Eternal Crises

I had my first Jordanian existential crisis this weekend. At SIT I averaged about three a week, so if I can keep it down to one a month here I'll be happy.


This upset was stress induced, but then isn't anything significant? I had spent the day hunched over my lap top at one of the few open places of business during daylight hours, the ever-reliable Starbucks. I was downloading applications for job possibilities next year and researching programs. As I read more about fellowships and grants like fulbright and Bosch, I began to feel slightly euphoric as images of Berlin and Tunisia swam through my head. Then I started a mental check list; I would need research project proposals, personal statements, language tests, resumes, recommendations, etc. etc. I examined my life in order to spin it to look good on paper and entice the interests of a donor. I began to compartmentalize my time; if I fill out this at work and study this after iftar, if I travel next weekend and write while we drive, if I go to the Internet cafe after I teach class...Soon my head was throbbing and my eyes watering. My entire body tightened and my jaw ached as I realized deadlines loomed near. I was overwhelmed with life and work, schedules and responsibilities. And time was ticking for me to return home to our apartment to prepare for a dinner party. Now the excitement of company was transforming into a chore keeping me from my future.


Suddenly my phone rang. My roommate needed me to pick up a few things from the grocery store. She was already cooking. It just wasn't enough time. I had accomplished nothing, wasted my day. I angrily left the cafe and returned to my car to navigate the labyrinthine neighborhoods and Ramadan craze. I brooded through traffic, growing more frustrated and stressed with each honk or illegal turn. As I stopped at a light, a severely deformed man with bowed legs and a crooked back hobbled through the idling cars, withered hand outstretched. And of course my heart sank. I handed him a JD and guiltily sped away, slowly sinking into depression. For the last three days I had been killing myself trying to find ways to continue living abroad and I just arrived in Amman three weeks ago. And why did I want to live abroad or for that matter why am I even in Jordan? Clearly it has little to do with changing the world. I'm more interested in finding dance clubs, the perfect fellowship, writing for a magazine, meeting people, teaching class, building my resume and traveling than actually helping people who need it most. I sit in an office all day typing about travel packages or organizational structure or tourism advocacy. I tell myself that increasing tourism could create 50,000 new jobs for people in Jordan. But giving a crippled beggar a JD is my only interaction with the poor. So I wonder, is the world of development really for me? Does it mean nothing more to me than numbers on a piece of paper, impressive credentials and exotic locations?

Two quotes best represent my mood and contemplations as I pass through this crisis that I'm sure everyone has wrestled with at one time or another or every other week.

"The ultimate end of human acts is eudaimonia, happiness in the sense of living well, which all men desire; all acts are but different means chosen to arrive at it." -- Hannah Arendt


"I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." -E.B. White

*Pictures taken while lost in Amman.

Office Life

This afternoon I saw two of my colleagues praying in my bosses empty office. I passed the darkened room and noticed their thin figures and rigid backs, kneeling side-by-side on the hard marble. They were reciting on decorative rugs, squished between the wall and the desk, subjugating themselves to the file cabinet.


I quickly returned to my computer, feeling like I had caught them doing something wrong. I'm not sure why.

It makes me wonder though, have they been doing this everyday when the prayer call begins? And when my boss is in the office, where do they pray? Could it be that all of my colleagues have been using their offices or the lobby or the meeting room, tucking themselves into a corner or under a table, silently genuflecting and I have simply hermited in my office, none-the-wiser? There are only five of us, counting myself and our work space is a converted apartment, smaller than my own. So much for cultural exploration when you've got facebook.

*Interspersed are some boring pictures of my office, but taken by my own hand;)

Worth a Thousand Words

When I bought my adorable, magenta Kodak Elf for Christmas, it was with the promise that I was going to take more pictures. I wanted (or still want) to become an amateur photographer. I used incentives to ward off laziness. The first dangling carrot was my photo blog. I was thwarted though by a stronger desire, to develop my writing skills. While I continued to post, I started using pictures from the Internet. They were better images and more appropriate for my subject matter. Then I got my assignment in Jordan. What better reason to practice and improve my photographic skills than a new country? So Jordan became my new carrot.

