I am Spinach and I Want to Use Your Pigeon

Day 3

Words learned: Magara (cave), shway-ay (easy), Fareesay (cinnamon cake treat), mashnoona (crazy aka three fries short of a happy meal), Sabanah (spinach), Melik (king), Hammam (pigeon)

Color of hijab: grey

# of Camels sighted: 1 caravan

# of Dranks (tea/coffee): 8

Battery Power left in ipod: 54%

Taboos committed:

1) Guests will face two enemies:  the bottomless cup of tea and a regrowing pile of Mansef.  It is a taboo to be full, though thankfully my host mom was very forgiving about it.  On this particular day, we had a mansef picnic at the foot of mount Jabel. I proudly proclaimed "Ana sabaanah".  The entire extended family laughed at me.  It turns out I declared "I am spinach", rather than "I am full" which is "Ana shabaana".  This language is going to be the death of me.

Picnic at the Mountain

This thob is getting a workout and so am I, much to my surprise.  I told them about how I climb and teach climbing and they pointed east toward the Jebal (mountain).  We went to Jebal Guyis today with the extended family: 14 kids aged 2months-18years old, 5 parents and myself.  I have decided that Fahleh is very much the patriarch who plays the soft approachable family man side when it suits him.  He is the breadwinner and I suppose that does give you special rights on the way you treat your dependents in this culture?  To be determined.

This is the second time this year I have ridden in the back of a truck.  It is my hidden passion, the Achilles heal of my composure.  I just lose it.  I had one of those "there is no where else in the world I would rather be right now" moments that leave my spine tingling and a smile lingering.

Instances in the backs of pick-up trucks:
1) Jungle 2) Desert 3) Baltimore next????

I’ve decided that my immune system is a strong as it is is because I sucked my thumb till I was 10.  Watching these dirty-faced, snotty, slimy-handed kids play then curl up and stick their thumbs in their months seems quizzical from my 20-yr-old vantage point but I can remember “good times”.

I fit right in with the four-year-olds.  We slid down the mountainside in a puff of volcanic dirt and when they declared it my turn I shouted..
“Ana Aasfor!  Weeeeee!”  (I’m a bird)
And every kid that went after me mocked me in a mimic-ing manner.  I thought it was hilarious.

I summited a 200 meter volcano, this time my guide was not an angst filled bipolar Ecuadorian man who was fixated on the phrase “vamos a la playa”.  Instead, it was a spunky 8-yr old girl in a purple hello kitty jumpsuit with the wisest eyes and the most grace I have ever observed in a child her age. We skipped and sashayed up the mountain while I sung “this land is my land” and “el pescador”  I didn’t feel the language gap between us.  We both wanted to climb.  "Ana assfor mashnoon.  Foq Foq!"  I am a crazy bird!  up up!!

My glorious mountain guide!

The women on the way to Jebel Guyis

At the Summit of Jebel Guyis (picture taken by my "guide")

As Americans, we are taught to display our identity through what we wear and how we wear it.  We are a people of action and individual pursuits.  Under my thob I wore athletic pants and a JHU Women's Club Soccer shirt.  It bothered me that I could not share "my person" with them.  Even my turtle earrings were covered by the hijab.  Not that I didn't enjoy wearing the traditional Bedouin garb, but It wasn't "me" and I viewed the experience in the same way that I viewed wearing a "uniform".  When you wear a uniform, you become part of something larger than yourself--a team, a religious group, a workforce, and army--but it is temporary.  This uniform was not temporary.  Today, a Friday, all the men walked in kufeeas to the church.  It was a chilling sight if only to see everyone shirking their own identities to become part of something greater and to humble themselves in the name of God and the Prophet. 


I was able to justify removing my thob for the 2 hours it took to play some soccer with the family and summit Mount Guyis. When wearing the thob, I became part of a communal identity and it was overwhelming at times.  When I returned to the house, my father immediately led me to the bathroom and told me to clean myself up and "put on dishdash now".  I felt angered but did my best to brush it off.  Suddenly, because he had ordered me to wear it in the insensitive tone with a nonchalant waive of the hand, I didn't want to.  I felt that I could control less and less of my world and this made me exceedingly uncomfortable. I always resisted change because I feared the consequences of stepping out of my comfort zone.  I also relished in the ability to control my surroundings.  These feelings stemmed from a childhood brush with OCD.  I have since been able to conquer these fears and let life happen but I still relish being able to retreat into the predictable insides of my turtle shell (have alone time).  In the Badia, I was exposed and subject to the whims of Fahleh who would often approach me and order me to help Sumaya make tea or put my shoes on to accompany them to a relative's house without warning.  I felt like a pet on a leash. 

The women of the family led me out into the desert with them with an unknown destination.  They kept saying what sounded like "cough! cough!" and repeating the word "magara".  Upon arriving at some ruins surrounding a large hole in the ground descending down at a 45 degree angle, I realized these were words for "cave". In broken Arabic I determined that 1) It was called Azeez Cave 2) It was not a special cave, just a cool desert cave. 

The location of Magara Azeez

Descending into the cave of wonders

Inside the cave, it became apparent that there was a passage off to the right.  The air was colder there.  I was thinking of pulling a "Gandalf" and sniffing the air to determine if it was safe, but I was feeling free.  I ventured to try it and as I moved toward it, my host mom, her niece and her sister moved with me, emitting nervous laughter.  After about 9 feet, the light from the entrance faded away again and we were left in complete darkness together.  My 17-year old host cousin gripped my left shoulder as I inched forward holding my cell phone out as an inadequate flashlight.  Her mother did the same with her own cell phone.  We were a two-woman concert crowd.  I focused mine on the ceiling which almost looked plastic in the poor lighting.  After about 15 yards of nervous silence, I felt the hand disappear from my shoulder and heard them scurrying back towards the light.  It was a moment of a million metaphors and apparently also of alliteration.  I thought of death cab's song "I'll follow you into the dark" which I saw performed passionately by Mat Kearney and Ingrid Michaelson together at Ram's Head in Baltimore. We all experienced the same emotions--fear and wonder--and it for a moment, I felt like we had bridged the culture gap.  Just like at the top of the mountain, no words were needed to understand each other.  I was conscious of the fact that I would never forget that moment.  I felt like a female Moses leading my people into the unknown and they trusted me. 


