Wandered into…Thailand!
I’m averaging about one big trip a year, and this is it since last year’s mid-east experience.
Thailand is quite possibly the polar opposite, but oddly similiar in certain respects.
I don’t really feel like writing a ton, but do want to document a few things, for any friends and family that are not here with me (i.e. everyone but Rico)–will probably write about it after the fact, rather then in real time, because in real time, I’m too busy enjoying myself.
So for now, a short list of highlights, inspired by my list-a-thon e-mails with Ethan.
Things of note in Thailand so far:
1) Tigers tigers tigers. Oh my. I could easily gush about this for hours–just ask Rico. I will say that the Tiger Temple is touristy and they kind of rush you through the photos as if the point is to have a picture taken with a tiger whereas I was much more interested in just oggling at the tigers. This is pretty obvious in all of my photos, in which I am staring rather open mouthed at the big, magnificent, passed out in the mid-day sun cat that I am supposed to be kneeling in front of like a statue. (photos to follow) After the main photo shoot, we found monks and employees walking 5 month older tiger cubs around, and those you could just walk up to and play with. They were however much more interested in ambushing each other, and on stalking the herd of water buffalo that kept creeping closer in a hey-guys-what-about-us-we’ll-pose-for-pictures type way. Tiger cubs were luckily on leashes, so no water buffalo were harmed, and I was able to see a tiger cub butt wiggle. I can die happy.
2) bus, boat, taxi, moto-taxi, bicycle rickshaw (this one was a bit of a surprise), tuk-tuk, you name it, I have ridden in it to get somewhere in the past week.
3) Sai Yok Noi national park–river raft guesthouse IN the river between two waterfalls, in the midst of a spectacularly empty wilderness of jungle. After enjoying a leisurely hike in the jungle, in which we saw very little wildlife other then birds and big hairy caterpillars, we saw a snake, lizards and the biggest freaking spider I have ever seen, in the manicured gazebo at the entrance of the park. Guess the wildlife prefers the tidy area as well…
4) Swam the River Kwai. Twice.
5) Motorbiking through the Thai countryside outside of Kanchanaburi at twilight. Wow.
6) Menu item in Kanchanabur: Peanus
7) Sign on the way to Ratchaburi: Welcome to (name of city): Nice People Live Here
Ice cream sandwhich from street vendor at bus stop that was literally a sandwhich, as in ice cream between two slices of bread–quite possibly the tastiest thing I’ve had here so far (and that’s saying a lot)
9) The hour it took Rico and I to figure out that we were in fact waiting for the ferry-bus on a small side canal rather then the actual main river. We were both quite disapointed with the “river” which seemed rather small. Had many conversations such as, “I haven’t seen any boats, have you?” “No…maybe it’s not rush hour…” “yeah…”
10) Grass jelly drink, bought at Bangkok 7-11. Ingredients: grass jelly (15%), sugar (10%). No other ingredients. What the hell is grass jelly? Still don’t know…
I’m in Ko Tao now, getting ready to learn how to dive tomorrow–today just relaxing after a day of hectic travel yesterday. More to follow!
The yak has not been wandering…
I’m stuck at the watering hole for a while, and rather than complicate the topic of this blog, I’ve started a new one. I will keep this as my travel blog, but for musings on life in Monterey, please visit my new blog Feed A Fish A Man .
Life in Monterey...not so bad after all
Random things you might not know about my life, such as, pelican 911, whether or not I will visit Guyana, and how I became a friend of Southeast Asia
Thanks to the shout out from Ethan my readership has bounced back from its status of zero from my hiatus. I’m going to return the favor by sending anyone who hasn’t already e-discovered Ethan by recommending that you check out his most recent post on the political dimensions of liberals vs. conservatives. Not because I believe in reciprocity (I don’t) but because it’s actually a great read, and it has a link to an awesome quiz that will let you discover the foundation of political morality. It turns out I fit pretty neatly along the liberal lines except for one thing: I value purity LESS. Awesome.
In other news, I have been sucked into the whirlpool that is working and going to grad school at the same time once again. In addition, not only have I refused to give up some of my activities or plans, but I have increased them! Things I am dappling in include:
- Helping my organization furnish and move into a new office (this has been a great excuse for Goodwill and Craigslist shopping). We are now finally moved in, and I have my first real office, complete with a plant and a filing cabinet. How grown up does that make me? We totally have a purple conference table, thrown in by the used furniture company for free because, and I quote, “no one else seems to want it…”
- Volunteering to test how crappy the water quality is when it first rains in Monterey’s First Flush program–because I just love stormwater that much.
why stormwater matters
- Taking classes in subjects that I have not studied since high school, such as economics and energy policy, complete with unit conversions for homework. Top it off with Arabic homework and I could be in senior year studying for the AP tests again. I’m doing math equations, people. Isn’t grad school supposed to be about research??
- Participating in the Young Democrats of Monterey and trying to convince other MIIS students to do so as well–because if Obama doesn’t get elected, I just might have to leave the country for good. I consider it an investment.
