Social commentary:
Our Arabic class is actually quite inspiring, but three hours can be long. I like to watch my teacher because she and my other female teacher are always donned in a similar outfit. There is a style here which is to wear a long dress covered by a sort of ankle length trench coat. They are a little bit fitted at the waist and come in a variety of exciting colors with ornate buttons and pockets to give it an edge. It may potentially be called a Jilbab, but when I googled this, it did not give the image I see here. She looks very put together every day, always has her headscarf and follows the image (to me) of modesty. If there would be an image in the dictionary of the modern Muslim woman keeping true to the whole conservative deal (without going crazy, and while still looking progressive) it would be Dr. Muna.
When we were starting to doze off, Dr. Muna deemed a ten minute break necessary. A couple of us decided to go on an adventure to find out where the bathrooms were because why would there be one in the same (entire...) building as our classroom?…not one. We walked to the neighboring building and climbed a flight of stairs to find one hole in the ground and a real toilet with no flusher or toilet paper. All our adventures appear to revolve around the bathroom, but I swear it isn’t really like that. Since there were three of us, we took turns with the toilet-de-luxe. While one of us went in, Elspeth and I stood outside the stall trying to form the first two positions in line to give the idea that we were waiting as there were other girls present (lines do not exist in Jordan, you may have thought they were “bad” in Europe, but there is no such thing here…at all… just a semi-circled clump). During our logistical nightmare of competing for this stall, we watched. For some reason we were absolutely perplexed by the site in front of us. In any American bathroom setting, you will find women, or adolescent girls in particular applying makeup and fixing their hair. But in this bathroom, the women were not fixing their hair, but instead combing through their headscarf and rearranging it the way we would with our locks. It was such a sight to see the same motions, the flipping, the curling, the pinning, the tying, going into a piece of fabric.
Good fashion is of upmost priority here (even if that means Diesel jeans with an “Orgasm Donor” t-shirt). We often see girls wandering the campus or the streets in a headscarf with skinny jeans, skin tight shirts, and always with fancy shoes. Rumor has is that Saudi women are so into their sexy lingerie that they have underwear parties of sorts in their homes with their girlfriends. The words that I’m embarrassed to say came out of my mouth when we were out of earshot were “If you’re going to do it, do it right!” The image in my head was of Dr. Muna. If you are trying to be modest, why don’t you look like her? Why are you wearing the tightest shirt Allah ever made with a headscarf? I have made a sort of inductive decision about a possibility regarding this phenomenon. I hypothesized that perhaps the way Americans see the curves of the body, that is how some Jordanians or some Muslims see hair. It appears that hair is a sex symbol, or at least a symbol of sexuality and flaunting it is flaunting your goods. Since Islam is not static is any way shape or form, and since no two people really appear to follow it the same way, I supposed that maybe “modesty” means two different things to two different people if that is even what you are going for, but maybe hair is a potential constant.
It is amazing what faith does for the masses. I mean MASSES. I feel sometimes like shouting “What if it’s all a hoax and you’re all falling for it!?” But what do I know. I guess if it keeps the blood pressure down to have a constant invisible support system, what right do I have to say anything. What are your thoughts? Should modesty be an integral part of the value system? Are there universal wells and evils in western society? Does this way of life make sense to you?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Day 28: Wrong
First day of school, at least for all the local students of UJ. My hope was to come home from Lebanon and see that all the female students would tear off their headscarf in a grand riot of “enough is enough” and wear miniskirts, be loud and boisterous and receive no unwanted attention from males because the stigma of Ramadan wore off.
Wrong.
Instead of seeing the occasional student on campus, potentially with a headscarf or veil, long skirts and shirts, there are 30,000 such beings around me. There are benefits of course. It is much easier to just be one of the crowd, small with no one caring about you. On the other hand, there are detriments. You are one of the crowd, small with no one caring about you.
It is an interesting change of events, (albeit it has been but one day) whereas my threat emotionally was once men glaring and smirking on campus, it is now women whispering, pointing and giggling. I keep thinking there is something on my face and then I remember, oh yeah, I’m white.
I wore a skirt today, it comes below my knees by maybe an inch or two and is high waisted. I always think I look professional in this skirt. It is black, elegant, pencil-shaped. I wore it with a nice white shirt tucked in and a shawl over top. The cab drivers seemed to get a big kick out of my New York look today. “Amrikia, eh, de New York?” “La, (no), 3la toul! (drive on)!”
I hate it when I speak “Arabic” ( I use the term loosely because I realize how I must sound) and people respond to me in English. I’m making an effort here people, come now. Luckily, I’ve come across more and more people who “No speak englisi” so that makes life easier for me when I’m in a butchering mood.
Classes are different now after Ramadan (mainly longer). My 5-time weekly Arabic class that was once an hour or so is now three. Three hours of anything is a long time...especially a language. Rote memorization is annoying as all hell, but unfortunately it’s something I am good at. I feel myself picking a lot of colloquialisms and standard phrases up, and quickly. I secretly hope to be able to continue Arabic in South Africa next spring (did I tell you that was my next stop after this semester in Jordan?) If I had to memorize facts this way for the rest of my academic career, I would become a nanny. Yesterday.
I stopped to get a bowl of hummus (judge me) and a fattouch (salad of sorts) for lunch on my way to the gym. Can we talk a little bit about how excited I get when I have “real” food to eat? It’s like I just made my first potholder in day camp. Mom, look what I did! But stuffing hummus and fattouch in a gym locker for an hour, waiting 20 minutes in the midday sun for a cab, taking the cab and coming home to eat said feast was a letdown. I have hummusy radishes in front of me as I write this blog to you and a killer headache from trying to tame cab drivers and running my brains out on the treadmill.
At first I thought I was cool with my little gym routine. I’m so grown up going to the gym, bringing my clothes and soap to school (never forgetting underwear) to go workout and shower at my little gym.
Wrong again.
Hassle is an understatement. Most everything that is easy in the U.S. is such a production here. Showering is annoying because if you forget your waterproof flipflips you will most certainly get gangrene and die. If you don’t bring a hairbrush you will walk out of the gym with a rat’s nest on your head, if you don’t properly close the shampoo it spills on your homework, you must walk a substantial distance from the gate of the gym to the gym proper (a workout on its own!) and to get home you can’t just hop a subway or your vehicle, no. You must wait, sopping wet hair and wet fattouch and all to wait again on a highway street corner for a cab that is
1) That IS
2) That is free
3) That is not skeevy.
Bonne chance. You must also pay cab driver and pray he doesn’t choose some route you don’t know because he is probably ripping you off. Waiting is a learned skill, I have discovered. Not my forte yet.
I just put a load of wash in and I did it now because by dinner time in six hours it should be ready to hang outside to dry.
My roommate just went to Carrefour to follow my lead from yesterday for her groceries which was an event consuming the better part of three hours from cab rides to maneuvering the mall to haggling for spices to checking out with a dysfunctional credit card to catch a cab that is going to rip you off to take you down a back road you don’t know to make five trips up three flights of stairs with 70 bags of groceries that you will have to do all over again in a week.
Ah romance!
I sense a trend on day 28…that is of being wrong. I’m a stubborn person by nature (genetic trait) but it has been surprisingly easy for me to laugh at myself for thinking life without someone watching over me would be easy. I suppose I never really thought “easy”, but when you are thinking about “what ifs” in life the last thing you think about is how radishes will leak onto your newly printed homework , or the potential of a washing machine so outdated that it leaks onto and rusts the floor of your oven. You certainly never think of gangrene feet. At least I never did.
What I enjoy most about the mess that is my current reality is that with my Excedrin bottles on hand and friends who don’t take themselves seriously I am learning my different thresholds for nuisances and my potential for independence. In the words of the great Jay-Z, I am able to go and brush my shoulders off. I can laugh at myself a little for thinking how worldly and wonderful I thought I was. I like to see how far I can push myself before I have to pack it up and head home, I’m always up for a little challenge, even if that involves pushing down the hygiene standards to utterly unacceptable levels. I am here!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Days 18-26
Lebanon. The most unique and familiar place I have been. I felt both so at home and yet so ostracized. Where do I begin with my week in Lebanon?
