End Notes: Amman and Back

I’ve been home for one week and it’s the little things that have surprised me. I forgot how cold my toes get in the winter, or how ill prepared I am for this season always. I forgot that the stove doesn’t have a button I have to push to start it. I have to remember I can flush the toilet paper here, and I don’t have to wear a scarf because I have to…I can wear one because it’s cold.

I have dropped back into my life without consequence. My family still has ridiculous dinner conversation, my cats are still too fat to climb up and down the stairs, and Jennie still has an unhealthy obsession with REAL mayonnaise. What has surprised me the most is that I am, overall, not that surprised. I was expecting awful reverse culture shock—especially based on my previous traveling experiences. But, thus far, there haven’t been any. And I guess I am ok with that.

The whole semester seems like a wonderful blur. I spent it pushing my independence, pushing the limits of my patience, pushing the boundaries of my bank account. The semester slipped right through my fingers like the sand from the desert (although there probably still is some in my shoes and in my backpack).

I have written about my journeys for almost 4 months, so I feel that it is almost redundant to rehash every story for every person I see. Some stories aren’t meant for retelling—they are mine to remember and cherish, untainted by others opinions.

I hope years from now I can still remember how Amman sounded. The incessant honking, tires screeching, people yelling at each other through car windows. The fireworks fired at random hours of the night—how those fireworks may have been gunshots, but no one really knows. I want to remember the call to prayer, how 5 times a day the echoing sound could be heard from all corners of the city in haunting beauty. I want to remember the sound of Arabic. How I strained to pick up any words in conversation. The cab drivers chatting on their phones. The music with it’s distinctively Arabic sound. I want to remember the sound of Emad and Isman, my wonderful host parents. I want to remember the sounds of life in a country that is so different that the one I currently live in.

I want to remember the taste. I will probably search the rest of my life and never find falafel as good as I had it at Abu Jabara in Amman. They served it in a bowl, piping hot. Smush it in a warm piece of pita and dip it in well oiled hummus. This is a meal. This has been a meal for a long time. I will remember how I felt the first time I went to Ream Shwerma. Normally I find lamb a bit dry, but the sauce they put on the pita melds with the lamb, creating a delicious and succulent wrap. The best in the city, some say. I will remember Amigos, and how freaking awesome it was to find a place that served mozzarella sticks and one heck of a grilled chicken sandwich.

Look around. When I first got to Amman, I wondered how I would ever tell the buildings apart or figure out where I was. The crazy directionality of the streets was bad enough—but trying to direct a taxi driver was next to impossible. But I learned. There are different shades of limestone. There are carvings on houses above doors. Some buildings have courtyards, some have laundry hanging out on the balconies.

In the beginning I noticed the trash—seemingly everywhere. I noticed that people threw things on the ground without a care. After Egypt, Amman seemed clean. Notice the women in Hijabs. Every color, perfectly coordinated. They seem so—perfect. The makeup on their face, flawless. The men look like guidos.

Then there are the memories I want to keep alive. The bizarre sensation of floating in the Dead Sea, the nights out in Beirut, the hamam in Turkey, and what it was like in Bethlehem. (Let’s be honest, I would rather like to forget about Egypt). Even still, I want to remember it all.

I started 2010 with a trip to the Orange Bowl (and a Hawkeye victory) . I finished the year having travelled to five and a half new countries and tried several new forms of transportation that included a 3 hour camel ride through the desert. The traveling wonder. I saw things people only hope to see and have been to places nobody has even heard about. I met some great people that I hope to see in the future, and met some equally amazing people that I doubt I will ever see again. The bar was set high by 2010. But bring it on 2011, I’m ready. 

Oh Little Ghetto of Bethlehem

Did you know that in Arabic Bethlehem translates into “house of meat?” Well that is about all the jokes you will get out of me concerning the West Bank.

I’m not going to lie, I was very nervous crossing the border into Israel. I had heard horror stories of it taking 8 hours for some people on our program to cross. It took us two, but it was so complicated.