- Joining a myriad of campus organizations including but not limited to, the yoga club, the Environmental Task Force (which in spite of its name does not involve rocket launchers or grenades), the conservation club, the Arabic club, the on campus garden club, and the Friends of Southeast Asia. What can I say? I’m a joiner.
- Trying to make it to yoga at least twice a week minimum. Also have promised my roommates that I will try a spin class, test out the rock-climbing gym in town, and attempt the newest fitness craze: Zumba! This is some kind of brazilian music salsa inspired aerobics class that I will only agree to attend with girlfriends with whom I can make an ass of myself in front of. My roommates totally fit that bill.
- Win the war on fleas which I returned to after renting my room out this summer to the SUBLETTER FROM HELL. This is also part of my larger attempt to keep a house of 6 people, 2 cats and 2 birds decently clean from week to week.
fumigation day! the front lines of the war on fleas
- Maintain the basic semblance of a social life. Of course living with 6 people I don’t have much of a choice. But I have a huge mental list of people that I owe phone calls, and really really want to talk to but don’t have the time. Not to mention all the back-to-school social events that are simultaneously meant to get you drunk and kick start your career. My career is feeling a bit too bouncy right now though, so I guess I’ll just go to get drunk. (just kidding, mom!)
- Planning my next flee-the-country trip with my roommate Marja. Actually, my role so far has been to serve as a sounding board for her as she researches how much it would cost to go to EVERY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD. I really do not think that I’m exagerating here–just ask roommates 3-6. Marja and I spent about 5 hours sitting at the dining room table one night looking up plane tickets to every place we could think of to go in December. Our criteria are: cheap and not too cold. When our Norwegian roommate Maja tried to help us after about two days worth of searching, the conversation sounded something like this:
Maja: How about Thailand?
Marja & I (unanimously): too expensive.
Maja: Indonesia?
Marja & I: too expensive.
Maja: Germany?
Marja: too expensive.
Me: too cold.
Maja:Brazil!
Marja & I: too expensive.
Maja: Maybe you guys need to raise the budget a little…
In case you were wondering, the shortlist of contenders is: Guyana, Suriname, French Guinea, Trinidad & Tobago, and Costa Rica, which was the original plan that started this all in the first place.
- Attempting to rescue a choking pelican in the Monterey harbor on a break between classes. After a failed attempt to study, my friend and I went for a walk on the trail by the bay. We witnessed some intense bird drama that included a struggle between a pelican and a cormorant who were wrestling over what we thought was a fish. The pelican won, but then seemed to be having an extremely difficult time swallowing his prize. A closer look revealed that whatever he was trying to coax down his throat was a lot more angular than any fish I’ve ever seen. We placed the equivalent of a bird 911 call to the Harbor Master and were promised that the appropriate agency would be called to save the poor guy. As we had class in 15 minutes, we couldn’t stick around, but we called later to check up on his progress. The call had been passed on to a local wildlife clinic. Subsequent calls revealed that no one had gone out–they could only do so if someone stood by and waited for them. I had been planning to go run some errands in that direction and decided to go check up. Because I needed one more creature to worry about.
On my way out I asked Marja if she would like to go with me to buy some plants and perhaps rescue a choking pelican. Without missing a beat, she replied, ok, and followed me to the car. It wasn’t until we were driving towards the harbor that she inquired as to what exactly we were doing. This is one of the reasons I love Marja.
Fortunately or unfortunately, when we got there, the pelican was gone. I made Marja tell me that he had managed to swallow his particularly big fish, and had sailed off into the sky. Then I pretended to believe her.
- And last, going hiking! And learning to appreciate this beautiful area which may end up being my home for a few years more than I had originally considered. After a crazy and full week, I was in desperate need to clear my head. I convinced Marja to take a break from looking up plane fares, and another roommate Paula that her Russian homework could wait. We went to Santa Cruz to hike through a state park full of redwood trees, the San Lorenzo River, and an odd little Western theme park. We hiked into the park from the highway where we parked and spent a good twenty minutes bickering about where to go to find the rangers station to get a map, find a picnic table to eat, and then get on the trail that would get us away from the parking lot portion of the park. This mostly involved me and Marja bickering about which trail to take, which culminated in her insisting on taking the road, and me stamping my feet hollering, “This road is for cars! I am not a car!” And we’re planning on going to Guyana together.
In all seriousness, I had a fabulous time with these girls-they’re two of my best friends in the area, and are loads of fun. We stumbled upon the kind of creepy Western theme park and I was about to pass it by in favor of the trail, but the girls looked intrigued. Ok, fine, I begrudgingly agreed. But then can we go see some fucking trees? This part of the park turned out to be a stop on the Roaring Camp Railroads, a train that goes from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to the redwood forests nearby. We took pictures of ourselves doing things like pretending to wait for trains and ride fake horses, and discovered a supremely tacky gift shop full of the kind of things I used to love when we went on road trips when I was a kid. Leave it to us to set out for a hike and end up shopping. One great find was a rack of cork rifles with a sign up saying: “two tests is enough to find out if it pops. If you pop it more than twice, I will have to ask you to leave the store.”
This prompted the following conversation between Marja and I:
Me: what are these?
Marja: you’ve never seen a cork-rifle?
Me: no…how does it work?
