Firsts....

Tonight I watched the reruns of the Oscars with my host family.

I have never watched the Oscars before.

I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I just didn’t expect it to be in Jordan.

King's birthday

Today was the Amman celebration of King Abdullah II’s birthday (which was about a month ago). This meant lots of traffic and that we American students were told to go home. This also meant an extra JD for my cab ride. This also explains the large procession of cars, banners, balloons, and blaring stereo systems that I had encountered the other day on my way back from Salt.

That is all.

Iraq!

Today, I went to Iraq.

I took a city bus in Amman, and then changed to a minibus in a small village outside. It wasn't too far.

Okay, are you still breathing? Can we go on?

Not, of course, the country Iraq: a little village called ‘Iraq Al-Amir.

Today I had no problems getting to the bus station: I told the driver “Al-Muhajareen” and away we went.

There was a city bus with the location Wadi As-Seer flashing across its side and I quickly got aboard, fumbling with my change. (City buses are larger, cleaner, and faster, but more expensive and they don’t give exact change.)

With just a short wait, we were on our way with only three passengers, one of whom, I could swear, had a twin back in the United States.

The bus picked up and dispersed its passengers along its path and I was soon the only one left as we approached the small town of Wadi As-Seer.

“You want to go to Iraq Al-Amir?” He asked.

I told him yes. He said okay; we arrived at a small bus stop: an old garage to one side, and five or so minibuses waiting.

“That one, there, will take you. You will wait, maybe, twenty minutes, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you!”

He said goodbye and waved and I entered the waiting minibus.

There were nine or so passengers waiting, huddling a bit in the cold. Several young boys ran in and out of the doors as their mothers chatted in the back. I was struck with the difference in appearance between here and Amman: the hijam was the older and more conservative kind that falls in a circle around the elbows.

We eventually took off and tried the bare brakes to their limits going down the narrow, steep, and winding mountain road. I was surprised at the number of people that got on and off the bus as we passed a few houses or little stores on the side of the road. We came to Iraq Al Amir and I got off just past the village and headed to Qasr al-Abd: Castle of the Slave.

Legend goes that a slave of the family, or a commoner in the village, named Tobiad, built the castle out of love for the daughter of his owner/the town’s rich man, who returned before it was finished. (One guidebook says the man was then killed…) In reality, it was probably built by Hyrcanus of Jerusalem, the head of the Tobiad family who also governed Ammon. The name engraved on the nearby caves in Aramaic script is Tuvya, lending credence that it was a Tobiad family member. Josephus mentioned the Qasr (Antiquities of the Jews, XII, 230) and it was noted for the large carvings, and it is known for being built of some of the largest building blocks of the age/region. Also, the area has been identified with Ramoth Mizpeh; so the tribe of Gad probably was here - not to mention the Ammonites! (Joshua 13:26).

Now it is situated among a few houses and olive trees at the bottom of a beautiful valley. Families were working in nearby fields and one or two groups were eating their lunch out of doors, beneath the olive trees.

I clambered around the ruins, ambling from the back to the front, where the proper gate was opened by the custodian. Technically, the site is free, but I had read it would be appreciated to tip him a JD or so, which I did. Exploring the inside, I was soon joined by two local boys who hopped through the window like little monkeys as they played hide and seek. They didn’t see me as I sneaked down some stairs and hid in a cave area. They came my way and I surprised them by stepping out. I thought about yelling “boo,” but thought that was taking it too far.

Exiting the ruins, I was approached by a local girl giving me two or three of the wild growing weed-flowers, which I was reluctant to take: little girls with flowers generally want money (which she did). She had to be satisfied with her picture, however, before I started my hike back up the mountain to Iraq Al-Amir: the caves of the prince, after which the village was named.

At the foot of the path leading to the caves, I saw a taxi waiting for three German tourists just coming down. I felt vastly superior for having navigated the public transportation system for less than half a JD, while they had paid at least 10JD for the taxi there and back and for him to wait.

I enjoyed climbing up around the caves, although they were not the most impressive caves I’ve ever seen. They were caves, after all: slightly damp and cool, smelling of goat. But the views were spectacular!

Also, I found the BatCave .

In the cave just before it, I had found a bunch of feathers from local birds, so it was without trepidation that I approached this cave, despite the squeaking sounds proceeding from within.

It’s either birds or bats, I thought. I carefully reasoned: It’s probably birds. One, I saw bird feathers in the cave before. Two, it’s daylight. Bats are nocturnal. It’s probably birds.

Unfortunately, wild animals do not follow logic.

I cautiously explored towards the back. The squeaking increased. I continued. Just then, a ray of light pierced the darkness of the high cleft and I could see a nest of bats above my head, one of them ominously spreading its wings.

I ran as fast as I could, ready at any moment to duck and cover, expecating the black horde of demons to swoop over my head and give me rabies.

Fortunately, wild animals are often too lazy to go after swiftly moving American girl meat.

I decided I had enough of cave exploring and started the hike back to Wadi As-Seer.

Now, instead of being the tourist, I was the tourist attraction. I do not think that this rural village gets many single American women hiking the 10km up a mountain in the cold wind.

Children leaned out of windows at the occasional house I passed and yelled hello. Young men stood on the side of the road, yelling “Hello! Hello! What is your name? Hello!” in a contest to see which one of them could get me to respond. They were all disappointed. A group of little boys ran after me yelling, “Sureena, sureena!” I obliged them, taking a picture and showing them. “Helu, helu!” they teased each other about being beautiful, and ran off as fast as they came.

About an hour and half into my hike in the rather frigid mountain wind, I began to think the German tourists might have been wise to get a taxi. There were no minibuses in sight as I kept climbing. But then, I wouldn’t have had to shoo brightly colored roosters out of my path, or paused on the mountainside to take pictures across the valley. I wouldn’t have crossed paths with the boy carrying his (still living) chicken dinner nor with the girl leaning off her balcony shouting the familiar refrain of, “Hello! What is your name?”

Finally, at long last, a minibus came my way and I arrived back to Wadi As-Seer, where I had lunch. I paused on some nearby steps to try to find my fratta, the ever-important change. Two very nice gentlemen stopped to make sure I was all right and offer any help. (I guess an American tourist hunched over the streets of Wadi As-Seer isn’t a common sight.) They pointed me in the direction of a bus back to Amman. Catching it, I made my way home – this time, using my map to get dropped off close to my neighborhood and then actually not getting lost as I walked home.

The best part of this weekend was the people. I was blessed to be on the receiving end of help from many people – from taxi and bus drivers, to policemen, to the friendly children, to random people on the street. Yes, many of them were just doing their jobs, but it is always encouraging to see good come out of slightly less than perfect circumstances.

It was also interesting to see the contrast between Amman proper and the small towns not 30 miles from it. Amman is very Westernized for the most part: it has every sort of food chain (Fuddruckers! Popeyes! McDonalds!), skyscraper, and mall that any American could want. Outside Amman, it was much more conservative and rural. Within the city, it is easy to forget the presence of the mountains and get locked into the never-ending grey and white of the limestone. Outside of Amman, you look around and could imagine yourself to be in northern Iraq (the country), Wyoming, or England with the countryside’s rounded hills, bare cliffs, and grey haze. It is beautiful and an awesome tribute to God’s creative power. On the other hand, it really can’t compare a lick to the undulating hills of home.

Salt, Part II: City of Salt

Upon arriving in Salt, I set out to explore. Having copied a map from a travel guide, I felt fairly confident in my ability to find the main street (which was where the bus had dropped me off) and from there the tourist office, museum, and several main sites. My confidence, however, did not take into account several factors, two of which are my previously mentioned superpowers. Another factor is that the streets here are wildly confusing and the map I had drawn was (understandably) simplified. Finally, small doorways and stairs have a strange attraction for me. Also, I am a bit adventurous and always optimistic that *this* will be the time I do not get lost.

So I set off on my merry way. I was on the main road and soon found the tourist office (which was closed). Continuing on, I saw an intriguing staircase wending its path between the narrow Ottoman buildings. Remain strong, I told myself.

I passed on…and shortly came to another gently beckoning stairway. Stopping to locate myself through a few main landmarks, I figured I could safely take it up and then come down the other side and be back at the start of the main street. I took the stairs, enjoying the gentle sunshine and the beautiful plastered buildings.

