There are some flights that go exceedingly smoothly: the ying. I boarded my flight from Colombo to Doha to Amman with no hiccups. I saw the sun rise over the impending chaos of Colombo as I sat on my scarf to protect my jeans from the dampness of the taxi seat, as if it had been washed carefully but had never quite dried in the intense humidity. Skinny men in colorful wrapped skirts stepped lightly along the sides of the road, men whose arm veins I could see from the car, so little fat did they have. Young girls in blue and white school uniforms that looked all shades of gray in the morning light, darted between the traffic like it was a game, a real life pacman, and their long black braids swung back and forth. It smelled like rain, heat, gasoline, rain, heat, fish, mangoes.
The new Colombo terminal boasts a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, shiny and new, and the mocha-colored cushions and smooth wood and wicker feel very colonial when you sip your cappuccino from a thick white mug while looking out over the South Asian jungle. I tell the barista that even in DC we don’t have a Coffee Bean yet, and why on earth did Sri Lanka, arguably the Tea Capitol of the World, get one before we did? He shrugged and handed me my debit card. I bought souvenir tea from delightful young women whose skin was the color of the tea they were selling, and they explained with the trademark South Asian head bob the difference between the types of tea: U.V.A., Kandy, Ruthuna, this one comes from the south, this one from the mountains...this one is light, this one is dark, this one is a little stronger, and this is a very nice assortment...
The connection to Doha, with its high ceilings and sparkling duty free, and then to Amman, was seamless. My suitcase was the first one out, and I was picked up right away. It was a lovely Jordan afternoon, and the landscape rolled away from the highway in amber waves with golden froth of the sun sparkling on the windows of the distant houses. That strangely fresh smell of soil, desert and diesel whipped around our heads as we sped across the plain.
And then the yang, a week later. I arrived at 1 AM for my Air France flight to DC via Paris. In the Amman airport, there are a variety of men milling about in blue jumpsuits, and they will help you (often whether you like it or not); one of them informed me that the Air France counter had already closed. So I rushed through, and yes, it was closed, leaving me and a bunch of French guys stranded, asking anyone who looked like they knew anything, How can we get on the Air France flight...? WHY DID THEY CLOSE THE COUNTER? The French guys yelled at the only man who looked like he had any control, who insisted repeatedly, “SHU MALAK, I don’t have any idea about Air France, I’m with Royal Jordanian! I have no idea! Get a hotel!” He muttered angry Arabic and sucked his cigarette. The French guys yelled some more, then gradually disappeared, presumably to get a hotel.
Luckily, I have a travel agent, and they have a 24-hour emergency number, and Vita, who is my favorite person right now, confirmed me on the Frankfurt flight leaving in an hour and a half, although the man in the blue jumpsuit tilted his head in a tick of disbelief and raised his eyebrows as he inhaled, “It’s overbooked maybe 30 person.” I pointed at the Blackberry pressed against my ear and whispered, “Si7r...” Magic.
Although I was confirmed on the flight, which was indeed magical, this was only the first hurdle: the Lufthansa computer system was down, resulting in a crowd at the counter that had been growing for thirty minutes. As departure time approached, they announced that there would be free seating for those who did not already have their boarding pass. This was good news for me because, well, first come, first serve, so I paid for my ticket with my own credit card because my government card’s limit is low, low, and I got a blank boarding pass with FREE scribbled on it.
Being on a flight with free seating means a mob at the counter and then the same mob at the gate, random blue jumpsuited men who take you to the WRONG TERMINAL, and also only being able to check your bag one leg, which in turn means picking up the bag, then entering the airport again to find the correct terminal, which may involve a variety of stunts, like climbing up a down escalator because I had gone into the wrong baggage claim. This, my friends, is much harder than it looks, and not as much fun.
But not as hard as the young Palestinian woman next to me in the airplane from Amman, who had never flown before and was wide-eyed, overwhelmed. She and her shy three year old son Hamza, dressed impeccably in a tiny black three-piece suit, were en route to Sweden. She didn’t speak a word of English. I knew I had a while to wait in Frankfurt, so I told her to follow me, and we’d find her plane together. Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways, checks, arrival and departure computer screens, passport controls, German women in navy suits who speak quickly and unforgivingly. My baggage claim and her gate were in the same place, roughly, which was good, because it was completely confusing to figure out which Lufthansa counter she needed to find to get her boarding pass, and how exactly she was to get to her gate--and I am a veteran traveler who speaks English. I saw her off at the security gate and watched her glide into the crowd, Hamza trotting dutifully behind her in his tiny blazer, four steps to her one.