Marja: here, like this (takes her first pop)
Me: Ooooh.
Marja: Cool, huh? (takes her second pop)
Me: Hmm. I bet each person gets two pops. So you’ve had your two, but I still have mine.
Marja: I guess so…
Me: (pop) That was cool. Do you think I can save my second pop for later?
We were still debating this when we left the store. Although the bored teenage kid at the counter didn’t look particularly disposed to throwing anyone out, especially not his only customers.
i still get one more pop...
For the record, we did finally see some fucking trees. And they were beautiful. So was the river, although having just had a meeting about the Santa Cruz Stormwater Management Plan, I’m not sure I want to go into it…the hazards of water quality work I guess.
So that’s what’ I’ve been up to these weeks. For those of you who are on the list of people who I owe phone calls and e-mails, you can see I’ve been very busy. In some more legit ways than others, but the end goal is balancing out the serious and important endeavors with those which will keep me sane. And this was just the highlights. Guyana, here I come.
I just had a spiritual moment and it involved geese
I just came back from San Diego on Monday evening, and I have spent the remainder of the week very sad, for reasons I don’t really want to tell the Internet. Suffice to say that I went down there to visit some friends and family, chill on the beach, eat some carne asada fries sin carne (that took some explaining at the taco stand), get my heart broken, and fly out. All went just swimmingly, as planned.
Luckily for my job, when I’m sad, or heart-broken or melancholy for whatever reason, I tend to throw myself into my work—it’s distracting, and helps me keep perspective. This week was no exception, and with an impending move and a never ending to do list, there is plenty to lose myself in.
In an effort to keep some balance and mental stability, I’ve been doing more yoga. Today at 5:00 I rushed to finish up the project I was working on so I could get home in time for class. I usually throw my gym bag in the car and go straight from work, but I’ve been out of whack this week, and forgot.
By the time I got there the class was just starting; I found a spot right behind the teacher, and jumped in for some sun salutations. It was a hot day, and I haven’t practiced so vigorously in a while; although I kept up, it was a struggle. I’m working on focusing on my breath and digging deeper into the meditative aspect of yoga. Today it worked, and the result was incredibly bizarre.
When I was in San Diego, I visited my aunt and uncle. My aunt has been exploring Buddhism recently, and she showed me her meditation room. We discussed the difficulties of clearing your mind, and she recommended her technique to me. When you’re trying to meditate and your mind starts to wander, you simply identify to yourself that you are thinking, and tell yourself, “that’s a thought”. Then you can put it away.
By the time we reached shabasana (the corpse pose, in which you lay still and meditate at the end of your practice), I was exhausted, and thrilled to lay flat on the ground. My head was still spinning with the events of the weekend, the week and the day though, and random thoughts kept popping into my head.
I could put a plant in the corner of my office. I should go find a nice flower pot….Thought. Move it away.
I hope I still have time for yoga when school starts again…Thought. Move it away.
I don’t think I’m going to make the deadline for the article I was going to write…Thought. Move it away.
Albert…Thought. Move it away.
In my mind I picked up the thoughts and put them in a basket. It was full of fuzzy balls (presumably my thoughts) that look like these toys my cat likes to bathe. I tried to imagine myself in the moment, in the present, and this took the form of me floating through space in a lotus position. I was alone and bouncing along, a bit like that old school computer game where you bounce balls off of moving paddles and the wall, but a little slower.
As I floated in my mind, outside the gym a flock of geese suddenly flew by the window, honking. And in my mind, as I floated along in empty space, a flock of geese flew by too. Honking.
Now I very rarely reach a truly meditative state, even during shabasana. At best I can calm my mind down, but I rarely lose my self in it. Today’s meditation felt real, and the geese were very much a part of it. And it was funny.
In my mind, as I floated along in empty space, I started to laugh. Lying on the floor of the sports center classroom I had to force myself not to laugh out loud and ruin everyone else’s shabasana. But I couldn’t contain the smile that spread across my otherwise still face.
Because even in my disconnect from the world, geese flying by a floating girl in lotus position is funny. But it went beyond a simple chuckle. Floating in my mind, I felt a deep upwelling of mirth. And it was the exact opposite of what I had been feeling for most of the week.
Which is not to say that all my problems have been dispelled and I have found inner peace, and it’s all good. Not even my yoga class is THAT good. But it helps to be reminded sometimes that it’s in there, that pool of mirth and joy that can be called upon so randomly.
By the most unexpected emissaries. Like a flock of geese.
On how my love for Jon Stewart is totally justified
Is Jon Stewart the Most Trusted Man in America? Asks the New York Times today, August 20th.
Quite possibly and this quote sums up why: “Mr. Stewart has said he is looking forward to the end of the Bush administration “as a comedian, as a person, as a citizen, as a mammal.””
The sea is that way
My travel buddy Ethan sent out a link to his blog today in which he gave my new favorite description of friendship. I am happy to say it was describing me: “I know details about her that she probably doesn’t want me to share publicly, and I’m pretty sure she knows stuff about me that I don’t want her to share publicly. That’s the definition of a friend, right?” Absolutely.
