Daily Report
Sunny, 120
I love to consult a crescent moon, but for different reasons than for those the lunar sliver is regarded here. To Muslims, the moon is more than a calendar, its a signal of the sacred. Holy times, such as the end of Ramadan, are determined by when the moon makes its appearance. They wait to see the sign of the moon to tell them something new about their seasons of fasting, prayer, celebration.
For me, the crescent moon has always held answers to ponderings on the world. I love the crescent moon, especially the one that is so fine that the sunlight illuminating it's profile reaches all the way around to form a faint but perfect orb. I imagine, as I see the rays reflecting on the moon, the days that are going on elsewhere in the world while I sit and ponder the night.
The light of someone else's day lights our night every time the moon is shown. I used to watch it, dreaming and wondering about what that day was like, where it was that for my moonlight, someone else was seeing day break.
Now I watch the moon, my crescent moon, and I think about the days I know are happening on the other side of the world. It's now my life, my family, my friends, whose day brightens my night. It's wonderful and at the same time wrenching to gaze up at the sky right after dinner and just before bedtime and bid my life, my people, my moon...goodnight.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Know Your Audience
Daily Report
Sunny, 119
In my days as a single girl I was focused. I had it all together and could handle it all myself. I didn't need or want someone else to tell me what to do or try to do it for me (some people call that help, I called it nosing in). I didn't want anyone to be my excuse. "I'm not helpless, thankyouverymuch. I can do it by myself." (Another childhood phrase that repeated itself during wedding festivities and, probably, pre-proposal permission discussions).
I didn't want someone to change my tire, my faucet, my mind or my plans.
Let me tell you about how effective that particular line of thinking is here, in the Muslim Middle East, where it's a religious affront, a family breakdown and a societal ill if a woman is unescorted by a father, uncle, husband or brother. At first I bucked against it. I found it restrictive to need someone there with me and yet found the behavior of some men in the presence of an unescorted woman beyond abberant (maybe worse because I didn't feel that I could respond and, believe me, if someone is inappropriate with me back home, he is going to hear about it). To be fair, that kind of behavior was more common metropolitan Morocco than here in Oman and the UAE, where it's more frequent to draw sidelong looks or outright stares before a crude comment.
I'd like to say that I'm just smart enough to adapt and sensitive enough to be culturally acceptable, but it was an accident that I learned to turn it to my advantage.
One afternoon, the SC group had piled into the van and headed to the Jimi Mall to do our weekly grocery shopping. Unfortunately, the van was the first victim of the heat and the battery had given out. Leigh and I were assigned to sit just inside the foyer of the mall along with the groceries from 7 other people to prevent the food spoilage that is sped along by the desert temps. As we sat, waiting for the van to be repaired Jacob and Matthew ran into the store to purchase jumper cables and the others were outside tinkering with connectors and such.
A security guard (yes, the malls are full of multi-national expat Paul Blart wannabes) approaches and starts going on and on about how "You can't sit, you can't sit. Management doesn't want you to sit here. You can't be here." I tried to explain the situation, I tried to say it would only be a few more moments, I told him I was a customer - look at all this stuff - and was just waiting for my ride, so I should be able to stay here, I even became annoyed and asked him where I was supposed to go exactly, and was he going to carry all these groceries because, if not...
then an idea. "My husband went into the store to buy something else and he told me to stay here. I can't move until he comes back. Are you telling me to leave when my husband told me to stay?" I watched and waited. I swear, fear nearly came into his eyes and he acquiesced, saying weakly only, "Ok, but when he comes and says so, you have to go." Triumph! I put my hands on my hips and stuck my chin out. "Ok, I will go when he says I can go, and not until then."
I've discovered my trump card. Who would have ever thought that my trump would be in submission? Not me...
Sunny, 119
In my days as a single girl I was focused. I had it all together and could handle it all myself. I didn't need or want someone else to tell me what to do or try to do it for me (some people call that help, I called it nosing in). I didn't want anyone to be my excuse. "I'm not helpless, thankyouverymuch. I can do it by myself." (Another childhood phrase that repeated itself during wedding festivities and, probably, pre-proposal permission discussions).
I didn't want someone to change my tire, my faucet, my mind or my plans.
Let me tell you about how effective that particular line of thinking is here, in the Muslim Middle East, where it's a religious affront, a family breakdown and a societal ill if a woman is unescorted by a father, uncle, husband or brother. At first I bucked against it. I found it restrictive to need someone there with me and yet found the behavior of some men in the presence of an unescorted woman beyond abberant (maybe worse because I didn't feel that I could respond and, believe me, if someone is inappropriate with me back home, he is going to hear about it). To be fair, that kind of behavior was more common metropolitan Morocco than here in Oman and the UAE, where it's more frequent to draw sidelong looks or outright stares before a crude comment.
I'd like to say that I'm just smart enough to adapt and sensitive enough to be culturally acceptable, but it was an accident that I learned to turn it to my advantage.
One afternoon, the SC group had piled into the van and headed to the Jimi Mall to do our weekly grocery shopping. Unfortunately, the van was the first victim of the heat and the battery had given out. Leigh and I were assigned to sit just inside the foyer of the mall along with the groceries from 7 other people to prevent the food spoilage that is sped along by the desert temps. As we sat, waiting for the van to be repaired Jacob and Matthew ran into the store to purchase jumper cables and the others were outside tinkering with connectors and such.
A security guard (yes, the malls are full of multi-national expat Paul Blart wannabes) approaches and starts going on and on about how "You can't sit, you can't sit. Management doesn't want you to sit here. You can't be here." I tried to explain the situation, I tried to say it would only be a few more moments, I told him I was a customer - look at all this stuff - and was just waiting for my ride, so I should be able to stay here, I even became annoyed and asked him where I was supposed to go exactly, and was he going to carry all these groceries because, if not...
then an idea. "My husband went into the store to buy something else and he told me to stay here. I can't move until he comes back. Are you telling me to leave when my husband told me to stay?" I watched and waited. I swear, fear nearly came into his eyes and he acquiesced, saying weakly only, "Ok, but when he comes and says so, you have to go." Triumph! I put my hands on my hips and stuck my chin out. "Ok, I will go when he says I can go, and not until then."
I've discovered my trump card. Who would have ever thought that my trump would be in submission? Not me...
Sunday, May 24, 2009
'Cause it's all about the coffee pots
Daily Report
We don't have Benjamins here in Oman, we have coffee pot- and camel-currency. All the same, president's mug or cultural cameo, everyone is trying to hold on to as many as they can. Admittedly, I've never been highly skilled at cost-cutting and budget living, but I've learned a few things here and I'm ready to share these techniques for economic efficiency abroad.
