Showing posts with label Arabic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arabic. Show all posts

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Weekends in Amman


     The wild, adventurous female side of me, the one who didn't really give a hoot about what she looked like, but who wanted more than anything to go exploring over the whole of the big, wide world, loved these weekend outings! I had read so many adventure stories growing up, and then when I was in college and my reading turned more towards cannonized male authors, I began to dream of living like Ernest Hemmingway, or Jack Kerouac, or Mark Twain, or Henry Miller, being free to travel and come and go as I pleased. To be an observer of and a participant in the world! To be like Amelia Earhart, who flew around the globe before she got lost at sea, or even like Agatha Christie. Of course, I didn't want a lover on every continent, or even one who stayed at home and waited for my return so much as I wanted a lover by my side. One who either showed me the world, or who saw it with me.
And so these weekends in Amman brought out the more spirited side of me as I donned one or the other of the only two clean outfits I had brought with me to change into when I wasn't digging. With my husband I would go walking the streets of this foreign capital city that had evidence of a rich occupational history that went back as far as almost 9,000 years (the city was known as Philadelphia, the southernmost city of the Decapolis, during Roman times), and which was now home to both Arabs and Palestinians alike since 1967. Hailing taxis that would take us exploring around the diverse areas located off of its eight city circles (or major roundabouts), we would visit its many restaurants and cafes and bakeries, its various shopping districts, making a special trip to the suq in the downtown district where interested travelers could buy gold and silver by weight, or to shops where we could purchase in-laid mother-of-pearl boxes or hand-crafted baskets or rugs, or to its more modern area with its multi-storied mall, or to its many museums and galleries, its archaeological sites, or even its grocery stores where we could buy, less expensively, Jordanian teas and spices (especially saffron, which is much cheaper over there than in the US) to take home with us. One afternoon we even went to a local movie theater where Robin Hood: Men in Tights was playing. After we purchased our tickets, we went inside where we were ushered to our assigned seats (which meant we didn't get to sit as close to the screen as we would have preferred). The voices, of course, had been dubbed in Arabic, using English subtitles which we read like with any other foreign film (except that the actors' lips really were moving to English words, so it was a little weird). Halfway through the movie there was an intermission (I think because most Jordanians smoke and needed the break!); again, something Americans are not used to, unless, of course, it is an extremely long Kevin Costner film! Anyway, the movie was hilarious, not only to us, but to the Jordanian movie patrons as well. As I sat there laughing at not only the slapstick humor, but also at some of the more subtle verbal humor, I wondered at how much of it could have possibly been accurately translated into the Arabic language! Even the fact that such a film as this was being shown in a Muslim country demonstrated how much less religiously restricted everyone was in the city (although I have to say, it didn't appear that many men brought dates to that film). But in Jordan everything was different! Everything was exotic! From the storefronts (in the cities and in the villages) displaying outside whatever was being sold inside, from animal carcasses, to tires or mufflers, to kitchenware, to children's clothing, or shoes; from all of the street signs and billboards and menus being written in Arabic (a script I have yet to learn to read, except for the word ALLAH); from the way people dressed, with all the men in their traditional red and white checkered headresses (keffiyehs), while some wore long robes (gumbazs) and sandals, and the women wore their long, sometimes more ornately embroidered robes (thobs), while still other men and women in Amman dressed more like westerners in suits, or slacks and dresses, or jeans (though every woman wore a scarf); from the way taxi drivers honked persistently as they drove, just barely missing hitting each other, screaming out words I didn't understand, and then always saying in English to us how much they wished they could get a visa to go to America. A fiercely masculine culture (and anti-homosexual culture) where young men often held hands as they walked down the street together, and where all men kissed each other on the cheeks when they greeted each other, and where women smoked hooka pipes after dinner along with their husbands and friends. Where restaurants had special seating for men dining alone, keeping them separated from the areas where families dined together, and where women never publicly touched any man, even their own husbands. A culture where there were no copyright laws, and where you could buy any music or movie you wanted if you just waited a minute while the store clerk made a copy for you if it weren't already on the shelf. A culture where you could walk into any drugstore and buy any drug over the counter. No prescriptions were ever needed. A culture where you could never buy alcohol except in fancy hotel restaurants. A culture where weddings lasted a week, where dogs were never kept as pets, and where showing someone the bottom of your foot was a sign of disrespect. All of this I took in and tried to remember and understand. The sights, the sounds, the foods, the smells; the religion, the language, the dress, the culture. It wasn't America, and it wasn't Europe. It was the Middle East, a place I had found myself in (for better or for worse) for eight weeks! And I was falling in love.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

