May 1, 2006: First day on assignment

6:45am
Today I officially start for the paper. I woke up a full hour and a half before my alarm even went off—excitement, maybe? anxiety? A mixture of both, I think. I’m heading off to the north. First stop is Jerash an ancient Roman city, which is the site of several summertime festivals. From Jerash we head further North to investigate the city of Ajloun, which has been inhabited for over a thousand years, unlike Amman which has only been in existence for the last century. Ajloun has ignited some recent interest as of late due to a large amount of funding that is being diverted to the region without a cent being spent on the city. We’ll make another stop in Dibbeen, one of Jordan’s national and virtually untouristed forests, perhaps also see if we can uncover the mysterious reason Zubia (the other national park) remains closed, and also try to find a couple holy sites in the area, one being a 150 year old wooden statue of the Virgin Mary and the other of the birthplace of the prophet Elijah, significant to both Christians and Muslims alike.

I really hope there’s hot water so I can take a real shower today. I’ll eat my cornflakes while I wait for the diesel (if there’s any left) to heat up the water.

…much later…

What an incredibly long day, it's now close to 10pm. I was accompanied today by Yousef and Mahmoud. Yousef is the driver that the paper has hired for the month to drive me around the country. Nice, huh? I have a loose schedule, but I can basically tell him to stop and can investigate whatever I please. The only problem is he doesn’t speak English so I’m not sure how much I’ll be playing my driving miss daisy card. Mahmoud is a reporter that has recently moved to Amman from Gaza. He’s done freelance work for a number of U.S. newspapers covering the West Bank and although he loved the hard-hitting type journalism he was doing there, it was time for him to incorporate balance and a little less danger in his life.

At Jerash we were denied entry as journalists, which began an hour-long debate with members of the ministry of tourism. Phone calls were made, claims of friends in high places were threateningly uttered, but they were final in their decision—ultimately because I am American and Mahmoud is Palestinian, we would have to pay the non-Jordanian fee. Out of principal we left without seeing the ruins, but we were able to get into the show going on in the hippodrome, which featured menacing gladiators and fierce Roman soldiers, comprised mostly of ex-policemen.

I can’t believe I wrote earlier in the day that Dibbeen was untouristed. I guess that would be true if you ignore the used cups, soda cans, chip bags, shoes, pants, shirts, etc. that litter the forest floor. I have never seen so much litter in a place that is supposedly a national reserve. I see a story hatching…

April 30, 2006: The mega Mecca Mall

Since I was unsuccessful at hooking my laptop up to the Internet at the Times, I would now have to do the unthinkable: take a taxi to Mecca Mall with the sole purpose of visiting the Starbucks, one of the only places in the city that has wi-fi. It’s remarkable how much of my time, equipment, and energy is spent trying to communicate with others. Think about it…Internet connection, email access, acquiring a cell phone, hauling my laptop, film camera, DSLR camera, AND web-cam half-way across the world, this blog…all this, this..stuff…somone better damn well be reading this. I’ve decided I will go on vacation after this to some place where everything I need can fit in a fanny pack.

I stop in the corner grocery store to break a $50 JD bill and ask the owner how much I should expect the taxi to cost (he’s one of the few people in the neighborhood who speaks English). Seconds later I’m heading toward Mecca. The taxi driver says something to me in Arabic. I shake my head and smile. He asks me (in Arabic) if I speak Arabic. “La,” I reply. He then proceeds to ask me in English where I am from, whether I am someone’s wife, why I’m in Jordan, how old I am, whether I like Jordan, who I’m here with, why I don’t have a husband, how long I’m staying etc. etc. Fortunately, the twenty questions ended fairly quickly as the taxi ride was pretty short.

As seems to be the norm here, bags are hand-checked by a security guard, men are frisked, and entry is gained only by walking through a metal detector. The mall is a five level shrine of western capitalism and here you can find virtually every indulgence you could ask for, except a good selection of movies playing in their cinema. I’ve resisted the Mrs. Fields cookie stand twice now, but I’m not sure if I can hold out much longer. Starkbucks here is just like home including its larger than life muffins. I think I’m even sitting on the same fabric that they have in the one down the street from my apartment in Seattle.

I’ve been here for a while now using the Internet; people watching is a constant diversion.

April 28, 2006: Canvas, canafe, and a dead body

It’s hard to believe I just arrived this morning, especially since I just awoke from a second nap. I’m going out tonight with Victoria and some of her friends to a bar called Canvas, a swanky place that’s popular with hip Ammanis. I’m anxious to see what a bar in Amman is like and also to meet other people our age.

Canvas does not disappoint. It’s a beautiful restaurant and bar filled with beautiful people, candlelight, a terrace with cushioned seats, huge umbrellas, and pots filled with flowers and plants. They also have their own security staff. Our purses were checked by a metal detector and all men were frisked prior to entry. We take a seat out on the terrace and slowly the rest of the group arrives. Victoria is anxious for a drink. I’m still in a fog of jet lag, but of course, have a drink. The men in the group all introduce themselves formally; they shake my hand and say their name. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure if they were saying their name or a greeting in Arabic, all of the sounds meld together to my ears. So I do what most foreigners do in a strange land, I smile, nod my head dumbly, and murmur something that sounds like a greeting.

An interesting group, one of Victoria’s friends, Jareis?, is part of a program called Operation Smile, which is comprised of a group of doctors who volunteer in the Middle East, particularly Iraq, to do reconstructive surgery on children who are born with hair lips and other facial birth defects. It’s amazing to think that what they do in a few hours will change a child’s life forever. Jareis said one of the most amazing operations performed was to a child who was born without a nose and without an upper lip. Victoria had covered Operation Smile for the Jordan Times during a mission they did in Jordan and was able to be in the operating room; she said for days afterwards she considered starting over and becoming a doctor.