At the top of the mountain, I felt like "the melik (king) of the world".  I was freed from the thob and I was free to say and sing whatever I wished because it was just me and my young grinning guide.  I didn't have to worry about doing anything Haram.  It was my momentary escape, something I realized that I needed everyday or else I would go crazy like Colonel Jack O'Niell: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxXTS0WAdc0.  I would proclaim to my family that night that this was the "Ahsan Yom" (best day) I have had in Jordan so far.  And I meant it.  But I felt that way for the wrong reasons.  It was the same level of excitement that someone who didn't eat all day would have when presented with a mountain of Chinese food (which every culture seems to appreciate).  I was starved of freedom and on top of the mountain, I was finally a free bird!
   

Watermelon seeds are snack food which fits in with the lifestyle--hard work, low reward.  The edible part of a the seed is about half the size of a finger nail and the shell is traditionally cracked by placing the seed perpendicular to your two front teeth.  The moment I thought “Man, I am getting really good at cracking these watermelon seeds, I cracked one and the insides rocketed down the miniscule slit in my thob and planted in my bra.  Knowing it would be a difficult situation to explain of one of the parents looked over and saw me digging my hand down the front of my thob, I decided wisely to retrieve it in the hamam (bathroom).  I cannot tell the difference between the word for pigeon and the word for bathroom because both sound the same to me (hamam vs. hammam) so I pity the shopkeepers/waiters in the near future who have to suffer me asking "Where is the pigeon?  Do you have a pigeon?"  It's bound to happen and probably already has.  Speaking of bathrooms, I now smell like one.  My family has the kind you have to bend down to use.  It is literally "a hole in the ground" but I enjoy it because it resembles pooping in the woods, which is an instrumental part of my job back home.

We finished the day by watching "Ironman" and "Sahara", both of which have men in kufeeas playing the bad guys at some point (though some Arabs in Sahara are cast appropriately).  I wonder if that angers the Bedouins or any of the Traditional Arabs.  Queen Noor reflects, "In the black-and-white dynamic of stereotyping, the media inevitably portrayed Arabs as terrorists or oil-rich gluttons, as religious fanatics or primitive beings." (196)

Here is an example:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkoyw7v56bw&feature=related

In the ORIGINAL opening scene of 1992 disney film Aladdin, a little Bedouin boy in a cartoon  desert happily sings “oh I come from a land…where they cut off your ears if they don’t like your face.  It’s barbaric! But hey, it’s home.”  

Queen Noor believes that "Such negative and distorted renderings of Arabs were misleading and damaging to any sort of rational dialogue." (196) I think that hollywood and TV focus on the bad in every culture (Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, Jersey Shore) because the extremes are more interesting and stereotyping is a perfectly human as a tactic of self-defense.  Flipping through channels, "Memento" was on again.  It puzzles me how this could be an international hit.   I had to watch it twice in English to understand it.  Even with subtitles it’s still a mess considering that half the meaning is written in tattoos and on notes.  But Jordanians like their action television.  MBC Action channel comprises 75% of what I have watched.

Fact #7:  I love riding in the backs of pick-up trucks.

Fact #8: The movie Ironman never gets old.

Fact #9:  Eating watermelon seeds is always an adventure.

Fact #10:  I can only take so much of "communal identity", and I'm not cut out to be a Bedouin housewife, sorry suitors.

Fluent in Face

SQUINT NOW!

DOES THIS NOT LOOK LIKE A CAMEL?

Turns out that this is the international symbol for "something's up with your air bag".  Being the experienced car genius slash camel enthusiast that I am, I was ecstatic when I saw a camel light on the dash of the taxi cab.  Wrong.  Ayib, Anne, Ayib. 

Fact: The collective noun for a group of camels is a "caravan" of camels.

This was the first of many moments of shame (Ayib) that mark the past week.  I’ve been thinking about how I would define my experience in the Badia.  During our Badia debrief in Madaba, I found myself floundering for a meaningful way to summarize my adventure. The 1-10 scale doesn’t do it justice.  I’d say overall my experience was a 6.78 but that comprised moments as high as 9.9 and moments as low as 1.2.

So I asked myself in essence “How do we measure a day in the life?”

  In laughter?  In strife?  In taboos? In cups of coffee??  In colors of the hijab?  In musicals quoted?  In bowel movements?  In cheese consumption?  In camel sightings? 

Some general background:

My Badia homestay family consisted of my mother Sumaya, my father Faleh Al-Musa, and their five children: 2-month-old Muhammad, 8-year-old Abdullah, 11-year-old Ibrahim, and two girls 7-year-old Ayat and 3-year-old Aya.  My father works as the headmaster at the local Middle School and attends class at a nearby university to get his masters in administration.  They are financially located somewhere between lower and middle class but they do not act it.  They are devoutly religious and culturally traditional and live in the town Dayr Al-Quinn, the last town before the Syrian border.

Day 1

Words learned: Ayib (shame), Magloobeh (standard rice chicken dish), Shanta (bag)

Color of hijab: off-white

# of Camels sighted:1 caravan of camels on the side of the road

# of Dranks (tea/coffee): 4

Battery Power left in ipod: 87%

Taboos committed:

1) caught myself picking up a glass with my left hand mid-tea completion.  Haram!  But I think I am the only one who noticed.

2) walked into house with hiking boots on.  Reflex.  My host mother Sumaya just pointed out my mistake with a smile and a glint of amusement.

