Salt and Baq'a

Even though I really haven't had a lot of time to write in this thing - not to mention I admittedly am not the most dedicated blogger - yesterday is definitely worth writing about.

Around mid-day a couple of my fellow classmates and I decided to go check out the city of Salt, which is located about 20-30 minutes west of Amman. It is known to be an ancient city of trade between Jerusalem, Amman and Nablus. The "formal" bus system in Amman consists of smaller mini-busses that fit around 25 people. On the sides and fronts of each bus is written the respective routes (in Arabic of course). To get on the bus there are designated areas (that aren't clearly marked) on the sides of the roads; however you have to flag your bus once you see it. Once the bus stops, what I have lovingly been calling "the fixer" hops of the bus and asks where you are headed to ensure you are getting on the right bus. Once on the bus and moving the fixer comes by to collect the fare. As you move along the route the fixer calls out the name of each stop to see if anyone is getting off. Suffice to say that this is a fairly efficient system and you can really get around anywhere on it. What's nice about having the fixer there is that you can ask them where you need to go to get to a destination not on his designated route and they will always point you in the right direction.

Salt was fairly quiet as was to be expected on a Friday afternoon. Not many shops were open and the town almost seemed abandoned. My initial reaction was that Salt reminded me of a small town in southern Italy. The way in which the houses were lined up on the hills, the grape vines and just the feel of the city in general was akin to cities I had been through along the Almafi coast - minus all the color. The city center was very cute and seems to have been recently restored and a new design implemented as all the store fronts were in the same style and the signs the same font. I remember when I was living in Ramallah, they were planning on doing something very similar in order to make the downtown more cohesive and attractive. In this case it really added to the charm of Salt.

We wandered around the stairs of the old city that took us further up the hills and in between old abandoned houses that were seemingly stacked on top of each other. We came across gigantic fig and olive trees and grape vines, and rooftops that had been converted into private patios. We continued further up still to the top of the hill where there was a Muslim cemetary and a mosque. We watched children enthusastically attempt to fly a kite from the roadside. While they were playing, the call to prayer began. As soon as we walked away they were successful and we saw their rainbow kite flying high over the hills of Salt.

Although the town seemed abandoned for the most part, when we did run into people we were greeted with "hellos" and "welcomes" and "what is your names." We were invited by 2 painters to join them for mansef. We were invited by shopkeepers to join them for Pepsi. We were invited by teenagers to join them for argileh. We were quite the spectical in Salt and drew a lot of bewildered stares and attempts at speaking English at which we always responded in Arabic.

At one point we started to ascend the second major hill in Salt. A car with 2 guys in it slows down and the passenger, a young guy maybe in his early 20s wearing a backwards baseball cap and a white t-shirt says to us, "Hello, how are you? Where are you from. I am from New Jersey" in full on Jersey accent. He then proceeds to ask us if we have been getting problems from any of the people and if we are being harassed. We say know and then he tells us that if we have any problems "up there" (as he points to the top of the hill) to tell them that we're friends with "Junior" and then he just drives off. Uh... can anyone say Jordanian mafia?

So about 5 or 10 minutes later we get "up there" and this shady looking guy kind of makes a b-line towards us and says something in Arabic like "are you friends with Junior?" We laugh and say yes and he proceeds to tell us that Junior sent him to make sure that nothing happens to us. He asks us if anyone was given us problems... we again say 'no'. As we continue along, our new friend goes with us. At some point we end up being surrounded by about a dozen little boys who were riding around on bikes and/or playing football on a lazy Friday afternoon. Although they were not bothering us, this guy decided they were and basically told them to bugger off - and boy did they listen. We ended up reaching a point where we couldn't go any further and had to turn back around and go back the same way we came. We reached the same exact spot that this guy had approached us and he stopped and turned the other way. No goodbyes, no nothing. Think what you will of this situation but we feel as we had a taste of proper Jordanian mafia (if such a thing exists).

After walking around for a little longer we grabbed some kanafeh and boarded the bus back to Amman, still grappling with what had just happened. We made our way back to Amman where we caught another bus to Baq'a, which is the largest Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan (with nearly 100,000 people). We had no intentions by going there other than to talk to people and see what their living situations were like. When we told the fixer on the bus where we were going he and a couple passengers asked what we wanted to see and do there. We had no answer. How do you explain to someone that you want to see their suffering first hand?

Once inside Baq'a we just walked. We got a lot of stares, but the only ones initially brave enough to talk to us were children. We were followed by a pack of boys - dirty clothes, infected eyes, snotty nosed boys. It was disheartening. They asked for money almost immediately. We had to say no. As we walked, I tried to teach them how to say "what is your name" in English. Sadly, at some point they started grabbing at my purse so I had to get mean. I told them "enough" and "go away" and they did. We continued walking. The houses are made of concrete.. makeshift and seemingly on the verge of collapse. The extremely narrow roads are made of dirt and lined with trash. At some point we came to an open area and a wedding party drove by. Vans and cars loaded with people clapping and celebrating... laughing and yelling. Life is good. At least for a moment.