We prepared to leave after class on Thursday afternoon of last week. We all decided upon a meeting spot from which to begin the journey. For the sake of ease while writing this blog summarizing so much activity, and so you do not get too lost, four of us went to Beirut together, Elspeth, Zach, Simon and I. My roommate Victoria often made an appearance since she would be spending the week with her family in Lebanon also. Being responsible travelers, we decided it would be wise to bring along some Lebanese currency (they use both the lire and the US dollar). Elspeth goes to exchange money as the rest of us reclaim our passports from the program head. Please keep in mind the conversion rate from JD to Dollars is .7 to 1.
Elspeth: “Oh my God, okay, so I went downstairs and I gave them 100 JD…I got back 140 US dollars, they totally screwed up, it’s .7 to 1, so I should have gotten like 70 dollars…!! “
Simon :“DANG! You made BANK!”
Me: “Are you serious?? You just made a killing!”
Elated regarding our friends newly found fortune, we decide to push the limits to see if he can give us the same deal. I must admit that guilt ensues slightly as Elspeth urges “Go to the guy in the middle! He’s the one that did it!” Regardless, making double on my money sounds nice, so I nervously go to the “guy in the middle” to see if he’ll make the same mistake twice…I hand him 100JD…AMAZING, he gives me 140 US dollars back! Serious moral dilemma but I am so high on adrenaline I forget anything but the fact that this man did it AGAIN! We tell the others…Victoria my roommate and Simon decide to try their luck as well.
Elspeth and I at this point run upstairs to wait for the others in the computer lab, trying to kill some time. We are rolling around in giddiness. She gets up when she sees her roommate to tell her about the amazing idiocracies of the money men downstairs
“..and he gave us 140US DOLLARS!!!” Blank stare.
“Yeah?”
Elspeth convincingly tells the story again and pauses. She comes over to me… we sit, we think, we use an online calculator… we burst out in laughter. 100JD=140USD. The others are elated that the man made the same mistake…and then they too are told the realities… we are idiots. What a fabulous foot upon which to start.
We hop in a cab to the airport where Simon decides to get himself detained for a few minutes when his ticket wouldn’t print, giving us a minor gulp in our throats. We take off and land 45 minutes later in Beirut with my roommate whose family graciously had their driver pick us up and bring us three platters of delicious foods. They driver took the four of us to our hostel. We drove up at dusk and the humidity was oppressive. We noticed the huge body of water behind which the sun was setting. We noticed the dilapidated housing and the clean highways, we saw the street signs in French and Arabic, we noticed that perhaps the drivers in Beirut were more tame than in Amman. We pull into an area that is known as Gemmayzeh, also the area where we will be staying. There is the most awesome mosque any of us have ever seen. This will be our reference point.
After searching the streets for a little while in search of our hostel, we suddenly pull into a back alley off a highway. There are electrical cords hanging down from the building that is chipping white paint with rickety stairs that were maybe once marble...not to mention that this is a shady dark back alley. One of us sees the sign “Talal New Hotel”. Gulp. The thought in my head? “Oh shit.”
Laughing at myself for believing that paying 7 dollars a night for a place to stay would be a good idea, we walk up the stairs to a kindly man that we decide to nickname Talal (secretly) offering us tea, coffee, (hookah?) and giving us the key to what would come to be known as “the bomb shelter” (disclaimer: there were no bombs, but had there been, we would have been okay).
We open our door and see three and a half beds pressed against eachother with pretty pink Princess sheets. We do notice the functioning AC that was certainly a blessing. We have no windows. We look at the bathroom we share as a floor and notice there is no separation between where you poop and where you bathe. The shower head pops out of the wall and you must squeegee the bathroom floor after you shower so that the unassuming bloke who finds it in himself to pee in the middle of the night does not bust open his skull on the same floor that you washed yourself. You bathe in the toilet. Since I am the shortest I offer to take the half a bed snuggled between the two boys. We pull out a bottle of Jameson and get to know eachother.
We meet up with my roommate who offers to take us to a trendy restaurant on the roof of an old building. It is too expensive so we down some appetizers and head to our local taste of Lebanon “Le Chef”.
Our host welcomes us…over and over...“WAYLCOME! WAYLCOME LAIBNON!” over and over to the point of uncontainable laughter for us. Some jokster customer had apparently realized the trend too and made a plaque on the well giving him the Trademark Department's award for the word "Welcome".
We have the “local dishes” every time which can be a crap shoot, but mostly, for the price, unbeatable. Beirut is not an inexpensive city we quickly find. We have not really explored the Gemmayzeh area yet, but we can tell. We also find that if Arabic fails, French will prevail. It was lovely to be able to pull out French every time we were confused, lost, or flirting for free drinks. Thank you parents, the skills that serve me well… Simon and I go back to the bombshelter to sleep while the others explore Gemmayzeh at which point we quickly find that under our flat is a booming nightclub. Oh joy. Night One in Beirut.
We awaken the next morning at around noon and wander over to a delicious and extraordinarily overpriced French breakfast where I order my first Chevre Chaud. AH. Life. French permeates the air, everywhere. If you wish to learn Arabic, and happen to speak French, I urge you to stay away from Lebanon. It is just too easy. We decide to spend this day wandering the city and seeing what we see. What we do see is rather difficult to describe. If I had one sentence with which to convey Beirut to you, it would be a fusion of New Orleansand Paris, with palm trees, by the Med, just recently blown up. Does that help? You forget you’re in the Middle East until you hear the call to prayer.
We walk the streets with mosques and churches across from eachother, statues with bullet holes, cobble stone streets lined with Parisian lamp posts, jasmine, palm trees and pine and gargantuan modern glass apartment buildings. We go down streets so exclusive and pristine that the “Hawks” (social police of sorts) and men in full military uniform with AK47s approach us and ask us to please put away our cameras and hurry along to the next neighborhood. We turn the corner to find crumbling housing projects with striped curtains on the outside, chipping paint and bullet holes tattooing the sides of the New Orleans style architecture. We see a park that has appeared to become a senior psychiatric unit, and turn down roads where the natural earth tones painted on the ornate upscale apartments with perfect brown shutters make us feel so insignificant we turn away.
The environmental differences also offer us a nice break from Amman. We orient ourselves with reference points such as the water, and the mountains, which is a nice break from “oh it’s by the other white house on the corner with a… I donno hospital”
After a day of exploring our surroundings and of figuring out what Beirut is by day, we return to the apartment to prepare for Beirut by night. The four of us get ready in our 10x10 bombshelter consumed by small beds and luggage, tripping over eachother and everything, giving up on the possibility of order. Changing in the bathroom is simply impossible since if the floor is not wet, and if it does not smell like warmed up feces, then the light is out. We quickly discovered that electricity is not what it is in Amman. Three hours a day (at least) the electricity goes off and you deal. If that happened when you were the in the shower, that just sucks for you.
Our second night, we had dinner at Le Chef where we were “welcome, welcomeeeed!” to Lebanon followed by a bit of bar hopping. On night two, we came upon what was to become our favorite hangout spot- Torino. Scantily clad compared to our customs in Amman, we sat down in the back of this tiny bar and ordered our first drinks. The waiter (surprisingly….) spoke French. I don’t really drink, and it took me the better part of an hour to get half way through a vodka cranberry. The waiter asked me what was going on and I told him there was not enough cranberry. He smirked and he mocked me and I responded shamelessly and he brought us innumerable free drinks, all the time mocking my inability to handle the taste of what may as well be toilet bowl cleaner. Jager shots are not something I am particularly proud of downing, but I was able to make my table happy by keeping the overall bill low…all that matters when you are twenty.
Eve turned out to be a great friend to us throughout our stay in Beirut; he took good care of us.
After Torino, we stumbled to the nightclub under our hostel and invaded a VIP section when Simon drunkenly made friends with whomever it was that had reserved the section and let us dance on their couches and drink their Almaza. The thing about Beirut which I never was able to resolve was my need for dancing. You drink, you socialize, you laugh, but you don’t dance. I would from time to time make my own dance floor, but I have vowed that first thing I do when I get back to New York is to head down to a club and let loose. Less drinking, more dancing = happy Alex. I can’t say I wasn’t happy of course, we had a blast. The night life in Beirut was a Godsend compared to Amman. But I am spoiled by bad music and great dance floors. Soon enough! The other thing about Beirut is that while the night life puts the rest of the Middle East to shame, it is very exclusive. You must know people that know people, or pretend to, certainly make reservations and you must always look your best. Stumbling into places is not exactly the way it is done; that sometimes got a bit old.