Within 10 minutes of my enterence into the household, Sumaya had given me the arabic name Maha.  This marked the beginning of my loss of identity.  I found the choice horrible ironic given that Maha is the main character in Al-Kitab (the series of Arabic text books JHU uses) who describes herself as having only one friend, being lonely, hating her life and complaining all the time.

Doesn't this woman look very miserable?

My impression of day 1 is as follows: Badia Homestay is like a glorified slumber party with a twist of cold reality.  Everyone sits around like old friends and watches TV, eats communal food, drinks sweet beverages, gossips and has no discernible bed time.  Lastly, everyone camps out on the floor.  Everything is a regal shade.  My room is a soft gold color and my mother is dressed in a shade of purple befitting of a queen.  I never really liked slumber parties, they were traditionally loud and involved more sitting around than action.  I was never one to enjoy communicating in large groups where the loudest and largest people get the attention.  I wanted to tell her I liked her hijab but I did not for 2 reasons:

1)    I am afraid she will give it to me because these people are that unselfish.

2)     I am afraid I’ll mix up the words “want” and “like” again like I did this morning when we got into my host father’s colleague’s car.  The dashboard was a bright, fluffy red “Clifford the big red dog” color.  It was endearing.  When I declared that “I wanted his car” instead of “I like your car”  he got confused and it took a good 5 minutes to straighten out the innocent compliment. (Thank you Biff for holding it together)

After the above event, prospects for verbal communication with my host family looked bleak but I came to this country to be humbled.

I feel like I walked into a bible story, and not the cute veggie tales version.  All 5 children in my family were named after Quranic figures. And, at the end of the day, there is a moral and a lesson to be learned from my experience.  In every section of the family that I met, there was a Muhammad (I met four), I also met 2 Abdullahs.  My father and his brother both married women who happened to be sisters and I'm guessing also cousins given the pattern. It was that confusing every time I was introduced to a new person: "This is my mother's brother's sister-in-law's youngest son's former roommate."  And they treat that person like one of their own kids. 

I found that my impression of a Bedouin Jordanian family was parallel to Queen Noor's...

“Jordanian families are very close, and I envied them that.  Their house-holds seemed so different from my own family’s and, indeed, from many of the families I knew in the West.  Arab culture stresses interdependence,  In Jordan, children my age, both sons and daughters, did not go off to live on their own but stayed home until they married, so they always had each other for company, supervision, and security.  My  friends the Asfours had seven daughters; with that many children, they were a world unto themselves.  They were not desperately driven by material or social needs because they had everything they needed within their own family.  I enjoyed every visit to their home for dinner, where I was welcomed as one of their own." (51)

When they introduce a father, they say "Abu" (father) followed by the name of their oldest son.  So my dad was "Abu Ibrahim".  It seems the system of cycling names fits with Queen Noor’s diagnosis of the Jordan's focus on "communal identity":
“I found [the lack of personal space] quite unsettling and intrusive.  Over the years to come I would realize that some of this dissonance was cultural—the differences between a Western sense of privacy and personal space and an Eastern emphasis on communal identity and space.”(127)
 I found that I was welcomed as one of their own extended tribe but it put me in a constant state of discomfort not only because we had to sit Indian-style for hours on end but also because it was culturally unacceptable to do anything to reciprocate.  I express myself with actions and by showing people I am not afraid to laugh at the world or myself.  I was trapped.  I was unable to help because everything I did was inefficient (cutting cucumbers, washing dishes) so the entire time I was looking for a way that one of my skills could help.  I played soccer with the very young children, I played naming games with the older girl and I showed pictures and videos on my phone to the parents.

I also found that I discovered a lot of my own personal limits, adorations, and quirks on this trip...


Fact #1: I love sleeping on thin mats on the floor.
Fact #2: Bring on the sugary coffee and tea.

Day 2

Words learned:  Ayid (hand), Hashim (nose), Ras (head), Thom (mouth), Abaya (another name for my dress clothes), Lehyeh (chin), Katif (shoulder), Hatim (ring)

Color of hijab: off-white

# of Camels sighted: 0

# of Dranks (tea/coffee): 9

Battery Power left in ipod: 68%

Taboos committed:

 1)  Mistook a 2 year old girl for a boy. Aya had super short hair and I was trying to explain to my mother that I have a brother and pointed to Aya.  Thankfully Sumaya just thought I was confused with my arabic and not the gender of her child.

My bedouin family had 5 SIT girls before me, one of which was the same “Annie" that my homestay family in Amman had 2 years ago  I have heard her named mentioned so much, she has passed from tangible person status, to myth and then legend.  I imagine her to be this cultural goddess with a charismatic demeanor and infallible motivations.  I keep fixating on this because I often catch myself wondering “Am I doing this wrong?  Could I be putting more effort into this? How can I maximize this experience so everyone benefits?”  In other words, what would an ideal "Annie" do?


I noticed that the women don’t seem to laugh outloud, only smile or let out a short-lived chuckle in recognition of a joke.  I find that I am the only one with my mouth open laughing with my entire body.  I can’t help it and I don’t understand how they can hold their emotions in.  Maybe this minor cultural difference is why media casts Muslim women in the brkha or hijab as miserable or oppressed.  Somehow, a women in the full-body black burka clutching her sides in laughter is a contradictory image in my mind.  The lack of expressive laughter does not sit well with me, so I laughed with the children.  Ayat and I played a game called Ayid (hand) which was a fancy name for “Anne loses” and involves slapping hands, making bee noises and extensive cheating.

Sometimes I would just sit there and wonder how different I would be if I had grown up like the children tugging at my thob.  I wonder who I would be if I had years of conflict resolution experience/diaper changing experience and extreme closeness with extended family.  I’d probably be better at expressing myself verbally.  I'd probably appreciate my remaining grandparent more.  Yet, I probably wouldn’t have had enough time to build a resume worthy of JHU’s attention.