Housekeeping: Kitchen Gnomes
Laundry utilizes the same system, delivered to our modest (but automated!) washing machine via hose or bucket. All clothes and linens are line or rack-dried and, I guarantee you, the desert's drier is faster, and more efficient than any piece of machinery I've ever owned - even at night.
Sunny, 110
We don't have Benjamins here in Oman, we have coffee pot- and camel-currency. All the same, president's mug or cultural cameo, everyone is trying to hold on to as many as they can. Admittedly, I've never been highly skilled at cost-cutting and budget living, but I've learned a few things here and I'm ready to share these techniques for economic efficiency abroad.Housekeeping: Kitchen Gnomes
Just before we left, I was subjected to numerous vaccinations and examinations, some of which were accompanied by blood tests. One talkative phlebotomist, from Iran, assured me that I would love living abroad because, she said,
"You will have a maid."
"Oh, no," I assured her. "I will not have a maid. We are just students."
"Everyone has maids in the middle east. You will have a maid to clean your kitchen and your house. I love America, but when we came here, I do not have a maid anymore. Too bad. But you will
have a maid."
have a maid."I let it go. I wasn't going to win this one, so I put it out of my mind, assured I wouldn't have any more help in the kitchen than my wonderfully supportive and considerate husband who always does the dishes after dinner. I was wrong! Each night, and sometimes even during the day when they're really sneaky, we are visited by what Jacob and I have termed 'kitchen gnomes,' whose sole purpose is to "clean up" after us...and remove anything that is left behind. The only problem is, we're having trouble defining for them exactly what is left behind and what we'd like to hold onto (unopened foodstuffs, etc). Not only that, but we're encountering some boundary issues. For example, I found a kitchen gnome in our bedroom the other day. We're working on a solution.
Travel
If one person riding in a gas-guzzling SUV is the proverbial wrench in the gears of a transmission of tyrannically insistent evironmentalists and economists, carpooling is th
e properly disposed of and recycled motor oil - a virtual salve on our hearts, minds and wallets. Can you imagine driving down the freeway and spotting 9 adults crammed into a giant white van that doesn't have church lettering plastered on the side? Now can you imagine that scene here? What must all the Emiratis think as they speed by, lights flashing, horns blaring in their Porches and Mercedes and Range Rovers? They just may not understand how advanced we are (suckers). Well, forget anyone who is down on us. We're thinking of getting a van when we return to South Carolina (all of us Arabic-trackers and hangers-on). Aside from the money-saving side, we all truly think we might miss the haggling over destination, speed, route, car seat position, A/C, music and driver.
e properly disposed of and recycled motor oil - a virtual salve on our hearts, minds and wallets. Can you imagine driving down the freeway and spotting 9 adults crammed into a giant white van that doesn't have church lettering plastered on the side? Now can you imagine that scene here? What must all the Emiratis think as they speed by, lights flashing, horns blaring in their Porches and Mercedes and Range Rovers? They just may not understand how advanced we are (suckers). Well, forget anyone who is down on us. We're thinking of getting a van when we return to South Carolina (all of us Arabic-trackers and hangers-on). Aside from the money-saving side, we all truly think we might miss the haggling over destination, speed, route, car seat position, A/C, music and driver. Utilities 
How much do you pay a month for electricity? Gas? Well, aside from the A/C units that are on near round-the-clock operation schedules here, we are doing the responsible (and necessary) thing by cutting down on our water heater usage and electricity, especially while doing laundry and taking showers. Have you heard the ads for the never-be-without-hot-water-agai
n tanks? We can do you one better. We are never without hot water (especially from late March through September) because it's so hot outside that the (outdoor and indoor) pipes and tanks are constantly heated by mother nature's forboding, flickering flame of a tongue. We now use the hot water (in the holding tank inside the cooled house) for cool and the cold water for hot.
How much do you pay a month for electricity? Gas? Well, aside from the A/C units that are on near round-the-clock operation schedules here, we are doing the responsible (and necessary) thing by cutting down on our water heater usage and electricity, especially while doing laundry and taking showers. Have you heard the ads for the never-be-without-hot-water-agai
n tanks? We can do you one better. We are never without hot water (especially from late March through September) because it's so hot outside that the (outdoor and indoor) pipes and tanks are constantly heated by mother nature's forboding, flickering flame of a tongue. We now use the hot water (in the holding tank inside the cooled house) for cool and the cold water for hot. Laundry utilizes the same system, delivered to our modest (but automated!) washing machine via hose or bucket. All clothes and linens are line or rack-dried and, I guarantee you, the desert's drier is faster, and more efficient than any piece of machinery I've ever owned - even at night.
Attire
At home, waiting in about 15 meticulously-labeled, well-organized, cedar-outfitted boxes, are the remains of my fashionable life. A life full of stylish, trendy, accessorized, dry-clean-only clothes that will be out of style by the time I get back, I'm sure. I'm considering adopting the way of the abbaya. I mean, seriously, you buy one or two black sheaths and spend your extra dollars on decorated sheilas (veils) and you are assured to always have an array of affordable, appropriate attire options.
Memorial Days
Daily Report
Sunny, expected high of 117
Sunday here is a working day (Friday-Saturday is the weekend), and Memorial Day doesn't exist in that life-giving-three-day-weekend way. We get a break for Eid (the abbreviation for the holiday celebrated when Ramadan's month of fasting comes to an end), but Oman doesn't know that it's race weekend in Indianapolis, that we're supposed to be having cookouts and staying up late tonight watching marathons of long-gone cult sitcom shows and old movies because there's no work tomorrow. Oman doesn't know that this is a downtown fireworks after the baseball game weekend, lake weekend, a colored-paper napkin party weekend, a poolside weekend, a pitch-in-potluck-picnic weekend. A cabin weekend, a hiking weekend, a weekend when we revel in the always-early, always-on-time heat of full summer (heat that pales in comparison to the oven-baking we've been getting here since late March!) by indulging in just a bit of sun worship with cool drinks nearby.
The girls (Ellen, Miriam, Leigh and I) spent yesterday on a little excursion to interior Oman (Dank, pronounced d-th-ah-nk) to visit one of our local friends and her new baby. It was some things that a Memorial weekend should be - it was hot, we ate amazing food (including southern-style fried chicken, which is a way they love chicken here), hung out and visited a water-spot: the Wadi (a valley creek that fills with water), but on the hour-plus drive home, while we jammed to some American favorites and watched the sun go down over the desert landscape, I drifted back to some of the memories the music conjured.
Dramatic end-of-high-school-coming-of-age songs; relaxed, college day drifting and driving through Kentucky backwoods tunes; summer days at outdoor concert melodies; albums that identify with working on such-and-such a project at work because I listened to the single every morning during rush-hour for six months straight; hits that became ringtones and remind me of the friends to which they were assigned after long hours of cramming at month-long-pharma training camps; the ridiculous pop smashes that littered the repetitive iTunes playlists that were the soundtrack to parties thrown (and workouts survived) by me and my girlfriends back home.