We returned again to our snuggly nook and spent a second smelly day without braving the squeegee shower. Victoria by this point was probably getting sick of smelling us and invited us to swim in her family’s pool up in the mountains of Beirut. We were overjoyed and were even picked up by their driver. Arriving at the home was both overwhelming and relieving for us. It was the most beautiful home we had seen with a view of the entirety of Beirut (and the whole airport). They graciously offered us an enormous spread for lunch and (we can take a hint) showers. We were certainly spoiled, but also most grateful. We spent the afternoon lounging before heading out for a night of barhopping. We keep it classy.
In the morning, we uncovered an amazing little breakfast place “Dani Bakery” where a man we decided to (between us) call Dani and his (potential?) family made us amazing breakfast sandwiches on a sort of salted pita with cheese and an egg and tomatoes. It was phenomenal. Our second morning at Dani’s we are sitting around waiting for our brickoven toasted yummies when a young girl with a sharp black bob hair cut, dark eye makeup and stern tattoos lights up a cigarette and sits down next to us. “You guys look like such tourists” were the first words out of her mouth. Unsure whether to laugh our scowl, we uncomfortably sit and let Simon take over the conversation. “You’re all so blonde and whatever”….ok? ….“Where are you guys from?” – New York, she acts surprised. We ask her what she is doing in Beirut, she doesn’t seem to know. She’s American, “but Palestinian”… What are we doing in Beirut “are you doing like, tourist things?”… confusion ensues, (obviously we are doing tourist things, remember, we are tourists). We tell her we are students at the University of Jordan “Oh my god, have you ever, like, BEEN to Jordan?” (no dumbass, we just happen to STUDY THERE).. “why yes, we have, why?”… she continues “OH MY GOD, I DESPISE Jordan, it’s just so flat, and dull and (here’s the kicker) silly”… I felt a heat boil up in me I had never felt before. How dare someone talk about Jordan that way! We grab our sandwiches just in time to get the hell out of there. I was furious and we were laughing so hard at the fact someone just called a country “silly”. We run to meet Victoria; I realize that I am getting defensive about Jordan.
Victoria’s family had arranged for a car to take us around other parts of Beirut to see the ruins, the teleferique, and the famous stalactites at the Grotto etc. for the following day. It was certainly an experience to see these parts of Lebanon. We had beautiful views, absolutely stunning ruins and more importantly, turtle sex. When we arrived at the Jeita Grotto for the stalactites, we came across a small zoo of sorts with animals such as guinea pigs, chickens, ducks and porcupines on display. It was a rather strange spread of animal cages but the one we were most taken by were the small turtles. We were intrigued when we noticed the little turtles fervently head butting the large one and we wondered out loud what she had done to make them so angry. Shortly thereafter, we realized they the little turtles were not so much angry as horny. The little turtle subsequently mounted the larger one “turtle style” while we perversely watched it strain its neck and stick out its tongue in ecstasy. I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t aware that turtles even had tongues. Watching a turtle’s neck vein reach near explosion point, and sticking a little red tongue out of the side of its mouth is an image I will be using whenever I have a bad day. I apologize if that is perverted, but it is possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen. Oh gosh… compose yourself, Alex. Okay.
After turtle sex and pretty rocks, our driver took us to Byblos to see the ruins and more importantly have lunch. Our restaurant was perfectly situated on the water overlooking the mountains and the beautiful Byblos ruins. We were very excited when we saw the view and we saw that the prices were reasonable for once. We sat down and waited. And waited. And waited.
After a good amount of time being passive, those of us with shorter fuses (who knew that would ever be me) rose to ask for menus. After we ordered, we waited. And waited. And waited. On the first day of orientation to this program, our director said a slogan which we commonly use (mostly in mockery). She said “YOU ARE HERE! Not there, you are really, truly, here!” ‘Here’ is the Middle East, ‘there’ is the U.S. and we are to remember that when we are waiting 30 minutes for a café latte at Starbucks. After that joke got old, we complained and received our food (which probably had spit on it due to the bitching). I was so excited about ordering seafood since in Amman it’s 17 dollars a shrimp.
When I received my Crevettes Provencale, the table looked at me and the 6 mini-shrimp half the size of my pinky and burst out laughing. It became less funny for everyone when they received crab cakes the size of an eyeball and when we subsequently waited another half hour for a fish surprise platter that ended up looking like little fish penises which tasted a bit like lamb. We are here! Not there.
We drove back to the refuge Victoria’s family provided for us, ordered Pizza Hut, and watched the Chappelle Show, damnit.
We spent the night at her house, which was an amazing break from the bomb shelter and took showers for a good solid half hour (shh). In the morning we were made lunch spreads and offered a ride back to the hostel. Today we were upgrading rooms since another bunch of backpackers had booked our cozy compound for the rest of the week. We were now paying 10 dollars a night AND had out own bathroom (WHAT!). It was amazing. We even had a window! I slept on the floor with my princess sheets, no one else got the princess sheets this time (I think they were a little upset about that).
We spent the following days exploring Beirut some more on the Hamra side by the Corniche and the American University. I know that means a lot to you, but I figured I throw it out there. We walked along the pathway by the water which looked so much like Nice it was eerie. We went up to a region in Lebanon called Bekaa Valley which is home to the Baalbek ruins and vineyards. The ruins were some of the most stunning I had seen (Parthenon included) and we hired a tour guide who reminded me of a detective from a Jules Verne book. Other than the beautiful ruins, one of the most exciting parts about going to Bekaa Valley (at least for Elspeth and myself, the boys were less than thrilled) was that we were in the Hezbollah administrative headquarters (I got the t-shirt). We subsequently ate our first shawarma which is like an Arabic hoagie and headed down to Ksara to do a little wine tasting. We took a tour of a stunning vineyard and were taken upstairs to taste five or six glasses of dry and fruity deliciousness.
That night, we drove home, and gussied up to brave Sky Bar. There is a club in Beirut that is world famous for being one of the longest and most prestigious bars in the world. Of course we had to check it out. But since we are nobodies, we went at 9:30pm to get in without a reservation. If you remember being young, 9:30pm is a joke anywhere you go. So we waited around 9:30 on a Tuesday in the most upscale bar in the region and were kicked off every table we squatted because they were all “reserved”. The bartenders were not flirty, and the music was eh… When we tired of this scene, Victoria called her cousin who left her group of friends, picked us up in her car and drove us to somewhere fun. And it certainly was fun. We went to Myu on Gemmayzeh where we lived. We were certainly in the middle of the life of the city. Why we ever left Gemmayzeh was a mystery to us all.
We spent our last two days exploring and lounging in luxury at the hostel and at our friend’s pool and we even joined a beach club for the day. We ate amazing food (as a connaisseur of chocolate and chocolate cake, I am making a bold statement, going out on a limb and stating that I have had the best flourless, brownie melty chocolate cake I have ever had in my life, here, in Beirut, at Casablanca restaurant, please go, just do it). We joined the beach club, paid obscene amounts of money for everything and had the absolute time of our lives. Taking a plane from Beirut to Amman was amazing to me. I am actually here, I am actually doing this. I am traveling throughout the Middle East. It was just so surreal. Triple metaphor but reality hit when we hit the run way and an eager Arab man opened up the overhead to get out his stuff and dropped his bag on my head while the plane was in full motion.
Welcome home.
The drive from the airport made me happy, nostalgic, amazed, antsy; it made me proud.
Coming back to Amman was certainly a nice relief from the claustrophobia that was our living situation, and taking a shower probably felt to me like life felt to that turtle not long ago. I am certainly glad to be back, but I will certainly miss Beirut.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The many faces of Lebanon:
The sign that only took 70 shots from the car to get. (This is Jordan)
Talal's New Hotel
!
The room that is an upgrade from the bombshelter.
Our private bathroom. Please note the shower- toilet proximity.
!
The room that is an upgrade from the bombshelter.
Our private bathroom. Please note the shower- toilet proximity.
Our mosque and a typical downtown street.
Bullet holes in the statues.
A view of Beirut by foot.