Fact #3: I am at a fluent level in "face" meaning I can communicate almost anything with my overemphasized facial expressions.

Fact #4: I am at a conversational level in the "pictionary" language.  My rudimentary drawings were often misunderstood.

Fact #5: I should not pursue a career in marbles.  Abdullah vanquished me several times.

We'll be right back with "Days 3-5" after this commercial break...

                              This is the town of Dayr Al-Quinn as viewed from the roof.

Cultural Edema

The following is rated PG-13 for intense life/death situations and brief strong language. 

It is possible to drown at the top of a mountain.  Just watch the movie "Vertical Limit".  Wait, actually don't, unless you like dramatic, inaccurate, and predictable action films (which I happen to enjoy).  To put this in perspective: "Vertical Limit" is to "Everest" as "The Poseidon Adventure" (the original, not the remake) is to "U-571".

High Altitude Pulmonary Edema aka "HAPE" occurs when low oxygen concentration in your bloodstream, increased artery pressure, and hypertension cause a fluid buildup in the lungs.  You literally drown in lack of air. A classic sign of pulmonary edema is the production of pink frothy sputum.  Hahaha, even after NOLS medical training, I cannot read that phrase without laughing inside.  Pink.  Frothy.  Sputum.  hahaha, I just imagine people foaming cotton candy at the mouth.

An even more extreme reaction to altitude can result in cerebral edema, a swelling of the brain.  This is called High Altitude Cerebral Edema or HACE.  Wikipedia says this on Altitude-induced Edema: "[Pulmonary and Cerebral Edemas] remains the major cause of death related to high-altitude exposure with a high mortality in absence of adequate emergency treatment."  Tomorrow I go to the Northern Badia to live like a Muslim Bedouin.  Acclimatization is imminent.  Cultural Edema is a distinct possibility.  This is what I have to say on Culture-Acclimization induced Edema: "Hashemite Activated Cultural Edema (HACE) remains the major cause of expired confidence and chronic shame related to high levels of exposure to a new culture in the absence of adequate emergency treatment."  Luckily I am bringing some emergency treatment:  Some orange tang for my nalgene, a pocket-sized wheel of cheese, and my Spanish copy of "The Lord of the Rings".  That should keep me grounded in my own comfortable version of reality.

It is debatable whether I will get Accute Hashemite Cultural Edema but one thing is certain...I am just as likely to perish from chronic HAFE (High Altitude Flatus Expulsion aka Hashemite Activated Flatus Expulsion).  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_altitude_flatus_expulsion.  This is a real condition and a real cause for concern unlike Michael Scott's  "Joining Together in the Fight to Cure Rabies". It is entirely unexplainable why this happens to many mountain climbers.  When your body acclimates to a new culture, it is exposed to unpredictable factors, one of which is food.  As one who is already prone to flatulence, I fear that a misconstrued bowel movement in the middle of the night when the entire family is asleep on mats on the floor of a single room may get me a premature camel ride back to Amman.  To be determined.

Side Note: If I do acquire a live camel on my Bedouin travels, I intend to bring it back as a souvenir.  I am fully aware that U.S customs will not like this.  It may have to be a baby camel.  I may have to buy a plane ticket for it and dress it up in a Dushdash and a Koofiya.  Plan B: ship it to the JHU Recreation Center, Outdoor Base Camp pronto in a box labeled "Apache Helicopter"  Fragile.  This Side up.  Ship High in Transit.  I'll shave the directions on how to take care of said camel into the right flank of the camel because the left flank is considered dirty and unholy.  It will be a Muslim camel.  Matt & Andrew, consider yourselves fore-warned.  Do not be alarmed if your mail spits at you in the near future.

Chatting with Biff today in front of the British Embassy, we came to the conclusion that it is cruelly ironic that the words used to describe entering a new culture are "immersion" and "acclimatization", both of which are also used to describe extremely miserable and/or life-threatening physical and mental states (HACE, HAFE!!!).  She pointed out how it is nearly impossible to say we have had a "bad" experience in Jordan.  We are unable to reflect on our experiences as "bad" or "unproductive" because of the nature of studying abroad.  We agreed to embark on a journey to hopefully expand our comfort zones, fully knowing what levels of shame and embarrassment that might entail (the most recent example in my life: dancing a desperate macarena in the center of a dozen clapping Arab Women in an apartment.  Mabrook!)  Instead "bad" experiences like the snake on the plane, are dubbed "challenging" experiences and good experiences are "the best thing that's ever happened to me"!  And this is the attitude I will take to the Northern Badia.  I have been told that the family I am living with for the next week is conservative and speaks little to no English.  This is exactly what I wanted, that and living within a 5 minute walk from the Syrian border (Hellz yea!).  Even if I find I am in a state of misery equivalent to when I was at about 18000 feet while climbing Cayambe, there is no doubt that I will learn something from it as long as I continue to view my experience as a challenge that can be overcome. The nalgene is indeed half full......of tang.


And now for some spontaneous Russian and Jordanian Reversal:

For those of you who don't know what Russian Reversal is....  It's a fun word game built to mock the counter-intuitiveness of  the Soviet Union's socio-political system.  It goes something like this...
In Soviet Russia, party find you!
In Soviet Russia, Google searches you!
In Soviet Russia, sentence finishes you!

In Hashimite Jordan, cute lamb eats you!
In Hashimite Jordan, you spit on camel!
In Hashimite Jordan, King Abdullah looks at a picture of you!
In Hashimite Jordan, Hookah smokes you!
In Hashimite Jordan, cousin marries you!  (okay, this one works both ways)
In Hashimite Jordan, Syrian border has dreams about crossing Anne.

In Hashimite Jordan, the world says 'good night' to Anne.

