. Thursdays I can stay out until 2 or 3 am in the morning I’ve been told.

I arrived in Amman Friday around 7 pm local time, noon home time. Everyone was pretty anxious about starting his or her experience here. We only found out at the airports who we were living with. In turn finding out who had a roommate and who didn’t. I was one who didn’t and that freaked me out.

They gave us a form before the trip asking me my rooming preferences and I filled in the blank stating I would rather be on my own. I’ve made up a logic behind that answer but am not sure how honest I’m being with myself. What made me uncomfortable was how quickly I realized this wasn’t the same as being in Israel, the only other foreign country I had traveled alone in – even though that experience lasted only a few hours before I met up with Mark. I had made great friends with the people in my class and I was used to saying goodnight to someone in English, knowing we would wake up the next day and walk the 7 or so blocks to class together, all 15 of us. Having a roommate would’ve lessened the stress of the first night and the second. I’m on my third night but can still clearly remember what Friday night felt like.

I was completely terrified. My accommodations were and are stellar. My host father speaks wonderful Russian – something that makes me feel at home. I’ve got Internet access, my own bedroom and bathroom, warm water, and endless amounts of delicious homemade food. It was just being alone for the first time in 2 weeks in a country and culture I had never seen or experienced before that got to me. The idea of communicating to someone who knew shwey, or a little, ingleesi in hopes that we would understand each other enough for him to drive me to wherever I needed to go in the city was daunting.

There’s no bus system where I live and walking anywhere I need to go would take too long. The 7 weeks I had left until the end of my adventure added to my anxiety. Deep down in my gut I felt myself wonder whether I should ask to be placed in a hotel or with a roommate – maybe I should just leave after the Peace and Conflict Studies program ends – make up some excuse. I told Paula today, who’s also on her own but near classmates, that if someone had handed me a ticket to fly home that night I would have gladly packed my bags and left and she agreed. I’m glad someone else feels that way so I know I’m not the only one.

So why did I start this blog now? We had our orientation today and Hala, our wonderful program manager, said a journal was a good way to deal with culture shock and homesickness. Writing down the events of the day would keep me grounded and reflective rather than with my head in the clouds wishing for my mother’s stew, my father’s hug, my grandma’s kiss, my cat’s inaudible meow, and Becky’s hand in mine with our feet in the Atlantic.

I also feel like I should export this experience to as many people as possible. Preconceptions, misconceptions, and willful ignorance abound around the world when it comes to the Middle East.

Today my host mother was preparing to show me a view from one of the windows in their salon, a room used to entertain guests, and asked me what my religion was.  It was an innocent question intended to precede my view of a mosque out of the window. I hesitated, unsure of how to reply. I am not a practicing Jew but when asked outside of the States in particular instances I am comfortable replying as such. I struggled to form a sentence but then blurted out, “I’m a Jew.” She smiled and showed me the view. She could tell that I was uncomfortable and nervous in proclaiming my Judaism. On her way out of the room she told me this though: “We are all the same family – no matter what your religion.”

I wanted to share that here and with everyone who might read this. I know that not everyone will be accepting of me here but I’m not here for a vacation – to me this is a modern day adventure and if I break some prejudicial barriers, make it through a few disagreements, and learn to make my way around Amman and through every day life in arabee then I will call it successful.

Anyway, I know this was long. The rest should be much shorter. Thanks for making it this far if you did. I have some stories to tell about London too so come back here – same time, same place – to hear about how I took off my shirt in Hyde Park to treat an unconscious fellow and how the most any of us drank was in the presence of the HRH the Duke of Kent and HRH the Prince of Jordan.