First, we hired a taxi to take us close to the bridge. Then we switched taxis to go the Jordanian checkpoint. We paid our exit fees and got in a chartered bus that only can go across the King Hussein Bridge. On the other side, we had to get a special charter taxi that could take us right to Jerusalem. Like I said, complicated.

Basically, all of CIEE went to Jerusalem this weekend. In fact, there was only 1 non-CIEE person in the hostel we stayed at. I liked what I saw in Jerusalem’s Old City right away. It was an endless maze of cobbled streets and yelling vendors selling everything, much like the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.

Old City is divided into quarters. The Jewish quarter, the Christian quarter, the Arab quarter and the Armenian quarter. Hebrew, Arabic and a surprising amount of English was spoken. Our very cramped hostel was located in the Arab quarter.

The first night was a night for exploring. We wandered along the deserted corridors of the Old City and eventually found our way to a happening little night life spot. There were lots of people. Lots of Bars. Lots of everything. A gaggle of us settled into a bar along the street.

I forgot how entertaining drunk people can be. This one random Israeli guy, clearly well over intoxicated, sat down and started chatting with us. He was pretty funny, just had started up his mandatory inscription for the Israeli army. He sleeps with his gun, he told us, so he can be “ready to kill all them Palestinians.”

Clearly, the atmosphere changed. We all went from laughing along with this guy to smiling uneasily. There is obvious tension is the area. 

The next morning we headed out to the West Bank, Bethlehem to be exact. We drove along a sterile, concrete wall, at least two stories high, barbed wire dotting the top, separating the Israelis and the Palestinians. We crossed into over and were greeted with things not associated with Bethlehem. It wasn’t a cute, picturesque town from Christmas postcards. There was no snow; there was no manger, no wisemen. Instead, there was a ghetto, littered with trash. A people oppressed.

We walked along the wall, in silence. No one told us to be quiet, but it was one of those places where it made sense. The wall stretched on, into the distance, cutting through neighborhoods, fields, dividing a land.

The walls were covered in graffiti. “Merry Christmas from the Bethlehem Ghetto” read one. “The oppressed become the oppressor,” read another. The one that hit me the most was “Only free men can negotiate.” These people aren’t free.

Not when to even cross into Israel they must wait in an ungodly long line, get harped at by a man sitting in a bulletproof room yelling at them through a microphone, slide their hands into a finger print scanner, and carry around a piece of paper on them at all times saying it is OK for them to leave. There is human interaction with the Israeli guards, they sit behind bulletproof glass too, simply staring at those on the other side .

All I had to do was flash my American passport.

I didn’t even have to take off my bags before going through a metal detector, yet these people are marked simply because they are there. Most Palestinians can never leave the West Bank, and Israelis wouldn’t dare go in. I can see why they are frustrated; I can see why they are angry. I just don’t understand why suddenly, like the graffiti read, the oppressed became the oppressor. It was truly one of the saddest and most moving mornings of my life.

Yes, I saw the Church of the Nativity, where Jesus was allegedly born, but nothing could get the image of the wall out of my head.

That afternoon we walked around Jerusalem. We went to the Church of the Sepulcher, the alleged spot of Jesus’ crucifixion. They had the tablet where he was washed. Many people were crying and kissing it. I think that was when I realized that Jerusalem isn’t as much for tourists as it is a pilgrimage site. There was a long line for this one room. So I waited. In it was what appeared to be a prayer altar. I didn’t know what I was looking at. I looked at the people in there with me. None of us knew. And we all started laughing. Blasphemy. But hilarious.

Next was the Wailing Wall, which is located on the site of the old temple and on the site of the Dome of the Rock (which I wasn’t allowed to go to). We hit up the wall right before Shabbat, so there were a lot of Jews getting ready, which was a very cool sight to see.