The Good, The Bad, and the Shway

What follows is the Good, the Bad and the Shway so far in Jordan.   Shway is Jordanian slang: I've determined means "the so-so" or "meh" in Anne's colloquial language.  I often have disjointed thoughts which are better fit for free-form poetry than for blog posts with plots so this is my collage of life in blog form...

Free time is sparse these days.  So are squirrels and arachnids. I also ran out of honey to put in my tea and on rice bread in the morning.  So Honey is also sparse these days.

I'm really enjoying my time here. I learn more in one day here than I do in a week at home.  It was obvious that I needed a change of pace from the stresses of of Hopkins.  I was like that partially watered plant that was bent in one direction towards the sunlight, and I needed to be redirected so as not to die or grow funny.  In fact, I often felt like Hopkins was a special kind of "pressure cooker" in that Hopkins didn't just want a delectable rice dish to come out of said cooker, it demanded diamonds.  Everyone who has taken 5th grade science knows that enough pressure and heat makes a diamond, aka a nobel prize winning student.  However, enough pressure and heat also makes volcanoes explode, and that's the direction  I felt like I was heading at Hopkins.  Natural disaster averted.  

Old challenges: getting into the FFC, El Hob breaking down, juggling multiple jobs and classes, organizing Club Soccer, leading OP trips, El Hob breaking down again, keeping fridge stocked with cheese, finding a free parking spot after 11pm, avoiding noise complaints and eviction in Wyman Towers, baking 367 sugar cookies during reading period, memorizing the entire history of the European Union. 

New challenges: crossing traffic circle intersections without dying, ordering food in Englabic (english-arabic), finding empty taxis downtown, trying to resist eating aero bars as the main course for every meal, avoid doing haram (forbidden) things like walking outside with wet hair, talking politics in cabs, or streaking in front of Kind Hussein Mosque.

Thank goodness for the Slumberjack.  (Tommy, I might have taken your sleeping bag).  I use it every day and apparently it is a must have for the Badia Homestay because the desert gets frigid at night.  Actually, I'm using it right now. Mmmmm.

Speaking of the Badia (the desert North and South of Amman where the Bedouin lifestyle is still at large), we leave in two days.  While I am always excited for new experiences, I regret to admit that I finally got into a routine that I will be sad to destroy.  My first period of relative normalcy in 2011 ends now. For the entirety of January, it came to my attention that I did not sleep in one place for more than 5 days.  Like a proper hobo I had no place to call "home" (the hobo is an extended metaphor in my life because I am notorious for dressing down, wearing cut off gloves and absurd hats, and most significantly El hob is easily converted into "El Hobo").  I slept in the Hotel Patio Andaluz in Quito, Morgan's Dad's friend's friend's house in Cuenca, the 4th floor of a rented building at the top of Villalengua street in Quito, 2 mountain huts, 2 international flights, and the hotel in Amman.  This adventure ended February 6th when West Amman became my home.

Here is a day in the life of Anne Hobson:

•Wake up at 7 when Razan, my awesome 13 yr old roommate, has to get ready to go to school.

•Fall asleep with Al Jazeera as a lullaby.

•Wake up again at 7:52, which I have discovered is the absolute latest I can wake up and still get Turkish coffee, say good morning to my host mother, and walk to the American Mustashfra (hospital) where I meet Laura and Sarah to catch a cab for school every morning.

•Prepare Lebanah (it's like greek yogurt) and cucumbers on rice bread to be eaten on the walk to our meeting point. 

•Scurry down the hill to the hospital and inevitably cross paths with a natural gas-selling truck that emits a high pitch tune as if it is a wanna-be ice cream truck. Today I took out my ipod and a flashcard with the word "shams" (sun) fell out of my pocket.  This was cruelly ironic because it was hurricane aftermath weather with a light drizzle in the air and was therefore the most un-shams morning so far.  The card promptly sank and joined the rest of the congealed trash along the edge of the building.  People litter here as if once it hits the ground in a public place, the trash is no longer their problem or concern.  In psychology, this is called "the diffusion of responsibility" which happens in large groups of people when responsibility is not explicitly assigned.  In economics, it is called "the tragedy of the commons" where people will take advantage of a resource because it is not their immediate concern and because the consequences are long term.  Either way, it bothers me daily and it is out of my control.

•Hail a taxi.  I love the feeling of hailing a taxi to do your bidding.  However, once the taxi is hailed and a potentially awkward Englabic conversation is immanent, the excitement is gone.  I have a goal to hail a taxi without looking, get in and speak my destination in unaccented arabic, spend the rest of the cab ride in respectful silence, then seal the deal with Arabic blessings before I exit.  They often let out a little honk to let you know they are coming from behind, and I am starting to be able to distinguish the language of honks...

little toots= "Hey I'm behind you, alla rahsi (at your service)!"

little-medium toots= "you're hot shit, turn around and give me the satisfaction of having made you turn and look"

Medium toots=normal American honk "pay attention cars!"

Long Toots= "I 'love' traffic circles during rush hour!  Woooo."

•After the cab ride, we all make our respective teas/coffees and attend class (Fus-ha Arabic class, the daily seminar/lecturer, and colloquial Jordanian Arabic "Amia" class).  We get an hour for lunch which always involves more tea/coffee and for me... juggling a flat soccer ball with moderate success, and consuming a delicious sampling of dates and almonds.  I have become quite obsessed with both.   They are great for your digestive system and a lot of other systems...

http://www.ayushveda.com/dietfitness/benefits-of-dates/

I had a pregnant almond today.  That's right, one almond had a baby almond attached to it, it was so hoosoosea (special).  I bought a bunch of almonds from a stand in Safeway and they were STILL IN THEIR SHELLS.  I never knew almonds had shells.  It makes me so happy and they taste so much better when you have to work hard to get to them (the added taste of victory).  Nescafé is the most shameful invention of mankind.  It just has no redeeming qualities.  