Other sides of Beirut - underconstruction, over the top and remenants of the war.
Victoria's home which offered us refuge from Talal's. 
My roommate's family's pool, and the view of the city and the whole airport.
My roommate's family's pool, and the view of the city and the whole airport.The ruins at Byblos. 
Turtles...please note the tongue and neck vein on the dominant turtle. (My only picturie of Jeita Grotto since cameras were not allowed)
Byblos at sunset.
Soliders hanging around the street with their AK47s and tanks (obviously impossible to take a picture of them, but just so you see the reality of things)
A mosque on the way to Baalbeck
Ruins at Baalbeck- beautiful.
The symbology behind us- lions head for strength, the cord underneathe for friendship, the labyrinth symbolizing immortality (later becoming the swastika) the egg and the arrow for life and death and the interweaving for slavery.
A little boy playing with toy guns...everywhere...
Skybar (second longest in the world)
Streets of Beirut.
View of the mountains from la Corniche.
La Corniche.
Dani and co who made us amazing breakfasts every morning.
Contrasts. The salt water pool where we spent our last day.
The beach club/pool.
Ode to our mosque.
Byblos at sunset.
Soliders hanging around the street with their AK47s and tanks (obviously impossible to take a picture of them, but just so you see the reality of things)
A mosque on the way to Baalbeck
Ruins at Baalbeck- beautiful.
The symbology behind us- lions head for strength, the cord underneathe for friendship, the labyrinth symbolizing immortality (later becoming the swastika) the egg and the arrow for life and death and the interweaving for slavery.
A little boy playing with toy guns...everywhere...
Skybar (second longest in the world)
Streets of Beirut.
View of the mountains from la Corniche.
La Corniche.
Dani and co who made us amazing breakfasts every morning.
Contrasts. The salt water pool where we spent our last day.
The beach club/pool.
Ode to our mosque.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Day 17
As this is my last day of Ramadan in Jordan (given that tomorrow I will be spending the Eid, my break, in Lebanon) I thought I would give an overview of my day today, as it was pretty standard. The next time I post (in a week or so) I will be able to compare and contrast life before and after Ramadan. I’ll be sure to post pictures of Beirut upon return. We will see if there is a difference in ambience, attitude and moral standards.
At 7am, three of us who live in the complex caught a cab at the corner of the next block as we do every morning after catching up about our night. Waiting for a cab driver is like waiting for your first visit with the dentist. He could be shady, you could not trust him with his equipment, he could take the longest way to where you want to go and he could overcharge. This morning was a joke. The man who picked us up was fully donned in a keffiyeh and white robe down to his trendy socks and sandals combo. Since waiting for a cab can take a matter of minutes or hours where we live, we take what we can get. He pulled up to our residential neighborhood blasting what I could have sworn was an Arabic Malcolm X. He was shaking his fists and yelling with the man exiting the cab as we took his spot. After hearing my surely endearing American accent, he was quick to switch the station to what without much deliberating was Arabic Teletubbies station. He happily bopped along forgetting his route and ended up making several unnecessary turns while in this rather strange stage between militancy and infancy. Getting out was a relief.
Class today was an Arabic listening exercise which was a nice break from rote memorization and recitation. Deciding to be savvy travelers, my friends and I walked over to the printers after class to print out our confirmation numbers for our flight tomorrow, and were told simply that the “printer-lady” was not there, and that we could not print on our own until she came back, whenever she would be back. They gave us a time frame of around 30 minutes… so by now we know that means forget it and it’s time to get lunch.
Lunch for the most part is the highlight of my day. It is always the same and consistency in a place like this is hard to come by. I’m unsure whether or not I’ve made past references to our little haven but life without Subway would be a miserable experience here. Subway is the only consistently open food place in and around our campus that serves during Ramadan. Of course, we can’t EAT at Subway, we have to take it and leave. As a result, the three of us made our sandwiches and crawled down the fire escape around the corner from the garage to quickly scarf down heaven in a bun. Who knew I’d come to Jordan to go on the Subway diet.
I didn’t fall asleep in class today which was a miracle (I mean I dozed a little, but there was no drool involved and hardly any squigglies on my paper). After class, which is so long, monotonous and dull that you would believe you were being read a bed time story of insurance manuals, we hopped a cab home. We were excited because the seats were leather without holes and the cab driver seemed happy, no militancy. We drove towards our house at which point the driver veered off into a gas station leaving the meter on. It is customary for the cabbies to simply take you on their gas errands, or other errands, whether you care or not. We told him somewhere around six times to please turn the damn thing off… he said “ok, ok…” and did nothing. We agreed to simply detract it from the final total. After leaving the gas station, we notice that he is incessantly checking his rearview mirror. Finally, he pulls over and motions to a beautiful, rather trampy uncovered girl to get in the back with us, she agrees. We are pissed. He is a pig. I’m surrounded by men who are pigs here. There is something in the air that makes it okay to be a greedy scumbag man and I encounter it over and over.
As a white American woman, I am let into every building and entrance that the locals need ID to enter without question. I am put on a pedestal and the idea appears to be if I let you in, you will flirt with me. You don’t have your head covered and you walk with your hair down so you must be easy. When we arrived at the house, we gave him two dinar, which was two dinar more than he deserve, but twenty five cents less than what the meter said. We gave him the two and crawled over the tramp to get out. He then threw the two dinar at my face and told me “MORE!”. He was furious. We left the cab and said two dinar is all you get homeslice. We were talking about a quarter here, but me being furious at the pig that he was, and he being furious that I was not giving him enough let alone tipping him made us both too stubborn to give in. We exited the cab at which point he furiously honked and abruptly stopped his cab and got out to give us a piece of his mind. I had given him the two dinar he threw in my eyes as if I were the leader of the brothel pack and he threw it back at me a second time. We were terrified he was going to beat us with his flimsy window shade so we finally gave him the quarter.
I have not had very good experiences with the men here. The cat calls and honks do not bother me half as much as the quiet smirks and under-the-breath side comments of a group of men just watching me walk. Those are the most common. I do not like the stories I hear from girls in my program in homestays who find themselves eating in the kitchen (as opposed to the dining room) when the male friends come over and being treated like a piece of meat or contrarily given special privileges with an expectation attached. Luckily, on our program, the men with whom I associate are dignified. They are kind but quick to help us defend ourselves or ignore the nuisances of life here. The men I have met on other programs are boys. It is as though there is a precedent set for how you can behave and western men are quick to pick up on it. They do not have to be equal here; they can be the leaders of the pack. If you are one of those feminists who argue that normativity in US makes it a man’s world still, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
I am very uncomfortable around them, even some of the white ones from Suburbia, USA. Women are so quickly objectified. Some find it fascinating that there is a piece of hair peaking through the hijab and are quick to fantasize. Others enjoy the sight of a girl with a skirt a bit too high and a shirt a bit too low. I don’t know which is safer. I’m not sure if we actually have a long way to go still, or if I’m not being open minded. Regardless, this is my experience. When sexuality is so publically suppressed, it creates a tension that is beyond uncomfortable; I think it is almost dangerous. I’ve seen women making out with their boyfriends at the University literally sitting on the ground crouched between two cars in a parking lot. Homosexuality is entirely illegal. Some men seem to find the idea of being covered as alluring because of the mysticism underneath while others are simply lured by long hair and form fitting clothes. You just can’t win. Who knows who is protecting whom from what.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Day 16
My First Jordanian Love Affair
It’s official, I have fallen in love. I am completely enraptured, obsessed, smitten. Everywhere I go that is all I can think about. I feel it on the street corners; I am reminded on every building, sign and object that I see. It’s a puzzle, you keep learning new pieces to put together, it’s a game, everything is exciting. I realize that I am in the honeymoon phase. I realize that eventually people have only two choices, they enjoy a lifelong relationship with trials and tribulations expected, or they break up.
When you are in this phase, all you can possibly think about is how breaking up is never an option, about how no matter what you do, you must find room in your life for the rest of eternity, you must make room. People keep warning me that it will hit, eventually everything I found exciting will simply get on my nerves, all those interesting new puzzle pieces will just seem so insignificant and annoying that there is nothing I will want to do more than just call it quits.
People have told me. And I believe them. Ironically the people who have told me are still in long term relationships. They have made it work, not without some serious deliberations of course.