Then there was Lina, from Abu Dhabi. She had lived in the Emirates most of her life, but had studied in San Jose, California and was anxious to make new friends, having just arrived to Amman as well. The beginnings of a dinner party began to form. I learned a few new words: sahtak, Arabic for cheers, aseer (juice) which I initially had mistaken for cheers and it became a great joke around the table, mensof (traditional Bedouin dish) which they had quite a lot of fun eluding to a special “surprise” that came on top of it, and canafe (traditional Jordanian desert made with filo dough, cheese, and sugar). Victoria decided that she would forego the banana split that was tempting her on the menu so that I, and consequently she, could have canafe.

On our way to canafe we stopped off at a cash machine as I was getting desperately low on cash and needed to give Jacob money so he could get me a mobile phone. Victoria and Jacob dropped me off on the corner and rounded the block to pick me up on the other side. As I slid back into the car, they pointed behind them. “There’s a dead body back there,” Victoria says. I look back and sure enough there is a crowd of men standing in a circle looking down. It must have just happened. I wondered if it was happening while I was getting my cash, only half a block away. “I want to go over there,” says Victoria, her journalistic instincts kicking in, “but, it just doesn’t work that way in Jordan.” She explains that the press doesn’t have the freedom and rights like they do in the states. We park the car a block and a half from the dead body and head for the canafe stand. Sirens and ambulance lights come from behind us and stop at the scene of the…what? Crime? I wonder what had happened. Was it foul play? An accident? A heart attack? Street crime is rare in Jordan, I’ve been told, but not knowing what had happened was still a little disconcerting. We walked through a small dingy alley, whose only light came from the pastry shop. Here we were in for another shock–they were out of canafe! Defeated, we headed home making promises to ourselves that the canafe would be all the more sweet because of the wait.

April 28, 2006 : The sandninja has landed

Finally in Amman. It must be 4am, the prayers have started and the musical chanting reverberates throughout the city, the sound intensifying as it hits the limestone buildings. It’s beautiful and feels like a fitting announcement of my arrival. I fall asleep to this lullaby.

...hours later...

I have no idea what time it is. I awake to the sounds of children playing and car alarms going off. It looks overcast outside...flat light is falling against the building next door which I can see from my window. The apartment is quiet. I venture out and am greeted enthusiastically by Victoria’s kitten, Fel-Fel (Arabic for pepper). He follows me everywhere as I check out my surroundings.

The apartment is quite large. It has 3 bedrooms 2.5 baths, a formal dining room that fits both a dining set and a set of couches, a living room with couches and entertainment center, and a roomy kitchen with an eating area and balcony that overlooks the street.




Judging from the décor and the size of the furniture, I’m guessing this place came furnished. What is it with 3rd world countries and their obsession with over-sized furniture? I can’t imagine how they got all of it up the eight flights of stairs. I almost died just getting my luggage up and I was only carrying my little carry-ons, the driver took up the big bag.

April 27, 2006 : Accommodations at 37,000 feet

It will be another day before I reach my final destination: Amman, Jordan. It’s Thursday afternoon and I realize with a tired sigh that I haven’t slept horizontally since Monday night. The flight from D.C. to London was ahead of schedule the entire way thanks to a nice tailwind. Heathrow, however, apparently has a curfew and doesn’t allow planes to land before 6am, so our flight, scheduled to arrive at 6:20am circled the airport a good 15 minutes before landing at 6:02am.

At least I had a chance to stretch my legs while in London. First stop was for coffee, a latte, which was unexpectedly good. I hadn’t really realized how much I appreciated the indoor smoking ban that Seattle adopted until I was sitting in the non-smoking section of the café surrounded by second-hand smoke. Breathing in second-hand smoke at 6am after being stuck on a plane full of recycled air was more torture than being cramped in economy seating for 8 hours. I had to get out….now.

I reached the city center at about 11am and met up with Ram, my Canadian friend that Vidya and I met while in Jerash last year, and had a quick beer before heading over to the Camden Tube stop to meet up with Joe and Luca for lunch. Was great to see familiar faces, but all too soon it was time for me to get back to the airport. Had a nice little surprise on the way back: the train broke down in the tube about 3 minutes away from the airport stop. We sat for about 50 minutes. Helpless. The Europeans took it all in stride. No one complained, no one got angry, and no one made inappropriate demands. At about 30 minutes, people started to get antsy especially when we realized the conductor had left us. Five minutes later he was back letting us know that a team had been dispatched to fix the problem, “quite a large problem with the train,” he had said repeatedly. That didn’t sound good. Luckily I had given myself a lot of time to get back to the airport. Suddenly, all the lights went out on the train and emergency lights in the tunnel clicked on one by one. Wasn’t there a murder scene in a book that started this way? Hmm. A series of bangs were heard outside along with voices and radios. Lights are now back on. The train’s engine rumbles to life and begins to sputter forward on the track. It’s going very slowly, but at least it’s going. Come on…only 3 minutes until the stop! I think I can, I think I can… We’re within seconds of the stop and the train groans and begins to slow. Nooooo!! We’re so close! It recovers and regains speed. “Heathrow Airport,” the conductor says, and the train grinds to a stop. The doors opened and it was a mad dash by all to get to their flights. Including me because I realized I had left my bags at the wrong terminal. Ugh.