I was ready to come back the way I had come – until I saw the gently sloping green hill before me, guarded by a crumbling stone wall and nestled below a mysterious cave. Of course I had to climb the stone wall. Unfortunately, the green hill wasn’t as green as it promised and turned out to be an informal trash dump. I picked my way along, going up the hill. Above me, another stone wall prevented my path to another road. I found a place with some stones jutting out, and began to climb. I heard a voice above me.

“Hello!” A little girl came skipping along the road above me. She held out her hand, and I gave her the bag of figs. I scampered over the wall onto the road.

“What is your name?” She asked as we started down the road. We had a brief conversation in mingled English and Arabic, establishing that I was a student studying Arabic and that I wasn’t sick (I was sniffling a bit, though). Finally, our grasp of each others’ languages ran its course, and I began walking again.

I walked. I wandered. I climbed up and down streets, seeing cats clambering all over the cars and drawing the stares of everyone standing around waiting for Friday prayers. (I also apparently have another superpower that I hadn’t discovered in the United States: I can find myself in the vicinity of a main mosque for Friday prayers with my eyes closed. Happens every time.) I took my fill of pictures, and had finally walked so far as to be out of the town itself.

By this time, it was after lunch, so I climbed down some steps into an olive tree garden (orchard? Plantation?) to eat my lunch of figs and water. Finished, I continued walking up a ginormous hill and back through another interesting part of town. I am sure that within two hours the word had gone through the entire town that there was a crazy American girl wandering around the streets alone. Lock up your women and valuables, people. She has a camera. I was actually pretty proud of myself: I did find my way among the tortuous streets back to the main one within an hour or so of hard walking.

This time, however, I decided I had seen enough of the city off the beaten path, and began to explore the main area, such as Hammamm Street.

It was pretty: the street was narrow, with blue awnings over the shops, shuttered with heavy wooden doors. Most of the stores were only open for a few hours just after noon prayers and closing in the early afternoon. I walked around for about an hour, trying to find the main entrance to a church whose back I could see from an open plaza, but whose front was nearly unmarked and was a different color of stone.

I continued to wander about Hammam Street and the vegetable market for some time, debating whether or not I wanted to set out for Jebel al-Qa’ala, which was, I though, a ruined mosque and fortress.

At first, I decided to stay on the main road and walk to the other end of town, up another mountain, which I did. Coming back, I finally decided that I had an hour and a half in which to find Jebel al-Qa’ala and that I would at least attempt it.

By this time, I had realized that the Jordan Ministry of tourism actually had some attractive yellow signs pointing the way to various landmarks. Following those, I found the al-Khader church, where I stopped to pray for awhile.

Climbing more narrow winding stairs, I had paused to take a picture.

“Hello,” came another voice. I had been saying hello to children (and ignoring all the shebaab) all day.

“Marhaba,” I replied.

“Oh, you speak Arabic?” one of the girls asked.

“A little,” I smiled.

Within a moment, I was surrounded by five or six children, running about, laughing and smiling. They wanted their pictures taken and I was happy to oblige. Their mama stood not far off, looking on with a slightly bemused expression. I waved and smiled and gave my friendliest, “Marhaba,” and she smiled back. Ech of the kids got their picture taken, and they insisted on several with me as well. They took me to the next stop on my way, pointing out good places to take pictures.

Finally, my small store of Arabic had run out and I knew I needed to go to make sure of my way and a bus back to Amman. We said good bye – and a few steps later I had run into another group, all girls this time, who also wanted to know, “What is your name?”

We established our names and occupations, and I took off my sunglasses for them. I had to go, and hurried down the steps back to Hammam Street. Reaching the bottom, one of the girls came running back in sight, yelling my name. I turned.

“Bye!” She yelled.

Much to the surprise of the local shebaab milling around the plaza, I turned and waved.

“Maa salaama!”

Salty Interlude: Superpowers

I have two secret superpowers. Want to know what they ares? Shhhhh. I’ll tell you: first, I can get lost. Oh, oh, I know what you’re thinking – anyone can get lost. No, not just anyone can. It takes a special talent to be able to get lost anywhere, at anytime, even with a map in one’s hands. I have this ability. I have been known to have my location firmly in mind, then turn around in a semicircle and be thoroughly confused as to my directions. *This* my friends, is a true superpower. This is also the superpower that makes my parents wonder whose child I am. After all, Daddy grew up on a farm: he can close his eyes, be spun in a circle thirty seven times, and then calmly pinpoint his exact degree of latitude and longitude. On the other hand, give me a map, compass, and GPS unit and I will still manage to head in the wrong direction.

My other superpower? I will without a doubt wander into the poorer sections in town. Now, getting lost is not the worst problem in the world – provided you home in on the richest and most ritzy parts of town and can then spend hours gawking at beautiful mansions and manicured lawns. On the other hand, this is my superpower that answers demonstrates without a doubt that I am my father’s daughter: the condition of wandering into the poorest and most interesting parts of a strange town is a genetic disease and my father has the same predisposition. Whether in Baltimore; Greeneville, South Carolina; or Pittsburgh, Daddy will always manage to take us on a tour of all the places Mommy would rather not venture. Of course, this becomes an undisputable advantage when looking at colleges. (I think one of the reasons I ended up where I did was that the town was small enough to not have any bad parts of town…to, in fact, barely be large enough to be a town.)

Together, however, these two superpowers are probably the reasons my parents are most reluctant to let me ever set foot out of the house. But when I do, boy, do I have fun.


(PS - my third superpower? Hyperbole.)

Pictures

Here's the link to this week's picture gallery!

Salt, Part 1: Getting there

If getting there is half the fun, I had more fun than should be legally permissible today.

Having read three travel guidebooks, WikiTravel, and two main Amman government websites, I made an itinerary for the day and set out. First, I would take a taxi to the Abdali bus station where I could catch a public bus to Salt. Then, walk around the town for the day before catching a bus back to the station, and from there taxi home. I took my map with me and felt fairly confident about the bus station location, having been there once before when getting the bus from the University.

I told my taxi driver (who didn’t speak any English) confidently that I wanted to go to Abdali bus station. He looked at me puzzled, and asked, “Abdali bus?” I told him yes. Off we went. We got to Abdali neighborhood and he asked me again where I wanted. I told him “Abdali bus station.” This wasn’t working. He asked where did I want to go from here? I told him from the bus station, I wanted to get a bus to Salt. He looked a little more enlightened, but that was where my Arabic stopped. He rattled off several sentences; at first, I thought he was offering to taxi me there. I told him I wanted a bus or a servees. He spoke again in Arabic – I understood he was saying something about a circle (roundabout), busses, taxis, and Salt. And that was it. We were in Abdali, right at the Souq Al Jumaa, and so at this point I decided I might as well get off there. I thought I remembered passing by the souq on the way to the bus station before; and from the driver’s motions, I didn’t think it would be far.

I walked around the Souq, taking pictures and buying a bunch of plump figs for lunch. I saw no servees or busses heading for Salt, and so, taking my Amman map, I pinpointed where the bus station should be.

On the map there were two main landmarks; I did my best to orient the map and figure out my directions. Thinking that I was heading in the correct direction (East on the map and East from where I was standing), I started walking. I walked. And walked. No bus station in sight. Oh, that’s okay. Sometimes distances seem farther on foot than they do on a map. I kept walking. I found Al-Quds, a famous restaurant in Amman, but little else. Finally finding another main road, along which were lined serviis, I decided to ask the policemen standing nearby if they knew where the station was. I approached and asked if they spoke English. They smiled and half nodded. “Shway?” I asked. They laughed. So, taking out my map, I pointed out the bus station and told them in English and Arabic that was where I wanted. I asked where are we now? I thought that if they could just point out the general direction to me, I could walk there. They were sorely puzzled by the map and my questions. They held a small conference; a police vehicle passing, they flagged it, because the driver could speak English. They took the map and conferred with the four or five police officers in the vehicle. The driver spoke to me, “You want to go to Salt?” “Yes,” I said. This produced more debate. Apparently there is a road very nearby called Salt and they couldn’t figure out why I needed direction or a bus to get to the road. I told him, no, the city Salt.

“By bus?” he asked.