The incredible thing is that no matter how much at that point you will want to give up, you will have invested so much of yourself into the process that trying to separate yourself entirely from it will be impossible. It will always have you, it always keeps a part of you and you will always have a part of it. Your relationship is also unique to everyone else’s. Sure, we often have similar disputes and find solace in the knowledge that other people have struggled with the same points, that you are not the first and you will not be the last. But often, it does not feel like everyone in your physical context is going through this with you. It is just too personal. You are the one making it happen, or you are the one in over your head.
Right now, everything is beautiful about this love. It lingers in the air long after it’s gone, it is so pure you can feel that it comes from another world, you know that nothing about it can you hurt you, it guards you, it’s quiet and humble, it’s loud and animated, it has the most beautiful physical form. When it speaks it grabs you and lures you with the mysticism you are warned about as a westerner. It has roots yet is not stagnant; it is modest yet proud and witty. When you are finally able to make sense of what you are seeing, it comes together like a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild and nose.
Sorry Mom and Dad, it looks like there is going to be a wedding on the horizon. I don’t think I will ever let go of the affair with the Arabic language.
It’s official, I have fallen in love. I am completely enraptured, obsessed, smitten. Everywhere I go that is all I can think about. I feel it on the street corners; I am reminded on every building, sign and object that I see. It’s a puzzle, you keep learning new pieces to put together, it’s a game, everything is exciting. I realize that I am in the honeymoon phase. I realize that eventually people have only two choices, they enjoy a lifelong relationship with trials and tribulations expected, or they break up.
When you are in this phase, all you can possibly think about is how breaking up is never an option, about how no matter what you do, you must find room in your life for the rest of eternity, you must make room. People keep warning me that it will hit, eventually everything I found exciting will simply get on my nerves, all those interesting new puzzle pieces will just seem so insignificant and annoying that there is nothing I will want to do more than just call it quits.
People have told me. And I believe them. Ironically the people who have told me are still in long term relationships. They have made it work, not without some serious deliberations of course.
The incredible thing is that no matter how much at that point you will want to give up, you will have invested so much of yourself into the process that trying to separate yourself entirely from it will be impossible. It will always have you, it always keeps a part of you and you will always have a part of it. Your relationship is also unique to everyone else’s. Sure, we often have similar disputes and find solace in the knowledge that other people have struggled with the same points, that you are not the first and you will not be the last. But often, it does not feel like everyone in your physical context is going through this with you. It is just too personal. You are the one making it happen, or you are the one in over your head.
Right now, everything is beautiful about this love. It lingers in the air long after it’s gone, it is so pure you can feel that it comes from another world, you know that nothing about it can you hurt you, it guards you, it’s quiet and humble, it’s loud and animated, it has the most beautiful physical form. When it speaks it grabs you and lures you with the mysticism you are warned about as a westerner. It has roots yet is not stagnant; it is modest yet proud and witty. When you are finally able to make sense of what you are seeing, it comes together like a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild and nose.
Sorry Mom and Dad, it looks like there is going to be a wedding on the horizon. I don’t think I will ever let go of the affair with the Arabic language.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Day 15
Academia :
Unfortunately, the reality of my academic situation is nothing I can brag about. I love school, I love to learn, and I love the areas of study which I currently consider my concentrations. Ironically, being at the University of Jordan has not fulfilled any of those loves by my definition. School to me is Sarah Lawrence and nowhere else. Learning to me is sitting in my library with the books that are provided to us and filled with absolutely mind-blowing information on something that will be relevant for the rest of my life. Psychology to me is Kim Ferguson and the entire department of phenomenal Psychology professors my school hires. Middle Eastern studies are my professors Kristin Sands and Fawaz Gerges with discussion sections and intensive papers substantiated by easily accessible sources from our library staff. Nothing I know academically is like it is here. Everything I thought I knew it turns out is defined by my spoiled definition of knowledge. For me, knowledge comes from books. It is difficult to concentrate in class. I am not a Geography major, and I am using this semester to learn about tributaries, deltas, reverse osmosis and desalinization in the Middle East. I am learning about Arab revolutionaries and controversial leaders.
I have, without fail, fallen asleep in both non-Arabic speaking classes that I have here 6 times (i.e. every class…)
I recognize that the academics my school provides are without a doubt tailored for my particular learning style. I have never once been close to falling asleep in a class in New York. I put off extracurricular activities in order to read as much as I can cram into my brain. I am stimulated. The classes here count. They will count towards my GPA, and they will be seen on a transcript to graduate programs. I have made allies with students in my class and we watch one another’s back in the case of serious head bobbings. The reality is that I will not be satisfied with what I learn in these classes here and coming to grips with that is excruciating. I give the readings my full attention (when we are e-mailed or given the readings), I have re-read the syllabus in order to understand what an oral presentation on water entails…I have opted out on hanging out with friends to read 200 pages on Al-Afghani, but the reality is that I just cannot bring myself to care. As a result, I have come to a few conclusions.
Primarily, while I fully recognize that this is a study abroad program, it is also a study abroad program. I am so used to pouring myself into my researching during the academic year that it feels so entirely self-indulgent to be putting academia second. Secondly, while I understand that it is, in fact, self-indulgent, there is a lot I am learning about life, independence, self-discipline, culture and myself that would be impossible in the confinement of Yonkers. I know I am happier here than I would be there all year, without question. On the other hand, it is a tough dynamic to reconcile. I am doing something I’ve wanted to do since I started formulating opinions on things, I am learning a language that I’m ecstatic about, I am living a life that people cannot possibly imagine who have not ventured passed their front door. I am learning about a people so misrepresented that it makes me feel militant at times. I am seeing things that others in a lifetime may see on a postcard, may read about. And most of all, I am truly happy.
I’ve always said that street smarts should be as valued as book smarts. The truth is that I have never believed it. Being able to navigate my way around the Middle East, to settle into a lifestyle, to converse with people who have never heard a word of English, to be kind and diplomatic, to thrive in discomfort, to be truly resourceful, entirely on my own and feel strong, these are skills for which I could never be thankful enough if , Insha’Allah, they fully materialized. These are also skills that will only develop when I challenge myself. That word –challenge- to me was before this trip associated with only two aspects of my life: academia and sports. Now, living here, has given the concept a whole new definition and so many more venues from which to fulfill it. My classes are slow, my life is fast.
Knowledge may not come entirely from books after all. I will be using this short opportunity to saturate my brain with life, not research, for probably the first and last time in my life. It took me a little while to realize it, but I think that in the grand scheme of life, that will be just fine.
Unfortunately, the reality of my academic situation is nothing I can brag about. I love school, I love to learn, and I love the areas of study which I currently consider my concentrations. Ironically, being at the University of Jordan has not fulfilled any of those loves by my definition. School to me is Sarah Lawrence and nowhere else. Learning to me is sitting in my library with the books that are provided to us and filled with absolutely mind-blowing information on something that will be relevant for the rest of my life. Psychology to me is Kim Ferguson and the entire department of phenomenal Psychology professors my school hires. Middle Eastern studies are my professors Kristin Sands and Fawaz Gerges with discussion sections and intensive papers substantiated by easily accessible sources from our library staff. Nothing I know academically is like it is here. Everything I thought I knew it turns out is defined by my spoiled definition of knowledge. For me, knowledge comes from books. It is difficult to concentrate in class. I am not a Geography major, and I am using this semester to learn about tributaries, deltas, reverse osmosis and desalinization in the Middle East. I am learning about Arab revolutionaries and controversial leaders.
I have, without fail, fallen asleep in both non-Arabic speaking classes that I have here 6 times (i.e. every class…)
I recognize that the academics my school provides are without a doubt tailored for my particular learning style. I have never once been close to falling asleep in a class in New York. I put off extracurricular activities in order to read as much as I can cram into my brain. I am stimulated. The classes here count. They will count towards my GPA, and they will be seen on a transcript to graduate programs. I have made allies with students in my class and we watch one another’s back in the case of serious head bobbings. The reality is that I will not be satisfied with what I learn in these classes here and coming to grips with that is excruciating. I give the readings my full attention (when we are e-mailed or given the readings), I have re-read the syllabus in order to understand what an oral presentation on water entails…I have opted out on hanging out with friends to read 200 pages on Al-Afghani, but the reality is that I just cannot bring myself to care. As a result, I have come to a few conclusions.