I've always been sensitive to sensual things like music, particularly, and smells, seeing portions of a memory's vision stored away that conjures deja-vu or a vivid and identifiable feeling. Most people are, but I embrace it, love it - for the good and the bad it may bring up. Because that's life, right? And it's better to live it than forget it.
A few tunes that remind me of our life and times here:
Every Time We Touch - David Guetta
Walking on a Dream - Empire of the Sun
The Fear - Lily Allen
Hot n Cold - Katie Perry
Poker Face - Lady GaGa
Sunny, expected high of 117
Sunday here is a working day (Friday-Saturday is the weekend), and Memorial Day doesn't exist in that life-giving-three-day-weekend way. We get a break for Eid (the abbreviation for the holiday celebrated when Ramadan's month of fasting comes to an end), but Oman doesn't know that it's race weekend in Indianapolis, that we're supposed to be having cookouts and staying up late tonight watching marathons of long-gone cult sitcom shows and old movies because there's no work tomorrow. Oman doesn't know that this is a downtown fireworks after the baseball game weekend, lake weekend, a colored-paper napkin party weekend, a poolside weekend, a pitch-in-potluck-picnic weekend. A cabin weekend, a hiking weekend, a weekend when we revel in the always-early, always-on-time heat of full summer (heat that pales in comparison to the oven-baking we've been getting here since late March!) by indulging in just a bit of sun worship with cool drinks nearby.
The girls (Ellen, Miriam, Leigh and I) spent yesterday on a little excursion to interior Oman (Dank, pronounced d-th-ah-nk) to visit one of our local friends and her new baby. It was some things that a Memorial weekend should be - it was hot, we ate amazing food (including southern-style fried chicken, which is a way they love chicken here), hung out and visited a water-spot: the Wadi (a valley creek that fills with water), but on the hour-plus drive home, while we jammed to some American favorites and watched the sun go down over the desert landscape, I drifted back to some of the memories the music conjured.
Dramatic end-of-high-school-coming-of-age songs; relaxed, college day drifting and driving through Kentucky backwoods tunes; summer days at outdoor concert melodies; albums that identify with working on such-and-such a project at work because I listened to the single every morning during rush-hour for six months straight; hits that became ringtones and remind me of the friends to which they were assigned after long hours of cramming at month-long-pharma training camps; the ridiculous pop smashes that littered the repetitive iTunes playlists that were the soundtrack to parties thrown (and workouts survived) by me and my girlfriends back home.
I've always been sensitive to sensual things like music, particularly, and smells, seeing portions of a memory's vision stored away that conjures deja-vu or a vivid and identifiable feeling. Most people are, but I embrace it, love it - for the good and the bad it may bring up. Because that's life, right? And it's better to live it than forget it.
A few tunes that remind me of our life and times here:
Every Time We Touch - David Guetta
Walking on a Dream - Empire of the Sun
The Fear - Lily Allen
Hot n Cold - Katie Perry
Poker Face - Lady GaGa
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A Mother Never Forgets...
Daily Report
Sunny, 107
You know all those things your mom says about you, the stories she tells, that you secretly (or aloud) groan about and try to dismiss? I remember shrugging them off, complaining as she opined and told tales. As I marched off, she and my friend Sarah would tilt their heads in whispering and giggling about how right she was before Sarah eventually came after me. The truth is they're are all true and they'll probably all haunt you...the things she remembers and the things she'll predict.
When I was younger, the thing I hated most in the world was to be told I was like my dad. We fought so much, both hardheaded, stubborn, always right. Two wrongs may never make a right but it seems like our two rights almost always made a wrong. And, my poor mother, the peacemaker - so sweet - was always caught in the middle of two people fighting "like Rhett and Scarlett," she used to say. Both fighting whatever side we were assigned for the day like brash, showy trial lawyers. Fighting more for the win than for anything else. It's laughable now...or at least, it's laughable since we (I, really) outgrew it. For years now, blessedly, that comment, "She's just like her father," the one I dreaded, has been the highest compliment. I see it all the time now, when I'm like him and I love it...instead of scoffing at it as I did when I was younger. It imposed on me when I was young and trying to find myself, but now it makes me part of who I am.
One of the things, in addition to the determindness I inherited (and to which my wonderful new husband can attest!), is the wanderlust. I even once asked my mom, who'd been born and lived always in Indiana, if it bothered her that she had only lived in one place. She smiled, tolerantly, down on me and said no. I said, quite impertinently, that it would bother me. I, then, as now just always had to have a smart comment.
You can bet your bottom dollar that was a story that was relayed time over time once Jacob and I were engaged and the itinerary was set for a year abroad, to start three days after our wedding. Everyone smiled, laughed knowingly. It's a smash hit as a toast at a rehearsal dinner.
I've enjoyed, as I've gotten older, seeing the ways my parents were right, and the ways I'm like them. It's like the ultimate maturity in a way. But then again, maybe I'm just extremely fortunate to have a family like that. Nevermind, it's not a maybe, it's certain. I guess I still just have to wonder...what else is waiting to come out? What else will she be right about?
Sunny, 107
You know all those things your mom says about you, the stories she tells, that you secretly (or aloud) groan about and try to dismiss? I remember shrugging them off, complaining as she opined and told tales. As I marched off, she and my friend Sarah would tilt their heads in whispering and giggling about how right she was before Sarah eventually came after me. The truth is they're are all true and they'll probably all haunt you...the things she remembers and the things she'll predict.
When I was younger, the thing I hated most in the world was to be told I was like my dad. We fought so much, both hardheaded, stubborn, always right. Two wrongs may never make a right but it seems like our two rights almost always made a wrong. And, my poor mother, the peacemaker - so sweet - was always caught in the middle of two people fighting "like Rhett and Scarlett," she used to say. Both fighting whatever side we were assigned for the day like brash, showy trial lawyers. Fighting more for the win than for anything else. It's laughable now...or at least, it's laughable since we (I, really) outgrew it. For years now, blessedly, that comment, "She's just like her father," the one I dreaded, has been the highest compliment. I see it all the time now, when I'm like him and I love it...instead of scoffing at it as I did when I was younger. It imposed on me when I was young and trying to find myself, but now it makes me part of who I am.
One of the things, in addition to the determindness I inherited (and to which my wonderful new husband can attest!), is the wanderlust. I even once asked my mom, who'd been born and lived always in Indiana, if it bothered her that she had only lived in one place. She smiled, tolerantly, down on me and said no. I said, quite impertinently, that it would bother me. I, then, as now just always had to have a smart comment.