His account of his travels (some of which I was lucky enough to share in) can be found at the controlled release of diamonds. You will find him a much pithier writer than I, and I’m looking forward to hearing another point of view on our journey as well as finding out what the hell happened to him after we parted ways at the Tel Aviv bus station. My guess is that he asked enough people the right questions enough times to get where he was going in a single attempt. I, on the other hand, immediately proceeded to get on the wrong bus, ask two people who didn’t speak English for help, decide not to bother anyone else, turn around, get on the right bus, ride that bus past my stop, turn around, ride the bus back, and ask about twenty people for directions until I got where I was going. Which was Nazareth, incidentally.
This was one thing I have to give Ethan credit for; he is very persistant, and he is a Fact Checker. Where as I am a Intuition Follower. You can guess which of us was right more often.
The best indicator of this was us trying to find our way to a hostel in Tel Aviv. We were exhausted, having traveled all morning in order to reach the city for an afternoon meeting. This meant leaving Palestine early after a night out in Bethlehem.
For the most part the trip went smoothly. We had a little trouble finding the right bus in Jerusalem, but figured it out soon enough, and maneuvered the Tel Aviv bus station like pros. Tired, cranky, bickering pros maybe, but pros nonetheless. After a little snafu that involved getting off the bus too early and walking many blocks with our travel gear on, we found the office, and had a nice meeting. Tel Aviv was pleasant; wide tree lined boulevards and a sunny Mediterranean climate. We sat on a patio and scarfed down a shared meal of falafal burger and a veggie burrito. Then it was time to get back on the bus.
Our guide book told us which bus line to take; it turned out it went right down the street we were on. On my directions, we crossed the street and stood waiting for the bus.
“Are you sure it’s this direction?” Ethan asked, as we stood waiting.
“Of course I am,” I scoffed.
We stood in silence for a minute.
“Really?” Ethan ventured.
Exasperated, I sighed. “Of course,” I responded.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because,” I said in that tone that really said, because, stupid. “The sea is THAT way.”
Now the truth is, the sea being West of us had no real bearing on which way the bus to get us to Old Jaffa would go. The funny thing about buses is that they sometimes turn around, or change direction. But I was tired, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, and damn it, the sea was that way.
So we waited. A bus going the opposite direction went by. We waited a little more. Ethan may have poked at my theory a bit, or suggested we ask, but I stood firm. Until finally the bus pulled up. As we started to get on, Ethan leaned in and asked, “excuse me, does this bus go to Jaffa?”
“No–other side,” the bus driver said. We stepped down and he pulled off.
I don’t really remember the ensuing conversation. To Ethan’s credit I don’t think he gloated too much. And once we did get on the bus going the right direction, we missed our stop and rode it to the end of the line. Then we stood at a random bus stop in view of the sea, and got on the same bus going the opposite direction. This time the bus driver told us where to get of. Otherwise we might have ridden the bus all night.
Strange places without a map
I’ve got a ton of stuff on my mind and on my to-do list here in Monterey, so instead of continuing to stress out about those things, I am going to write about something completely different: Palestine and Israel.
Wanting to share about the trip I took there was one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place, but writing about it proved challenging and time consuming so I didn’t make it past the border (see Why leaving the country with strangers can be a good thing).
People have formative years; trips have formative weeks. This was the formative week of my travel experience in the Middle East. It came about after I hit my first “crash” in Jordan. This crash is best exemplified by a conversation I had with Rico one Wednesday morning standing on the very busy Queen Zein Al Sharif St. in Amman on my way to work.
<ring> <ring>
Rico (sounding understandably surprised as I am calling him on my cell phone from Jordan): Hello!
Me: Hi.
Rico: How are you?
Me: I’M GOING BAT SHIT CRAZY!
Rico: Oh….um. Well, ok.
I start to cry.
Rico: You know, I thought maybe we’d go through the whole, ‘how are you, fine, how are you, oh, I’m ok,’ first. But this is fine too.
For all those times Rico and I have said to each other, WHY exactly are we friends again? This is why.
I cried on the sidewalk for a bit, while taxis zoomed by and honked at me (because a crying passenger is better than no passenger), and Rico convinced me that IT IS OK, which is sometimes what you just need to be told, no matter what IT is. He also assured me that things were going to turn around, that in a few weeks I would be so busy that I wouldn’t even have TIME to call him from the street crying, and that I would find a way to make things work out, because I always did.
The trip to Palestine is what I found.
I’ve already written about the border crossing, so I will jump right in from here.
We spent the first day in Jerusalem playing tourist. Ethan and I were both in work and information gathering mode, me with regards to FoEME and the research that I kept saying I was going to start, and him with regards to a list of permaculture and environmental projects that he had found that were happening in the Middle East. BUT we agreed that Jerusalem was too good a spot to just pass up without a good few hours of wandering around gawking at things.
And there is plenty to gawk about. I’m going to shamelessly quote myself from an e-mail I wrote about this trip, because I still can’t come up with anything better to say about Jerusalem:
Now as you all know, I am not a religious person. I am at best politely curious about other people’s religions, and at worst critical of the power structures of major religions and their social implications. That said, Jerusalem, the holiest of Holy Cities, is a pretty cool place. It’s beautiful and dynamic, and the mix of peoples, religions and cultures that fit so naturally into its seams, although sometimes a source of conflict I know, make for a fascinating place. I was at a loss to describe it, which meant that, as Ethan dryly noted, I simply kept exclaiming, “this is so cute!”