And yeah, maybe I don't like carrots. It seems that every time we are in an interesting place, worthy of being captured in the annals of time, I find myself without my camera. At the SOUK JARA, at the down town market, at the Dead Sea, passing a camel, walking the streets, everywhere I go it's the same mantra: "I'll be here again, I'll take pictures next time." The irony is that for most of these occasions my camera has been tucked into my bag hanging from my shoulder. I bought the smallest camera I could find so that it would always be with me. And it is. I'm just too lazy to pull it out.

But when I first arrived, I was determined to keep my promise. On my second day in Amman I walked a few blocks from our hotel, snapping pictures of the interesting buildings, the supermarket, anything that looked unique. And of course everything did, because everything was new. Admittedly, though, I was scared to walk far. I even took pictures of several of the streets signs, kind of like dropping rocks behind you or trailing a piece of string when you are lost in the woods and need to find your way back. I was also nervous about the residents staring at me. What I wanted to take pictures of were women in hijabs, men in white gowns with red head bands gathered on the street corner or silent, armed guards in front of every building. But I wasn't ready to interact with strangers so intimately when I was so obviously a foreigner...from America.

The next morning we were driven to our first day of orientation and as we pulled up to the large, stone-white abode and entered through the gates, there was the ubiquitous guard in blueish fatigues, sitting on a chair in the shade with a rifle resting across his lap. I told myself tomorrow I would take his picture. He was associated with our organization, so it would be safe.

During the orientation our supervisor discussed many issues, one of them being photography. He warned us about where we pointed our lens. "Don't take any pictures with bridges in the background, malls, official buildings, police stations or officers." He then related a story about a former fulbright student on his last day in the country. At his mom's request, he scouted the city capturing images that illustrated his life for the past year. After several shots, he took a picture of the police station. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by angry men and under arrest. He made a frantic call to our supervisor and then throughout the day was moved from one police station to the next until he finally ended up in a white van with a black bag over his head and his hands cuffed, on his way to the Jordanian equivalent of the CIA. Our supervisor was tracking his every move but was powerless to help. Fortunately, after a brief interrogation, the CIA realized he was not a terrorist threat and released the shell shocked student. I'm sure he stepped on that plane home more relieved than he ever could have imagined.

So this anecdote is my lame excuse for why I have been procrastinating with my picture taking. The unfortunate photographer was Turkish and probably looked more like a terrorist than I do, but still, you can never be too careful;) I promise though that my next post will begin with a photo taken by my own hand.

Rape and Pillage

This weekend I was invited to a salsa party at the American Embassy. Marines were hosting the event. This is not a group of people I would normally seek out. However, all of the clubs are closed during Ramadan and my roommate and I had been jonesin to dance all week. And the relationship between men and women here is so confusing and foreign (not to mention frustrating) that I was relieved to hang out with men I could tell to kiss off if they started getting fresh.

The night was not particularly remarkable. I taught kickboxing until 9:30 and my roommate was at an iftar until 10 so we didn't even make it in time to catch any real dancing. Yet we were still able to enjoy some free drinks, meet some new people and they even took us to a club in the down town area that is open during the holiday.

It was the experience of going to the embassy that was fascinating. The embassy is a huge fortified compound very near our apartment. We basically live on embassy row. Once inside, after a thorough search by several check points with guards, the embassy is like a college campus. I only saw a portion of it, but soldiers and staff were passing us on bikes. It was that big. I found myself walking at ease in a tube top without a scarf, almost like I was going to a party on East Campus back in Missouri. I was on American soil. And the marine quarters where we spent the majority of our night was like a frat house. There was a dance floor, kitchen and bar, bed rooms and huge terrace.

The marines invited us back the next night and once again because nothing was open and we therefore didn't have much better to do, we accepted. It was on this second night though that we noticed a giant poster on the wall of their rec room with a blown up quote by Genghis Khan. I had noticed the author the first night and found it interesting that they had chosen such a brutal conquerer to display on their wall. I paid little more attention to it though, assuming it was something about strategy or discipline.

The second night though, two more people commented on the strangeness of the author and we went over to the wall to read the entire quote. In big black letters, this is what it said:

"The Greatest Happiness is to scatter your enemy and drive him before you. To see his cities reduced to ashes. To see those who love him shrouded and in tears. And to gather to your bosom his wives and daughters."