Primarily, while I fully recognize that this is a study abroad program, it is also a study abroad program. I am so used to pouring myself into my researching during the academic year that it feels so entirely self-indulgent to be putting academia second. Secondly, while I understand that it is, in fact, self-indulgent, there is a lot I am learning about life, independence, self-discipline, culture and myself that would be impossible in the confinement of Yonkers. I know I am happier here than I would be there all year, without question. On the other hand, it is a tough dynamic to reconcile. I am doing something I’ve wanted to do since I started formulating opinions on things, I am learning a language that I’m ecstatic about, I am living a life that people cannot possibly imagine who have not ventured passed their front door. I am learning about a people so misrepresented that it makes me feel militant at times. I am seeing things that others in a lifetime may see on a postcard, may read about. And most of all, I am truly happy.
I’ve always said that street smarts should be as valued as book smarts. The truth is that I have never believed it. Being able to navigate my way around the Middle East, to settle into a lifestyle, to converse with people who have never heard a word of English, to be kind and diplomatic, to thrive in discomfort, to be truly resourceful, entirely on my own and feel strong, these are skills for which I could never be thankful enough if , Insha’Allah, they fully materialized. These are also skills that will only develop when I challenge myself. That word –challenge- to me was before this trip associated with only two aspects of my life: academia and sports. Now, living here, has given the concept a whole new definition and so many more venues from which to fulfill it. My classes are slow, my life is fast.
Knowledge may not come entirely from books after all. I will be using this short opportunity to saturate my brain with life, not research, for probably the first and last time in my life. It took me a little while to realize it, but I think that in the grand scheme of life, that will be just fine.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Days 11-14
Ahlan wa salan ! Welcome (back)!
I have just returned from our three day excursion throughout the south of Jordan and I’ve never experienced such an abrupt change of scenery, weather, comfort zone and wildlife in such a short span of time. I hope you'll stay with me through my journey as I try to convey to you as abreviated a version possible of my personal experience.
Our trip began on Thursday morning as 80 of us boarded the two luxurious coach buses southward to Wadi Rum. Wadi means valley, and Rum is the name of the valley (this is what Lawrence of Arabia called the Seven Pillars of Wisdom in his book, where the gerbil is from and where Transformers 2 was filmed). The scenery on the five hour bus ride down the country was arid and flat with the occasional breathtaking mosque or camel to break the monotony. Arriving at Wadi Rum was awe inspiring with a tinge of unease as we knew we were to be spending the night in this vast array of nothingness. How would one traverse Wadi Rum without a program like CIEE? Quasi impossible. After a scrumptious lunch of pita and tomatoes (with, quite unfortunately, our first of six suspect hummus dishes…) we drove down as far as the buses could reach without getting their wheels stuck, at which point we were greeted by 80 camels.
The idea of riding a camel was yet another romantization on my part. I thought it was SUCH a brilliant idea our program had decided to let us ride these adorable primitive creatures from point A to point B- a legitimate form of transportation, as opposed to recreation. Oh, silly Alex. Little did I know that the FOUR hour camel ride through the desert in the mid-day heat with a pseudo-saddle would only leave me dirty and bruised. My legs will never be the same shape again. I named my camel Muhammad, but his real name was Batman. He was a grumpy sucker, but I would be too if my tribe chained my forearms to my shoulders as to not allow me to rise independently until I was to carry an adult and her bags for the afternoon.
PETA would have a field day watching the treatment of the camels and other creatures we would later encounter in Jordan.
For the entire duration of the trip, we did not see one cloud and the sky was the color of unwashed blue jeans. We stopped at a few Bedouin tents to see what they were selling on our way to our final destination. The surroundings at this point require words I do not have in my vocabulary and any description I try to give will not do it justice. The desert sands varied from four distinctive shades of golden to fire red and the desert was divided by rock formations ranging from pebbles to terra cotta jutting cliffs climbing 1840 meters high. They were cavernous and wide, acute and rigid and when the sun hit the cliff tips on its journey westward, it left a pink stained sky. Sometimes, we would see cut into the cliffs small tents where the Bedouins would set up camp for the “time being”. Seeing a small black and white tarp embedded in a magnificent rock complex was off-balancing. Every now and then a woman or child would appear in the horizon seemingly walking to nowhere from nowhere.
When we finally arrived at out camp, a Bedouin camp, we where humbled quickly by the realities of life in the desert. We knew that given the scenario, ours was a camp of luxury. We had beds and pillows made of some sick combination of Styrofoam and tarmac. We did have running water, tissues (to be used as toilet paper) and hubbly bubbly (hookah, if you will recall) for dinner. We were served our second round of foul hummus with, surprisingly, pita and tomatoes. I believe this time we were offered a kebab too. Our live musicians worked us into a camp fire ring of madness with half of the program holding hands and doing jigs in a round encircling a fire. We then did a limbo. It all seemed surreal then and seems surreal now.
We awoke early the following morning in order to consume (you guessed it) pita and tomatoes (with yogurt, alhamdulillah) and to mount our Jeep 4x4s for a couple hours heading to Aqaba. Now the drivers in Amman have a reputation. They are just nuts. Absolutely out of their minds, and it’s simply accepted. But when you think of a Bedouin man, I’ll be willing to bet that you do not necessarily conjure up the image of a suicidal driver. Oh but my friend were you wrong! These men know the rocks and crevices on the ground like no camel or ant but choose to maneuver the desert like chickens with their heads cut off just to bask in the reward of the screams from the girls in the back. Some of us believe the 4x4s made us more sore than the camels. Well worth it, though, you should try it sometime. It’s like Wadi bumper cars.
Once we arrived in Aqaba, we ate pita and tomatoes to change it up a little bit and headed to the Red Sea for a boat ride and a little snorkeling. Arriving in Aqaba from Wadi Rum is confusing for the senses since the dry, yellow nothing becomes blue, lush everything. The roads are beautifully paved and lined with palm trees, the drivers are (more) relaxed, there is seafood (apparently), and from any given point you can very clearly see one land mass that is the defined border between Israel and Jordan. If you were staying at a hotel in Aqaba, you could run to Israel (and be deported). Riding the boat is an awesome experience as from the base of the Red Sea you are able to see Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Israel and Jordan all at once. The Red Sea is as clear and blue as the sky in Wadi Rum. I’ve never seen such water. Snorkeling was a joy, especially the part where my boat driver decided to lure me down to the floor of the ocean (with a snorkeling mask) and poke at something that remarkably resembled a blow fish. When he poked it and it in fact blew into a fish, he gave me a crinkly eyed smile and laughed as I scrambled to the nearest shoreline. Americans…so silly, afraid of blowfish… We stayed on the water for another four hours (CIEE’s favorite number) and were able to bond over ridiculous stories of crazy men who were suppose to keep us safe in the water.
At this point, we returned to the bus on the way to Petra. Now I would just like to mention how I have not by this point mentioned any form of bathing to you. The series of events include a camel ride, through the desert, in the heat of the day, followed by a Jeep ride, followed by a beach, and swimming in the water, and basking in the sun. I smelled at this point not unlike the bed I would sleep on that very night. Our drive to Petra was as stark a contrast from Aqaba as possible. The streets turned dark (and not because it was night), there were shoeless children with flies in their eyes riding and smacking donkeys with sticks and water bottles through the streets (what did I say, PETA). The houses were dilapidated and the streets littered. We were told that these were a “primitive” people, a tribe of Bedouins who were recently forced to give up their nomadic style due to their prime tourist location (the Petra you know) and the King and some rich fellows built up this land in order for hotels to flourish and the people to be civilized. I wasn’t sure what to think at this point, but that is a struggle I don’t yet want to touch upon. We kept driving into the oblivion which turned into absolute darkness and a couple of us agreed that camp Marriott sounded quite preferable at that moment.
Instead, we pulled into a dark hole surrounded by large mountainous shadows with wailing dogs chewing the legs of some ex-creature. There was a massive gulp at this point and we felt like puppies being dragged by the collar into a bath as we left the bus. Once we exited our comfort zone, we walked not 300meters to find a beautiful Bedouin camp hidden away from all the frightening scenes. This was an Ammarin camp, a tribe of Bedouins who graciously offered us pita and tomatoes for dinner. Just kidding, I mean, we did have pita and tomatoes, but they were ineffably kind for housing 80 smelly students.