“Really?” he said. “Cute?”
“Well….no,” I answered. “But I can’t think of the right word for what it is…”
Quaint was too condescending, charming was too shallow, beautiful too vague. We never hit the right word, and that’s about the best description of Jerusalem I can give you.
Jerusalem
Apart from getting to and from buses, Ethan and I stuck to the Old City where there was plenty to see in the short time we spent there. We stayed at a The Jaffa Gate Hostel, which I highly recommend to anyone going that way. Although we were exhausted from our harrowing 45 mile 8 hour trip from Amman, we spent a fair amount of the evening getting lost in the Old City. We ate mezze in a beautiful restaurant carved out of stone, stumbled upon the ancient ruins of the Hasmonians, which Ethan, the rogue environmentalist snuck into to remove some trash, and finished the evening with a beer at a sidewalk café. When the waiter came to take our order, we asked if he had anything local.
We have an Israeli micro brew and a Palestinian micro-brew, he told us.
Even our beer selection felt political. We ordered one of each.
Being in this part of Israel was quite a switch for both of us, having come from spending a few weeks in Arab countries. I had been in Jordan for almost a month, and Ethan had spent a few weeks in Kuwait before he came to Amman. Both of us are students of the Arabic language, and although we were not anti-Israel, it was pretty clear which side we lean towards in sympathies. This meant that we were having a bit of a hard time switching linguistic gears, and occasionally would address people in Arabic. There is a strong Arab presence in the Old City, so for the most part that was not offensive, but it did create some awkward situations.
Most notable was an experience in the shared taxi we took from Jericho to the gates of Jerusalem. After a harrowing haggle and a long wait in the heat of the day, we were finally en route to Jerusalem; we hadn’t eaten all day, were a bit exhausted, and I was cranky as all hell. As we rattled along the bumpy road, I shut my mouth and stared out the window at the dry barren land that is the West Bank in June. Ethan however chatted away happily in Arabic with his neighbor, who turned out to be a very friendly dentist from Ramallah. As we approached the last checkpoint, we got a flat tire.
The road quality in the West Bank isn’t great, so this seemed to be no big deal. The cab driver and the front passenger hopped out and started changing it. Since we were no more than 50 meters from the checkpoint, several Israeli soldiers wandered over to make sure we weren’t up to no good. Upon finding us non-threatening, they stood around to watch the men changing tires, me taking pictures, and all of us passing around a bunch of grapes that one of the lady passengers procured.
Israeli soldier watches the flat tire drama unfold
As we waited, one soldier poked his head into the van to look at Ethan and I.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Al Quds,” I responded without thinking. This is the Arabic name for Jerusalem, and the word I had been using all day.
The soldier gazed at me. He looked to be no more than 20, small framed in baggy fatigues and a machine gun slung comfortably across his chest.
“No,” he said. “It’s not Al Quds. It’s Jerusalem. You’re going to Jerusalem.”
Conscious of my snafu but not willing to agree with him, I said nothing.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“America,” Ethan answered.
“You speak Arabic?” he said. “You love Arabs? You love Palestine? Or Israel?”
What a choice. Again I said nothing. Finally Ethan chimed in, “both. We love both.”
The soldier looked at me again. I muttered something about being American and not having to choose—it was probably inaudible. Eventually he gave up and walked away. Although I felt somewhat uncomfortable being questioned about my political allegiances by a man with a machine gun, throughout the encounter I did not feel threatened or unsafe. If anything I was struck by the tone of sadness in the soldier’s voice when he put forth the choice: do you love them, or me? Sitting in a cab full of Palestinians, speaking their language and sharing their grapes, to him no doubt my choice was made.
At any rate, we agreed once we got to Jerusalem that we should stick to English only, since neither of spoke a word of Hebrew, and Arabic was politically loaded. That said, when we met people who were obviously Palestinian, we jumped at the chance to practice our Arabic. We had a nice chat with two Arab boys who took us to see a view of the Wailing Wall, where we discussed the US presidential election (these boys were probably about 8 and 12, yet well versed in Obama vs. McCain), assured them that we do NOT like Bush, and talked about their favorite subjects in school (reading). We also had a lovely visit with an older Palestinian man who was sitting on a chair outside his house, and flagged us down for a cup of tea and a chat. He was from the Old City but had lived for many years in Brazil, and was very fond of America, which he seemed to view as an entity that included all of North and South America. He insisted we write down his address in Brazil should we ever happen to pass by.
These two experiences marked another situation that Ethan and I were struggling to understand; the balance between hospitality towards tourists, and the desire to profit off of tourists. In any place that sees a high volume of tourism, there are a fair amount of people who will offer to help you find things, show you “special” views, take you to the “best” shops and services, but who expect something in return and are often taking you to patronize businesses run by their family or friends. This is fine, but it means when someone on the street offers to help you, you accept knowing that there are strings attached. In Jerusalem, there seemed to be a struggle between these two mindsets, and we were not entirely sure how to maneuver them.