ACOR

     As soon as we got into Amman's downtown bus station we would take a taxi to ACOR where we would promptly check into our rooms (usually located down on the basement level), strip off all our clothes and add them to the rest of our dirty laundry which we would send to the laundress for washing (and while there was a small fee for this service, it was well worth it! Whoever did the laundry at ACOR did a marvelous job, as everything came back within hours smelling and looking clean and bleached, softly machine dried, AND neatly folded. Needless to say, I saw this as a reason to never do laundry at camp!). Within minutes of dispensing of both clothes and laundry J would jump in the shower for about 10 mintes, at which time I would follow, an order we agreed to since I usually took longer. And Oooooh, how unbelievably GOOD that hot, steamy water felt as it powerfully sprayed down over my head and body! I could have stood there forever, lathering up, rinsing off, over and over. Plus I could finally shave my legs decently, and generally pamper myself like I could never do at Abila! The showers here were so clean, and there were no spiders or lizards running over the walls. I would have been in no hurry to get out EVER if it hadn't been for the fact that J and I were both usually starving half to death, and here there was the promise of some real food. On Fridays we always skipped lunch at the dig in order to make our early getaway, so after having taken care of one very essential luxury we embarked on another. Upstairs, the main floor housed a large industrial kitchen used to cook all the meals and desserts which would feed weekend visitors a full lunch (the cost of which was included in the price of the stay), and which fed the archaeology teams who were digging nearby, but who lived at ACOR, three meals a day. I couldn't help but feel jealous about how much nicer these dig crews had it than we did at Abila. The difference between their accommodations and ours was like night and day! Oh well. I at least got to experience a reprieve on weekends, something most of our team members were not so fortunate to get, and I clung to this very selfishly, as there were only a limited number of rooms left on any given weekend, and we three had standing reservations!
Fridays at ACOR the standard dinner fare was spaghetti, and we had permission to help ourselves to the leftovers! J would heat up a big pot of spaghetti, while my assignment would be to make a pitcher of freshly brewed tea (shay, in Arabic), which, let me tell you, was a real luxury, poured over tall glasses of an unlimited supply of ice! All week long at the camp I would drink plain water, sometimes refrigerated, but usually not, and even on our treks into Irbid I could barely satisfy my craving for ice, so this became one of my biggest challenges on our outings, especially since I am a huge ice fanatic, something I didn't fully realize about myself until I left the familiarity of my own country. In American restaurants it's no problem to get all the ice you want, so at the Pizza Hut in Irbid, when I saw pictures on their paper place mats of tall glasses of Coke filled with ice cubes, I felt encouraged to try to communicate my desire to have that which I so desperately lusted after in the illustrations. I would point to the picture and use the Arabic word for ice, talj, and then point to myself, all the while shaking my head yes, and saying "I want, please" (biddi, min fadlak) in Arabic. When the waiter would finally understand what I was requesting, there would be great joy, accompanied by lots of smiling and laughing, followed by my eager anticipation of a glass soon to be filled full with ice cubes. But alas, every single time the waiter would return holding up a bag of about 12 individually wrapped frozen cubes, smiling, offering me very graciously, ONE (wahid)? Oh! You would like TWO (itnen)? Ha! This was very funny! Oh, but could I possibly have THREE (talateh)? Asking this always made me feel like a greedy American who wanted everything in excess. But in America ice was not only abundant, it was free! It was just frozen water! Unfortunately, a commodity that was NOT that abundant in other parts of the world, and especially not in the deserts of the Middle East. And while the waiter at Pizza Hut wasn't going to charge me for that ice, and while I'm also certain that he was indeed very happy to serve it to me, I'm also certain that he never understood why on earth I would ever want such a thing in my drink in the first place. How very odd! Apparently, those packages of ice were something the franchise shipped to them, along with those Coke advertisement placemats that were lying out on all the tables, as was the chrome salad bar that just sat in the middle of the floor with a big bowl on it for serving iceberg lettuce salad, something also not available in the Middle East. Either because lettuce didn't ship that well, or because Jordanians don't use lettuce in their salads, or both, that bowl just sat there empty, as did the rest of the salad bar in most areas. A very visible reminder of a piece of American food culture that was out of place here. So I didn't push it. Most of the time I lived with two cubes and felt happy for what I got, always profusely thanking the waiters, repeating over and over in Arabic, shukran, shukran! But at ACOR, why, I had all the ice I wanted! And so J, Tim, and I almost embarrassingly, yet happily, scarfed down our amazingly delicious early evening meal, and then washed the dishes and wiped off the stove and countertops, making certain that we didn't wear out the good graces of the kitchen staff, before heading back to our rooms for a restful nap, setting the alarm clocks for about 8:00 p.m., so as to leave ourselves a reasonable amount of time for an early night on the town.