I wouldn’t have had the chance to help her on her maiden voyage if I had made the Air France flight, and I don’t know why things happen the way they do, but sometimes your inconvenience doesn’t matter in the long run after all, and sometimes you get a glimpse into someone else’s life that makes you think deep thoughts about destiny and chance while you wait with your laptop and German gummy bears at Gate 55.
Showing posts with label Middle East. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Middle East. Show all posts
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
The More Things Change
Over a year since my last trip, I landed again in Amman yesterday night. It's the same. It smells the same, it feels the same, the sunsets are just as rosy pink, the houses are just as limestone white, the taxis still honk as they pass you at 40 mph, just in case you want them to stop. It's election season, and banners fly above the roads advertising candidates and slogans: "We won't settle for anything less than the stars!" My taxi driver shakes his head, "Big nice promises," he sniffs, "But you can only be elected if you have money. All of them, rich men." Sounds familiar.
The Holiday Inn is pleasant, nothing remarkable, but the breakfast, as unremarkable as it was, so so refreshing: tomato, cucumber, and green pepper salad, mana'eesh, shai bi n3n3. Laughing cow cheese. Pita. It never tastes quite as good in America.
But Amman has grown, and seems to be swarming with people, ideas, frustrations, like bees who have outgrown their hive. The traffic is backed up all day: before I could take a cab for a quick Swefieh shopping trip and back to Webdeh; now that ride takes at least 15 minutes longer and costs double. The hotels are always fully booked, the Iraqi accent floats around the city. There are towers under construction, huge, stark metal and glass towers, blatantly defying the city rule that all buildings must be limestone, and under 6 stories. They look like transplants from Doha. There are new pedestrian walkways, to be lined with glamorous shops,under construction: transplants from Beirut. "Everything changes," my taxi driver says, sighing glumly as the traffic comes to another halt, his cigarette dangling out the window.
I told a colleague that in DC, smoking has been banned in restaurants and bars. He looked at me in blank surprise. "This," he said, gesturing with his cigarette, "is the only thing keeping most of us sane."
After I checked in at the hotel I wandered up and down the nearby thoroughfare. I don't know the street's name, if it has one, but it's busy, and lined with a random assortment of shops and restaurants. I didn't feel like playing frogger with the traffic, so I stopped in the restaurant nearest to the hotel, a quick meat sandwich place advertising shawerma and kebab. My Arabic fell off my tongue hesitantly, and the consonants sounded all off to me, like I was speaking through cotton balls. "You speak Arabic?" the meat man asked. "Well...yes, but I studied here a long time ago, and I don't practice a lot." He shrugged, "Soon you will remember." I sat outside and watched the cars zoom pass while the waiter stopped by occasionally and enthusiastically told me Arabic words. (He gestures to the bottled water: "Water: maii. MM-AA-YYYY." I nod pleasantly, "...yes, shukran.")
I remember certain things distinctly: the Burger King sign at the intersection where AMIDEAST was, and perhaps still is, located; the that one block next to my house in Webdeh, with the Jasmine spilling over the edge of the walls; the block between the Zara and the Mango stores in Swefieh, where there is now *gasp* a Starbucks; the street at the North Gate of the university with the Turkish Pizza shop and the smell of that falafel/shawerma stand where we ate every lunchtime with a bustling crowd of students; the hill up to CSS at the University, the smell of those trees, the crunch of that mulch under my feet; the November rain and wind mixed with the clear, dusty, only vaguely polluted smell of Amman's streets, whipping around my umbrella. Memories are rarely one-time events, but those events which are repeated daily, so you hardly know you're creating memories until one day after your habits have changed, you're struck by a smell, a sight, a voice, and you remember...
I don't have any claim to this city, except that I studied here once, and I have visited twice, and that I know some families, and that I speak some language, and that I really like mansaf. But I often feel that the whole of Amman, or Jordan, is greater than the sum of its parts: I don't particularly love the language, the food, the people, the politics, the limestone, the jasmine, by themselves: there are other places with purer language, better food, prettier flowers. But together, they create something so beautiful that I often stop as I'm walking down the street and take a deep breath and look at someone's white porch overlooking a crowded street and a herd of sheep, and all the beauty and nostalgic pain of my memories settles on top of my eyelashes and in the middle of my chest, and for a second, it doesn't matter that my memory is often faulty or that things change so drastically so quickly. I feel that tingle of deep, dizzying recognition, and think that maybe...maybe I'll extend my trip a few days.
The Holiday Inn is pleasant, nothing remarkable, but the breakfast, as unremarkable as it was, so so refreshing: tomato, cucumber, and green pepper salad, mana'eesh, shai bi n3n3. Laughing cow cheese. Pita. It never tastes quite as good in America.