We continue to walk and the sun is setting. We reach an intersection where we can just see the red sun and orange sky. It is beautiful. A half a block later we are greeted by a family that is sitting on the sidewalk outside of their house enjoying the cool night air. They ask us to sit down... we do. We meet Khaled. Khaled is a journalist for a major newspaper in Jordan. His father (who still smokes 2 packs of cigarettes a day) is 85 years old. He sits with his family balding and toothless with a cane made of olive wood and a twinkle in his eye. In our broken Arabic and their broken English we talk... about how life is hard in Baq'a... about family... about politics. We drink tea. We meet all the children and find it hard to know which one belongs to who. We learn that 25 people live in the house beside us.

At some point, we are invited to move down 2 houses and drink coffee. We meet more people and even more children. From a window without glass across the street several children are yelling "what is your name" and "hi" and "hello" to us. We are a spectacle again. I wave to them... they giggle. Mohammad leaves at some point and comes back with a watermelon. Khaled gets out the argileh. I join him. We joke. Mohammad tells me I am funny. It is now 10:00 and the last bus is at 11:00. We are invited to sleep there. We are invited for lunch the next day. We are invited to come back as much as we would like. Yousef gives us a ride home. We have officially made friends in Baq'a.

Amman

I changed the title of my blog to reflect my current situation. Earlier this year I was awarded the U.S. Department of State's Critical Language Scholarship, which allows me to take part in an intensive Arabic language training program in the Middle East. I happened to be placed in Amman, Jordan and as of yesterday that is where I am. I will spend the next 2 months practically speaking Arabic all day, every day. This blog will now be telling stories of this adventure.

Me and 36 of my fellow scholarship recipients arrived in Amman yesterday at around 10pm after a two day orientation session in Washington D.C. As soon as we walked off the plane I couldn't help but smile because I felt as if I had never left the Middle East some nine months ago. We all exchanged our dollars to dinars, bought our visas (which are basically just stamps taped into our passports), passed through immmigration and picked up our luggage. We were greeted by some of the coordinators who will be with us during the program and then boarded a bus to head to the American Center for Oriental Research - which is where sleep and eat.

I purposely sat at the front of the bus so I could have a good view of coming into Amman at night. At some point we passed a road running parallel to the highway that I had driven on and got lost on back in December 2008. It was here that myself and my four bedouin friends made our way to a rural horse ranch where one of the bedo would ultimately purchase a new horse. Continuing into the city we passed a long stretch of the road where dozens of cars were parked while dozens of people sat by campfires enjoying the cool Jordanian night. Supposedly this is a makeshift park, albeit a roadside one, where locals like to go to get away from the city and spend time with friends and family.

We entered the area of West Amman known as Tlaa al-Ali, which is near to the University of Jordan, and finally reached the place that will be new temporary home situated on top of a hill. The facility is nice enough - there is a lobby, kitchen, veranda and library on the ground floor and all the upper floors are residence halls. I have a room, which I share with one other girl. It is a typical dormitory type room - with two twin beds, a desk, two closets and a bathroom with a toilet and shower.

This morning I found out that I was placed in the lowest level of Arabic at the program, "Beginning Advanced," which is basically one step below Intermediate. I am happy about this because I feel that it will allow me to learn in the best possible way and help me to only improve!! We had our first Amiyya Arabic lesson today. Amiyya is the dialect that is spoken here in Jordan. As it is very similar to Palestinian Amiyya, I had a bit of an advantage. It was interesting to see how people who had purely been trained in Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) had difficulties moving over to the colloquial stuff. I think for me it will be the other way around!!

kanafeh anyone?...

I don't even know where to start talking about my recent day in Nablus. So, I suppose it begins at kanafeh. A couple of weeks ago the city of Nablus was celebrating the entrance of the world's biggest kanafeh into the Guinness Book of World Records. It was the talk of Palestine without a doubt. I took the bus from Ramallah into the city center of Nablus and as soon as I saw the duar (square) I knew that I was in for a crazy day. After picking up a young American couple who just started working at the university, I headed into the madness of thousands and thousands of people gathering around the huge pan of kanafeh. I was in awe. Within a few minutes I ran into Mithqal and his little brother, Muhamed and his friend, Muhamed, who was there with his nephew, who's name was Muhamed. And no, I am not joking. Not much later another friend of Mithqal's came along to join us. Surprise, surprise... his name was also Muhamed.