I said yes. More rapid Arabic. He made me understand (in English) that I would take a taxi up to a certain circle where there should be busses waiting to go to Salt. Okay, I said dubiously – where was the Abdali bus station?!. He hailed a taxi for me, and (apparently) explained the situation for the driver. I thank the squadron of policemen and we set off (but not after the taxi driver stopped to get cigarettes; this is, after all, Jordan).

We drove past the Souq, heading north. I was skeptical. We came to the circle I believe everyone was referring to – not a bus in sight. The driver pointed and shrugged, “No bus,” and kept on driving. Finally, we reached the northern and westernmost part of Amman, Swelieh. I saw buses all around; he explained I would get on one of these and it would take me to Swelieh. I agreed.

I got into the white minibus and sat down, waiting for it to fill. A few moments later and we were off.

It was a beautiful drive, passing countryside and small houses. With the lovely weather, it seems many Jordanian families had the same idea I did: I saw several picnics spread around the rocky soil, under the olive trees, overlooking the mountains.

We arrived in Salt, and I set off on foot. (I’ll save the day’s adventures for another post.) Coming back was no problem: I took the bus from Salt to Swelieh. The driver, controller, and passengers were all very nice. The controller asked where I wanted to go, and I told him anyone of three neighborhoods. He explained that they didn’t go there (which I knew) and that there weren’t any servees or busses going there, but that I could get a taxi from Swelieh, where they dropped me off. One of the (male) passengers pointed out my money nearly falling from my pocket. I got another taxi, and arrived home in the evening with no problems.

One of the first things I did was pull out my map and pull up Google to find where in Amman could the Abdali bus station be hiding and what was the bus station I had gone to before? Was it a phantasmagoria? A figment of my imagination? A place like that city on the turtle’s back in the final Aladdin movie that moved to a new location every night?

After an hour of searching, I had the answers to my questions. The Abdali bus station was demolished and closed in 2007. Its buses were moved to Tariq, a neighborhood in the far north and east. The bus station I went to must have been either Raghadan in Jabal Amman or Wahadat, a little further south. No wonder the taxi drivers and policemen were confused by my adamant questions about the Abdali bus station! Of course, I did have it on the authority of three guidebooks (one of which I know was published in 2009) and two current Jordanian websites that the Abdali bus station had regular bus services to most of the north of Jordan. Oh, well. Ahlan wa Sahlan, welcome to Jordan!

On the other hand, it wasn’t a bad experience; I got to Salt an hour later (and 2 JD poorer) than I had planned, but I got the unexpected blessing of help from a lot of Amman’s nice policemen, taxi and minibus drivers. Props to them for being professional and helpful to a rather lost, confused, and behind the times American girl in Amman.

Culture!

Today for culture club, one of the interns did henna designs (as you can see).

She was really good!

This evening, I was minding my own business back in my bedroom when I heard my host mom shouting my name. I answered yes, and she shouted again. Concerned now, I went running out front, to where the road beneath us was blocked with honking cars.

“It’s a wedding!” she said. So I leaned out of our little balcony, watching the friends and family of some neighbors down street as they played music and sang to the bride and her family.

Jordan Cultural Awareness

One thing about the culture here is that Jordanian shop keepers are, in general, very polite. However, as part of that, they seem to be obsessed with putting everything in a bag. Everything. Sometimes, they find it difficult that you would be able to handle a bottle of water and a pack of gum without a nice black grocery bag in which to carry them. Sometimes, if they’re very proud of their store, they will put your three candies into a small, labeled plastic bag and then put that bag into a larger paper bag, thus saving you from answering the perpetual dilemma: “Paper or plastic?” And sometimes, it’s just easier to let them have their way.

Spontaneity!

Spontaneity

I like the new and adventurous (which is good, considering I’m thousands of miles from home in a country where I don’t speak the primary language or belong to the predominant religious or ethnic group). That, of course, does not prevent me for wanting the old and familiar. However, wanting a taste of home can lead to new adventures in a foreign country – which is how I came to my most recent taxi sampling at night in Amman.

I got back from school around 6 and checked my email for the first time. One of the interns has emailed us a poster for events in the area: there was a classical soprano and piano duet scheduled for that evening at 8. I vacillated. It was 6:15; did I really want to leave my cosy room and venture into the dark night? I wavered. Home or classical music? I bit my lip. Well, I thought, I might as well call about tickets.

The poster, however, was in French since the event was put on by the French cultural embassy. The bottom of the poster listed 6 or so cafes or stores under a heading for “Outlet stores.” Slightly confused that the French cultural embassy would be selling tickets through stores such as a telephone megastore, I tried calling the numbers. Some of them didn’t respond; one of them spoke French; one of them spoke English with a very French accent. I tried explaining my plight to this person; he said, “I am sorry, zere aire no teekets available from now.”

“Okay, thank you.” I assumed that they were sold out. Now that I had major roadblocks in my way, I was determined to attend the concert. I found it strange that the embassy would be selling tickets through the aforementioned avenues and suspected that the man had meant “here” and not “now.” At any rate, I told myself, what would I lose? 5JD or so on a taxi drive to a sold out concert would not be the end of the world.

So I donned my scarf, nice clothes, and half-destroyed shoes and set out to hail a cab. The first driver I met spoke no English. This is when I realized my problem: most places in Amman have Arabic names. I can use these Arabic names and the drivers can understand me. I arrive at said places and everyone is happy and our social contract has been fulfilled. Now, this concert was at the “Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre.” How on earth do you say, “Royal Cultural Centre” in Arabic? This was not on any of my vocabulary lists. This was not even referred to anywhere that I had ever read or heard of in any language other than English or French. Foolishly, I had set out without my map so I couldn’t even show my taxi driver the area in which I wanted to go.

“Wayn?” he asked as we began to drive.

“Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre,” I repeated several times.

“Wayn?”

I repeated the location. I mentioned the names of several nearby stores. I tried to orient him: North of Abdoun but south and east of the University.

“Ah, Jabal Amman! Al Hussein Mosque!”

No, I told him. Al Hussein Royal Cultural Centre. I don’t know why he would think that I, a very American girl, would want to go to the mosque at seven on a Monday evening. But then, there really is no accounting for Americans (see my previous post).

“Ah, Al Hussein Cancer Centre!”

No, I told him. Al Hussein Cultural Centre.

“Ah, downtown! You want Beit al-Ras!”

No, I told him. I did not want Beit al-Ras. I wanted the Royal Cultural Center. Finally convinced that I could not, in any way, pronounce the location with a sufficiently Arabic accent that might let him recognize it, I asked to be let off. Disappointed he didn’t get a nice fat fare for driving the crazy American lady around downtown Amman, he let me out and drove off shaking his head at me.

Still determined to make it to the concert (I was on a *mission* now, folks! Forty five minutes until it started!), I hailed another taxi. The driver spoke a smidgen more English; when we came to a stoplight, I remembered I had a pen and paper and drew him a map of the general area I wanted to go. I got across to him, and he got across to me, that he knew one of the nearby landmarks I was trying to use; he could take me there, at least. I agreed.

And so it was that I was dropped off in a shopping district in the middle of Amman around 7:35. I looked around for an English speaking or map-carrying shop; my best bet, I assumed, was a Western Union. Entering shyly, I mustered my courage to ask the teller, “Do you speak English?” He did, fortunately. I explained that I knew where I wanted to go and I knew where it was located but I didn’t know how to say its name in Arabic. The teller very kindly wrote it down on a paper for me, and I went to cross eight lanes of raging traffic to get to the correct side of the road. The taxi driver read the paper and took me right to the location with five minutes to spare. Walking quickly inside, I found a ticket window and bought my ticket.

I enjoyed the show: the soprano, of course, did not compare favorably with my sister and Diana Damrau (take that, Callas!), but she did nicely. The pianist, her son, was amazing. Although he did not appear as comfortable with the accompaniment for the arias (it reminded me of the level of playing one would get at a college concert where the performers perhaps weren’t being graded on their performance), he really shone during the two interludes he played, both of which he had composed/improvised himself. They sounded very French, in the tradition of Debussy – indeed the first one he called “Love Story between the Rain and the Window” and it sounded reminiscent of Jardin sur la pluie. The soprano ended with the often used crowd-pleasers of “O Mio Babbino Caro” and “Habanera” from Carmen; not the most inspired performance I have heard, but good singing and a small reminder of home. It was a lovely evening well worth the adventure attending it.

