On Running Away

The following blog post was written on August 7, 2011:

A chapter of this blog is in the process of closing.  Although there are some stories yet to come, my time in Jordan has ended.  Undoubtedly, this is a period of my life that I will never forget.  On the flip side, it’s a period of my life of which I didn’t take full advantage, and I’m sad to say that it took until my last day here to realize it. 

Prior to leaving for Amman, I was struggling physically, emotionally, spiritually.  I looked to my time in Jordan as a sort of release, a period where I could flesh these things out away from family, away from friends.  I looked at it as a time where I would uncover a lot of things about myself.  To be cliché, I wanted to use the time to find myself. 

Looking back over the trip, some of this was accomplished and some of it was not.  Did I utilize my trip as a release?  Yes.  But not a release in which I revealed deep-rooted truths.  Instead, I used it as a time in which I could tuck and run from the problems that were facing me.  With the time difference, the lack of internet, the new faces, the new challenges, this was all very easy to do.  In fact, I often forgot that certain problems existed at all.  Goal accomplished?  NO.

Tomorrow, I’ll be returning home, and I’m interested to see how things go.  Will my struggles be awaiting me at the airport with open arms or will they too have taken a sweet vacation?  Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

I tell you all of this not in order to be dramatic, not to seem like I didn’t enjoy Jordan, but to warn you so that you don’t lose time.  I’m well aware that I’m going to face the same old issues at some point, probably sooner rather than later.  I only wish that I could have dealt with them here and not there. 

It’s time to stop running.  There is no where else to go.  America, I’m coming home.  Ready or not.  

The Post Office Fiasco of 2011

Once upon a time, a good friend of mine sent me a package here in Jordan.  My teacher brought me the slip during class one day and told me that I’d have to go downtown to the post office to get it, but the catch was that the post office closed at 2:30 pm.  Since I have class until 4:00 pm every day, I wasn’t sure exactly how this was going to be possible. 

The next day, during my break between classes, I headed out for the adventure.  Being wise to the traps that often come from this culture, I asked if I needed anything in particular before leaving.  My teacher assured me that I didn’t, so I headed out.  After two buses and a serveece, my roommate and I finally made it downtown.  We walked into the post office and got in line.  After being shuffled back and forth between lines and into various waiting rooms and after having several broken conversations in Arabic, I learned that my good ole’ Tennessee state drivers license wasn’t going to be sufficient for identification.  Dejected, we headed home.  I’d have to come back tomorrow, passport in hand.  In my frustration I paid about 5JD – far too much - to get home.  Keep a count on that, we are currently near 7 total.

Next day.  Woke up, grabbed my passport, headed to class.  At the break, I headed out for the post office, solo this time around.  My teacher took me near downtown so that the taxi wouldn’t cost as much.  I got in the taxi and started into one of the best Arabic conversations I’ve had since moving here.  We talked about what I was doing here, how I liked it, where I was from, what I thought about American politics, etc., etc.  I noticed that he didn’t have the meter on – a common scheme here in Jordan – so I asked him about it.  He shrugged it off, and I asked him how much then.  Patting my leg like an old friend, he told me it was on the house.  Now, this particular instance has happened several times since I’ve been living here.  You meet a nice cabbie, show him that you speak some Arabic, and, in his natural Jordanian hospitality, he gives you a free ride.  This seemed to be one of those times. 

There happened to be tons of traffic on this particular afternoon, so it did take some time to get to the post office.  When we finally stopped, I started to get out of the cab, and the man stopped me.  I just looked at him, and he said, “Ok, money?”  I told him that he said it was free, and he looked at me like I was crazy.  I then asked him how much.  A taxi ride across town costs no more than 3JD, so I was prepared to hear 1, maybe 2.  Out of his mouth flowed the following words, “Ashreen dinar.”  What does that mean?  TWENTY dinar.  TWENTY.  That’s nearly 30USD for a cab ride that probably lasted 20 minutes.  The conversation then went like this – translated for your viewing pleasure:

Kirby: Are you kidding me?

Cabbie: Taxi very expensive, much traffic.

K: Seriously?

C: I swear to God, 20 dinar.

K: There is no way that I’m giving you 20 dinar!

C: Listen, I fear God.

K: I MIGHT give you 2 dinar and that’s far too much.

C: Much traffic, 20 dinar.