So there we stood in the midst of this massive crowd. Me, getting stared at intensively, being the only non-Arab person around. Old Palestinian women pushing and shoving to get past us. Teenage boys oogling at the tattoo on my back that is barely peeking out from the top of my shirt. Actually seeing the kanafeh was impossible as the crowd surrounding it was at least 40-50 people deep. The next step was to try and get up high in one of the surrounding buildings. Unfortunately they were all locked. We were shooed away from one building as security preparations for the arrival of Palestinian PM Salam Fayyad were underway. A little after 11am, and after the press had taken the necessary pictures, the flood gates opened for the public to get a piece of this kanafeh, this moment in history. We were shoved along with the flow of hundreds of people trying to get their piece.

For some reason, despite the crowds and heat, I was determined. I started pushing my way towards the goal. I made it as close as I could and made eye contact with one of the kanafeh distributors. We gave each other a knowing look and a few seconds later, after holding up my hands in an Oliver type manner, I had myself about 4 pieces of this famous Nablusi dessert. I continued holding my hands up as if I was holding manna from heaven and made my way slowly through the crowd until it began to slightly dissipate. Afterwards, I followed Mithqal and his friends to a the Nablus Coffee Shop. I knew immediately that it was a men only coffee shop and was a bit apprehensive about entering; however I was reassured that because I am a foreign woman that it was ok. We were able to get a fabulous view of Nablus, while drinking fresh limon ma nana. Such a nice break from the craziness that was happening and that I had just escaped down below.

After refreshing ourselves we headed into the Old City with its narrow alleyways, ancient mosques, spice shops, sweet shops, and beautiful vintage barber shops. There is something about Nablus' Old City that is so much more authentic than, say, Jerusalem's. I love seeing the butchers in their tiny little alcoves and their huge wooden/tree trunk chopping blocks. I love seeing the children playing with toy guns in the tiny streets. I love seeing the cheap, plastic Palestinian flags flying proud strewn across the pathways. I love seeing the oldest mosque in the city always being filled to its capactiy on any given day at any given time. I love that we can just walk into one of the 2 ancient Turkish baths and be given an on the spot tour. I love that there are parks erected on the sites of horrible massacres that have occurred at the hands of the Israelis. I love that I can watch kanafeh being made by some of the most expressively jolly men I have ever seen. As usual, the beauty of this city never ceases to amaze me.

After a busy day in the hectic crowds and hot hot heat in Nablus, I had the chance to escape with Mithqal and his family to their village. Yitma is a small village about 10 miles south of Nablus and Mithqal's extended family owns a huge portion of it. We arrived at the family's "hill", where there are several houses that were built by the family decades ago. It was beautiful and peaceful. We sat out in their large garden smoking nargileh underneath a fig tree eating fresh picked almonds as the sun slowly creeped below the horizon. Palestine at its finest.

differences tossed aside...

S and I decided to go to Jerusalem last week to do a bit of shopping. There are some items that one can find in Israel that you can not find in the West Bank. For me - it is fancy beauty products. For S - good quality and (most importantly) stylish shoes. S squeezed his 6'3" frame into the tiny seats as we made our way from Ramallah to the Old City of Jerusalem. We got off the bus just north of the Damascus Gate and walked down into the depths of the never-ceasingly beautiful Old City. I never get sick of this place. Although, for the most part, the shops that line the narrow alleyways are filled with generic clothes, cheap trinkets, year-old candy, etc. there are a few gems that always make it worth while. For instance, the old Arab man with the tiniest of tiny metal working shops, where he sits day after day hunched over his saw, or his blow torch creating and fixing countless items. Or the spice shop that creates beautiful sculptures with mounds of za'atar, sumaq, and other indeginious spices. Or the butchers that have been operating for hundreds of years, with their freshly slaughtered lamb stuffed with parsley hanging out front for all to see (and smell). Or the Jerusalem Restaurant, which is where a 70+ year old man lives out his days making fresh falafel, meat-stuffed pastries, and various salads trying his best to entice tourists. He faces a daily struggle of making ends meet in his tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant which is situated just below his home right in the heart of the Muslim Quarter. He keeps his 15+ year old pictures of his one and only visit to the U.S. close at hand to show his customers. These are the reasons I keep going back.

A 15 minute walk through the Old City brings us to Jaffa Gate which is on the western side of the walls (the Damascus Gate is on the northern side). We walk outside of the Old City into a square where tourists and locals alike can get a view of both the ancient part of the city in East Jerusalem and the modernly developed part in West Jerusalem. The difference in the atmosphere and the people is staggering as opposed to where we had just came from (be it Ramallah or E. Jerusalem). I see 70 times more skin. I hear 70 times more American accents. I am so used to being in the West Bank that I have a tendency to go into culture shock when I enter W. Jerusalem. It is uncanny how different I feel - a feeling hard to describe other than to say that I feel slightly uncomfortable and on edge. I still haven't figured it out.