The next morning was a lovely 6am wake up call for our four hour hike (what did I tell you) to the monastery and treasury of Petra. Since there were 80 of us, we assumed the hike would be one that would accommodate all levels of athleticism and pre-hiking experience. As a reasonably athletic person, one who enjoys mountains, outdoors, running, etc, I am astounded that 100% of my peers made it out alive. They “ joked” at breakfast (of pita and tomatoes) that there is a 90% survival rate on this hike. HA! The hike into Petra was most certainly not for the faint hearted. And with my backpack holding my life for three days, walking on a cliff edge not half the size of my sneaker and up inclines of 50% that may as well have been extreme skiing ledges, I wondered about the legality of this in the US.
A few Ammarin children saw us huffing and puffing through their backyard and ran up to us, held our hands and lead us as far as they could without their caretaker running after them. Remarkably, this was most of our journey and the only thing that ran after them was a goat. This goat was not your ordinary European goat, oh no. This one chased the children and in straight up Lassie fashion, herded them to their camp. Remarkable.
A couple of us were debating about the children we had seen. Some had stated they felt sorry for them, or that they should be sent somewhere since they were under 5 and developing dreadlocks, were dusty with dirt and sand and didn’t even try to wipe the flies off their mouths. They most likely wore those clothes every day. They seemed like the happiest children I had ever met. They had chants, they made up stories, they explored, they were fed. Should we feel sorry? At what point do you send them to the US? They looked like a UNICEF ad. They were probably happier than any child I had worked with. The Bedouins don’t appear to get sick, but if they did, and they died, that is the circle of life there. Is that wrong?
In all our emotional and physical pain and suffering, our breathlessness leading us into a hazy dehydration, the peaks appearing steeper and steeper, and the views seeming more and more impossibly like the Grand Canyon, we turned a corner and were completely taken aback by the sight that appeared like a mirage in front of us. The monastery of Petra appears out of nowhere and because I have no words, I have attached a picture below. It was a stunning sight and everything you have seen and wanted to see in the pictures. At this point, we were all so dehydrated, dirty and scorched from the 38 degree sun that walking yet another 30 minutes to what is truly known as the village of Petra seemed impossible. We dragged our feet to the village and were told that we were to sit for lunch. After a table of 8 consumed its number times 10 of water bottles, we were lead to a buffet of pita and tomatoes. But wait. There was more. Oh my gosh. There was rice. There was falafel from heaven. And there were potatoes. MEAT. AND….FRUIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I consumed three plums and an orange. My stomach did not digest three plums and an orange, but I was too busy worrying about the risk of scurvy to care.
After our bellies were full, mostly from water, we continued our trek of Petra. We left the restaurant and saw from afar what all believed to be the treasury (the building that is the Wonder, the one in the postcards) we were slightly disappointed since it was not all we had expected. About five of us climbed to the top of this monument to take a picture to say we were there. Our lackluster experience, or (bratiness from exhaustion) made us queasy and anxious to get home. We were told that we then had another walk through the gorges. Ready to cut off our own feet and buy a camel, we hauled our bodies through the blistering sun and listened to the guide lecture us once again on the miracles of the Nabataens and their god-forsaken 100BC rose red city. Finally, we turned a corner where the shade lifted away a thousand pounds of anxiety and there she was. We had not yet reached the Treasury and the sight of her was enough to make us all forget that we had spent over four hours being beaten down by the oppressive heat. It was magnificent and we spent a solid amount of dumbstruck.
We were then told there was a half hour walk to the buses from there, at which point we realized that what they had done to us was take us the backwards 4 hour non –touristy hike instead of the flat, shady 30 minute walk from the parking lot. I felt as if I were in an M. Night Shyamalan movie. We walked the thirty minutes, which in our state felt like thirty hours, and was certainly still not for any incapacitated being. We walked like lost prophets through an uncanny time warp of Greek-style horse drawn carriages, the random camel and Arabic script on the walls. Seeing the bus was a watershed moment for us in this trip.
We realized how much we missed home, and how funny that was seeing that by home, we were envisioning Amman. This was a general consensus. All we could think about was walking into our apartments and getting the smell of 100BC off our feet. Amman was home and we were heading there. The drive back was full of exhilarated, exhausted and exceptionally stinky students; we were so grateful to be home again.
This morning I awoke in my bed, grateful for my bed, my pillow, my luxurious living room and most importantly, my shampoo. Breakfast involved no form of white bread or tomato and when I looked out of my balcony to reflect on the weekend that seemed so surreal, I wondered if I had only dreamt it.
I have just returned from our three day excursion throughout the south of Jordan and I’ve never experienced such an abrupt change of scenery, weather, comfort zone and wildlife in such a short span of time. I hope you'll stay with me through my journey as I try to convey to you as abreviated a version possible of my personal experience.
Our trip began on Thursday morning as 80 of us boarded the two luxurious coach buses southward to Wadi Rum. Wadi means valley, and Rum is the name of the valley (this is what Lawrence of Arabia called the Seven Pillars of Wisdom in his book, where the gerbil is from and where Transformers 2 was filmed). The scenery on the five hour bus ride down the country was arid and flat with the occasional breathtaking mosque or camel to break the monotony. Arriving at Wadi Rum was awe inspiring with a tinge of unease as we knew we were to be spending the night in this vast array of nothingness. How would one traverse Wadi Rum without a program like CIEE? Quasi impossible. After a scrumptious lunch of pita and tomatoes (with, quite unfortunately, our first of six suspect hummus dishes…) we drove down as far as the buses could reach without getting their wheels stuck, at which point we were greeted by 80 camels.
The idea of riding a camel was yet another romantization on my part. I thought it was SUCH a brilliant idea our program had decided to let us ride these adorable primitive creatures from point A to point B- a legitimate form of transportation, as opposed to recreation. Oh, silly Alex. Little did I know that the FOUR hour camel ride through the desert in the mid-day heat with a pseudo-saddle would only leave me dirty and bruised. My legs will never be the same shape again. I named my camel Muhammad, but his real name was Batman. He was a grumpy sucker, but I would be too if my tribe chained my forearms to my shoulders as to not allow me to rise independently until I was to carry an adult and her bags for the afternoon.
PETA would have a field day watching the treatment of the camels and other creatures we would later encounter in Jordan.
For the entire duration of the trip, we did not see one cloud and the sky was the color of unwashed blue jeans. We stopped at a few Bedouin tents to see what they were selling on our way to our final destination. The surroundings at this point require words I do not have in my vocabulary and any description I try to give will not do it justice. The desert sands varied from four distinctive shades of golden to fire red and the desert was divided by rock formations ranging from pebbles to terra cotta jutting cliffs climbing 1840 meters high. They were cavernous and wide, acute and rigid and when the sun hit the cliff tips on its journey westward, it left a pink stained sky. Sometimes, we would see cut into the cliffs small tents where the Bedouins would set up camp for the “time being”. Seeing a small black and white tarp embedded in a magnificent rock complex was off-balancing. Every now and then a woman or child would appear in the horizon seemingly walking to nowhere from nowhere.
When we finally arrived at out camp, a Bedouin camp, we where humbled quickly by the realities of life in the desert. We knew that given the scenario, ours was a camp of luxury. We had beds and pillows made of some sick combination of Styrofoam and tarmac. We did have running water, tissues (to be used as toilet paper) and hubbly bubbly (hookah, if you will recall) for dinner. We were served our second round of foul hummus with, surprisingly, pita and tomatoes. I believe this time we were offered a kebab too. Our live musicians worked us into a camp fire ring of madness with half of the program holding hands and doing jigs in a round encircling a fire. We then did a limbo. It all seemed surreal then and seems surreal now.
We awoke early the following morning in order to consume (you guessed it) pita and tomatoes (with yogurt, alhamdulillah) and to mount our Jeep 4x4s for a couple hours heading to Aqaba. Now the drivers in Amman have a reputation. They are just nuts. Absolutely out of their minds, and it’s simply accepted. But when you think of a Bedouin man, I’ll be willing to bet that you do not necessarily conjure up the image of a suicidal driver. Oh but my friend were you wrong! These men know the rocks and crevices on the ground like no camel or ant but choose to maneuver the desert like chickens with their heads cut off just to bask in the reward of the screams from the girls in the back. Some of us believe the 4x4s made us more sore than the camels. Well worth it, though, you should try it sometime. It’s like Wadi bumper cars.