The best example of this was the two little boys who took us to see a “special” view. Ethan and I were wandering around aimlessly, and had ended up in a dead end. We had all the marks of tourists; we were speaking English, walking in circles, may have had a guidebook in sight, and probably just looked generally lost (we were). The two boys were sitting on the sidewalk by a door. When the younger one addressed us, Ethan answered in Arabic. Surprised, the boys got up and followed us, offering to show us where to go.
Now I am a sufficiently paranoid traveler that I generally respond to offers of help from strangers by questioning what they want in return. Not that I won’t accept help, but so that I am mentally prepared if someone does expect compensation. It is part me not wanting to cheat anyone, and part me not wanting to be cheated. When the boys offered to help us, I hesitated, but Ethan accepted immediately. I swallowed my reservations and counted out a few coins in my pocket to offer up later on.
This did not change the fact that we had a genuinely nice conversation with them. The view that they showed us was actually pretty special, and one we might have missed on our own. It was in a bit of a nook and overlooked the Western Wall. It was a great chance to speak Arabic and have an interesting cultural exchange. After they grew bored with us, the two boys prepared to leave. Then it became obvious that they were struggling with the same question that I was.
chatting with the locals
The younger one obviously wanted compensation. He held out his hand and asked for a tip. The older one clearly felt uncomfortable with this. He said something rapid in Arabic and kind of pulled his brother away. Don’t worry about it, he said. The younger one was annoyed by this and pushed for the tip. I gave him some coins; although he seemed to want more, the older one pulled him again, and said thank you and this time won. The boys left. Ethan seemed a bit flabbergasted by this entire exchange, surprised that they wanted anything at all. We would continue to have this conversation throughout our trip. He was more inclined to think that people were helping him out of kindness, whereas I was more inclined to be suspicious of ulterior motives, and pleasantly surprised when there were none. We both won a few of these muttered under the breath arguments, but I would say that overall he was right more often than not.
There were many many people who would help us freely wanting nothing in return. This ranged from people giving us directions, which would more often than not involve them simply saying, “follow me,” and walking us to the place, to a Palestinian boy in Bethlehem who drove us to his favorite falafel restaurant and kept us company while we ate, wanting nothing but a chance to practice English and hear what we were up to.
In fact, sometimes people would try to help us when we didn’t even think we needed help. One of our favorite moments was in Palestine, walking back from the bus stop in Beit Sahore. We were staying at the guest house in Bustan Qaraka, which was about a 10 minute walk from the town. It was mid day and we were walking down the street towards the farm, when a car drove past us going the opposite direction. It didn’t get far before we heard it slam on the breaks, and back up to where we were standing, having stopped walking to observe what was going on.
It was a station wagon driven by an old Palestinian man with his family. Rolling down the window, he exclaimed to us in heavily accented English, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???”
We were walking to Bustan Qaraka, we explained. The man was clearly SHOCKED that we were doing something like this: walking in the afternoon sun. He started to back up the car and insist that we get in and be given a ride there.
“It’s very close,” we insisted, “we’re almost there.”
He seemed skeptical, so we appealed to his daughter who was in the passenger seat. Really, we assured them, it’s not that far, we’re ok. The daughter finally convinced him, and the man drove off, shaking his head and no doubt muttering something to the effect of “crazy foreigners.”
“That was the most belligerent helpfulness I’ve ever received,” Ethan said to me as we walked on, laughing. I had to agree.
Back in California the other night, I was driving from the Bay Area to Monterey when I accidentally missed my freeway exit that would have put me on the 101 South to get me home. I have done this drive many times and know it well, but just happened to spacing out at that point—taking in the scenery, the novelty of having left and come back home with a completely different basis for comparison.
At any rate, I ended up pulling off the freeway in downtown San Jose in hopes of cutting back across to the 101. I quickly realized that this was easier said than done, and, with a broken back window that wouldn’t go up and a terrified cat in tow, I decided the fastest way to get back on track would be to ask someone for directions. The first chance I got I pulled over to a man standing outside a pickup truck looking at something on his windshield. He had apparently just gotten a ticket. I asked how to get to the 101 South. Ticket in hand, he thought for a minute and then said, I live near the freeway entrance and I’m going that way—why don’t you just follow me? I agreed to do so, and waited for him to pull out of his parking spot.
The route he lead me on was one that I certainly never would have found myself, and when it came time for him to turn off and go home, he got out of his car at the light, came back and told me go two more blocks down and then turn right onto the freeway—I thanked him and waved, and he was gone.
As I pulled onto the freeway I realized that this is one thing that I love about traveling; it forces you to rely on other people in a way that we don’t have to do when we stay in a place where we know where everything is. Having gotten used to being in strange places without a map, I was still in the mode of asking for help, and very rarely had the world let me down. In Jordan, Israel, Palestine, and even in California, there are people who will simply say, ‘follow me’ and get you where you need to go.
where i need to go
Home again
I’m back in Monterey again and within three days I’m up to my ears in work projects–steeped in sea otter politics. I’ve picked up projects that I left hanging in June, and it kind of feels like I never left–like I’ve woken up from a two month dream.