From there we went to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was betrayed by Judas, and the Mt. of Olives. Mt. of Olives provided an amazing view of Jerusalem. I could have sat there for hours staring at all the history, staring at, essentially, where everything began. I had seen the Holy Land. 

Photos

Sandstorms, Snow Days and bootleg DVDs

The white flakes that pounded down from above were hardly welcomed at 3:30 AM when I had to get my friend Susannah to the airport. Snow=apocalypse.

Snow in the Streets!

But luckily the taxi I ordered (in Arabengligh no less!) was only five minutes late. Il’Hamdu’Lilah because I expected a phone call saying the city was in a deadlock, the airport shutdown and everything was at a complete standstill.

Once inch of wet snow or not, we got Susannah out of Amman on time. This morning I was awoken to 8 texts telling me we had a snow day! Il’Hamdu’Lilah because I did NOT study enough for my finals. So now I am sitting, cup of microwaved chocolate milk in hand, wearing sweats and watching the snow slowly melt away. Kind of like I would be in Iowa—guess the state is trying to prepare me. Despite the temperatures dropping below freezing last night, it is already 40 degrees, and it’s expected to be back in the 60s by the middle of the week.

Yesterday was also a crazy trip in weather adventures. Susannah wanted to see the Dead Sea, so even though it was freezing, we headed out. We were welcomed by a sandstorm. I am not kidding. The forecast for Amman for the day was “45 degrees/Sandstorm.” Needless to say the beach was empty, I literally had to hold onto a pole to keep from blowing away. Susannah got in the water (stupid). Il’Hamdu’Lilah she survived. The Dead Sea is not supposed to be surfable. It looked like doom, like something Poseidon would conjure. On the way back to Amman, there was so much sand-- the road was completely covered! BROWN OUT.

It’s funny, how much at home I am beginning to feel here. And it’s really only been in the past week and a half or so these feelings have started. I can strike up a casual conversation in Arabic (and quickly transition back into English), find my way around this city, and know where the best places for food are.

One of the big things in Jordan is bootleg movies. There are no copy write laws in the country, so you can find DVD stands on every corner. There are only a few good ones, however, Gafra and Hamudeh, both located within a block of each other downtown. Walk in and you will find shelves, floor to ceiling, multiple stories of every movie, every video game, even Rosetta Stone.

 Two nights ago, Susannah, Sarah, Erin and I went down there so Susannah could pick up a few movies to bring back (and by a few, I mean 50). Each DVD is only 1 JD—and if you smile and giggle like a good American girl, they will knock several JDs off the price. I bought Seasons 1 and 2 of Skins because its costs $50 in the US, and that’s never gonna happen. It is my favorite show.

Well, Susannah forgot some movies so we had to go back last night, braving doomsday and all. I ended up talking to the worker for about 30 minutes. He was so bundled up, he was freezing, I was just a little chilly. It’s so incredible, I find, that if you start a conversation in Arabic, everyone will say ‘You speak Arabic better than I do.” Most of the conversation I had was in English, but just because I tried, Susannah got 10 DVDs free. It really makes a difference. Plus, if I had been there any longer I may have gotten an Arab boyfriend—mish mushkila, he was cute!

And now I leave in 9 days. As much as I am looking forward to being home and getting to see family and friends again, it’s going to be very strange leaving this place. I feel I have gained a huge insight into this region, and I am leaving just when I am achieving a cultural “breakthrough” so to speak.

I am probably going to think everything any girl wears to a bar in IC is slutty; I am going to hate all the “bros” (well, more that I did). I never though I could make the Middle East feel like home, but now, it proves that I can live anywhere. All you need is a grocery store and one ex-pat bar that serves Buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks. 

Winter in Amman

Well, alas, the sunny 75+ degree weather has left, and in its wake is a whole lot of suds. Somewhere between last night and today, winter decided to make its long delayed appearance and wreak havoc on the entire city.