But Amman has grown, and seems to be swarming with people, ideas, frustrations, like bees who have outgrown their hive. The traffic is backed up all day: before I could take a cab for a quick Swefieh shopping trip and back to Webdeh; now that ride takes at least 15 minutes longer and costs double. The hotels are always fully booked, the Iraqi accent floats around the city. There are towers under construction, huge, stark metal and glass towers, blatantly defying the city rule that all buildings must be limestone, and under 6 stories. They look like transplants from Doha. There are new pedestrian walkways, to be lined with glamorous shops,under construction: transplants from Beirut. "Everything changes," my taxi driver says, sighing glumly as the traffic comes to another halt, his cigarette dangling out the window.
I told a colleague that in DC, smoking has been banned in restaurants and bars. He looked at me in blank surprise. "This," he said, gesturing with his cigarette, "is the only thing keeping most of us sane."
After I checked in at the hotel I wandered up and down the nearby thoroughfare. I don't know the street's name, if it has one, but it's busy, and lined with a random assortment of shops and restaurants. I didn't feel like playing frogger with the traffic, so I stopped in the restaurant nearest to the hotel, a quick meat sandwich place advertising shawerma and kebab. My Arabic fell off my tongue hesitantly, and the consonants sounded all off to me, like I was speaking through cotton balls. "You speak Arabic?" the meat man asked. "Well...yes, but I studied here a long time ago, and I don't practice a lot." He shrugged, "Soon you will remember." I sat outside and watched the cars zoom pass while the waiter stopped by occasionally and enthusiastically told me Arabic words. (He gestures to the bottled water: "Water: maii. MM-AA-YYYY." I nod pleasantly, "...yes, shukran.")
I remember certain things distinctly: the Burger King sign at the intersection where AMIDEAST was, and perhaps still is, located; the that one block next to my house in Webdeh, with the Jasmine spilling over the edge of the walls; the block between the Zara and the Mango stores in Swefieh, where there is now *gasp* a Starbucks; the street at the North Gate of the university with the Turkish Pizza shop and the smell of that falafel/shawerma stand where we ate every lunchtime with a bustling crowd of students; the hill up to CSS at the University, the smell of those trees, the crunch of that mulch under my feet; the November rain and wind mixed with the clear, dusty, only vaguely polluted smell of Amman's streets, whipping around my umbrella. Memories are rarely one-time events, but those events which are repeated daily, so you hardly know you're creating memories until one day after your habits have changed, you're struck by a smell, a sight, a voice, and you remember...
I don't have any claim to this city, except that I studied here once, and I have visited twice, and that I know some families, and that I speak some language, and that I really like mansaf. But I often feel that the whole of Amman, or Jordan, is greater than the sum of its parts: I don't particularly love the language, the food, the people, the politics, the limestone, the jasmine, by themselves: there are other places with purer language, better food, prettier flowers. But together, they create something so beautiful that I often stop as I'm walking down the street and take a deep breath and look at someone's white porch overlooking a crowded street and a herd of sheep, and all the beauty and nostalgic pain of my memories settles on top of my eyelashes and in the middle of my chest, and for a second, it doesn't matter that my memory is often faulty or that things change so drastically so quickly. I feel that tingle of deep, dizzying recognition, and think that maybe...maybe I'll extend my trip a few days.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
How Taking Taxis Improved My Spoken Arabic
When I was wandering around the Levant during my junior/senior/whatever year of college, I took a lot of taxis. In Beirut, I carried around a pack of expensive cigarettes and offered them to the cab driver if we were taking a long enough ride to warrant a cigarette. Although I can't condone smoking, it was an extremely easy way to make quick friends with the driver, and sometimes he counted that as payment, which always gave me the thrill of a Good Deal. They're going to smoke anyway. I may as well get a cheap cab ride out of it.
Without losing much time, most cabbies steered conversation to one's personal life, things one would not dare ask in an American taxi, questions which were endlessly amusing to answer, but sometimes crossed into the terrain of the Intrusive. If you speak Arabic, so much the better, because then you are instantly intriguing. It's excellent practice. Where are you from? (America/Canada) Are you married? (...yes.) Where is your husband? (He's in America/Canada/Portugal, he's coming to meet me here shortly.) Do you have babies? (...no.) Why NOT?! (...)
The best answer to "Why NOT?!" is to say that you've only been married 4 months. This usually calms them down because then they can't say that you're not TRYING, and it's possible that you could still have a baby within an acceptable time frame.