My biggest regret of the night was that I didn't have my camera. That would have been impossible though because they confiscated those at the entrance to the embassy. My inability to take pictures was not my only regret and after reading something so chilling, we promptly left. I won't be returning to the marine house. In some ways it makes me sad that I will be returning to the US.

Ramadan Laws

Last week the ministry watched the moon closely, and by employing complicated calculations determined that Ramadan would begin on Thursday. It was announced and thus began a month of fasting during the day and celebrating at night. As Americans, the EMDAPer's knew little of what to expect of the coming month except a shortened work day, hungry and therefore angry drivers, desolation under the sun and festivities under the moon.

One thing we had noted was that there would be special deserts, such as the one pictured above, only available during Ramadan. My roommate had been eagerly awaiting their arrival. On her way home from work she stopped at a bakery and bought a box of sweet pastries in the form of gooey cheese stuffed in a fried pastry shell and dipped in syrup. Too excited to wait until she was in her kitchen, she started tasting the treats as she drove. After a bite or two a cop car appeared in the rear view mirror with its sirens flashing. The two furious policemen seemed to be yelling at her, but scared and confused, she decided not to pull over. As far as she could tell she wasn't doing anything illegal. However, the car continued to follow her and a mini chase ensued. Eventually, tired of weaving in and out of traffic and around circles, the cops drove up beside her window, yelled a few more incomprehensible phrases, shook their fists and sped off. Shaken for the entire afternoon, she described the story to several of us that night. One of our friends laughed and explained that it's illegal to eat or drink in public during Ramadan. Since public space differs greatly here as compared to the US, your car counts.

And with this event I started to understand why one returned EMDAPer referred to the holiday as Ramahell. Everything shuts down during the day, there is no alcohol to be found (this is a difficult task without a religious reason to abstain) and due to the fasting, the driving is even more hellish because everyone is hungry and thirsty and therefore irritated.

And yet, besides some of the aforementioned negatives, I think this is a beautiful holiday. While the day is boring, the nights are full of excitement. Around 6:30 or sundown people break fast, which is called iftar. Families gather together to celebrate with huge meals and special deserts. All of the restaurants stay open until the wee hours and live entertainment is abound. Hundreds of people come out of their homes to walk the streets and partake in the festivities. People actually indulge so much in iftar that the BMI of the entire country increases. This phenomenon is particularly amusing because the ideological point of Ramadan is to connect with the poor. One does not eat or drink from sun up to sun down so that they can realize the suffering of those less fortunate than themselves. The month is also supposed to be a time for charity work. The only practitioners exempt are pregnant women and the ill. And they are supposed to make up the days of fasting later in the year. If this is not possible, then they must feed an impoverished person for every day of Ramadan that they missed. In some ways it is very Christmas-esque. My boss even compared the two holidays, stating that in both cases people had lost sight of their real purpose and now simply celebrate consumption.

Regardless, Muslims, and therefore the country of Jordan, take the holiday very seriously. I guess that's something we will have to watch out for;)

*I did not take this picture, but did eat two of these last night. They are a special pancake with nutella inside. A favorite Ramadan dessert.

Desert Crib

This is my blue living room. Our foyer with a beautiful golden chandler and stylish mirrors is barely visible on the right. The door on the left leads to our balcony with a gorgeous view of the new bridge. A complimentary hookah was resting on the table for us when we arrived. We've spent many nights outside sipping wine, smoking sheesha and enjoying the desert breeze. The dinning room recedes in the middle of the photo. We don't spend much time in either of these rooms. They're reserved for company;)

This is our green living room. It comes complete with satellite t.v., DVD player and DVD's. Although, because copy right laws aren't enforced here, you can purchase any movie, even the newest releases, for around a dollar. We loaded up this weekend. So far we've spent the majority of our time in this room, chatting with guests and unwinding with a flick

This is our kitchen, with the dinning room peaking out the left. The picture is distorted because of my inability to work the panoramic function. The only amenity missing from this spacious cookery is a dish washer. There was even charcoal and flavored tobacco in the cupboard so that we could smoke hubbly bubbly on our first night in our new place.

This is my roommate's master bedroom.

This is my master bedroom. What would have tipped you off had I not labeled them? Surely not the mess;)

*Not pictured are the guest bedroom, two more bathrooms, the balcony, the laundry room with washing machine and the marble floors. As well, the pictures simply do not do the place justice, mainly because of poor lighting but also because the rooms are too enormous to fit into my view finder, even with the panoramic.