You can bet your bottom dollar that was a story that was relayed time over time once Jacob and I were engaged and the itinerary was set for a year abroad, to start three days after our wedding. Everyone smiled, laughed knowingly. It's a smash hit as a toast at a rehearsal dinner.
I've enjoyed, as I've gotten older, seeing the ways my parents were right, and the ways I'm like them. It's like the ultimate maturity in a way. But then again, maybe I'm just extremely fortunate to have a family like that. Nevermind, it's not a maybe, it's certain. I guess I still just have to wonder...what else is waiting to come out? What else will she be right about?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Travelogue: Jordan
Daily Report
Same same
Day 2: Mt. Nebo and the Dead Sea (continued)
Interestingly, as with many historic sites, there had been considerable squabbles over the exact site of Jesus' baptism, but as volunteers were working to clear land mines after the peace treaty between Israel and the Palestinian territories in 1994, significant archeological evidence was unearthed that corroborated the oral traditions that had been kept alive.
2 Kings 2:11-12 "As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them, and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. 12 Elisha saw this and cried out, 'My father! My father! The chariots and horsemen of Israel!' And Elisha saw him no more. Then he took hold of his own clothes and tore them apart."
The rest of the trip was wonderful. First Petra: hard hikes at the ancient Nabtean cave city of Petra with its intricate facades and the spirit of Indiana Jones hanging over the imposing sandstone carvings while donkeys, camels, tourists and ambitious marketers mingle below. After that, we headed back up to Madaba, just outside of Amman for a little R&R in the city of Mosaics (and, interestingly, a city with an unusually large 1/3 Christian population). We also spent our last evening at the family home of a friend enjoying a traditional dinner with great food, lots of laughter and a great new connection.
Same same
Day 2: Mt. Nebo and the Dead Sea (continued)Deuteronomy 32:48-52 "On that same day the LORD told Moses, 'Go up into the Abarim Range to Mount Nebo in Moab, across from Jericho, and view Canaan, the land I am giving the Israelites as their own possession. There on the mountain that you have climbed you will die and be gathered to your people, just as your brother Aaron died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his people...Therefore, you will see the land only from a distance; you will not enter the land I am giving to the people of Israel.'"
This fall, just before Jacob and I got engaged, I began the Bible Study Fellowship (BSF) study, "Life of Moses." Though I wasn't able to finish the course, which just completed, because of our marriage and move, it was a great study and several friends as well as my mom have finished it. That made seeing Mount Nebo even more special. Standing on that mount, looking across the sea and imagining Moses standing there, speaking with God, seeing the fulfillment of a great prophecy and promise gave Jacob and me both a pause, a gracious few moments of wonder and amazement at the work of our God and a special appreciation for our spiritual heritage. While the rest of the world was comparatively asleep, these lands upon which we were walking were alive with the spirit of the Lord and hints of the future of a faith and a people.
Deuteronomy 34:1-5 "Then Moses climbed Mount Nebo from the plains of Moab to the top of Pisgah, across from Jericho. There the LORD showed him the whole land—from Gilead to Dan, to all of Naphtali, the territory of Ephraim and Manasseh, all the land of Judah as far as the western sea, the Negev and the whole region from the Valley of Jericho, the City of Palms, as far as Zoar. Then the LORD said to him, 'This is the land I promised on oath to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob when I said, 'I will give it to your descendants.' I have let you see it with your eyes, but you will not cross over into it.' And Moses the servant of the LORD died there in Moab, as the LORD had said."
After Mt. Nebo, we tracked down the mountain and into the valley at the lowest point on the Earth: the Dead Sea. Our hotel overlooked the sea so we took a realaxing float in the salt-laden water and watched the sun set over the mountains of Israel. Night's fall complete, the lights of Jericho shone from a short distance of just a few kilometers and we plotted our course for the next day.
Day 3: Bethany-beyond-the-Jordan
Matthew 3:13-17 "Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to be baptized by John. But John tried to deter him, saying, 'I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?' Jesus replied, 'Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness.' Then John consented. As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, 'This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.'"
Bethany proved to be an equally moving site with two main stops, the first at the intersection of an ancient spring and the Jordan River, where remains of ancient churches and archeological discoveries, as well as oral histories prove the place to be the spot where Jesus was baptized and faced West toward Jerusalem. The second was Elijah's Hill, where the prophet ascended in a whirlwind.
Interestingly, as with many historic sites, there had been considerable squabbles over the exact site of Jesus' baptism, but as volunteers were working to clear land mines after the peace treaty between Israel and the Palestinian territories in 1994, significant archeological evidence was unearthed that corroborated the oral traditions that had been kept alive.2 Kings 2:11-12 "As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them, and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. 12 Elisha saw this and cried out, 'My father! My father! The chariots and horsemen of Israel!' And Elisha saw him no more. Then he took hold of his own clothes and tore them apart."
The rest of the trip was wonderful. First Petra: hard hikes at the ancient Nabtean cave city of Petra with its intricate facades and the spirit of Indiana Jones hanging over the imposing sandstone carvings while donkeys, camels, tourists and ambitious marketers mingle below. After that, we headed back up to Madaba, just outside of Amman for a little R&R in the city of Mosaics (and, interestingly, a city with an unusually large 1/3 Christian population). We also spent our last evening at the family home of a friend enjoying a traditional dinner with great food, lots of laughter and a great new connection.Check out all the photos from our Jordan trip here!
Travelogue: Jordan
Daily Report
Day 1: Amman
Good thing the weather was nice because then we could roll down the windows and enjoy it for the next four hours it took us to navigate (or not) Amman to find the place (or not) we were supposed to be staying.
Back in the car, we worked our way around and through the maze of one way, divided roads (unnamed or multi-named) with no turnabouts (better be sure about your direction!), two lane traffic jams that become one, three or four lanes depending on the mood of the drivers around you, roundabouts that, when they exist, are unnamed and have no rules and the constant stop-and-go of cars, cabs and busses that stop to chat with others or pick up/drop off passengers on a whim!
Day two: Follow the Yellow Pope Road
We were actually trying to get to Bethany-beyond-the-Jordan, where Jesus was baptized, but stumbling across Mt. Nebo was a fortuitous event...
Sunny, hazy, 100
Day 1: Amman
We arrived in Amman late morning and the first step outside of the airport was nothing short of incredible. It was cool! Grass is greener and all that (when we were in cold and rainy Morocco, I was more than ready for the desert temps!), but when I felt that air...oh, man.
Good thing the weather was nice because then we could roll down the windows and enjoy it for the next four hours it took us to navigate (or not) Amman to find the place (or not) we were supposed to be staying.