If a young single American doesn't say she's married (i.e. if she tells the truth) she will probably notice his ears perk up slightly. "Why aren't you married! It's better to be married!" To which she may respond, "...I don't want to be married yet," or, "I don't know anyone I want to marry," or, more amusingly, "I don't need a man to make my life complete." Any one of these may inspire an incredulous stare in the rearview mirror. And any one of them may inspire a proposal, which may be dismissed by something as simple as "I don't want to marry a Muslim," or, "I'm not interested," but more often was persistent. "I make good American husband!" many claimed earnestly. "It is PERMISSIBLE for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman!" (...yeah, but it's maybe not permissible for the Christian woman to marry the Muslim man. What about that?) "You want to live here? I marry you, you stay here. It's beautiful." I once heard a despairing cabbie's woeful tale of converting to Islam in order to marry a Muslim woman, only to have her call off the engagement and leave him stuck with a religion he didn't really believe and couldn't legally denounce. His solution: marry me, move to America, forget about Islam. My solution: Tip him and get out of the cab.
After the first few proposals, I began wondering: what response did they really expect? Did these cab drivers (who were, I'm sure, friendly, hard-working, upstanding citizens) understand the absurdity of their suggestion? Did they think it was possible, or likely, that a single American girl would find love, or at least, a mutual admiration, with a cab driver in an Amman suburb and just decide, in the time it takes to drive up one of Amman's rocky hills, to change her previous plans, marry him, and stay there?
I guess people do that. I guess it's conceivable that one would be so taken with the city, so enamored of the jasmine wafting through the valleys, so flattered by the prospect of a sudden relationship with a dark man in a new country, that one would shrug off her previous life and transplant herself to foreign soil. Conceivable, but not very likely for a free and easy college-educated girl in her young 20s whose possessions fit in one large, wheeled duffle bag.
This is not an easy concept to explain in halting Arabic. I did my best. I'll never forget the words for "My husband is in another country right now," "No, I don't have babies," "I don't want to marry you," "You've got to be kidding," or "That's not important. I'll get out here."
So the moral of the story is that public transportation helps your vocabulary.
Without losing much time, most cabbies steered conversation to one's personal life, things one would not dare ask in an American taxi, questions which were endlessly amusing to answer, but sometimes crossed into the terrain of the Intrusive. If you speak Arabic, so much the better, because then you are instantly intriguing. It's excellent practice. Where are you from? (America/Canada) Are you married? (...yes.) Where is your husband? (He's in America/Canada/Portugal, he's coming to meet me here shortly.) Do you have babies? (...no.) Why NOT?! (...)
The best answer to "Why NOT?!" is to say that you've only been married 4 months. This usually calms them down because then they can't say that you're not TRYING, and it's possible that you could still have a baby within an acceptable time frame.
If a young single American doesn't say she's married (i.e. if she tells the truth) she will probably notice his ears perk up slightly. "Why aren't you married! It's better to be married!" To which she may respond, "...I don't want to be married yet," or, "I don't know anyone I want to marry," or, more amusingly, "I don't need a man to make my life complete." Any one of these may inspire an incredulous stare in the rearview mirror. And any one of them may inspire a proposal, which may be dismissed by something as simple as "I don't want to marry a Muslim," or, "I'm not interested," but more often was persistent. "I make good American husband!" many claimed earnestly. "It is PERMISSIBLE for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman!" (...yeah, but it's maybe not permissible for the Christian woman to marry the Muslim man. What about that?) "You want to live here? I marry you, you stay here. It's beautiful." I once heard a despairing cabbie's woeful tale of converting to Islam in order to marry a Muslim woman, only to have her call off the engagement and leave him stuck with a religion he didn't really believe and couldn't legally denounce. His solution: marry me, move to America, forget about Islam. My solution: Tip him and get out of the cab.
After the first few proposals, I began wondering: what response did they really expect? Did these cab drivers (who were, I'm sure, friendly, hard-working, upstanding citizens) understand the absurdity of their suggestion? Did they think it was possible, or likely, that a single American girl would find love, or at least, a mutual admiration, with a cab driver in an Amman suburb and just decide, in the time it takes to drive up one of Amman's rocky hills, to change her previous plans, marry him, and stay there?
I guess people do that. I guess it's conceivable that one would be so taken with the city, so enamored of the jasmine wafting through the valleys, so flattered by the prospect of a sudden relationship with a dark man in a new country, that one would shrug off her previous life and transplant herself to foreign soil. Conceivable, but not very likely for a free and easy college-educated girl in her young 20s whose possessions fit in one large, wheeled duffle bag.
This is not an easy concept to explain in halting Arabic. I did my best. I'll never forget the words for "My husband is in another country right now," "No, I don't have babies," "I don't want to marry you," "You've got to be kidding," or "That's not important. I'll get out here."
So the moral of the story is that public transportation helps your vocabulary.
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