Sleazeballs galore

There’s a lot of less-than-exciting settling-in that has occurred over the past five days. I tried to cover the basics, which means that a lot of the more exciting details have been lost in the process. Hopefully this gives a general idea of what kinds of things have been going on.

It’s been hard to get internet access over the last few days as I’ve moved into my new apartment in Hay Al-Kharabsheh. It’s not that the internet is not available here—in fact, high speed access is available—but it’s that our apartment unit has lost its hard-line connection for some reason. I have been able to periodically check things on my roommate Jafer’s computer, which has access because a friend gave him a password for a wireless network nearby. Unfortunately that password has been saved in his computer and he doesn’t remember it, so I haven’t been able to get on from my laptop at all. Needless to say, even if I had been able to get online recently, I probably wouldn’t have had much time to post anything as the last few days have been a flurry of orientation and other learning experiences. Indeed, Amman is becoming a much more real and complex place as time goes on.

I live in a neighborhood called Hay al-Kharabhsheh, which means the Kharabsheh neighborhood, which is referred to by some foreigners in the area as simply, “the hay.” It is quite a unique area from most in Amman, but I’ll get to that in a bit. First, the start of orientation.

Soon after my last post, the Fulbright orientation began. I had spoken with Jafer the night before about moving in with him after the first day of orientation, so I checked out of the hotel after breakfast in the morning.

I asked the front desk if I could store my bags with the hotel until after the orientation. They said “certainly!” and handed me a voucher, which read “Mr. Zain.” This may seem normal, but something weird had been going on at this hotel. Whenever I had called the front desk, or had stopped by to ask something on my way out, the staff had always referred to me (in a very thick Arabic accecnt) as “Mr. Zain.” For example, I would call asking for a glass or a towel and they’d respond with an emphatic: “Yes Mr. Zain. Right away.” Or when I came to the front desk to ask for internet access, they’d say “Certainly Mr. Zain.” Or when I was asking for a cab, “Yes Mr. Zain, whatever you need.” I didn’t know why, and I just thought that that was how they had referred to everyone, but a part of me thought that they thought I was some kind of special person. It was weird and I got a laugh out of it every time.

Anyway, after I checked out I bumped into some other Fulbrighters in the hotel lobby and then found the rest of them eating breakfast (I guess I had been an early bird and missed them over the previous two days). Willow, one of the other Fulbrighters, said that she had been wondering if I had made it to the hotel and had been asking the front desk about which other Fulbrighters had arrived. They never said anything about me, even when asked directly.

I later found out that after I had checked out, she had asked what room Zain had been staying in, to which one man replied, in his thick accent: “We have no record of this guest.” She was confused, but then another staff member appeared and asked, “You mean Mr. Zain?”

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Our orientation lasted for four days and took us through a lot of useful and not-as-useful information. All-in-all, it was fun to be there and get to know the other Fulbrighters. On the first day, we were brought to the Fulbright house and introduced to some of the staff. Our Fulbright Commission Director, Alain, is an amazing French man (yes, I frequently bug him about his French-ness). He had impressed us all at the DC orientation as well, with his laidback and friendly demeanor. He is very organized and does more for us than I expected (he’s organizing our residency permits, getting us connected to the right people to get our research done, obtaining university student ID cards and free Arabic classes at the University of Jordan, for those of us who want them, he’s gotten us bank accounts and even has made the process of obtaining a second passport easy (for use in transit to Israel/Palestine)).

Mostly, we’ve been impressed with Alain’s connections. We’ve been getting the impression, from him and from former Fulbrighters, that if you ever have a problem crossing a border, getting access to an official, dealing with police, or even getting registered for an extremely popular colloquial Arabic training program, all we should do is drop his name and magical things will happen.

The other staff members are very nice as well and I get a good laugh out of my interactions with one very loud and feisty Arab woman named Luma.

But enough background already, let’s get to the fun:

During the first day of orientation, we got on a bus to check out some apartments that Luma and another staff member, Eman, had arranged for us to see. They had connections with a number of landlords in the area, all of whom had very impressive apartments. Many of the units reminded me of Pakistan, with their tile floors and wind fluttering the curtains in the dark, airy rooms. Other units reminded me of the real world, with their incredible colors and furniture (one kitchen had this crazy kitchen with alternating sky blue and true blue cabinets and white counter tops. I thought I was on MTV just being there). Throughout this apartment tour Jafer continually cautioned me about our apartment. It wasn’t nearly as nice, he’d say. And neither were the neighborhoods.