•After much struggling in Arabic class throughout the day, I look forward to the walk to the Orthodox Gym where the aura is very European.  Yesterday, they began to play Edward Maya's new song "desert rain" (incredible, check it out) but then switched to "I just had sex" by Lonely Planet.  I am surprised that their music is unedited and uncensored given the culture outside the walls of the gym.  I would not be allowed to play that song at the Johns Hopkins Rec Center where I work.

•Shower and dry my hair.  Apparently, Bedoiun women used to wash their hair in the river after having sex so it is haram (forbidden) to go outside with wet hair because it still can carry these connotations.

•Catch a cab home around 6:30.  Walk 15 minutes up a hill at dusk with Orion overhead and a glowing city to my left.  Get meowed at from a dumpster.

•Arrive home at 7pm, heat up dinner, watch TV with the family (this is literally all Jordanians do for entertainment). Get bored of TV (today a horrible movie involving baseball and Keanu Reeves), study/write essays/write blog posts/read Queen Noor's book.

•Pass out at midnight with Al Jazeera as a familiar lullaby. Ah, the circle of life.

We went to Salt (old Capital of Jordan) this past Saturday.  Watched some older Jordanian men play mancala in the park (to see this on video see my friend Biff's blog http://biffpm.tumblr.com/ it is well written and informative on many topics other than mancala as well).  I decided to climb a tree to better observe.  It turns out the tree I decided to climb was the oldest tree in the city and this park was the center of the city.  This is how naive foreigners get detained...

In Salt, I bought a stuffed Camel for 9 JD from a Women's society that provides income to poor families that otherwise would have none.  The camel has a pattern that denotes it as Jordanian.  I promptly named the camel "Tayim" which means "attractive" and proceeded to include him in all photos after that moment...

Sarah "I shant shake it in public!" Dropek with Tayim with Salt in the background.

Tayim looks at the setting sun over Palestine in the distance.

I decided that if I had a ridiculous amount of money, I would own two cars.  A green mini cooper, and a Mercedes Kompressor.  The latter is as much of a status symbol as the spiraled shaved bushes in front of peoples houses.  I would name my Kompressor some intense gutturral German-inspired word like Klomptaug Heifenbruer and refer to it in daily speech as if it were a Scandinavian friend of mine.

 I had Mansef, a traditional Jordanian dish, yesterday.  I LOVED it, though it was hella salty.  It's scary looking because the chicken just floats there in this yogurt-water mush which was made by some long process of drying and cooking yogurt.

http://www.suite101.com/content/how-to-make-mansef-with-meat-or-chicken-a150181

Now I lay me down to sleep

I hope the TV wont make a peep

And If I die before I wake...

Don't mock the glutard with funeral cake!

-Al Hob

Blublockers, Mild Mumford & Sons, and a Peruvian Hijab

Tomorrows Headline: Accidental Ecuadorian becomes Premature Muslim.

For those who didn't hear about Andrea and my jaunt through the Ecuadorian President's palace in order to get a "foto" with a Palace guard for a misguided scavenger hunt, let me throw out some prime details.  It began with me walking into a mealstrom.  I saw the entrance to the palace and made it to the gate before Andrea called my name.  I lifted my head to see about 30 Ecuadorians including a guard laughing at me.  I didn't see the long line over the brim of my panama hat (this would become a common theme as I full on ran into a road sign in Cuenca two days before for the same reason, that time it was an SUV of young Ecuadorian men laughing at me).  We stood in line about 20 minutes before a man came along and collected our passports.  We should have escaped then, but a mix of intrigue, naivete and adventurous desire kept Andrea and I in line.  Soon we found ourselves in the lobby of the palace going through metal detectors.  We couldn't stop erupting into giggle fits at intervals because of the utter seriousness of the scenario we had gotten ourselves into.  The tour began with a complementary photo in front of the presidential fountain.  We quickly got the impression that this was a right of passage for the Ecuadorian people.  Our impression was confirmed when we came across the Ecuadorian flag in a glass case with the words "salute the flag" in Spanish gold emblazoned on the glass.  Underneath us was a floor mat with two spots to place our feet and the words "bow to the flag" in Spanish.

With 30 stony faced Ecuadorians staring at us, there was nothing we could do but bow to the Ecuadorian flag in the Presidential Palace in Quito.  We spent the rest of the free tour wide-eyed and red-faced, holding in our self-directed laughter.  We saw the Yellow room (adorned with a portrait of every Ecuadorian president since Sucre freed the state from the Spaniards), the room where the senate meets, and the gigantic dining room with flower pieces the size of a small elephant made of real flowers (we checked).  A random Ecuadorian man took a picture of us with his cell phone because he thought our plight was hilarious.  We thought he was taking a picture of the trinkets in the glass case behind us, it was awkward.  Divulgence:  THERE IS NO WORD FOR AWKWARD IN ARABIC OR IN SPANISH (the closest you can get is shame, uncomfortable, or  clumsy). This is unfortunate because a good 75% of my intercultural experiences can be described as such. We retrieved our passports and finally got a picture with an EP Ecuadorian Policia.  It turns out that the traditional guards with the crazy hairpieces and the colorful uniforms did not have work because it was Saturday.  The entire tour was unnecessary.

This is how Andrea "Dre" Berlinghof and Anne "El Hob" Hobson became Ecuadorians. Purely an accident, no offense President Correa.

Now apparently, all you need to do to convert to Islam is say the following with a witness and then take a shower:

1. Say: "Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill Allah." (I bear witness that there is no diety but Allah.)
2. Say: "Wa ash-hadu ana Muhammad ar-rasullallah." (And I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.)

It turns out that the above lines are included in "Al Adhan" the daily prayer that echoes across the city 5 times a day.  On day 3 of class, our Fus-ha (Written Arabic teacher) gave us a copy and told us to read through it and practice it for homework so that we could understand the prayer, one of which happens during that class.  Oblivious to cultural specificities, as I so often am.  I practiced later that night in my homestay living room...