Jordan Cultural Awareness

Jordanians do not walk much outside. If you are walking along a street, a taxi driver will come along and honk at you to alert you to his services: after all, there is no way that any person can actually walk somewhere without the assistance of a taxi. And even if you could walk, why would you?

Furthermore, Jordanians definitely do no walk outside in the pouring rain. And they most certainly do not do so without an umbrella.

Even if some catastrophic alignment of the stars caused some Jordanian to walk down a street without an umbrella on some rainy evening, defying every solicitous honk of kind cab drivers, that Jordanian would not be singing lieder, opera, and then medieval English folk songs while trying awkwardly to dance with a heavy bookbag on her back.

This might be why the Gendarmes were staring at me. If I get arrested or committed to an asylum over here, I might be the first American to use a legal appeal based on Singin’ in the Rain.

Bethany beyond the Jordan!

Bethany was the first site on the CIEE trip today. We wandered around the baptismal site and looked at the Jordan River, Israel, and churches. There were Greek Orthodox, Coptic, and Roman Catholic churches on the site. I was just wondering when the Independent Fundamental Baptists were going to get in on the action. I mean, we all know that while the Popes can only trace their direct lineage to Peter, we Baptists go all the way back to the first Baptist, John.

From Bethany we went to Mount Nebo, from which Moses saw the Promised Land and where he is supposedly buried. On our way there we saw corn. This made me immensely happy. We also saw Gypsy and Bedouin tents, gorgeous scenery, and greenery. And I have pictures up, so you, too, can revel in the green and rockiness of northwest Jordan.

I started out the day taking lots of pictures; however, by the end I realized that modern technology is probably a bad thing when it comes to picture taking. I can take as many pictures as I want without worrying about the cost. Unfortunately, this means I take a lot of pictures: suddenly everything became not “Oh, this is so beautiful,” but rather “This would make a cool picture!” Also, so many pictures get to be monotonous after awhile. Especially when they are rather devoid of people. Yes, I am my father’s daughter. Most of my pictures consist of signs, buildings, and landscapes. And occasionally food.

We went from Mt. Nebo to Madaba, famous for its churches and their mosaics. According to the tour guide, there vast number of churches in the region is due to the Ottoman Empire: the Christians in the area were forbidden to build new churches on anything other than the (Byzantine) ruins of previous churches and so they went to areas (such as Madaba) where there had been Christian settlements. This is also how the mosaics were found and brought to modern attention.

The main mosaic attraction in Madaba is in a Greek Orthodox church: the mosaic at one time covered a huge swath of ground and was a map of the biblical world. It is important to archeologists today (it led to the discovery, they said, of the baptismal site) because of its depiction of locations in the region. I was, however, disappointed by it: the hype is that it is this ginormous and very well preserved mosaic. Which it is. But it is also a mosaic….which means that (unless you are an archeologist), it is only a mosaic. Hence, not something to get hyped up about. The church wasn’t old and ruined enough to be interesting and not new and stylish enough to be beautiful. Although it was nice to see, it was a bit overwhelming.

However, lunch was good! (Lunch is always good in Jordan.) I had salad for the first time in weeks! Although I love Jordanian food, I must admit that I have missed my regular share of lettuce and raisins…I had to compensate by buying a huge package of figs last week. I meant to pack the figs for lunch every day for a week or two. Unfortunately, they have somehow disappeared in a day or two. Whoops.

After lunch, though, was when the adventure of the trip took place. We had twenty minutes or so to wander around downtown in the shopping area. Most of the people paired off, but as I didn’t have my money with me, I didn’t want to buy anything and I don’t like shopping in a narrow store while the merchant hovers over me, suggesting items. Shopping is very emotional and I need my space! So I set out alone, meandering on.

I saw a small wrought iron gate that was slightly open, half hidden down a side street between two aging storefronts. Assuming that God had given an adventure and it would be an affront to honor to refuse, I stepped through the open door (which could be, I suppose, a rather apt metaphor for my life in general). Just inside was a small courtyard with a sign half hidden off to the side: Jordan Ministry of Antiquities.

Before me was a small ruined villa: not impressive like Jerash or Umm Qais, but inviting in its humble way. There were a few metal walkways with roves arranged around the ruins, protecting the mosaics. Here, the mosaics were in better condition than in the Orthodox church and had vibrant colors and patterns. Madaba houses surrounded the area, enclosing the ancient building amongst crumbling modern ones. Grass grew all about, lending a park like atmosphere. I tiptoed past the official building in front, looking for anyone: seeing neither person nor money box, I decided it was probably free and wandered about the site for several minutes (taking more unnecessary pictures). I felt quite the explorer, all alone in an abandoned villa. Making the circuit, I cam back to the entrance, and was just passing the Ministry building to the exit, when a man appeared in the doorway.

“You walk around here?” he asked.

Oh, dear. I thought. I’ve done it. I’ve walked around a 5JD exhibit without paying and I don’t have any money on me and I’m supposed to be on the bus in five minutes.

“Yes. I walked around here.”

“Good. Good. Walk around.” He motioned. He tried to get across the idea that I should explore the park. Feeling obligated, I tried to get across the idea that I already had explored the park.

Finally, “Ah. Good. You went, yes? Come with me. Come with me.” He motioned me into the Ministry building. There was a bare plastered room, with two small desks shining under a single naked light bulb. He went to the desk and pulled out some brochures. “You visit? Where are you from?”

“America…?” I answered tentatively.

“America, good. You visit, yes? You tour? Here, take.” He handed me two brochures, one for Madaba and one for Petra. He pointed to the water-damaged Madaba pamphlet. “You are here, yes. You explore, okay? Petra? In Spanish,” he said, referring to the brochure.

“Esta bien. Puedo leer Espanol.” I told him. I needed to get back to the bus and didn’t want him to search for another brochure in English. “I can read Spanish.”

“You are from Spain?”

“No. I can read Spanish.”

“Spanish, English, okay? Spanish, English, good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay. Here. Ma salaama.”

“Ma salaama,” I told him. “Good bye. Thank you!” and then I ran to catch the bus.

The adventure continued with our visits to Mukawir, an old fortress purported by Josephus to be where John the Baptist was beheaded by Herod. The site is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by impressive wadis and geological formations and in nearly utter isolation save for a few goatherds and caves. We arrived at the site, where two tour busses of Chinese tourists were already parked. The climb up to the top of the mountain was exhilaratinig: on the way, there was a small cave we entered and then just climbing up the gentle slope was beautiful. It reminded me in many ways of the Lake District. We climbed around the ruins for awhile, and then made our long way back to the bus. As we walked back to the tour bus, I was struck by the discrepancy: beside us, a goat-herd was guiding his sheep, in front of him was a younger boy carrying a boom box on his shoulder to catch either the attention of the sheep or keep the interest of the goat-herd. Can you imagine going about your daily business as a goatherd along the sides of a mountain containing thousands of years old ruined fort while groups of tour busses roar into the area on your winding roads so the tourists can stop to take pictures of you and the piles of stone you see every day?

Pictures!

As you can tell, I have a new camera, which means pictures - and lots of them!

Since I am very untechnologically savvy, here is a link to the folder; hope you can find your way around more pictures of hills, rocks, and ruins (and food!) than you could ever want to see.

Toto, we’re not in Amman anymore…..

This marks the second weekend in a row of my doing something I normally hate: shopping.

I started the day arriving around 11 at Mecca Mall. Entering, I found the place deserted save for the quiet shuffle of the giant brooms of the men sweeping the floor. Of course with its being Friday, the mall didn’t open until after 2. Silly American.

Still, not wanting to admit to the entrance guard that I *was* a silly American, I spent an hour or so walking around the empty edifice, covering perhaps a third of the territory. Mecca Mall is the largest mall I have ever entered.

I walked to the building beside it, a grocery store. Now, as you might be able to tell from previous posts, I love food. This means that often I actually enjoy grocery shopping (well, and book shopping, but that’s beside the point.) The building was cold and sterile, quite a contrast to the thronging and heady market of Jabal Amman last week.