Once we arrived in Aqaba, we ate pita and tomatoes to change it up a little bit and headed to the Red Sea for a boat ride and a little snorkeling. Arriving in Aqaba from Wadi Rum is confusing for the senses since the dry, yellow nothing becomes blue, lush everything. The roads are beautifully paved and lined with palm trees, the drivers are (more) relaxed, there is seafood (apparently), and from any given point you can very clearly see one land mass that is the defined border between Israel and Jordan. If you were staying at a hotel in Aqaba, you could run to Israel (and be deported). Riding the boat is an awesome experience as from the base of the Red Sea you are able to see Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Israel and Jordan all at once. The Red Sea is as clear and blue as the sky in Wadi Rum. I’ve never seen such water. Snorkeling was a joy, especially the part where my boat driver decided to lure me down to the floor of the ocean (with a snorkeling mask) and poke at something that remarkably resembled a blow fish. When he poked it and it in fact blew into a fish, he gave me a crinkly eyed smile and laughed as I scrambled to the nearest shoreline. Americans…so silly, afraid of blowfish… We stayed on the water for another four hours (CIEE’s favorite number) and were able to bond over ridiculous stories of crazy men who were suppose to keep us safe in the water.
At this point, we returned to the bus on the way to Petra. Now I would just like to mention how I have not by this point mentioned any form of bathing to you. The series of events include a camel ride, through the desert, in the heat of the day, followed by a Jeep ride, followed by a beach, and swimming in the water, and basking in the sun. I smelled at this point not unlike the bed I would sleep on that very night. Our drive to Petra was as stark a contrast from Aqaba as possible. The streets turned dark (and not because it was night), there were shoeless children with flies in their eyes riding and smacking donkeys with sticks and water bottles through the streets (what did I say, PETA). The houses were dilapidated and the streets littered. We were told that these were a “primitive” people, a tribe of Bedouins who were recently forced to give up their nomadic style due to their prime tourist location (the Petra you know) and the King and some rich fellows built up this land in order for hotels to flourish and the people to be civilized. I wasn’t sure what to think at this point, but that is a struggle I don’t yet want to touch upon. We kept driving into the oblivion which turned into absolute darkness and a couple of us agreed that camp Marriott sounded quite preferable at that moment.
Instead, we pulled into a dark hole surrounded by large mountainous shadows with wailing dogs chewing the legs of some ex-creature. There was a massive gulp at this point and we felt like puppies being dragged by the collar into a bath as we left the bus. Once we exited our comfort zone, we walked not 300meters to find a beautiful Bedouin camp hidden away from all the frightening scenes. This was an Ammarin camp, a tribe of Bedouins who graciously offered us pita and tomatoes for dinner. Just kidding, I mean, we did have pita and tomatoes, but they were ineffably kind for housing 80 smelly students.
The next morning was a lovely 6am wake up call for our four hour hike (what did I tell you) to the monastery and treasury of Petra. Since there were 80 of us, we assumed the hike would be one that would accommodate all levels of athleticism and pre-hiking experience. As a reasonably athletic person, one who enjoys mountains, outdoors, running, etc, I am astounded that 100% of my peers made it out alive. They “ joked” at breakfast (of pita and tomatoes) that there is a 90% survival rate on this hike. HA! The hike into Petra was most certainly not for the faint hearted. And with my backpack holding my life for three days, walking on a cliff edge not half the size of my sneaker and up inclines of 50% that may as well have been extreme skiing ledges, I wondered about the legality of this in the US.
A few Ammarin children saw us huffing and puffing through their backyard and ran up to us, held our hands and lead us as far as they could without their caretaker running after them. Remarkably, this was most of our journey and the only thing that ran after them was a goat. This goat was not your ordinary European goat, oh no. This one chased the children and in straight up Lassie fashion, herded them to their camp. Remarkable.
A couple of us were debating about the children we had seen. Some had stated they felt sorry for them, or that they should be sent somewhere since they were under 5 and developing dreadlocks, were dusty with dirt and sand and didn’t even try to wipe the flies off their mouths. They most likely wore those clothes every day. They seemed like the happiest children I had ever met. They had chants, they made up stories, they explored, they were fed. Should we feel sorry? At what point do you send them to the US? They looked like a UNICEF ad. They were probably happier than any child I had worked with. The Bedouins don’t appear to get sick, but if they did, and they died, that is the circle of life there. Is that wrong?
In all our emotional and physical pain and suffering, our breathlessness leading us into a hazy dehydration, the peaks appearing steeper and steeper, and the views seeming more and more impossibly like the Grand Canyon, we turned a corner and were completely taken aback by the sight that appeared like a mirage in front of us. The monastery of Petra appears out of nowhere and because I have no words, I have attached a picture below. It was a stunning sight and everything you have seen and wanted to see in the pictures. At this point, we were all so dehydrated, dirty and scorched from the 38 degree sun that walking yet another 30 minutes to what is truly known as the village of Petra seemed impossible. We dragged our feet to the village and were told that we were to sit for lunch. After a table of 8 consumed its number times 10 of water bottles, we were lead to a buffet of pita and tomatoes. But wait. There was more. Oh my gosh. There was rice. There was falafel from heaven. And there were potatoes. MEAT. AND….FRUIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I consumed three plums and an orange. My stomach did not digest three plums and an orange, but I was too busy worrying about the risk of scurvy to care.
After our bellies were full, mostly from water, we continued our trek of Petra. We left the restaurant and saw from afar what all believed to be the treasury (the building that is the Wonder, the one in the postcards) we were slightly disappointed since it was not all we had expected. About five of us climbed to the top of this monument to take a picture to say we were there. Our lackluster experience, or (bratiness from exhaustion) made us queasy and anxious to get home. We were told that we then had another walk through the gorges. Ready to cut off our own feet and buy a camel, we hauled our bodies through the blistering sun and listened to the guide lecture us once again on the miracles of the Nabataens and their god-forsaken 100BC rose red city. Finally, we turned a corner where the shade lifted away a thousand pounds of anxiety and there she was. We had not yet reached the Treasury and the sight of her was enough to make us all forget that we had spent over four hours being beaten down by the oppressive heat. It was magnificent and we spent a solid amount of dumbstruck.
We were then told there was a half hour walk to the buses from there, at which point we realized that what they had done to us was take us the backwards 4 hour non –touristy hike instead of the flat, shady 30 minute walk from the parking lot. I felt as if I were in an M. Night Shyamalan movie. We walked the thirty minutes, which in our state felt like thirty hours, and was certainly still not for any incapacitated being. We walked like lost prophets through an uncanny time warp of Greek-style horse drawn carriages, the random camel and Arabic script on the walls. Seeing the bus was a watershed moment for us in this trip.
We realized how much we missed home, and how funny that was seeing that by home, we were envisioning Amman. This was a general consensus. All we could think about was walking into our apartments and getting the smell of 100BC off our feet. Amman was home and we were heading there. The drive back was full of exhilarated, exhausted and exceptionally stinky students; we were so grateful to be home again.
This morning I awoke in my bed, grateful for my bed, my pillow, my luxurious living room and most importantly, my shampoo. Breakfast involved no form of white bread or tomato and when I looked out of my balcony to reflect on the weekend that seemed so surreal, I wondered if I had only dreamt it.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A couple pictures from the weekend!- Not sure why these didn't pop up!
Petra!
The monastery at Petra.
Alison and me on the 4 hour hike to Petra.
Ammarin children.
The bedounin camp.
Our room when we camped with the bedounins!
Aqaba from the boat
view of Israel from Aqaba A view of Aqaba
The water at Aqaba... never seen anything like it.
Our 4x4 rides through Wadi Rum... insanittyy
Alison and me on the 4 hour hike to Petra.
Ammarin children.
The bedounin camp.
Our room when we camped with the bedounins!
Aqaba from the boat
view of Israel from Aqaba A view of Aqaba
The water at Aqaba... never seen anything like it.
Our 4x4 rides through Wadi Rum... insanittyy
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