The
Lonely Planet has been our guide through these travels. I think it's the best out there for honest and mainstream as well as off-the-path information, it has maps, generally up-to-date information and witty, readable advic
e (we're starting a collection!). Because our trip was a little spur-of-the-moment we didn't have a chance to pick on up for Jordan before we left (oh, yeah, and because books about Jordan are banned here-ha). Point of that being, we missed the warning about Amman (don't drive yourself) until the next day when we (finally) found a mall (which didn't have a bookstore) and then (accidentally) found one on the opposite side of a busy, divided highway, which we of course crossed, desperately, frogger-style to find our Lonely Planet!
Lonely Planet has been our guide through these travels. I think it's the best out there for honest and mainstream as well as off-the-path information, it has maps, generally up-to-date information and witty, readable advic
e (we're starting a collection!). Because our trip was a little spur-of-the-moment we didn't have a chance to pick on up for Jordan before we left (oh, yeah, and because books about Jordan are banned here-ha). Point of that being, we missed the warning about Amman (don't drive yourself) until the next day when we (finally) found a mall (which didn't have a bookstore) and then (accidentally) found one on the opposite side of a busy, divided highway, which we of course crossed, desperately, frogger-style to find our Lonely Planet! Back in the car, we worked our way around and through the maze of one way, divided roads (unnamed or multi-named) with no turnabouts (better be sure about your direction!), two lane traffic jams that become one, three or four lanes depending on the mood of the drivers around you, roundabouts that, when they exist, are unnamed and have no rules and the constant stop-and-go of cars, cabs and busses that stop to chat with others or pick up/drop off passengers on a whim!
Day two: Follow the Yellow Pope Road
Finally making it out of town, though not on the road that was optimum for our trajectory, we embarked on a journey of spiritual guidance. Yes, the sites were stunning (Jordan is the proud guardian of many
Jewish, Muslim and Christian holy sites), but that was once we got there. The roads, some unmarked on maps, intersections nonexistent or detoured, etc., were imminently more easy to follow when we noticed the welcome banners and yellow-and-white flags of the Vatican, which had been placed in welcome for the Pope, who had preceded us on the pilgrimage road. We stopped following the map and started following the flag. It worked! (The Pontiff, in fact, had stopped by Mt. Nebo the day before)
Jewish, Muslim and Christian holy sites), but that was once we got there. The roads, some unmarked on maps, intersections nonexistent or detoured, etc., were imminently more easy to follow when we noticed the welcome banners and yellow-and-white flags of the Vatican, which had been placed in welcome for the Pope, who had preceded us on the pilgrimage road. We stopped following the map and started following the flag. It worked! (The Pontiff, in fact, had stopped by Mt. Nebo the day before) We were actually trying to get to Bethany-beyond-the-Jordan, where Jesus was baptized, but stumbling across Mt. Nebo was a fortuitous event...
Saturday, May 16, 2009
From Amman to Oman
Daily Report
Sunny, cloudless, 111 degrees
I will admit, freely, that when Jacob suggested heading to Jordan for one of our breaks in school and work, I was not excited. You see, the weather was heating up, taxis were fewer and further between and I'd had a few I'm-sick-of-living-in-a-dusty-desert-town moments. I think my exact words were, "It's just that, the though of going to another middle eastern country doesn't really sound like a break to me right now. It kind of makes me want to puke."
I couldn't have been more wrong (and certain people love to hear me say that!). The weather in Jordan was gorgeous and cool, but sunny, the sights were more than I expected and the people were great. As I sit here, downloading photos to post and contemplating our wonderful trip, my dear husband is adhering duct-tape to the cracks between wall and A/C unit to keep out the hot dusty desert air that greeted us when we returned. Home, sweet home.
Sunny, cloudless, 111 degrees
I will admit, freely, that when Jacob suggested heading to Jordan for one of our breaks in school and work, I was not excited. You see, the weather was heating up, taxis were fewer and further between and I'd had a few I'm-sick-of-living-in-a-dusty-desert-town moments. I think my exact words were, "It's just that, the though of going to another middle eastern country doesn't really sound like a break to me right now. It kind of makes me want to puke."
I couldn't have been more wrong (and certain people love to hear me say that!). The weather in Jordan was gorgeous and cool, but sunny, the sights were more than I expected and the people were great. As I sit here, downloading photos to post and contemplating our wonderful trip, my dear husband is adhering duct-tape to the cracks between wall and A/C unit to keep out the hot dusty desert air that greeted us when we returned. Home, sweet home.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Amman-a go away...
Daily Report
Sunny, cloudless, 95 degrees
Jacob and I have been haggling with online value airlines for about a month, going back and forth between will-we-or-won't-we take a little getaway during his school's "spring break." After a last-minute price drop (back to the original price at which we couldn't procure our tickets--thanks, Jazeera Airways' web site), Jacob's growing empathy toward my cabin fever and the insistence of our mutual wanderlust, we decided to go for it. I thought about using "C'mon, when will we be back here?!" as an argument, but let's face it, we might be...back here...for a while.
We have a week, a whole week of sightseeing ahead and I can't wait: ancient ruins, beaches, salt seas, mountains and...drumroll...temperatures in the mid-70s! Oh, bliss of moderate weather.
Many more photos (think Petra, Aqaba, Dead Sea) to come, but in the mean time, here are the links to photos of the great trip to Dubai, courtesy the Warren Rogers. Highlights: Lunch at the Burj al Arab, breaking into Nad al Sheba, touring Zabeel Stables, Marina Cruise, Buddha Bar, Kandura shopping in the Deira Souks (ok, who am I kidding, we had three days and the whole thing was a highlight! (Each collage is a separate album)
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em...at the mall
Daily report
Hazy, 95 degrees
It won't come as a surprise, if you know how I feel about malls, that I at first refused Emma's kind offer to drop me after work at Al Jimi where "at least there are taxis lined up waiting." After her gentle prodding and the insistence of the heat, which was alternately daring me to walk a bit further in search of a cab and pushing me toward the car door.
I accepted and rationalized the trip by heading into the mall's grocery store to pick up some essentials before stepping back out into the heat and walking a few short steps to the nearest cab--one of the nice, new ones with reliable air conditioning, uniformed drivers who speak English and, of course, the meters that start a dirham higher than the cars with dents, sometimes-cracked windows and English-challenged drivers (with an admittedly Arabic-challenged rider!).
I know, I know. I'm spoiled. But Jacob knew it going in. And, besides, I got the frozen chicken home...still frozen!
Hazy, 95 degrees
It won't come as a surprise, if you know how I feel about malls, that I at first refused Emma's kind offer to drop me after work at Al Jimi where "at least there are taxis lined up waiting." After her gentle prodding and the insistence of the heat, which was alternately daring me to walk a bit further in search of a cab and pushing me toward the car door.
I accepted and rationalized the trip by heading into the mall's grocery store to pick up some essentials before stepping back out into the heat and walking a few short steps to the nearest cab--one of the nice, new ones with reliable air conditioning, uniformed drivers who speak English and, of course, the meters that start a dirham higher than the cars with dents, sometimes-cracked windows and English-challenged drivers (with an admittedly Arabic-challenged rider!).