Walking on my way, I decided to find City Mall. On my way, I saw people leaning out of their cars, shouting and honking their horns. I shrugged my shoulders.

Now, you are familiar with WalMart. Let me introduce you to its bigger and cleaner and better stocked cousin, Carrefour. Seriously. This place is the biggest single store I’ve seen. It had *everything.* (Well, except a pharmacy, but that’s another story for another day…)

At Carrefour, I got some “hair fixations” (hair gel), food, and a camera (since mine really wasn’t working). (And yes, as you’ve noticed, this means pictures! Mostly of food. And old fallen down stones. But probably mostly of food.)

I must say, though, Carrefour has to have better security than, perhaps, O’Hare. There were security guards at the entrance and you went through a metal detector (after already having gone through a metal detector at the entrance). I made my way upstairs (on a conveyor belt!) and found the electronics department. I circled the glass counter with the cameras perhaps three times, comparing the models. The promoter followed me in circles dutifully.

Finally, I pointed to the one I wanted. She took it out, ready to really “sell” it to me and was (I think) a little disappointed that I would just take it. So she got my name and phone number and wrote down the order on a slip of paper. I went to another station and used my credit card and they verified the order. Finally, I went to the receiving station. The gentlemen there spoke about as much English as I spoke Arabic , but was very pleasant and helpful. They got the camera and showed me each of its parts, making sure everything was there for me. Finally, after giving the receipt to them and signing it, I got my camera. I was finished with the camera purchase when the exit security guard opened the box and verified the receipt.

On to lunch: safarjal, kaki and a peach non-alcoholic malt, which I ate in the food court. I also got a pomegranate and blood-orange for later. (And yes! You get to see pictures!). With a pizza hut and Hardees right there, I felt very American. I then tried to take pictures of the rest of the mall (super cool architecture and these conveyor belt things), but a security guard materialized out of *nowhere* - nowhere, I say! – and said, “No, no, Ma’am.” So I went to the other mall to take pictures!

Back at Mecca Mall I walked around for several hours, getting thoroughly lost. I had to take pictures surreptitiously, though, still feeling guilty after the first security guard. So I pretended I *was* a spy, holding the camera casually at my side and shooting up as I lingered by a pillar or what not. That explains the weird angles on the photos.

Then to break a 5JD for the taxi ride home I stopped in at a candy store and got some Arabic sweets (yay! More food pics for you!). The white and green one was the best; slightly chewy, but sweet. My high hopes for the flower petal coated one were disappointed because it wasn’t soft. The third was crunchy with a pleasant nutty flavor.

(Yes, this is important to know).

Back home, I learned my host brother had also gone shopping – and got a new drill. So I spent some time drilling holes in a laminated piece of plywood. Loud crashes came from outside the window; it sounded like gunfire.

I was relieved to find my host family seated in the family room, calmly (relatively) discussing politics. Fortunately, they informed me it was only the results of the Tawjihi, the national college entrance exam. This also explained the people leaning out of the cars, honking and shouting. And the fireworks. And the gunshots.

After the MCAT, I understand the feeling.

Getting home

I am one of the students who live as far from the University as possible: this means it is a 2.15 JD ride each way. Normally I share the ride with another girl, but she had other engagements today, so I was alone.

This presents an opportunity: cough up the 2.15 (3 days of lunch money!) or join crowds of people in getting on a cheap (0.40 JD!) bus whose destination I can’t really read with clarity.

Guess which one I chose?

If you said the tamer, more certain and more expensive one…you probably don’t know me very well. If you said the more adventurous, less certain and less expensive one, you’re correct.

So, around 4 o’clock I joined crowds of people waiting along the road as busses came careening toward us. I waited as bus after bus passed, recognizing neither the names the barkers were calling out nor the signs on the side of the busses. I asked a girl standing next to me (in Arabic), “Excuse me, I want to go to this or that neighborhood. Do you know which bus?” She said, sorry, she didn’t know.

So I waited.

Finally, there was a bus going to a neighborhood just north of mine; I decided it was good enough, so I climbed on board. I tried to pay the driver, but he said something I didn’t understand and motioned me towards another person. I spun around the aisle several times looking for the person; the passengers had pity on me, and pointed out a girl sitting a few seats behind the driver. I handed her the money, she said something, and handed it back. I grabbed one of the handles as the bus lurched on its way. One of the men got up and pointed to the seat. I took it, still not knowing how to pay.

We continued on our way, pulling occasionally toward the side to pick up a passenger. When someone wanted to stop the bus, they pressed a button on the side of the wall and the bus would hug the edge of the road to disgorge its passengers. I didn’t figure this out, however, until we passed the area of the neighborhood that we recognized. So we continued downtown (read, older and poorer section of Amman) and I still didn’t know how to get out or pay.

At last the bus came to a large area that looked more like a carnival. People were milling all around brightly lit shops with blaring televisions. I got off along with everyone else, still not knowing how to pay.

I wandered around the what were the bus station grounds, looking for a sign to an area that I recognized. There were the white servees in lanes, their destinations on blue signs to the side of the lane. I walked slowly along, sounding out the names. As I stood by a sign, one of the taxi drivers asked me where I wanted to go. (Yes! I thought. We covered this phrase in class!) I told him the general area I wanted to go. “Over there,” he said, “The busses.”

I tramped over to the busses and started the sign reading process over again. Finally, I found the neighborhood I wanted (despite the fact it was spelled differently – an “ayn” instead of “alif” – than I had expected). I got on the pus, paying 0.50 JD instead of the 0.40 JD it required. After I sat down, however, the driver gave me the change once more people had arrived.

We waited for the bus to fill most of the way, then were off on our way. We traveled back along downtown (my favorite part of Amman!) past the tiny shops with merchandise spewing into the streets; the neon signs declaring the shop names (I assume); and the crumbling cement buildings, ignorant of their aesthetic appeal.

I spent my ride slowly sounding out the names that we passed. My seatmate, I think, probably assumed I was crazy. She had asked me the time (in Arabic), and I showed her my watch and responded. Except, I think I told her it was 50 and a half instead of 5 thirty (khamsiin wa nos instead of khamsa wa nos). However, I hope my appalling accent disguised my appalling lack of ability.

We slowly made our way towards a neighborhood I recognized. Now that it was dark, I didn’t want to stay on the bus too long and wind back at the bus station. Finding a main thoroughfare, I stopped the bus and got off. Along came a taxi – whose driver spoke excellent English, no doubt due to the American rap he played for me – and I soon arrived back home. So, instead of spending 2.15 and 30 minutes, I spent 1.60 and two hours.

I think it was worth it.

Irrefutable Logic

Today I learned that the protests throughout the Middle East are caused and sponsored by the United States so we can invade and take over the region.

What this means is: if the US officially helps the leader in power claiming reasons such as stability in the region and a safe and constitutional transfer of power to a new leader, the US is actually oppressing the people and supporting a corrupt dictator so the US can take over the nation's resources.

If the US officially stands behind the protestors and rioters, claiming democracy, it is helping create instability in the region, in order to create either a militia state with a puppet leader or create a scenario so that the US can invade and take over the nation’s resources.

If the US officially does nothing, claiming self-determination and that it’s not the US’ place to take over other nations, it is simultaneously supporting a corrupt dictator in oppressing the people while creating instability in the region by allowing the protests to continue so that the US can still take over the country.

Politics is a losing game the States just can't win.

Showers of blessings

I had a hot shower today. This was my first actually hot shower in three weeks. It was wonderful.

Now, if I could just do my laundry…..

Firsts...

Today for the first time I got asked if I was from Turkey or at least had Turkish ancestry.

Today was also the first time the cab driver immediately put on the American tape of "My Heart Will Go On" for the drive.

I guess I need to work on my Turkish accent.

Classless

No classes today, thanks to Mohammed’s birthday.

I slept in, worked on correspondence, and then tried to play basketball. My host brother is trying to teach me. He has an uphill battle.

Eid Hob Saeeid

Eid Hob Saeeid! Happy Love Day from Jordan. In other words, nature abhors an advertising vacuum.

A full day of classes today, and so I left around 5 pm. The crazy was mijnoon – crazy – because we had to go by Sweifieh, a nice shopping district, absolutely packed because of the day. At several points, the taxi driver actually turned the vehicle off as we waited.