Why am I posting these pictures?To show-off my new panoramic picture taking skills? Obviously not. To brag that I am living in luxury in a developing country? I try to think I'm better than that. So that friends and family can better understand my life here and provide incentive for them to visit? Definitely a little.

But my main purpose is to demonstrate a phenomenon of the developing world and the benefits to those who work in it. One of many complaints about international development at SIT was that people with good intentions would travel to developing countries to help the poor and make life a little better for everyone. Sometimes though, their life would be the most improved. An American dollar stretches a lot further in places other than Europe. And due to these lucky circumstances, the good intentioned would end up far removed from the actual problems of the country and easily forget why they moved there in the first place. Or sometimes people's intentions are not to help, but simply to take advantage of this happy situation.

So yes, I'm experiencing a little bit of guilt. Especially since a full brighter or two have disdainfully snubbed their noses at our humble abode. Here's my justification. We chose this place because we wanted to get out of our expensive hotel as quickly as possible. EMDAPer's were only allowed a limited settling in allowance and our time at Al Qasar was quickly burning through this. Plus we just wanted to unpack. Abdoun, where we are located, is close to both my roommate and my jobs. The apartment has been used for years by full bright students and in fact, the landlord will only house them. We are a two minute walk from a trendy circle with an all night grocery store and lots of amenities, such as nice restaurants and gyms. Abdoun is one of the safest areas of Amman, and perhaps the only place I feel comfortable walking alone without cover. My independence and freedom to dress as I choose, regardless of my gender, means a lot to me.

There are other areas of Amman that had we known about when shown our housing options, we definitely would have pushed for. I was more than prepared to live in a hole. And to be honest, we are removed for a certain Amman experience and this is a down side. We see as many tourists as Jordanians in the area and the shops are expensive.

But I guess in the end, I'm just going to have to live with it and in it and continue to justify my guilt away. Sadly, it's not hard to do when I come home after a long day at the office.

SOUK JARA Dispute

Today marks my first on-the-job moral quandary. As a public relations officer promoting tourism in a developing country, I expect many more of these. I'm sure my year at SIT has prepared me well?

Throughout my first work week, I have spent the majority of my time reading. Obviously, in order to write about tourism and my organization, I must first understand what it is I will be writing about. But reading all day is boring. So as the assignments have slowly trickled in, I attack them with enthusiasm.

Today, besides more reading, I have been given the task of rewriting an article about the success of the first Jordanian flea market, now in its third year. SOUK JARA was created through the partnership of the Greater Amman Municipality (GAM) and the Jabal Amman Residents Association (JARA) They have converted a street in a historic neighborhood into what they call "a dynamic marketplace". And indeed it is extremely popular, especially with tourist. I was excited to have been given the article because I had unknowingly attended the market's last day this past Friday. The area was crowded with people, none of whom spoke Arabic. However, the shopping was very relaxed, perhaps because we were all languishing under the intense sun. To counteract the ever present cotton mouth here, I enjoyed fresh squeezed lemonade from a stall run by a Habitat for Humanity employee who turned out to be a friend of a friend. A common Jordanian phenomenon.

The other stalls sold trinkets, handicrafts, food and clothing. The vendors were friendly and my roommate struck up a conversation in French with a Senegalese who traveled the area selling wood carvings and who was delighted to converse in his second tongue. I also purchased a large scarf that I have grown quite attached to as it allows me to cover myself comfortably and to wear a tank top underneath for places where bare arms are acceptable. I found the experience to be extremely pleasant and mentally noted it as an activity for future visitors.

The market is located in one of the oldest sections of down town, Jabal Amman. Antiquity is coveted in a city that is developing exponentially. It is in a residential area and we had to crawl through alleys and up and down dangerously steep steps and through narrow streets to reach it. It was in fact the first time I truly felt like I was in the Middle East and I reveled in the adventure. However, the market is basically the equivalent of parking "the new" smack in the middle of "the old".

As I was researching facts about the history of the area that I could add to the article, I stumbled onto a blog with comments lambasting the market. Apparently, some residents despise it, claiming it is noisy, dirty and crowded and that it deteriorates their neighborhood, increases traffic, theft and violence . The market is also open on Friday, the day of rest in the Muslim culture. After more web surfing with a sinking stomach, I found an article in Arabic and through the wonders of Google Translate read that a society of Jabal Amman Veterans had been created in order to protest. However, the youth of the area seem to enjoy the souk, and others argue that it is a great addition to a changing Amman.