S and I headed down into Memella Mall, which is just down the steps from Jaffa Gate. This place is a brand new mall full of modern and trendy shops such as, Tommy Hilfiger, Top Shop, Crocs, Versace, etc. Not exactly my kind of place as I have an aversion to malls and these kind of shops in general. But a good place to go for what we were looking for. S was very impressed with the place and was in heaven being able to ogle the kind of women that he hadn't seen since leaving England. It was actually hilarious because his smooth-talking self had transformed back into a horny teenager. Afterward getting what we needed, we headed back into the Old City and I breathed a sigh of relief being back in familiar territory -- back to a place where I don't have to stop myself mid-sentence when I speak Arabic -- back to a place where I don't have to see other women's bosoms -- back to a place where I am made to feel like I am entirely at home.

day trip to bethlehem...

Heading out just before noon, myself, O and V went on a day trip to Bethlehem last week. Geographically, Bethlehem is fairly close to Ramallah; probably about 15 miles or so, if not less. However because Palestinians can not drive directly through Jerusalem to get there, they have to circumnavigate the city and approach Bethlehem from the east as opposed to the north. This route goes through the notorious Wadi Nar or Fire Valley, which is essentially a road that has been poorly constructed and planned and is one of the steepest, windiest roads I have ever been on. Last time I went on this road as a passenger I was extremely ill. However this time, thanks to the joys of dramamine, staying hydrated, and a decent driver I managed to escape Wadi Nar unscathed!

We dropped O off for Friday prayers in Beit Sahour (a village just east of Bethlehem) and while he was there V and I decided to take our chances at the Orthodox shepherds' fields. There are 2 "shepherds' fields" in Beit Sahour. The first one is a place I have visited before, where it is traditionally believed that the shepherds saw the star of the nativity before Jesus' birth. This is where the majority of tourists visit when in the region. However, most don't know that the Greek Orthodox church has an entirely different place that they believe to be the actual shepherd's field. V has tried to visit here at least a dozen times before, but they have always been closed. As we pulled up we saw a tour bus outside of the gate and thought that it must be a good sign. Alas it was! To our surprise the place was open. We went inside to an immaculately well kept garden courtyard. On the right was the Orthodox-style, red-roofed church rising high into the contrasting blue sky and on the left was a path covered with bright green blooming grape vines leading to ruins of an ancient monastery. It was beautiful.

After exploring, we headed back to the mosque to pick up O. From there we went to an area of west Bethlehem called Crimson, where there are some really lovely views of the olive groves and Palestinian hills. This place was off of the beaten path and the road was a dead end that led to a nunnery hidden in the hills. We parked the car and got out to admire the view. The sad part was that almost everywhere we looked we could see Israeli settlements or signs of Israeli interference. The bridge in the following photo cuts right through Palestinian land, yet can not be used by Palestinians as it was built purely to transport Israeli settlers "safely" back and forth from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. Oddly enough, as we sat there a car drove up and a man got out. He asked us if there was a place around there that sold wine. O, being suspicious, asked where he was from. He said Spain. Immediately V approached him and started to speak Spanish. It seems that she knew him and that he and his sister, who currently live in Palestine, had also lived in Colombia for some time. More and more each day I discover just how small a place Palestine really is!

Next we made our way to the Church of the Nativity -- a definitive stop while in Bethlehem. After swinging through the grotto so that V could say a quick prayer, we were invited by the head Armenian priest at the Church of the Nativity, a close personal friend of Os, to visit him in his office. We had to approach a door that is normally off limits to tourists and be buzzed in. We then entered the priest and staff only area of the church. It was amazing. They had a beautiful garden with grape vines everywhere, huge sunflowers, mint, etc. It looked and smelled lovely. All of a sudden I heard this raspy, robust voice coming from up some stairs. I looked up and saw a jolly man in his 50s with a big pot belly waving at us. It seems this was him. Up we went into his office where we listened closely to this chain-smoking, loud-mouthed, wonderfully happy priest of a man tell dramatic stories in Arabic to O. What I forgot about while witnessing this was the religious aspect. V reminded me. Here is Father --- sitting with O, an extremely devout Muslim and they are the best of friends. A prime example of how it could and should be especially in this part of the world.

After thanking Father --- for his time we headed to a new restaurant in Manger Square called, fittingly, The Square. Such a wonderful place to sit and people watch, drink a refreshing limon ma nana (pictured), and just plainly enjoy Palestine. Such a perfect ending to a fine day in Bethlehem.