I know, I know. I'm spoiled. But Jacob knew it going in. And, besides, I got the frozen chicken home...still frozen!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Hamza Maayo
One of the things we expats (and ocassionally our Omani friends/teachers/students) do each 
week or so to garner a little social interaction (as if those of us in the "South Carolina" delegation don't see each other enough!) is cook dinner on a rotating-kitchen basis. We've partaken of delicious bryiani, thai, breakfast-for-dinner and veggie lasagne, among others. Those fine selections owe a bit to their cooks' personalities. Leigh headed up spicy bryiani with a tomato and cucumber yogurt salad as a nod to her obsession with all things Indian. Miriam provided delightful pad thai and coconut soup, demonstrating her devotion to diversity in cuisine. I offered a childhood favorite with a twist: breakfast for dinner, including oatmeal pancakes with homemade orange-banana syrup and egg casserole (just not the same without ham, but you know...)
All this to say that we had all been looking forward, with great anticipation, to Cinco de Mayo as Dave Martinez had been promising for months to make some Mexican food. Having sampled Dave's mole a couple of weeks ago, I was geared up for the fiesta that would include food and entertainment--a pinata committee was formed to compliment the evening.
What happened this evening (photos to come, I promise!) was a throwback-ed-ly radical and hilarious combination of the Diwali episode of The Office, America's Funniest Home Videos (unlikely pinata contestants and predictable pinata hijinks clips) and every kindergarten Cinco de Mayo party...ever.
Unaware that the party had grown beyond our small group of about ten to include the students of the GAP school as well as teachers, friends of friends and everyone's children (an
d here there are a lot of children), I was stunned to step into the school's majlis (sitting or living room) and barely miss setting my foot down on a small kandura-clad child who looked up from his water-bottle maraca craft with curiosity. Then, there was Dave, seated like Barney in the middle of a shopping mall, surrounded by children clamoring for popcorn kernels to finish their maracas. Though there was a small amount of instruction on what, exactly, this new and foreign holiday (not relating to Allah or Muhammed, strangely enough) was about, I'm pretty sure they were just pleased to be the proud new owners of noisemakers.
The food was amazing: baked nachos heavy-laden with cheese, jalapenos, chicken and olives, chicken mole with rice, tortilla soup, homemade flour tortillas, sweet and savory chips, mango-peach salsa, green chile salsa, fresh guacamole, refried beans. The only thing missing was a few Dos Equis, but we made do!
The real excitement started after dinner when the pinatas were unveiled. Now, a pinata bash can be a perilous and entertaining undertaking in the most mundane of circumstances, but a pinata bash in Oman with a crowd, 90 percent of which have never even heard of a pinata...you get the idea. Except that's not even the half of it. The unlucky effigy of a Camel hung in range of the children whose eyes were blinded by a red-and-white checked traditional headress, lent by one of the men. They were armed with a cricket paddle and took their best shots. They ran in after every hit gathering parts of the massacred camel and lording them over the other children. The head, a leg, the tail--almost a greater prize than the candy they ran for.
After the camel, though, real pandemonium ensued. The second pinata, a bust of Matthew
(Jacob's old roommate and a student with us here) was assigned to the lady-teachers of the GAP school. They enthusiastically accepted. In a near-child-like excitement they grasped the cricket paddle as the headdress was dutifully tied around their already-veiled heads. Their abbayas drug a bit in the gravel and they were turned three times before being allowed to let loose. Huda and Wadha took their best shots, everyone cheered them on and directed them in Arabic, English and other various languages, but it was Thuraiya who really did it in. She squinted as the headress was tied and pursed her lips as she gripped the paddle. She was turned, released and cheered on as she began the violent attack.
Her sheyla flapped, the glittering sleeves of her abbaya slid up just slightly and he
r feet slipped in the gravel as she swung the paddle like a major-league slugger right at Matthew's head. Contact! Home run! Matthew's paper maiche head separated from the shoulders and pulled off from the line as it went sailing, spilling candy like dummy-brains the whole way, across the school's parking lot with children following closely behind. The pinata bounced off the close wall and rolled back toward Thuraiya (still swinging), who narrowly missed the children as those of us standing by attempted to restrain the agression of this normally sweet and reserved Arab woman.
When she'd been stripped of her weapon and realized that she'd completed the task, she pulled at the headress and looked up with flushed cheeks and a big smile, framed by her veil, quite pleased with her stunning victory.
I thought, when I woke up this morning that I wished I could be in Lexington for the Cinco de Mayo street fair, but on second thought...this might be one of the best I've had!
Photos courtesy Miriam of Arabia
week or so to garner a little social interaction (as if those of us in the "South Carolina" delegation don't see each other enough!) is cook dinner on a rotating-kitchen basis. We've partaken of delicious bryiani, thai, breakfast-for-dinner and veggie lasagne, among others. Those fine selections owe a bit to their cooks' personalities. Leigh headed up spicy bryiani with a tomato and cucumber yogurt salad as a nod to her obsession with all things Indian. Miriam provided delightful pad thai and coconut soup, demonstrating her devotion to diversity in cuisine. I offered a childhood favorite with a twist: breakfast for dinner, including oatmeal pancakes with homemade orange-banana syrup and egg casserole (just not the same without ham, but you know...)All this to say that we had all been looking forward, with great anticipation, to Cinco de Mayo as Dave Martinez had been promising for months to make some Mexican food. Having sampled Dave's mole a couple of weeks ago, I was geared up for the fiesta that would include food and entertainment--a pinata committee was formed to compliment the evening.
What happened this evening (photos to come, I promise!) was a throwback-ed-ly radical and hilarious combination of the Diwali episode of The Office, America's Funniest Home Videos (unlikely pinata contestants and predictable pinata hijinks clips) and every kindergarten Cinco de Mayo party...ever.
Unaware that the party had grown beyond our small group of about ten to include the students of the GAP school as well as teachers, friends of friends and everyone's children (an
d here there are a lot of children), I was stunned to step into the school's majlis (sitting or living room) and barely miss setting my foot down on a small kandura-clad child who looked up from his water-bottle maraca craft with curiosity. Then, there was Dave, seated like Barney in the middle of a shopping mall, surrounded by children clamoring for popcorn kernels to finish their maracas. Though there was a small amount of instruction on what, exactly, this new and foreign holiday (not relating to Allah or Muhammed, strangely enough) was about, I'm pretty sure they were just pleased to be the proud new owners of noisemakers.The food was amazing: baked nachos heavy-laden with cheese, jalapenos, chicken and olives, chicken mole with rice, tortilla soup, homemade flour tortillas, sweet and savory chips, mango-peach salsa, green chile salsa, fresh guacamole, refried beans. The only thing missing was a few Dos Equis, but we made do!
