Water

The drinking water in Kaolack is, well, undrinkable. At least when meeting my inflated Western standards. There's salt in it. And probably a whole host of parasites that cause a variety of corporeal discomforts. This is unfortunate considering Kaolack is hot. The kind of sticky heat that suffocates you in your sleep. If Queen Mab even grants you entrance to that nether region. And when the power goes out and the fan stops working and the malaria invested night yields no refuge, not only is quenching your thirst predicated by your ability to afford bottled water but taking a cold shower means dousing in sodium. Your skin starts to itch within days.

I wish I had more time to research the causes of Kaolack's water problem. There are salt flats mere kilometers out side of town that are exploited. By whom, I'd like to find out. I doubt many local Senegelse profit from the salt cultivation here.

Currently, I know merely what many of us know, that water poverty is a stark and forever growing fact of our future, that "while a handful of the wealthy routinely drink expensive, high function mineral water, one out of five people in the world cannot count on getting any safe drinking water at all" (Japan Focus, Tomoko Sakuma).

Senegal

It's been long since I've posted. I don't feel guilty. I would have loved to record my travels through the Middle East with two of my best friends. But they are far better company than a computer screen. Reverse culture shock, bouncing between five states, graduation and reunion with my past deserves documentation too. But my memory suffices. And that was a month packed with either constant activity or constant stasis. I could have indulged in more of the latter.

And now, Senegal. I'm letting it wash over me. Posts will become more frequent soon as I move in to a working groove. A groove that I oscillate between hating and coveting. For now, I will list posts I hope to expound upon, questions I have and observations, issues I'd like to pursue. It's not a promise, just a goal. I'll let some pictures do the talking for me. Because I've discovered I can't think and sweat at the same time. I will get a beer and ponder further all I have left unsaid.

1. Underdevelopment
2. Talibee boys
3. Learning Wolof
4. Speaking French
5. My work
6. Islam in Africa

Escape From Amman

A cliche for most of our weekends. While not exactly prison, too many expats in this congested and amenity-lacking city would jump to make the comparison. Expats the world over share a passion for travel, yet here we're spurred by a lingering dissatisfaction with our growing conservative habituation.

And so we fled. To paradise. In the Arab world. It felt as surreal as it sounds. The twelve hours of dealing with Jordanian police, confused port laborers and desperate Egyptian taxi drivers was worth the head ache of traveling to Dahab. Lounging next to the red sea, basking in the perfect breeze, it's hard to imagine an area which so inspires chill to have been enmeshed in fifty years of violent back and forth land-grabbing between Egypt and Israel.

Thankfully Egypt is in control now. However, it may not look too different if Israel were. The sea side village is inhabited by liberal Egyptians and Australian scuba divers. Both partake in smoking herb. Honestly, it goes with the territory. Smoking anything freely besides tabacco I had considered a strictly Israeli phenomenon in the Levant. There were whispers of its procurement in Tel Aviv, a city strikingly European nestled on stolen Arab land. Ahhh, but Dahab was a refreshing reminder that Islam does not equate to fundamentalism. Like all religions, practitioners pick and choose the dogma that will rigor their life. Many Muslim friends in Jordan imbibe the spirits but avoid the joints. This however, I think is due more to harsh enforcement.

The Arabs who migrate to Dahab seem to be drawn by the same force as the tourists. This is "The Life". Waking well after dawn only to nap in a bathing suit on a blanket under an umbrella, sipping fresh squeezed juice, wind surfing or snorkling, exchanging pleasantries and intimacies with strangers, lulled into wonderful satisfaction with "The Life".

And indeed, it was hard to leave "The Life" behind. To return to an aggressive city where the hospitality is born more out of tradition, obligation and an expectation for something in exchange than as a true extension of the heart. As we boarded the ferry, we reflected on our perfect weekend, on our sunrise on top of Mount Sinai, on our new friends entertaining us on their porch in Camel Camp watching palm trees dance with the Moroccan drum beats. Unfortunately, a creeping suspicious of something amiss began to mare our elevated perception of the heaven that is Sinai. We asked ourselves "where were all the Egyptian woman?" Were they all under the age of eight and hawking bracelets to tourists? Of course this is impossible. And regrettably, we realized, this liberal paradise, decorated with bare flesh and lax beliefs, only extends to Egyptian men and foreign women (who are not judged because of special dispensation). Perhaps this is one of the sadder aspects of what separates Dahab from Tel Aviv.