I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with work, which is busy, my house, which is full and all the coming back home errands I have to run–and I haven’t even started thinking about school starting again! Plus I’m going to San Diego next weekend…which may or may not be a good idea. I took the time to go to yoga today though, so hopefully will keep it all under control.
I don’t really have the energy to write a lot right now, so instead I am going to post a link to a great NY Times article I found about an environmental clinic in NY. The woman who runs it is an artist and an engineer; she prescribes solutions to environmental concerns and worries; it’s part public art, part activism, part engineering solutions! The full article can be read at:
Prescriptions for Health, the Environmental Kind
I read this article after reading this article:
Changes in Environmental Review Are Sought
which left me in need of a dose of optimism. There seems to be an aura of hope in the environmental realm that change is just around the corner, but every now and then we get a practical reminder that a lot can happen before January.
On preparing to leave Jordan (already?)
I have been a very bad blogger the last week or so on account of several factors—to my fledgling readership ( I know you’re out there) I make the following excuses:
- I was really busy writing OTHER stuff for work
- I was in the Jordan Valley without an internet connection for 4 whole days
- I was in a conference talking to people, rather than writing about them (although taking mental notes to do that later)
- I got incredibly sick in the middle of aforementioned conference, and spent about 36+ hours in bed, only to get out of bed, go to work, realize that this wasn’t such a hot idea, and turn right back around and get back in bed
To any readers out there who may be my mother: I’m fine now, and yes I drank plenty of liquids.
At any rate, here I am, alive and in one piece, and officially back on my feet, having completed a full and busy day at work, and a few hours downtown in which I frequented 3 different cafes to meet three different sets of friends who I wanted to see before I left, bought a gigantic suitcase, and hobbled my way into a cab with it to get back home.
Let the suitcase anecdote segway<!–[if !supportFootnotes]–>[1]<!–[endif]–> into the fact that I am preparing to leave Jordan.
Which brings up a mix of things to think about and of course feel. I know I am about to leave a place when I start making a mental checklist of Things I Will Miss About said place, and Things I Will Most Definitely NOT Miss about said place. Today’s list started off on the bus to work; rattling down the busy street on a bus weaving in and out of traffic in a manner that would have been described in a place where people actually observe traffic lanes as PRECARIOUS, rolling past the open lots filled with trash and the auto shops near where my environmental organization keeps its office (what can I say, it keeps us going), I thought in a nostalgic way, gee, I’m going to miss this commute.
And then I did a reality check, and thought, no, no, wait, I’m really not.
And so began the list of Things I Will Most Definitely NOT Miss about Amman:
- Biadur Wadi Al Seer and my lovely morning commute
- The incessant honking
- The fact that when I want to take the bus every car that passes is a taxi honking at me, but when I want to take a taxi there are none to be found for what seems like hours
- Being stared at for crossing the street, walking down the street, standing still on the street, or having any other sort of normal human interaction with the street
- Slow internet bandwidth
- The sidewalks that end, break, disappear or sprout random trees
- Being pegged a tourist
I’m sure I’ll think of more as time goes on. To be fair, here is a list of Things I Will Miss About Amman:
- The occasional sudden beautiful view
- Jebel Amman, Rainbow St., Books@Cafe
- Hashim Restaurant
- People telling me “Welcome to Jordan!”and meaning it
- The real coffee (but NOT Nescafe)
- The pastries (Jabri especially for anyone heading to Jordan, do not miss!)
- The sense of accomplishment I get every time I reach my destination or accomplish what would be an ordinary task elsewhere
I think I am most sad to leave the work that I feel I have just gotten started on—especially my involvement with projects in the Jordan Valley. I have lots and lots to say about all of this, but don’t even know where to start.
So I will digress to say that I am still grappling with how I want to narrate this blog in terms of telling my stories fully, honestly and in an entertaining way, while respecting the characters in them, who may or may not know that I am writing about them. I may change some names, or avoid using names, or just try not to blaspheme anyone…bear with me as I work this one out.
This isn’t much of a parting post, but that’s mostly because I’m not done yet–I got bogged down with work and traveling that I haven’t even begun to tell the stories that I set out to tell.
<!–[if !supportFootnotes]–>[1]<!–[endif]–> According to Microsoft Word, segway is not a word. Any help on this? Also, I’m not sure how I feel about footnotes in my blog. Just trying it out.
How do you say meeting in Arabic?
Seriously, I cannot for the life of me remember this word. Which has been a problem, because I’ve been going to a lot of them lately.
There are some things that, you realize when you travel, are universal. Things like processed cheese. And pizza. I think business meetings fall into this category. The good thing is that here in Jordan I have an excuse for zoning out—I don’t understand anything.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I understand a good many things. They are rarely complete thoughts though. Rather, this is what meetings here sound like to me:
“Hello, how are you?”
“Fine, praise be to God, how are you?”
“Good, thank you, thank god.”
Unintelligible talking…… “goats!”
…..unintelligable talking…. “lots of goats!”
….more unintelligible talking…..
“cheese!”….
“ the park”….
”Friends of the Earth”….