The real excitement started after dinner when the pinatas were unveiled. Now, a pinata bash can be a perilous and entertaining undertaking in the most mundane of circumstances, but a pinata bash in Oman with a crowd, 90 percent of which have never even heard of a pinata...you get the idea. Except that's not even the half of it. The unlucky effigy of a Camel hung in range of the children whose eyes were blinded by a red-and-white checked traditional headress, lent by one of the men. They were armed with a cricket paddle and took their best shots. They ran in after every hit gathering parts of the massacred camel and lording them over the other children. The head, a leg, the tail--almost a greater prize than the candy they ran for.
After the camel, though, real pandemonium ensued. The second pinata, a bust of Matthew
(Jacob's old roommate and a student with us here) was assigned to the lady-teachers of the GAP school. They enthusiastically accepted. In a near-child-like excitement they grasped the cricket paddle as the headdress was dutifully tied around their already-veiled heads. Their abbayas drug a bit in the gravel and they were turned three times before being allowed to let loose. Huda and Wadha took their best shots, everyone cheered them on and directed them in Arabic, English and other various languages, but it was Thuraiya who really did it in. She squinted as the headress was tied and pursed her lips as she gripped the paddle. She was turned, released and cheered on as she began the violent attack.Her sheyla flapped, the glittering sleeves of her abbaya slid up just slightly and he
r feet slipped in the gravel as she swung the paddle like a major-league slugger right at Matthew's head. Contact! Home run! Matthew's paper maiche head separated from the shoulders and pulled off from the line as it went sailing, spilling candy like dummy-brains the whole way, across the school's parking lot with children following closely behind. The pinata bounced off the close wall and rolled back toward Thuraiya (still swinging), who narrowly missed the children as those of us standing by attempted to restrain the agression of this normally sweet and reserved Arab woman.When she'd been stripped of her weapon and realized that she'd completed the task, she pulled at the headress and looked up with flushed cheeks and a big smile, framed by her veil, quite pleased with her stunning victory.
I thought, when I woke up this morning that I wished I could be in Lexington for the Cinco de Mayo street fair, but on second thought...this might be one of the best I've had!
Photos courtesy Miriam of Arabia
Monday, May 4, 2009
Oh, the irony
Many of you who know me know that I love to entertain. I have been known to tak
e an entire day off work to stay home preparing a feast of familiars for lots of friends and families or just work on a simple, but pleasing meal for a few intimates. I have, waiting for me at home, a pleasing array of gorgeous chef's cookware that just begs to be used (still in boxes). I also have a selected-over-time collection of favorite cookbooks and recipes from friends that are always able to provide a new (or old) idea to follow or twist...again, waiting for me at home (recently placed in boxes). And when I say home, I don't mean our dusty shoebox flat in Buraimi. I mean, home in my mom's attic along with all the rest of my things: shoes, pretty clothes, books, decorations, photographs...my dog (who, thankfully occupies a space of more privilege than the attic!).
e an entire day off work to stay home preparing a feast of familiars for lots of friends and families or just work on a simple, but pleasing meal for a few intimates. I have, waiting for me at home, a pleasing array of gorgeous chef's cookware that just begs to be used (still in boxes). I also have a selected-over-time collection of favorite cookbooks and recipes from friends that are always able to provide a new (or old) idea to follow or twist...again, waiting for me at home (recently placed in boxes). And when I say home, I don't mean our dusty shoebox flat in Buraimi. I mean, home in my mom's attic along with all the rest of my things: shoes, pretty clothes, books, decorations, photographs...my dog (who, thankfully occupies a space of more privilege than the attic!).So, here I am, a newly married lady with a husband to cook for every night, if I so desire (a new concept since I rarely cooked for friends more than once or twice a week and never for myself), and none of my tools. As a matter of fact, it's funny to go through a wedding registry and find you
rself one day inundated with and wading through complete settings of fine china (Mulberry + Lime in Lexington is the sole Match dealer) and every day dishes, flatware, cookery and housewares only to wake up the next day with 2 plates, 2 cups, 4 mugs (one pair we bought, the other was a bonus buy with the 1 french press), 3 spoons, knives and forks, 1 spatula, 1 slotted spoon, 1 ladel, 1 can opener, 1 corkscrew (brought that with us as you can't really find them here, in the land of liquor-as-contraband--another kink in the cooking plans!), 1 saucepan, 1 saute pan, 1 large pot and various and sundry food storage containers. Seriously. That's it. That's all I have in my kitchen (aside from the minifridge and gas stove--connected by a rubber hose to the propane tank next to it!).
rself one day inundated with and wading through complete settings of fine china (Mulberry + Lime in Lexington is the sole Match dealer) and every day dishes, flatware, cookery and housewares only to wake up the next day with 2 plates, 2 cups, 4 mugs (one pair we bought, the other was a bonus buy with the 1 french press), 3 spoons, knives and forks, 1 spatula, 1 slotted spoon, 1 ladel, 1 can opener, 1 corkscrew (brought that with us as you can't really find them here, in the land of liquor-as-contraband--another kink in the cooking plans!), 1 saucepan, 1 saute pan, 1 large pot and various and sundry food storage containers. Seriously. That's it. That's all I have in my kitchen (aside from the minifridge and gas stove--connected by a rubber hose to the propane tank next to it!). Anyway, that's not even the point, though it's probably amusing, if a little sad. The point is, I have a friend who recently visited us from the states. Sensing a
unique opportunity (bookstores with an English selection are scarce), Jacob and I logged on to Amazon.com to purchase some new books. He chose The Great Divorce and a special Arabic-English dictionary. I selected Princess, The Girls of Riyadh (both recommended, both about the lives of women in Saudi Arabia), the latest copy of The New Yorker magazine and Rachael Ray's 365: No Repeats cookbook. I figured it was a good compromise for me (lacks great culinary skill but enjoys a good try at something new) and Jacob (meat, meat, potatoes, meat, please). Plus her recipes are supposed to be satisfying and good for people on-the-go, yielding delicious food in short order for those who just don't have that much time to spend in the kit...HAha. Who am I kidding? If I thought that, I was lapsing into my old life. I have nothing but time here. Time is not the issue.
unique opportunity (bookstores with an English selection are scarce), Jacob and I logged on to Amazon.com to purchase some new books. He chose The Great Divorce and a special Arabic-English dictionary. I selected Princess, The Girls of Riyadh (both recommended, both about the lives of women in Saudi Arabia), the latest copy of The New Yorker magazine and Rachael Ray's 365: No Repeats cookbook. I figured it was a good compromise for me (lacks great culinary skill but enjoys a good try at something new) and Jacob (meat, meat, potatoes, meat, please). Plus her recipes are supposed to be satisfying and good for people on-the-go, yielding delicious food in short order for those who just don't have that much time to spend in the kit...HAha. Who am I kidding? If I thought that, I was lapsing into my old life. I have nothing but time here. Time is not the issue.So I crack this cookbook that boasted "a year of deliciously different dinners," anxious to start planning some meals that will make us feel at home and that might actually be fun to prepare. It's then that I stumble on sliced steak over blue cheese biscuits with watercress salad. I mentally marked it and went on, until I came across it again! I checked and double checked, but the truth was clear: I was the proud owner of a Rachel Ray 365: No Repeats cookbook, with repeats. A full signature of pages and recipes inserted, twice, instead of consecutive insertions with different offerings.