*Pictures soon to come

Mullings Over Dialogues

So I've been mulling over a post, slowly compiling it in my head. Because I'm running out. Of Ideas. And Time. All of my mental energy has been redirected to magazine and thesis pieces. In doing interviews, Jordanians made some cultural assessments about their own people that I thought I'd expound on.

Today though, I had a break through. Talking to a US educated Jordanian, we mused about how his sons weren't interested in getting an education in the states, or even forging a life there. They preferred Canada or Europe. And I thought, yeah, it's becoming the European dream. Death of the American dream. I'll write about that! I'm brilliant. Minutes later I realized someone had already written this brilliant article: Waving Goodbye to Hegemony By Parag Khanna.

Fear of Commitment: A business man told me that Jordanians break contracts because they can't commit.

They do break contracts.

And renege on agreements.

Tour operators are constantly battling hoteliers because they'll sign on a price and then they'll raise that price, sometimes double. It does "send foreign investors flying" as my capitalist companion stated, hands aflutter. Perhaps Jordanians are so "committed" to their religion and relationships, that they act out in this way. Like a kid tormented by their parents to be clean and organized. As an adult, their own house is littered with laundry and trash. (Yeah, I'm talking about myself) Or perhaps capitalism simply takes on a different form here. Or capitalism breeds survivalist tendencies. Or poverty drives people to shady business deals.

It has it's positives though. Low expectations sure take away some of life's pressures. For instances, you can make a reservation and they only take your name, not your credit card number. This comes in handy when you don't show up. No charge, no foul. However, it's not so fun when you do show up and somebody took your place.

Public Space: A good majority of Jordanian's entertainment is viewed, enacted, etc. in the privacy of their homes. One reason is because there are very few public spaces where people can gather together to entertain. Another may be hyper emphasis on the family nucleus. All atoms must rotate around it and cannot stray too far. Jordanians spend a majority of their time in their homes with their relatives. Islamic dogma further discourages interaction with strangers. Think: no dating. The city has been attempting to create more festivals so that citizens can slowly become accustomed to interacting with strangers in large public domains. Because currently, when this happens, there's chaos.

Taking It Easy: Jordanians work six days a week. Many can't drink alcohol. Or smoke marijuna. Or indulge in casual sexual activity. Which lead to a whole host of other don'ts that for the Western world equate to stress relief. Jordanians are HIGH STRUNG. Traffic is awful. Prices are high. There is no where to cut loose. They live with their parents until they marry! I think Hilter serves as an excellent example of uptight gone horribly awry.

Cats

Cats own Amman. Unlike Santiago, where dogs roam the streets and nap in intersections, cats reside in every nook and cranny of this congested city. They jump out of trash cans, scream like mythical banshees as they fight (or fondle) in the middle of the night, and take refuge under cars. For a dog in the Islamic world it's a rough life, "Traditionally, dogs have been seen as impure, and the Islamic legal tradition has developed several injunctions that warn Muslims against most contact with dogs." Cats seem to be the compensation pet. And sometimes feral menace.

A wild cat is fascinating and takes to the life style, I think, much more than dogs. They aren't desperate for love and they'll be damed if you try and pour it on them. In Santiago, lonely dogs would wander up to you on benches, earnestly placing its paw up on your knee begging for affection. A cat will fight tooth and nail if you try and lure it into a comforting home. It embodies the Charles Dicken's rapscallion. It was born for the independence and adventure of street life.

What I love most about these feline friends is that every tourist site I've visited in Jordan, from the Ma'in Hot Springs, to Petra, the Dead Sea to the Baptism site, and even Wadi Rum village, has its own pack of cats. Let's call them a tribe. I think they're family too. Because they're ALWAYS orange.

Above is a picture of a Russian baptism in the Jordan River at the baptism site of Jesus. Standing watch on the railing is the ubiquitous orange cat. That site is in the middle-of-no-where. It's the wilderness from which John-the-Baptist cried. These cats are the world's new pilgrims.

Lost Month

This blog has been sorely ignored. And while I have not formalized an entry or jotted down a rough draft on a napkin, or hell, even really thought about what I'm going to write, I didn't want the month of April to disappear like that of March. I hope then this doesn't become word vomit. I feel a strange penchant to wax about my ever shifting moods and uncertainties than to try and contemplate a real issue. But I know this is what private notebooks (for the love-of-god not a diary) and friends (such accepting, patient people) are for. In the end, I missed the blog.