Allahu Akbar
God is Great
(said four times)
Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah
I bear witness that there is no god except the One God.
(said two times)
Ashadu anna Muhammadan Rasool Allah
I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.
(said two times)
Hayya 'ala-s-Salah
Hurry to the prayer (Rise up for prayer)
(said two times)
Hayya 'ala-l-Falah
Hurry to success (Rise up for Salvation)
(said two times)
Allahu Akbar
God is Great
[said two times]
La ilaha illa Allah
There is no god except the One God

I did in fact take a shower that night.  I do believe the significance was lost on everyone, but I did prematurely convert to Islam.  Next week we go to the Badia to live in a Bedouin homestay for a week.  We wear the traditional dress, a hijab, and make sure we are entirely culturally appropriate (which includes only using the inside toilet, not leaving the house without a male escort, not smiling and looking into men's eyes directly, and for me...digesting bread).  The whole sha-bang.  Judging by the trend of relative cultural vanity outlined in this post, I will probably come back engaged or married totally on accident. It is also possible that I might own a camel or a horse that I accidentally traded for some dates or a cigar.  I apologize in advance for the inconvenience it will cause everyone.

I am not yet ready to practice Islam for the cultural and intellectual benefit like I intend to.  My goal is to reach the point where I am comfortable practicing the religion of my homestay family; yet I still feel like a foreigner daily.  Yesterday, I took advantage of an opportunity to play indoor soccer with Jordanian men and other students from ours (Biff, Megan, Mumtaz) and other programs.  It was the most fun I have had yet in Jordan, though I got some wicked and much-deserved rug burn.  It was the first times I didn't feel like a tourist.  I wish I knew soccer vocab in Arabic though, like "line, square, back, pass, up".  Luckily "gooooooool" is internationally understood.  Last night I directed the cab to my street entirely in Arabic, alone and on my own.  I'm getting there.

I feel like Jordan is a man that continues to keep proposing to me but I feel like I don't know or trust him enough.  Every smooth sunset during my walks, every delicious beverage (Sahlab, anyone??), every dining experience, Jordan wants me to let down my guard and declare that I love it just like I loved Cuba, Anguila, and Ecuador before it.
http://jordanpicture.blogspot.com/2009/05/sahlab-recipe.html

Two days ago, I walked through the fruit market downtown next to King Hussein Mosque.  It was incredible cultural experience. 1001 fruits, spices and nuts that I have never seen before.  I could feel the culture wrap around me and yet, the familiar walls were there.  I had one earphone in, quietly playing "The Cave" by Mumford & Sons.  This is a defensive technique that I use in public places and in cabs.  It means "I don't want to talk to you, stranger" or "I can't hear you, you cat-calling men".  It gives me an excuse to ignore things I want to, and participate in the world when I wish.  My Peruvian Hat serves a similar purpose.  It is my hijab, it makes me feel more comfortable in a culture where there are few women walking the street, and those that are are usually with their husbands and adorned in the hijab.  Lastly, I wear blublockers when I can to avoid making direct eye contact with men.  This can be interpreted as "I want to chat" and if you smile while you make eye contact, the meaning can jump to "I am a prostitute" in extreme cases.  Most men would not take advantage of you but the point is  that some (*cough *cough Snake on the Plane) would jump to this conclusion that all Americans are like Shakira in her music videos (I've already ran into this specific misconception here).  The truth is, I don't know if I will ever be able to love Amman.  To be blunt, I cannot be myself in Amman, and our relationship lacks mutual respect.  Yet, I had a similar problem in downtown Quito.  I was still a foreigner after 3 weeks, and yet I was able to make compromises and feel comfortable despite the fixed stares and whistling.  I feel like a lot of this is just getting used to it.  The question is, will I ever get used to being a woman in a Muslim state?  To be determined.

In summary, I am not yet in love with Jordan but I think that seeing the countryside, specifically Wadi Rum and the Dead Sea, will change my opinion just as Cayambe and Illiniza Norte changed helped me "culturally acclimate" to Ecuador.  My friends and I are signing up for a half marathon at the Dead Sea in April.  If I complete it, that will mean that I will have reached my physical limit at the highest point I will ever be (19,000 feet) and the lowest point (-1388 ft) on the planet within 50 days of each other. I'm only getting one side of the picture at the moment.  And I know that cities can be ugly places... Here is a clip from Baltimore's "The Wire":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtuMw0KRbcc&feature=related
 
In other news, today is the day that high school students get the result of their state testing.  If they pass, it is customary to make a ruckus in the form of shooting guns into the air or driving around honking.  I wish we had a custom like this.

I await my "Mawaige" to Jordan...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sbqv3MwwVd8

But for now...

"I wear my sunglasses [during the day]
So I can, so I can
See the light that's right before my eyes
Don't switch the blade
On the guy in shades, oh-no!"

-Al Hob

The Ghost of TJ or G-Dubz

 It was the Prophet Muhammad's birthday today.  He is negative 1,378 years old.  Ouch.  The streets were nearly empty because no one had work or school except for the 26 people in my program.  It reminded me of having to go to work at the JHU rec center during Baltimore's Snowmaggedon/Snowpocolypse 2010. The only difference was that in Baltimore people feasted to celebrate the death of a city rather than the birth of a holy man. 

Criticism of the royal family is punishable by a three-year imprisonment.  It's good to be the king, though the word king has an entirely different connotation here than in the European historical sense documented by this well-informed source... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZKiYgcgBAY

The ripples of the Tunisian and Egyptian revolts reached Jordan in the first week of my stay here.  The Jordanian people blamed the parliament and prime minister for the high unemployment, high food prices, and most importantly--corruption.  They looked to their king to fix it and he responded with an "oil change", as I see fit to phrase it.  He brought in an entirely new parliament, including a new PM.  Well, the new PM is actually an old PM, so there was some dirty oil there.  The oil itself consists of a delicately balanced chemical equation taking into account tribal affiliations, ethnicity and gender.  One wrong chemical and the car will explode  Moreover, an oil change may extend the life of the car's engine but the oil was not necessarily the only problem, and it does not extend the life of the car.  (El Hob would know...)