It is one of the age-old dilemmas of tourism. Bringing outsiders into a country can destroy the fabric of their society, taint the culture and ruin the historical artifacts. And of course this happens locally as well. Before I left the country, my friends and I visited the Sturgis Bike Rally and my mom, who had grown up in the area, lamented that the event was damaging the economy and the culture for the locals. However, as in most places, tourism is one of the biggest industries. In Jordan it contributes 10% to the GDP. Jobs are created and FDI is attracted. As well, individuals from cultures where the Middle East is misrepresented are able to learn and break stereotypes and return home to educate those around them.

Obviously I will finish the article and turn it in for publication. However, the dispute reminds me that there are always two sides to the same coin. As a sheltered American in this country, this is a fact that I easily forget. I'm glad for the reminder.

*I cannot claim this picture as my own. I have been very lazy about taking pictures, but promise to improve.

Haunting Refrain

There are prayer calls five times a day and I'm thankful I don't live next to a mosque to be woken up at 4 am. They are blared from loudspeakers in a deep baritone and the ghostly chanting echoes throughout the ancient streets. The first two mornings the hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I lay on my hotel bed listening. Now I find them to be relaxing and familiar.

How 'bout them apples

My first instance of corruption came after a day at the Dead Sea, spent floating on the sodium-rich water and slathering up with the mineral-rich mud, baking in the desert heat and enjoying the Europeans and water slides at the Dead Sea Spa because attending a public beach as a woman is frowned upon and one feels uncomfortable when stared at in a bathing suit. As we were leaving the spa, we waited for the guard to remove the pole barrier. He came over to our window and leaned inside, demanding something in a foreign tongue. After learning we didn't even speak small Arabic, he gestured toward the apples we were eating. My co-pilot misunderstood and thought he wanted us to throw them out. Knowing this was not a border crossing though I told her that was impossible. We finally understood he wanted one apple or three (for his friends). We had one left and happily handed him our last green apple and drove on.

Dangerous Driving

There is no driving school in Amman. Conversely, it is impossible to walk far is this vast, spider-webbed network of neighborhoods and suks lacking proper pedestrian paths and courteous drivers. Public transportation is radically underdeveloped, almost rivaling the states. Therefore, one must drive or one must taxi. EMDAPers have been given a car, which I had assumed would be an unwanted responsibility but now consider a small luxury. Only though if I discount the terrifying driving practices and absurdity of a city without street signs. As an American on a Jordanian road, I will see two lanes clearly marked in which I should drive, but a Jordanian sees the opportunity to cram in four or five rows of cars, disregarding the yellow lines. One must be both extremely aggressive and defensive and not take offense to constant horns. As well, to get somewhere in this labyrinth you must remember landmarks, because nobody knows the names of streets and they aren't marked anyway. On the flip side, it is fun to ignore all traffic signals such as one-way signs and normal taboos such as cutting someone off. I feel like a teenager on speed half the time I am tearing around the city. As well, I don't speak or read Arabic, so street signs would be meaningless.

Culture Shock

My first instance of culture shock came on the plane ride. I hadn't anticipated being one of the few Americans on my Royal Jordanian flight, although I should have. I was seated next to a middle-aged Amman native who was very antsy and spoke to me in Arabic. Apparently I look Jordanian. When he finally ascertained I was from the states, we conversed but briefly because his English was limited. However, from our small exchange I gathered he was very nice. The language barrier was somewhat relieving since it was an overnight flight and there was no reason or means to attempt chit chat. I quickly fell asleep and woke very parched. When I grabbed for my full water bottle tucked into the seat pocket in front of me, a bottle that I was very careful to fill before boarding for exactly this reason, I found it to be inexplicably empty. Inexplicable until my neighbor explained he had used it and was sorry, although he didn't replace it.

Tid Bits

In an attempt to summarize a very long week without being overwhelming and make up for a lack of posting (due entirely to an internet accessibility problem and not aforementioned personality flaws) I will provide numerous posts with some anecdotes and observations accompanied by random and mostly unrelated pictures that I have been very lackadaisical about taking.