My silence has not been for lack of inspiration, but my writing efforts have been stretched in other areas, such as thesis research, magazine articles, job and fellowship applications, feeble attempts at fiction and ugh, business plans. I have little left to give. And my preference to focus a post on a particular topic, one that isn't solely about well, yours truly, has posed an obstacle. Because I'm lazy and rambling is easy. But I had a list in my head, really. For example, in writing an article about intellectual property rights for a local magazine, I became more acquainted with the oppression that is Jordan. Three journalists have recently gone to jail for writing criticisms about the government (don't quote me on the exact details of this, look it up for yourself to verify if you plan to disseminate). Every minister I interviewed at one point opened up to me about the "real" problems they faced in their working life. Lack of organization, coordination, corruption, yet, always followed by an "this is off the records" disclaimer. And each interview ended with a rehearsed-sounding thanks to the King and the Cabinet and a plea to view the article before it went to print. Because people can get in real trouble here. Fast.

I took a trip to Chile and was startled at how accustomed I had become to the Middle East. I realized that I love the Western life-style. The ability to imbibe substances without guilt, to wear tank tops without stares, to kiss your partner without question, to protest, to stand-out in a crowd. These liberties that I tentatively indulged in again, which I hadn't even realized were lost to me, made it difficult to leave. Yet my time here has taught me more than I ever imagined. That if you open yourself, every place, from Nebraska to Saudi Arabia, has worlds to tell you. And I'm brought back to that age old truth I seem to cling to, which is perhaps not true for everyone, but is for me, that real knowledge is painful. Much like one might suffer for their art, I think one suffers to understand. Like being interrogated for two hours by Israeli airport security, at 2 am, nearly missing my flight. A little inconvenience and strangely humiliating to be singled out and repeatedly asked to justify my decisions, my actions, my existence. I feel though vaguely, oh so vaguely what it must be like for others, for Palestinians who try to enter the US with all their paperwork in order, and yet are made to strip naked and stand in a room while people examine them. Simply for who they are.

For those of you who pushed through to the end of this tangential novella, my real intention was to egoize, as much as I tried to deny it. I have no idea what I want from life beside a few fundamentals, such as travel and learning. While normally I would be scrambling to plan for the year ahead without considering what might actually be best, I'm hoping to step back. I'm hoping my applications fall through and that I'm forced to wait without any idea. Limbo is one of the scariest realities for me. So I hope to practice what I preach and suffer through my fears in order to understand what I'm doing in this life. To stop making blind decisions based on security and even spontaneity, to eke-out some calm and perspective.

"Even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." --Aeschylus.

[sic]

For the last three days I have been basking in the summer-like heat of the Dead Sea, drinking free champaign and rubbing elbows with representatives of North and Latin American travel operators, agencies, associations and media publications. It is really not as exciting as it sounds (does it sound exciting?), except for all that glorious, complementary booze.

And while not in my inebriated haze or wolfing done free food like its my job, I did have a chance to witness a unique cultural microcosm where Brazilians, Mexicans, Americans, Canadians and Jordanians were either outrightly or inadvertently insulting each other. Intercultural communication can be so fun.

The pinnacle of this spectacle came during a question and answer panel session. Representatives basically told Jordan: "You won't be a one-stop tourist destination, ever. So get over it and start riding the Egypt and Israel gravy train." Some of the more loaded arguments involved the Jordanian Visa requirement, which Americans dubbed a psychological obstacle for inexperienced travelers. A Brazilian made a remark that Israel didn't require a Visa, which prompted a Jordanian to shout at him to go to the border and see how long he waited there as compared to the Visa line at the Jordanian Airport. And at one point a Jordanian's plea to hear more about the positive aspects of their Kingdom that they could promote was, perhaps due to some sort of language barrier, fulfilled by a Mexican who told him that Jordanian service workers smelled.

But the very best was from an impassioned elderly American woman who sanctimoniously lectured the crowd about how for a long time North Americans had a negative view of the Arab world, and with good reason [sic]. But that thanks to Jordan's Israeli friends [sic] more and more people were returning to the region for peace tourism [sic]. And all Jordan had to do was show these tourists their renown hospitality and use those magical Arabic phrases Shoukran (thank you) and Ahlan wa Shalan (welcome) to galvanize the world into a paradigm shift of loving your brother (obviously not sic).