It’s much more fun to hear this in Arabic, but then that wouldn’t be any fun to read.

This continued and escalated to both of us yelling at each other in the middle of the street.  Alone and not knowing what to do, I couldn’t just run off.  We kept bargaining until I got absolutely fed up.  At 9 dinar, I wadded up the money and threw it in his face. 

After me, two women tried to get in the cab.  I refused to let them in and explained to them that this man was a thief.  He was screaming at me.  Then, he called me back to the car.  He said, “Here, take this,” as he handed me back ONE dinar.  I smiled at him, took the dinar, wadded it in my hand, and threw it at him.  In parting I said, “I hope that one day you find God so that He can forgive you for what you’re doing here.“

After that little rendezvous, I was not looking forward to the post office.  I made it in, and after shuffling through more lines and rooms, I finally made it to the customs inspection.  This good friend of mine sent me one particular item that was just a tad bit crude but also very funny.  The officers, however, didn’t see the humor.  Luckily, I had a great story of an American getting ripped off in a taxi to keep them occupied, and this story just happened to save the items in my package.  Without a doubt, they felt sorry for me.

So then, I headed home.  Let’s just tally up the dinar for good measure.

2 dinar for the first day to the post office.

5 for the way home.

9 dinar for the ripped off taxi.

3 dinar for the package.

2 dinar for the way home.

Grand total: 21 dinar = 30 USD.

Winning. 

World Wonders and Dead Cameras

My second recent trip was to the ancient city of Petra, the desert of Wadi Rum, and the city of Aqaba in the south of Jordan.

First on the docket was Petra.  I have always heard – and seen, due to a little thing I like to call Indiana Jones – how beautiful Petra is, so I was, needless to say, excited to see this world wonder myself.  Normally the cost of seeing it is 45JD (roughly $65) for foreigners.  Because of my program’s partnership with the Ministry of Education though, we all got in for 1JD – the price for Jordanian citizens.  Why, you ask, is there such a dramatic rift in that price range?  Well, my good friends, it’s all thanks to the advice of the United States of America who told the Jordanian government that they should charge more for foreigners to bring in more revenue.  Gotta love the states – all about the money. 

Petra is in the middle of the desert so it’s naturally hotter than the surface of the sun.  Everything here is in Celsius, to which I refuse to acclimate, so I am oblivious to any real dimension of numerical temperature.  Entering the city, it’s easy to see how this place has become so famous.  The cliffs and rock faces are incredible, not to mention the architecture that has literally been carved into the rock.  At one point, you notice something so bright in the distance, and as you enter the clearing, it’s the famous treasury featured in Indiana Jones.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  To me, the most fun was climbing through various parts of the city and seeing the caves that were quite likely people’s homes even if they have become more like your average city dump today. 

After Petra, we headed directly to Wadi Rum for a Bedouin party.  My friends and I did some exploring in the desert, which included sand dune jumping.  This is the decision that I regret most while I have been here.  Not because I got all sandy – which is true – but in one clumsy hand motion, I dropped my camera in the sand, and since that time, it has refused to work.  I can’t talk about it, I’m too upset.  I’ll deal with it later.  Tears.

Later was the party.  Very few people danced, and I didn’t want to show these people up in their natural territory, so I refrained myself.  In reality, it was because I wasn’t sure of the rules for co-ed dancing.  Imagine, I accidently bump a nearby chica, and the crowd goes wild, desperate for my blood.  Haraam.  The food was decent but definitely not something to write home about.

After the party, we headed to Aqaba to a hotel that was worse than that in Lebanon.  I know, it’s hard to believe that it could get worse than salt water, but I promise that it can.  Aqaba is, in essence, the equivalent of Panama City Beach except trashier and with less to do.  Definitely not a fan.  We only spent about one hour at the beach,.  Why even go?

 Next came the long, long, long bus trip home.  Interesting cultural tidbit about Arabs: they start to come alive at around ten pm.  After an exhausting weekend of walking, all of us were pooped and trying to sleep on the uncomfortably small bus.  The Arabs?  No, they wanted to stay up and talk scream as loudly as possible, including the use of the bus’s microphone system.

The trip was pretty rough, and I've never been so upset about something as I am about my camera.  Perhaps it will magically fix itself if I just don’t touch it for a few days.  At least, that’s what I’m counting on.