Everywhere we had seen had nice, clean, quiet roads and amazing furniture on the interiors (most of the apartments had been rented out to families from the gulf, vacationing here in the summer, so they were really really nice).

I shrugged off his comments, and figured that it couldn’t be that bad in this country, and to be quite honest, it wasn’t that bad, but yes, our apartment is certainly a downgrade from the others that we saw that day.

The unit has simple wood furniture and tile floors. It’s really big and has a lot of windows, which keeps it cool and comfortable throughout the day. Many of our power outlets don’t work, and the kitchen and bathrooms are a complete mess, but since this is a temporary place (as we’re moving in a week into another apartment that the Qasid Aarbic Institute has arranged for us) I’ve been able to deal with it without a problem.

The great part about our apartment is that it’s located in Kharabsheh. It’s an extremely lively and real neighborhood, although much less clean than the others that we have seen. There is trash on the streets, and empty lots which are also littered with mounds of trash and crumbled stone, not to mention the stray cats everywhere. But there are kids playing in the streets, loud weddings at night, fireworks, music blaring in the mornings and a number of mosques that echo the call to prayer throughout the day. There are modest shopping areas nearby and whenever you take a walk through the neighborhood to catch a cab, or head to a store, it is always buzzing somehow.

Not many locals speak English here, although a number of foreigners live in the area because of Qasid’s housing arrangements. Most of the neighborhood is pretty liberal, although there are some hijaabis and niqaabis, but that doesn’t really indicate much in this part of the world. It’s actually the foreigners who are here for the Arabic education who are the most conservative people here. Many of them have huge beards and wear the most traditional clothes. Almost all of them are here to learn the classical Arabic language to enhance their knowledge of Islam and the Quran and they often seem to me to be a little shocked when I say that my main goal is not to learn Arabic for religious reasons, although that’s a nice complement to my study, it is, in fact, to learn to speak with people on the street and therefore I will not be focusing on classical Arabic as much as Modern Arabic at all.

The only frustrating thing so far is that I haven’t been able to develop my colloquial or ‘ammiyyah Arabic so much yet, but I guess that’s going to have to wait until I get into classes to really make serious progress. The only conversation I can make is in foussha, which is tough, especially when others respond in rapid ‘ammiyyah that I can’t understand at all.

I’ve only met other guys living in Kharabsheh because of the fact that they’re the only ones whom Jafer has been able to introduce me to like at the mosque after prayers (since women don’t go to the mosque). It’s been great though. A couple nights friends have cooked and the rest of us have gone over to their apartments to eat (although me and Jafer have only stayed for dinner on one night). I’ve met some really cool people so far, including a Korean-American Shi’a named Albert (we’ve been bothering him about potential Korean marriage prospects… yeah, he’s pretty screwed), a Danish Pakistani named Waseem, and a Malaysian named Fahim (who knows no Arabic and sits around playing with a deck of cards all day since he’s been here bored out of his mind for the last month waiting for Qasid classes to start).

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Taxi drivers have continued to be an adventure. Yesterday I rode with two who seemed to be a little crazy. The first one seemed normal and I got in the car and told him where to go while I was on the phone. When I finally got off the phone he asked if I was Jordanian or where I was from and when I told him he started saying that California was really beautiful (in Arabic of course). Then he starts saying really beautiful “gerrss.” I told him I didn’t understand, but he kept saying “gerrss!! Gerrs!!” I realized he was trying to say that California had beautiful girls and I said, oh, yeah…

Then he said, “do you like 4-6?” I was really very confused and continued to direct him as I was close to the Fulbright house at this point. “4-6! Do you like Four six?!?” He kept repeating it, I was confused for a while before I understood that he was trying to say if I liked the girls for sex. Shocked and confused about how this guy seemed like a normal Arab man with a moustache only a few minutes ago, I told him: No! No, no, no!

He asked why and I told him because I’m not married. Then he started asking me if I had seen the gays and started telling me that he sees them a lot. Luckily we had arrived and I got out of the car as soon as possible.

The second crazy of the day was taking us to this mall.