He had said that he knew how to get to my neighborhood, but he didn’t know exactly how to get to Jounia Circle. I told him he would turn right. Well, with the traffic, I had sat reading my notes, until we had come to the neighborhood. While I know my way very well in the area, I do need context, something a bit more than blank limestone apartments. He asked if he should turn right; I said, no, go staright, thinking that he would come to the end of the street. I think, however, we had already gone too far (and besides, the meter was already more than I normally paid, thanks to the traffic); by this time, though, the traffic had stopped so I told him I could walk from there. Getting out, I saw the green lights from the nearby mosque and made my way home.

Little details

Sunday, and the school week is starting again.

It started well with a good cab ride: he was pleasant, gave us change right away and then stopped and handed me my glasses after they had fallen from my pocket and I hadn’t realized it.

It’s the little things in life.

Challenger Village

After those behemoth posts to cover Friday, I will try to keep this post shorter.

Today was our meet our peer tutor event; this meant getting up at the unearthly hour of 6 AM on a Saturday in order to make it to the University by 8. From there, we left on 4 chartered buses for “Challenger Village” located about 15 minutes outside Amman.

One thing I am learning here is that names and descriptions are often very misleading, even if you can read them in English. Challenger Village was no more a village than Cedarville is a thriving metropolis. Actually, that metaphor (or simile, or whatever) is wrong because the location was actually a giant stone structure, renovated in the style of a medieval castle.

We had arrived around 9:15; I was surprised, then, that we were to have breakfast (again). It was a plate for each of us full of various sweetbreads and pastries. I have no idea what I ate, but it was good.

We then left to play games such as tug of war, arrange the giant foam blocks into specified shapes (which, I think, should be required for all residency interviews for surgery), and Simon Says. There was elevenses, consisting of tea and coffee. More team-building games, and thn lunch around 2. To start, we had a sort of puff-bread: hard on the outside, but soft on the inside and separated, so you could spoon immense amounts of fuul, hummus, lebaneh, babaghanouj, or some other sauce into it. This was only the opening: next came a plate of barbecued beef and chicken with grilled vegetables. After this point, we were nearly stuffed with food: but not quite, because finally they brought out the knaffeh for dessert. Oh, and did I mention I had mango juice? Lazeez! Tasty, indeed.

Finally, we returned home. I stopped by the bookstore to pick up a notebook and English/Arabic dictionary (okay, I admit, mainly to break my 50JD) and then went onto church.

The service was good, although I did break my “I’m never going to listen to modern evangelical worship music again unless being tortured by a sadistic regime” promise. However, it is always good to gather to worship and be reminded of God’s goodness.

Hashem's and Downtown

We decided that we could find Hashem’s from where we were, so we set out walking. Now, Rainbow Street is well known in Amman as an artsy type of street; there are numerous restaurants, cafes, and art shops – it is where, at any given moment, you can find 2/3 of Amman’s American population. It ends abruptly at an intersection: in front of you is a half built house – either completely built once or never finished, with the rebar sticking out of the concrete at the second level. Lounging out of the casement of what once was (or what once was going to be) a window was a large German shepherd, standing sentry like a stone lion. We edged our way past him, along a narrow winding road that looked down on similarly half finished and abandoned houses and out over the hills of the city rising around us. We finally found ourselves at Wild Jordan (an ecotourism/environmental rehabilitation nature centre, store, and coffee shop with great views of the city from its decks) to ask for directions.

We proceeded to ignore said directions, relying instead on our previous trip to the city during orientation. Going down a set of Byzantine-era (it seemed) stairs between houses, we were in the oldest part of the city. Stopping to ask for directions at every few shops, we found our way to Hashem’s after walking past it the first time.

The kitchens are located on either side of a grey alley; between them white plastic tables sprawl onto the sidewalk. One of the waiters pointed to a table, where the remains of the previous patron still sat. He placed them on a nearby wait-table and tore off three large piece of brown paper to use as place mats. We ordered falafel and hummus; within a moment a plate of mint, tomato and fennel and two large pieces of pita-bread were before us. Shortly, the waiter returned with bowls of hummus, fuul, and several large falafel balls that he dropped onto the brown paper. The bowl of salt still had the finger depressionos from the last customer. Unsanitary, yes, but the food was amazingly good and there was loads of it.

After finishing our delicious meal, we set off to walk along downtown. Downtown here does not mean the same thing that downtown in the States means: sophistication, pricey goods, and name-brands. Here it means small shops with their goods encroaching onto the sidewalk, tended by the men lounging by their wares. We passed dress-shop by dress shop, although I do not know who wears these traditional dresses. Hanging from models and folded on shelves reaching the ceiling, their bright colors contrast with the sober blacks that most women in traditional garb wear; I wonder if they are meant for the tourists – but then, I saw no other American people along the streets besides myself and friend. We went along the streets, pushing our way through the crowd of people going somewhere, anywhere. We passed shops selling perfume in large bottles that looked like a Victorian pharmacists’, all lined in glass windows and shelves catching and throwing the light from their amber hues. There were Arab sweet shops, and shops selling spices in large barrels and burlap bags bulging in our way on the sidewalk. Down alleys and across the way were electronic shops, pastry shops, butchers, bakers, and (probably) candle makers: baskets, blankets, keffiyas, and coats dangled from the awnings just above our heads. Reaching the main end of one street, we crossed to the other side, weaving through nearly cars that were nearly parked due to the traffic. Now we entered the produce section of downtown, passing cage after cage of rabbits, ducks, geese, chickens, and even turtles. Butcher-shops lined the way here, displaying whole carcasses of lamb in their windows, the bright red and white of muscle and ligament contrasting with the bright blue walls of the shop. Down a crowded alley, we found the heart of the market: barrels of dates, oranges, lettuce, pomegranate, cauliflower and eggplant tumbled from their confines in wooded barrels and carts. The grocers yelled their prices as people haggled and pawed over the food. Beneath the low tarps that formed the ceiling, there was barely enough room to push through the hordes of people in the cave-like atmosphere. Coming into the open, we passed another large mosque and my friend decided we had had enough of downtown.

We left to find our way back to Ranbow Street, where we could find a cab more easily and the ride would be cheaper than going through the jam-packed traffic of downtown. There were a few problems with this plan. First, we didn’t have a map. Second, even if we did have a map, it would do no good. Third, I am probably the person most likely to get lost. Fourth, there are no street names really in this area. Fifth, streets in the Mideast wend and turn haphazardly; they are not orderly like streets in the Midwest. Finally, we had come down the mountain (Jabal Amman): now, we were going back up.

Confidently, however, I set out, leading the way. “We need to go up and to our right,” I said, pretending to be sure of myself. “See, here’s the amphitheatre we saw from that direction.” This was easier said than done, given the tortuous nature of the lanes. We headed up, but no sooner than we started, the road turned in the wrong direction. (It was the road, I swear, not I.)

We passed home after home, tightly crammed against the sidewalk. We did not know if many of the homes were occupied or not, given their state of repair: the multiple shoes lying about and a satellite dish or two, however, suggested someone lived inside. Passing a group of guys lounging outside in front of their boombox, we kept our heads down and walked quickly. The only thing they yelled was, “Welcome! Welcome to Jordan, Americans!” We walked quickly nonetheless.

Up and up we took the street; spying a set of stairs, I suggested those. The stairs curved and turned as we ducked under poles used as a clothesline, past shut gates, and half opened doors that hinted at life within. Coming to the top, we found ourselves at the base of The Citadel, the Roman, Byzantine, and Ummayyed ruins that we had visited during orientation. Unfortunately, this was a good half-mile (at the very least) from Rainbow Street. I eschewed the road, instead suggesting walking along the grassy depression below the walls of the fortification in hopes of getting into the Citadel unnoticed (I commented on the lack of security earlier). However, finding our only way in blocked by a wooden gate in disrepair (I thought we could get through, but my friend said no and I wasn’t really in the mood for getting arrested as a trespasser since, in all honesty, one visit to the police station is quite enough for me), we turned back and took the road.

Finally getting a taxi, I told him our destination. “Oui, oui, mademoiselle,” he replied.

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Ah, you are from France?”