“Way too many goats…” …..
“Thank you very much.”
“No, thank you.”
“We’ll meet again soon.”
“If God wills it.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Everyone shakes hands.
We leave. Sometimes we stop to chat with people on the way out. Once we reach the car, I say, “so, what just happened?” Sometimes Abed explains. Sometimes he starts to explain but gets distracted. Sometimes he doesn’t really know either.
As you may have guessed, we have a goat problem. Whether or not this is the intended topic of our meeting, it tends to come up. If I spoke better Arabic I could tell you why, but I have a hunch it’s because Abed is pretty ticked off about this goat issue.
My first day of work with FoEME was the day after I landed in Amman. I was jet-lagged, a bit dazed, and knew very little about what I was going to be doing there. After introducing me around the office, Abed whisked me off to my first Jordanian meeting at the Ministry of Water. You’ll never guess what it was about. Goats.
A little background explanation: in 2005 FoEME was given a patch of land by the Jordan Valley Authority to restore into an eco-park. It’s a great project, and I’m involved in making plans to expand it. One of the major environmental issues in the Valley is overgrazing by goats, which are herded by Bedouins who graze their goats on public lands. Most of the Bedouins in the area have been fairly cooperative in allowing the park to develop, however one particular herder—the wealthy owner of 1000 goats—has not. He continues to herd is goats on park land, in spite of repeated promises not to. And as long as the goats are around, every patch of open land is decimated, preventing a return of foliage, which leads to soil erosion, degradation, and other such issues. So as the park develops, figuring out how to deal with this man and his 1000 goats is a key piece of the puzzle.
Anyways, on my first day of work, Abed briefly explained this to me before whisking me off to a meeting at the Ministry. It was me and about 5 Arab men, and a Japanese man who works on development issues in Jordan, and is somehow connected to the goat issue (still working out how).
I remember thinking as we left that meeting, “so this is what this summer is going to be like.”
This was pretty dead on.
During the last few weeks I have attended an overwhelming number of meetings, ranging from small office work meetings, meetings with other international organizations, meetings in Mayor’s offices, meetings at the eco-park, interview meetings in peoples houses, tours of facilities (that begin with meetings, and more.
I have to say, this is one very cool thing about living and working in another country that you don’t get to experience as a tourist—the everyday cultural habits and consistencies. How people do business. How people meet.
In Jordan, meetings fuel your caffeine addiction. At every meeting I have been to, you are served coffee, tea or soda, or sometimes more than one if the meeting is particularly long. Usually there is an attendant who goes around with a pot of coffee and one or two tiny cups. He or she pours a mouthful of bitter coffee into the cup and hands it to you. You drink it in one or two sips, and hand it back. To indicate that you are done and would not like anymore, you shake the cup—to clear the grinds to the side for the next person, a colleague explained to me. The attendant then serves the next person, and goes around the circle until everyone has had a sip. I have never seen anyone refuse to take part in this ritual—I wonder if that would be rude.
Next up, someone brings in a tray of coffee or tea. Sometimes they ask your preference, sometimes they don’t. One day we had two meetings. At the first they offered us coffee or tea and we took coffee. On the way to the second one, we made a plan.
“If they ask us coffee or tea this time,” Abed said, “let’s say tea. With biscuits.”
Both drinks are generally served very sweet in small cups, with a saucer. I have only been to one meeting where the coffee and tea were set out buffet style, as is generally done at American meetings; the meeting was at the office of a Jordanian organization in Amman that was working in conjunction with USAID. I wonder if the Amman offices are a bit less traditional, or if the American funding has infiltrated so far as to dictate how coffee is served at meetings.
I’d say that the amount of meetings I have attended has been one of the perks of this internship, and a great way to learn a lot fast. Last week I spent a day in the Jordan Valley with Abed and two German researchers from a European research group, doing an independent assessment of one of our projects for the European Commission. I accompanied them throughout two day of interviews, which included talking to Mayors from participating communities, local peoples who were involved in the project, locals that FoEME had employed, and some other random people along the way. We visited families in their homes, Mayors in their offices, saw the site of a proposed peace park on the border of Jordan and Israel, and visited a Nike sock factory.
Today’s meeting was at the waste treatment plant in the Valley, where we were given a tour. This might not seem like much of a treat, but in spite of the raunchy smell, it kind of was. One thing that I love about environmental work is that looking at the world through an environmental lens allows you to peer into the dark corners of how people interact with the world. This includes (literally) how we deal with shit. It turns out, Jordanians deal with shit pretty much the same way Californians do (is it weird that I have a basis for comparison? This wasn’t my first waste treatment tour…); scooping out the chunks, giving some poo eating bacteria the feast of their lives, and dumping it back into the river.
The tour included a drive down to the Jordan River to see where the waste flows. The River is about 6 feet across, brown and goopy, and overgrown with reeds and shrubs. The plants on the Jordan side touch the plants on the other side, which we think was the West Bank (we weren’t sure how far South we were). Very few people are allowed to the banks of this part of the Jordan because it’s a militarized zone. Poo smell or not, it was pretty cool, and I’m looking forward to whatever meetings might crop up next week. Anyone up for the dump?