If El Hob were a country, according to this extended metaphor, it would be more like Cuba.  It's been through a lot, its horribly inefficient with its use of natural resources, and its engine is old news.

Back to Jordan. No one thought to blame the king. He is spiritually and morally above everyone else by definition.  He is an emir.  And frankly, it bothers me that he is not held to the same standards as the general population.   Perhaps I am uncomfortable with the idea of a monarchy because I grew up in a country whose initial doctrine was based on individual rights and a system of checks and balances to protect the balance of power.  I have come to understand that the balance of power in Jordan is a lot more delicate, complicated and uneven than in the United States.  When I asked a guest speaker about the popularity of king Abdullah and the possibility of dissent targeted at him, he provided a reavealing insight..

He said, "Abdullah is the king of both the people who are for the government and against it."

Abdullah is everyone's king, and like his father before him, he commands the respect of a very diverse and divided population based on a good reputation and the undeniable lineage to the man whose birthday was celebrated by roughly 1.4 billion people across the world.  He is the frame and body of the vehicle.  He is the face of a country.  This is the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

Two days ago, my friend Sarah and I were walking out of a cafe on Abdoun circle. Upon reaching the exit we noticed the employees staring out the window.  They motioned us over and explained that there was a princess getting into her car (predictably a land rover).  The awe in their faces was contagious and I found myself staring with an open mouth at an extremely average looking woman with shopping bags getting into the backseat of her car.  And this woman was only an in-law to the Prophet's descendants. 

The king exists outside and above the government.  He has the final word.  Abdullah is the executive branch and the olive branch (symbol of peace keeping).  Historically, he has been the responsible uncle in the extended family of the Muslim world.  He served mostly to keep the peace between tribes, sects and ethnic groups.  He only stepped in when it's necessary to preserve the interests of the Jordanian people.  Such moments when he used his power of "I know whats right for the Jordanian people" include passing legislation reducing state subsidies, aiding privatization, and maintaining a solid relationship with the West.

I was trying to think of a comparative figure in American History who would have the reputation to control the respect of a good percentage of the American population.  Who would be a worthy emir?  In some ways I envy Jordan because they have a king they more or less believe in.  We are devoid of the religious and cultural depth that fostered this constitutional monarchy.  In this way we do not have a figurehead.  The closest I could imagine was the returned ghost of Thomas Jefferson or George Washington (G-Dubz), pragmatic, passionate men who attempted to have the best interests of the country in mind.  But even they wouldn't have the sort of respect that Abdullah's spiritual lineage may bring.

So Happy Birthday Prophet Muhammad!
Your blood runs this impressive modern nation.

Sincerily,
Al Hob

Dying Olive Tree vs. Young Jordanian

In Jordan, it is more smoky inside buildings than outside them.  Now I know what poor Alice must have felt like in Alice and Wonderland:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrJJMCccLxU
The pollution caused by cars is significantly less than in any other capital city I have been in.  However, the Hookah-induced clouds are deadly.  The city smells like a thousand flavors of sheesha.  Argila, or hookah, is pronounced "ageela" like the spanish word for eagle.  Most flavors come with mint, or "bAanaa"  نعناع .  For example, Watermelon with mint is delectable.  Apple is not.  Apple tastes like the black licorice necco wafers and leaves you with the same leathery taste in your mouth.  Lesson learned.

Someone somewhere is seriously confused in their identification of flavors.

I enjoy Argila from time to time but I enjoy long walks on the street and leather bound books more...

The above books are among the best sellers of all time.  Have you ever looked in the bedside table drawer at a hotel?  This particular picture was taken at the Imperial Palace Hotel in Amman, where I stayed for three nights.  The Qur'an and the Bible have similar values and yet, each has been the foundation of a respective culture and civilization that appear to conflict with one another.  The intellectual reason I am in Jordan is to reckon with the above phenomenon.  Furthermore, I hope to address the West's growing disillusionment with Islam and the perceived radicalization and politicization of Islam.  Is this a rash perception, or is Islam a growing threat?  Will Islam ever be compatible with globalization and modernization?  Is Islam to blame for chaos in the Middle East? This picture will define my intellectual journey throughout the next two months, of that I have no doubt.

One thing that has come to my attention is the vecinity of the "old" parts of the city's heritage and the "new" parts of the city extending westward to the nicest, newest additions.  This is evident below:

Dying Olive Tree vs. Young Jordanian

Roman Citadel vs. Downtown Amman

Young Jordanians vs. old pillars

Citadel vs. East Amman

Citadel and Amphitheater vs. Amman

These observations shed light on the validity of our program's topic:  "Modernization and Social Change".  We can see the modernization here, and we feel the social change all around us.  

The city does not hide its ties to Islam.  This is an Islamic state at heart, ruled by none other than King Abdullah, a man descended from the prophet Muhammad.  The coordinated call to prayer (أَذَان‎, Al Adhan) echoes through speakers in distant mosques five times a day.  It serves as a way to tell time... The third prayer of the day marks 30 minutes to the end of class.   The prayer itself sounds both beautiful, and somber.  There is no way to ignore it, even with Daddy Yankee pounding in your ear.  Though, it does create a memorable and contradictory combination.

Now I will share a quote from me to Lauryn on gchat last week...

"hahaha It's almost tomorrow and you will be in yesterday soon."  Suckahh

It's midnight in Heshemite
so good night
moonlight

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY EVERYONE
-Al Hob