Now, I’ve seen about oh, 4 cloudy days in the past 3 months. One almost forgets what it’s like to have cloud cover. But the clouds were a welcomed sight. I smiled as soon as I noticed it was gloomy (kind of ironic, eh?) What was not welcomed, however, was the rain.

I should clarify. The rainy season is supposed to start in late OCTOBER. Seeing as it is December, you can imagine how much this rain is needed. The groundwater needs recharging people! (Also, considering I’m blogging about rain—you can see how the lack of it has affected me)

What I don’t like about the rain is how idiotic it makes everyone. Rain=ice. Because everything in this entire country is covered in sand, a little water makes everything extra slick. And considering I live on Jebel Al-Nar (Hell’s Hill) I don’t want to walk down it. I slide enough when I’m wearing sneakers that have treads.

This morning, as the three of us bemoaned walking down Jebel Al-Nar, we decided instead to go ask our land parents for a ride to school, which they obliged. Driving to school normally takes about 10-15 minutes. Driving to school in poor weather=40 minutes. Like I said, no one knows how to drive in poor conditions.

The city also apparently lacks a good drainage system. There was brown, soapy (!?) standing water everywhere, several inches deep in places. It rained for maybe an hour. And not even that hard. It wasn’t that much rain.  So the real question is why there was so much water everywhere. (ok, I lie. The REAL question is what’s with the soap?)

The forecast for the next week is chilly, around 60. Yes, it’ s chilly OK. The heat was turned on my apartment when it was in the upper 60s. I’m so so screwed when I return. 

Bad Habits. Thanks Jordan

My newly found obsession with CSI Miami. Oh good GOD, Horatio Cane. Those sunglasses, the way you say every word with such precision, how you always catch the bad guy, even if it means running into a building with a bomb, and emerging, still standing, as the building explodes.

I love you Horatio.

Ok. That will NOT leave Jordan with me. As one of the few shows that are on TV constantly (perhaps 3 times a day) I’ve seen my fair amount. At first I was so against it. But then it won me over based on the sheer ridiculousness of the actor David Caruso. He makes the show. Probably because he always manages to slip on his sunnies just as the sunlight hits him just so. Couple that with a line like “I think you’re right. This IS a murder,” and I get shivers.

The overplayed pop music. Maybe it’s because I’m not in America, but I REALLLLLLY miss pop music. Therefore, I overplay what I have. Um, my “Top 25 Most Played” playlist is ridiculous. Lady Gaga, Jason DeRulo, Lily Allen and Katy Perry are there—in multiple quantities. The only alternative ones that top my list are the Decemberists, Arcade Fire and Death Cab.

Granted, a lot of these plays have happened because of the gym, but its still a tiny bit embarrassing. I vow to return to my not overly played pop music roots when I get back.

Eradicating Slang. I can already see people getting super annoyed with my use of Arabic slang. But here, my English is already peppered with these fun words. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to say “MushKila” instead of “problem” or use “Kbeer” instead of “huge.”

Plus, it reaffirms that I am actually learning shway Arabic here. But I need to stop, because back home no on knows what these words mean. And that’s a mushkila kbeer.

Not ragging on American Money. So before I left for Eid I tucked a couple of American $20s into my wallet to pay for visas in Egypt and Turkey (Dollars is THE international currency). As I was holding it, I noticed how WEIRD the money looks. I couldn’t believe this is what I used back home. It just was so long and skinny, unlike Jordanian money. And don’t even get me started on the how ridiculous pennies look and feel (so light). I’m not the only one who has noticed this either; the appearance of the dollar has come up in many a conversation.

Not Being a Hummus Snob I am going to cry because I have to leave GOOD falafel and hummus. It sucks in Amrika. Even bad hummus in Jordan is good hummus by American standards and that is going to kill me. I am going to compare every hummus I ever eat the rest of my life to the hummus I get here. And the falafel. Where am I going to get good falafel. And Baba Ganoush. I mean I can make that, but I need Tahini—where do I find Tahini?

Gah! It’s going to be a veryvery sad day leaving this country’s food.