I was tempted to keep up the charade (I suppose I speak my little bit of Arabic with a French accent?), but the other girl told him, no, we were from America. The taxi took us down the mountain, through all the streets we had taken such pain in climbing, and then back through the snarl of cars that passed for traffic downtown. I kept my eyes away from the meter, not wanting to know the pain until the very last.

We returned at last. Back to watch Al-Jazeera while unraveling a sweater for yarn.

A long day indeed.

Souq al-Jumaa

Friday is here and with it comes the beginning of my weekend. I awoke early to begin my adventures. Setting out from Junia Circle (named by the landmark of the pharmacy located on the corner), we took a taxi to Abdali. The taxi wended its way through a construction zone down a road I doubted actually existed; I was skeptical until we came to our destination, Souq al-Jumaa (Friday Market).

In front of us stretched a city block of tents: a city covered in orange tarps and pushed toward the sky on structures like metal bed-frames. The rain from the night before sagged in the hollows of the tarps and dripped inconveniently on the goods and shoppers. Sunlight filtered through the cracks between the tarps, creating an orange shaded cathedral inside. The goods were piled haphazard on tables or hung neatly on hangers according to the whimsy of the proprietors. These men stood around their tables, singing the song of Souq al-Jumaa: “Lira, lira, lira. Lira wa nos. Shebaab, shebaab, yalla, shebaab. Lira, lira, lira. Lira wa nos.” They called to the marketers, hawking their wares and prices.

I searched for a nice lightweight shirt or two, but found none. Instead, I saw more velour yoga pants and velour jump suits than were ever seen in the closets of fashionable nursing home residents. The shirts were all either too old or too heavey; I was surprised, however, that all the clothing was Western. I have yet to find a store where all the conservative Muslim ladies buy their clothing.

Pushing my way around the clothes and people, I found two nice scarves. I stood around a moment, looking for whom to pay. I had seen an older lady sitting earlier but could not find here. Finally, I noticed a younger boy staring at me as he went through the scarves. I assumed he was guarding his scarves against an American thief. Approaching him, I asked (in Arabic), “How much?” He said something and held up his fingers. I think it was 5JD. Tisking,, I told him no, 2 JD. 2 JD. He said 4. “No, no. 2.” He said 4. I said, “Three for both.” I think he still said 4, but I handed him 3. He got a bag for me and I walked away with my scarves.

I then managed to lose the girls who had come with me as I pushed my way through the growing crowd. Wandering about, I found the produce section, located in the open air next to the busy street. Walking along the raised sidewalk, I saw the largest and plumpest dates I have ever seen; disappointed that I had spent my smaller bills (a 20JD bill would not go over well here), I diverted my attention. Before me in narrow rows were better produce than you can find in any US store. There were heads of lettuce and cabbage nearly the size of beachballs, oranges larger than softballs, and taught and polished eggplants flaunting their rich color in the shining sun.

Eventually finding my friends, we began walking around the neighborhood. Stopping at a small “supermarket” for a drink, we walked slowly passed two large churches and the main mosque in Amman. It was Friday, nearly noon time, and the men were streaming towards the mosque for Friday prayers. There was also a crowd gathering at the (I think) Greek Orthodox church just across the street. I wanted to go attend seervices, but didn’t know how to get into the compound or what to do once I did get in; besides, the other girls didn’t want to go to an Arabic service. They did, however, want to walk into the mosque. The main mosque in Amman for Friday prayers. The main mosque in Amman on Friday prayers where, I pointed out, there could be a protest because of the situation in Egypt and three American girls walking into said mosque at said time would not be an example of intelligence. No worries; we didn’t, of course, go any closer than the sidewalk where we sat on a bench and read my giant map.

Now that the map had done us absolutely no good, we set out walking once again. We walked along the deserted sidewalk, past the barren land and half completed building projects intended to create the new Abdali downtown shopping and business complex. Coming to the end of the street we passed a fresh fish shop and faced the construction zone. I assured them that our taxi had come through a construction zone, so there must be a way out. Heading down the narrow path, we eventually found ourselves on the main road. We walked quite some distance, past the taxis that honked at us, incredulous that we would walk when we could have their service. Crossing the six lanes of traffic successfully, we laughed when we saw two Americans hesitating on the median. “White people!” we said. “I wonder if we know them?”

It turns out, one of us did know them. After talking for a moment and getting directions, they went their way and we went ours. Finally heeding the call of the taxi, we got a driver who did not know one of the most famous places in all Amman: Hashem’s. Doing our best, we directed him to first circle, where we found ourselves on Rainbow Street. I bought us all giant ice cream cones for 1JD each. I cannot speak for the other flavors, but the strawberry, lemon, and blueberry cheesecake were amazing.

More, more about fooo-oood! More about food would I know...

Another day of classes. The most exciting thing about my school day was lunch. First, because I ate around 2 pm after breakfast at 6:30 am and secondly because it was only 1 JD! I had a huge bowl of green beans and lamb in some sort of sauce, a pita and hummus, a salad, and an amazing lemon and mint drink that made my tastebuds sing Ode an die Freude (“Freude, schone Gotterfunken…..” And to continue my divergence, is not “Gotterfunken” one of the best words ever?! Right up there with “sesquipedalian” and “quoits.”).

After arriving at my host home, I had maqloub, which is better translated as “turned over” rather than the “Up side down” that is often used. It’s chicken, aubergine, and then rice cooked together; once done, it’s turned over onto a flat pan so the chicken comes out on top. It was “zaki” – delicious.

I then watched my host brother play with sparklers. This was followed by our playing a round of soccer indoors. Finally, we got out his plastic swords and guns and had a pitched battle.

Don’t worry - I let him think he won.

O, Fortuna!

Today, I spent the morning in the police station in downtown Amman. Fortunately, they only took my fingerprints and then allowed me to go free. More fortunately, there was a group of us along with a driver who spoke Arabic in order to deal with the police. Most fortunateliest? I was only going for a visa extension.

The basics of how visas work here in Jordan: you get your passport and then you apply for a visa. You can get a multiple entry visa before you leave the States or you can get (only, I believe) a single entry visa when you arrive at Queen Alia. Once you are in the country, you have a month to get an extension on how long you can stay in country. If you don’t get the extension you have to pay 1.5 JD/day over when you leave the country. Also, if you leave the country, you have to buy a new Jordanian visa when you come back to cross into Jordan again. Otherwise, you can apply for residency, which is good for a year and which allows you to cross Jordan’s border without getting new visas at the border; it also decreases the amount that you have to pay for tourist extensions. Now, the downside is that it can be highly bureaucratic to get through all that needs to be done for it and the process takes 6-8 weeks. In the meantime, you have to go get your visa renewed, which is what CIEE did for us the first time, taking us in groups to the police station to get our fingerprints.

We then returned to classes; but, due to a misunderstanding, some of us went quite a distance from where our class was, back to the office building where we though we would be having class. This was a mistake; fortunately, again, the program director was on her way to campus and drove us and so we made it to class on time.

With only one class for the day, I decided to do some exploring. First, I went to find the copy shop where my book packet (only 7JD for all the books I will need this semester!) was. This was by the North Gate (el-bawaba esh-shamaliyya, as we have learned). Since I was near the main gate at this point, near the office complex, I had to cross multiple lanes of raging traffic. Fortunately yet once again, there was a function at the mosque, and so there were many men getting ready to cross the street. I first used one group of them to make it across two sections of roads, to the relatively safe haven of a shopping complex. I then followed a group of women across several more lanes of traffic before finally making it to the complex building where the copy center was. The copy center was located upstairs and had no signs downstairs; it was a small, one room affair staffed by an aged man who spoke about as much English as I speak Arabic. To get there, one had to traverse up a (stopped) down escalator while the up escalator was being worked on, torn in pieces right beside you. This did not instill confidence. Having found my book, I decided to come back the following day where I could break a 20 JD on it.

Now at the North Gate, I decided to walk all the way to the South Gate and hail a taxi from there, thinking it would be closer to home. The University campus is 650 acres; from the North to South gate it was about a 25 minute hike. Some students have said they want to go hiking around the Wadis in Jordan: I think that hiking across campus shall be more than enough physical activity for me. Arriving at the South Gate, I realized that this would be a poor place to get a taxi because first, the taxi would be heading in the wrong direction and secondly, it was a raging horde of speeding and merging cars. Thus, I decided to set out on foot to find some nice, quiet neighborhood from which I could get into a cab peacefully and without undue risk to my life.