At least we aren't here for a full year before our next move! Plus, it gives me an excuse to buy a new cookbook, and to keep checking out a blog I just found. Rebekka and I went to the same college freshman year and she was roomies with a friend of mine, Abby (who also has a killer design blog). When Abby featured Rebekka's home on her design site, she also referred readers to Rebekka's site, which I browsed, happily, this morning. She's a personal chef and her love of food and fun (and, gasp! wine) is evident and encouraging. Check it out here!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Cultural Conversations
These last couple of weeks have been interesting...especially the part about being a teacher. It's given me a whole new (and probably better) perspective on and inspiration for learning Arabic than I may have had over these last couple of months. Don't get me wrong, I know that not learning while we're here would be the most horrible waste of opportunity. I understand that not taking advantage of the immersion would be foolish, but it has been a hard topic on which to inspire myself at times.
I'm one of those people who cracks up at the unfortunate translations on signs that end up proclaiming the sale of a ridiculously inappropriate item. I'm glad that kind of thing amuses me since now those things happen to me on a daily basis. Well, at least it's an inspiration to learn.
For example, the first time this really struck me was when Leigh (a fellow traveler here from Jacob's program at South Carolina) and I had been invited over to visit with the adolescent cousins of one of the GAP school teachers. We spent our afternoon with the girls being the best Omani hostesses they could be (here, that generally means plying all visitors with copious amounts of food). They brought in trays of juice, Mars bars, rapidly disintegrating popsicles, nuts, sodas, Arabic coffee and other treats as they entertained us by playing a pirated DVD of High School Musical 3: Senior Year. Leigh and I watched them, they watched us, we all watched the movie. Then, just after their grand coup--the delivery of chicken hut (which, they informed us was precious contraband since Sara's mother had forbidden her to eat it any longer since she was getting to "be like a cow"), they decided they should get our input on a story they'd written in their burgeoning English. It was a story about their typical day at school.
Now, let me interject here. It's an interesting place in which we find ourselves, censorship-wise. On one hand, TV and movies here are great. There has never been a case in which I have seen a scene get out of hand in a movie; they will go to great lengths and often massacre storylines to avoid an on-screen smooch. On the other hand, it's like they don't know what a curse word is! Every now and then they'll take out one random word (usually $hit, which is a mortally insulting concept to them) to the complete ignorance of EVERY OTHER WORD IN THE BOOK! We find ourselves frequently shocked to silence when our laughter about a botched kiss-edit is broken by a string of curse words that would make a sailor blush.
That said, maybe I shouldn't have been astounded when sweet, 13-year-old Sara proclaimed during her story that her P.E. teacher had put "cake in her a$$." I was dumb and desperately trying to piece together how she'd come up with such a ridulous and perverse treatment. As Leigh collapsed into fits of encouraging laughter, I searched my mind for the solution. I later learned, as she continued the story, that she meant KICK in her a$$, but the damage was done. I scolded leigh for egging on the profanity and instructed her on the proper spelling of kick versus cake, though I think she liked her first statement better than the correct one.
That little anecdote has been even more at the front of my mind since during one day last week I told the cab driver, in Arabic, to please take me to "cheeks" instead of "border" (he looked at me first as if I was a madwoman and then, upon my heated insistence, somewhat amusedly) and then my students that I'd been studying "aerobics" instead of "arabic" and was finding it very challenging. There are a lot of different sounds you have to make while you're learning, you know.
I just have to wonder, what else have I been saying?
I'm one of those people who cracks up at the unfortunate translations on signs that end up proclaiming the sale of a ridiculously inappropriate item. I'm glad that kind of thing amuses me since now those things happen to me on a daily basis. Well, at least it's an inspiration to learn.
For example, the first time this really struck me was when Leigh (a fellow traveler here from Jacob's program at South Carolina) and I had been invited over to visit with the adolescent cousins of one of the GAP school teachers. We spent our afternoon with the girls being the best Omani hostesses they could be (here, that generally means plying all visitors with copious amounts of food). They brought in trays of juice, Mars bars, rapidly disintegrating popsicles, nuts, sodas, Arabic coffee and other treats as they entertained us by playing a pirated DVD of High School Musical 3: Senior Year. Leigh and I watched them, they watched us, we all watched the movie. Then, just after their grand coup--the delivery of chicken hut (which, they informed us was precious contraband since Sara's mother had forbidden her to eat it any longer since she was getting to "be like a cow"), they decided they should get our input on a story they'd written in their burgeoning English. It was a story about their typical day at school.
Now, let me interject here. It's an interesting place in which we find ourselves, censorship-wise. On one hand, TV and movies here are great. There has never been a case in which I have seen a scene get out of hand in a movie; they will go to great lengths and often massacre storylines to avoid an on-screen smooch. On the other hand, it's like they don't know what a curse word is! Every now and then they'll take out one random word (usually $hit, which is a mortally insulting concept to them) to the complete ignorance of EVERY OTHER WORD IN THE BOOK! We find ourselves frequently shocked to silence when our laughter about a botched kiss-edit is broken by a string of curse words that would make a sailor blush.
That said, maybe I shouldn't have been astounded when sweet, 13-year-old Sara proclaimed during her story that her P.E. teacher had put "cake in her a$$." I was dumb and desperately trying to piece together how she'd come up with such a ridulous and perverse treatment. As Leigh collapsed into fits of encouraging laughter, I searched my mind for the solution. I later learned, as she continued the story, that she meant KICK in her a$$, but the damage was done. I scolded leigh for egging on the profanity and instructed her on the proper spelling of kick versus cake, though I think she liked her first statement better than the correct one.
That little anecdote has been even more at the front of my mind since during one day last week I told the cab driver, in Arabic, to please take me to "cheeks" instead of "border" (he looked at me first as if I was a madwoman and then, upon my heated insistence, somewhat amusedly) and then my students that I'd been studying "aerobics" instead of "arabic" and was finding it very challenging. There are a lot of different sounds you have to make while you're learning, you know.
I just have to wonder, what else have I been saying?
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