Ok, this is a good opportunity for some venting: I prior to this story, I had gone to City Mall for four straight days. The first day was before orientation. I had just gone to check it out while I had nothing better to do and in the process discovered that this mall had a huge, K-mart/Target type of discount store called “Carrefour.” I also ate at a kabob place there, which was delicious. The next day I came back with Albert and Jafer to get stuff for my apartment (sheets, pillow, towel). We ate at the kabob place again and they agreed that it was really tasty. The next day I realized that I didn’t get a dustbuster that I had wanted, so I went back. Reluctantly ate at the kabob place again, just because I hadn’t really eaten all day and the other options at that mall were all American fast food (mcdonalds, hardees, KFC, Quiznos, Pizza hut, etc). The next day I realized that the dustbuster they had sold me didn’t have a charger in the box (note that I reluctantly had bought this particular dustbuster because it was the last one left of the cheapest model and had been on display, and I had failed to argue for a discount while a salesperson was checking the box to make sure everything was in it… apparently I was too distracting because he didn’t see how there was NO FREAKING CHARGER IN THE BOX!!!). So I went back to get the charger and in the most ghetto way possible, this customer service lady digs through a drawer and pulls out a random charger, plugs it into the unit and the light turns on to indicate that it is charging. I was reluctant and told them that maybe I should just return it. They insisted that it’d be fine. Knowing that the next model available was 10 JD more, I said ok. I ate at the kabob place again. I know! I know! But dude! It was really really good!! The guy probably thinks something’s wrong with me, but I mean, really. KFC or kabob? I choose kabob. I went back into the Carrefour because I forgot that I wanted some sort of cracker/cookie thing (wheat thins would have been ideal, but I settled on graham crackers). I left and walked out of the side exit for Carrefour, passing the same security guard for the third time (I had also tried to enter the mall this way previously and he made me go to another entrance). I then realized that I had forgot about zip lock bags and went back into the Carrefour again. I passed the same guard for the fourth time and he stopped me, calling out to inquire why I kept coming back. I showed him I had forgot the box and I walked away (they arrest people for taking pictures of malls here, so I was kind of worried that I might be a suspected terrorist).

So now we get to the story of the cab driver on the fifth day that I end up going to this mll. This time, I don’t really want anything, but Jafer wanted to buy some shoes from there and some other Fulbrighters wanted to go there too, so I just tagged along and went anyway. On the way there we split into two cabs and I end up with two girls, Sarah and Monica, and this driver, who listened to us speaking in English and remained silent for most of the trip, then suddenly started spouting off about how he hates America. He was being really loud and harsh with his tone, talking in really fast ‘ammiyyah that none of us could really understand except that he wanted to get married to an American and go to America, but he hated it because they’ll kick him out… or something along those lines. Anyway, he started going really slow on the way to the mall, and switched to the right lane. I got a little worried because clearly he was slowing down so that he could yell about his thoughts and cars were zooming by as we were crawling in the right lane.

I started complaining that he was going slow and wished, for the second time that day, that I knew how to rail on this guy in Arabic for being an idiot and going so slow. I’ve seen people curse and verbally abuse Arab cab drivers and I’m starting to notice how necessary this skill is (my friend Unaza also got some attitude from a cab driver who asked her why she doesn’t wear a hijab and told her that nose rings are haraam, to which I shared with her that we all need to learn to punk out cab drivers as soon as possible).

Anyway, we got to the mall ok and dicussed the annoying cab ride. I found Jafer and we shopped around and then, yes, we ate at the kabob place again.

THEN, after all of this kabob eating and Carrefour shopping, I got back home and decided that I’d use my newly charged dustbuster. It worked for a total of three minutes and then slowly squealed to a halt. I couldn’t believe it. The freaking charger had stopped working. When I plugged it back in, nothing happened. I was going to have to go back to Carrefour for a sixth day.

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That same night we went out to eat at this really cool restaurant located at this place called Kan Zamman. It was this old stable on the outskirts of Amman with beautiful stone architecture that had been converted into a restaurant. It was a lot of fun. We had been going through orientation for four days, so we had all become a good group of friends and were enjoying our final orientation event with some great food. The bus ride to and from the dinner was taken up by hilarious stories of cab experiences and we ended the night walking around the Shmeisani area (where our hotel had been located) and enjoying the beautiful and breezy evening weather.

This is also where Jafer started to realize how sleazy these Arab men were who would slow to a near-stop as they drove past our group, just to gawk at the white women walking with us. I didn’t realize what had been happening but all of sudden Jafer started freaking out saying, “Oh my god! How can you people live like this?! Do you not see every Arab man sleazily staring at them?”

To which Willow responded, “The best is when they honk.”

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