I walked along the road, facing the traffic, since there are no sidewalks in that area. Finally, I came to an area in which there was at least a raised curb. If Amman is built originally on 28 hills, I think I walked up about 27 of them. Finally, finally, I realized that I was not approaching any nice and quiet roads and that I did not recognize my surroundings and that I had probably walked all that distance for nothing. At this point, I hailed a cab that was fortunately already stopped after just dropping someone off. Between my being further away and the insane traffic around 1 PM, the drive was an extra 50P.

On the other hand, I recognized my first printed word on a sign today: Abu (which means father). It was on a restaurant; why, I do not know. Given, however, that I only know three consonants, 3 short vowels, and 3 long vowels, it was the best I could do unless, of course, a restaurant had the name “Toot” (raspberry) in its title. I can recognize “toot.” I can also recognize “abat”; but since that means, “she refused,” I do not think I will be finding it on any restaurant signboards.

This was, I think, enough adventure for one day.

First day of classes!

First day of classes today! It felt a little like kindergarten or the first day of college.

I got to the CIEE office early to turn in some forms and waited with some other people from class. We walked in a large wandering group of Americans the two or three blocks from Khalifeh Plaza to the University, where we met some of the student interns who would show us where our classrooms were. Mind you, the temperature was cold. And I was in dress pants. We stood and waited – finally, some movement! The interns took us near the building and we were on our own.

Now, the paper given us had two rooms on it – why, I don’t know. So, we entered the suggested building and tried to find our classroom. This proved difficult as all the class signs were in Arabic and we were Beginning Arabic 1 and do not read any Arabic. One of the guys asked for directions and we found the classroom – locked. More waiting, and someone emerged from another office to unlock it. We entered and waited. Ten minutes or so passed with no professor. A few University students poked their heads in – “You have a class in here, now?” they asked.

“Well, we think so.” They disappeared. More waiting.

An official looking person poked her head in, “Follow me” – which we did, going into another building and up a flight of stairs. This was the correct classroom.

The walls were painted a bright robin’s egg blue and the floors were cracked brown tile. Our desks are the standard type found in high schools and had the small wooden side writing desks attached. There was a white board in the front of the room and off to the side, the strangely modern sight of a SmartBoard contrasted with the surroundings that reminded me of images I have seen of schools in India.

The professor was tall for a Jordanian and spare; dressed in a long, well tailored plaid garment and white silk hejab, she might have been the only warm person in the room. She has a dry but sweet sense of humor that pervaded the lecture.

Lecture was three hours, in which we covered around 60 words of vocabulary (most of which I already knew), the first three consonants and the first six vowels (three short and three long) of Arabic. There will be a quiz tomorrow.

After this, I and my heavy backpack went back to the CIEE office with two girls from the class. They, however, seemed to know each other very well, and I felt like an awkward third wheel. I eventually wandered from the office back to the campus to eat lunch, since I didn’t want a giant and expensive schawerma sandwich.

Eating at the University cafeteria was quite the experience. First, although the campus size is ten times the size of my home campus, the cafeteria portion I saw was only a quarter at most of the size of the cafeteria at home. There was one long serving line at the front, from which two lines of students snaked, meeting at the middle to pay at the cash register. There were perhaps fifty tables around the room; a little light filtered through the ceiling to floor windows that had been dressed in a heavy yellow or orange window treatment. The line took quite some time, which seemed like an enormous time thanks to the heavy bookbag.

I finally got to the front of the line to pick up my fake wooden tray and enormous silverware, feeling a bit like Oliver Twist with my enormous spoon. I got a small bowl of hummus, a huge container of plain yoghurt, a piece of round pita bread (khoubbz), and a can of Pepsi – all for 750P (about $1.10 USD)! Although the hummus did taste like a school cafeteria’s and I have heard that Hashem’s downtown has much better deals on falafel and serving sizes, I was quite satisfied with the meal. (I did it again, didn’t I? I just wrote about my eating experiences. Again.)

With forty five minutes before meeting the rest of the group for a safety briefing (don’t you just love the use of the word briefing? It makes me feel so official and governmental), I did the one thing that is required of me no matter the campus I am on – I found and explored the library.

Most of the books, of course, were in Arabic. The shelves and layout reminded me of the lower levels of the Princeont library. However, I did find some very warm rooms. I eventually wended my way upstairs, where I found a nearly empty reading room, waiting in dusky silence under the sleeping bookshelfs and heavy drapes. The room was nearly empty because there was an attendant in the room. I am sure she wandered what this very American person was doing in what was clearly not an American section; however, I seated myself at the furthest long table and pulled out a few nearby books just to make myself appear as though I belonged. It also must have been nearly empty because I think it was a financial and law reading room – at least, one of the books I pulled out was a financial survey and comparison of Arabic insurance companies from 1991 to 1995. Ahli Bank did okay for itself during those years.

After warming myself, it was time to meet for the security briefing, which consisted of “don’t do dumb things,” and their version of “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough,” which is: “If you are going to be a stupid American, don’t come running for help to the US Embassy, because we can’t help Jordanian law-breakers. And if we can help you, you will have to pay for it. Dearly.” It’s sad that these warnings must be repeated – one would hope that junior students in international relations would understand that being publically intoxicated in an Islamic society is not generally a good idea. Unfortunately, this is not so.

Studied for a bit after the briefing, and then home. I am getting mad skillz in hailing taxis. Although tonight, we had a very nice taxi driver. I was with another girl, who didn't know how to get home. I felt rather sorry for the cabby, driving around two very American Americans, looking for a house that we finally found having passed it once (I think).

And now, to study!

My host mom had to do a bit of shopping, and so I went with her and she showed me the lay of the land, so to speak. I also saw a sigh that I did not think I would: a whole room full of Jordanians waiting their turn patiently. No queues, no pushing – it was amazing. The phone company had the “take a ticket” method, which actually worked very well – until our number didn’t seem to appear on the screen and we had to spend another 10 minutes finding someone to setp out of the rigid alignment of slips to see us. We also stopped by a little one room craft store to pick up more yarn.

I had a fun time going to services this evening. I set out an hour and a half early, just to make sure I could get there in time. First, I walked around our area, making sure I could get back to the house from the main landmarks. Success.Then, on to flag a taxi and drive to 1^st Circle. I wandered around the streets , looking into the little store fronts. Surprisingly, the majoriy of people there seemed to be Americans….I think our program’s other group (for just the Advanced Arabic Language program) was the majority of the people.

Having read that the service began at 5:30, I wended my way through the side street and finally found the building, surrounded by a high gate on which all the solid gates were barred. This did not look promising. I continued around the road, to the side and back of the building; there was a carport that connected with the rest of the compound, and I entered the courtyard. Exploring, I found myself going up some stairs and then saw that the outer door of the sanctuary was open. I went through it and then opened the thick oak door of the sanctuary. It was completely dar – again, this did not look promising. “If only I can find a bulletin,” I thought. “This is, after all, Jordan time – I suppose 10 minutes before the service really means 30.” I turned and was on my way out, when a shadowy figure appeared in the dark doorway.

A little older woman stepped into the gloomy sanctuary. I doubted the existence of her teeth.

“Ahlan wa Sahlan,” she said. Given the circumstances, I’m surprised she didn’t demand, “Sho malik” – what’s your problem?

“Hello! Um, my name is, “ I introduced myself in Arabic, “When are the services? Is there something here?”

She held up six fingers and talked rapidly in Arabic. I assumed the meeting was at 6, then. “Here?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, here,” she replied.

“Thank you!” I wasn’t sure how to thank her for not calling the police that a prowler was going through their sanctuary.

I spent my time in a supermarket - now, although the shop was only one room, I could swear that it had as much variety as a WalMart - except the one thing I wanted, facial soap. The items were stacked two or three deep on the shelves and in the aisles. Services were in English; I was familiar with the order from the Book of Common Prayer, although I was a bit frustrated since this was the newest version of it and I am accustomed to using the rite with traditional language. Coming back, I think the world’s fastest taxi driver or at least one that wanted to bring back memories of home to an American by driving like a Nascar professional.

And now to bed – classes tomorrow morning!