I rose extremely early on the day of my departure, catching the rickety train to Gatwick airport (costing me a rather dear 11 pounds) where I was about to take the long, extemely indirect flight to Amman, Jordan to visit my aunt who is currently working there at the moment as a missionary. I was flying Air Baltic, apparently the largest aircarrier in North, with a short stop over in Riga, Latvia.
???
I made a few friends on the flight, all Latvian, all confused as to why an Australian girl living in Paris is flying from London to Amman via Latvia. It was, quite surprisingly, very humid in Riga, as we landed amongst the lush green woods, only metres away from the stunning coastline- mental note, visit Latvia for real sometime in the future. After a short two hour wait and only a small kiosk to occupy myself in (Turns out Latvia doesn’t use euros, thank you credit card for saving my hunger!) I was back on the plane. After an exhausting day I found myself landing, what could have possibly been another planet! At midnight I finally arrived in the sweltering Jordainian capital with a runway frayed with palm trees and Arabian style windows decorating the arrivals terminal, I could almost hear the Arabian music wafting through the air- I had arrived. It didn’t take too long to get through customs, you could buy a visa on arrival for 10 dinars (around 15 Aussie dollars), they took a quick pic of you, you recovered your bag and then there you were, in Jordan. As I entered Arabia I saw Aunty Neen’s beaming face as I ran up and hugged the first relative I’d seen in about 6 months- who would’ve thought it would’ve been here of all places?! She introduced me to an Eygptian man who is apparently on her team, although he, unfortunately, was not here to meet me but was waiting for a Norweigan family who were here to undertake a course with Neen’s company. Neen couldn’t believe she had run into someone she knew, especially considering she had only just moved to Jordan from Israel weeks earlier, plus it was midnight on a Saturday night and they were both waiting from people coming from Latvia. Crazy!
On the ride home in a friend’s borrowed car we chatted non-stop about all our news as I munched on some salt and vinegar chips laughing that the packet was in Arabic and sitting in shock as we passed a road sign signalling that the Iraqi border was merely 300 km away, I was certainly not in Kans- I mean-Paris anymore!
As we arrived at Neen’s apartment I crashed straight away, but anxious as to see the world I would wake up to…
The view out of my window- Day 1
I woke up late morning with a fan gently blowing cool air over my body. To say it was hot was an understatement, but should I really have been surprised? Jordan is pratically all desert, very Lawrence of Arabia territory!
Eating a traditional Arab breakfast: bread, olive oil and thyme
View from the balcony of the apartment Neen shares with an amazing American woman named Ingrid.
I would sit for hours on the balcony, waiting for each Call to Prayer, this occurs, fortunately, five times a day and is when the city’s mosques sound chants and prayers over the whole city. It is the closest I have ever felt to being in a movie, especially the evening one as the hot summer sun is setting in the horizon over a sea of square white box buildings to the sound of Arabic chants. A real soundtrack to my visit. No videos or photos can remotely give the magical experience any justice. It gave me a shiver up my back everytime as I smiled over this exotic, intoxicating land. While most people awake to the booming 4am Call to Prayer, I was rather disappointed that I never had to opportunity to hear it, so one morning, when the air was still cool and the city in a slumber I put on my alarm and rose to here people banging drums around our neighbour warning people to quickly get some tucker in the tummy before the fast’s commencement. It was one of the most breath-taking things I have even witnessed as I stood on the balcony in my pyjamas whilst the air was cool and the sky still dark and not a single sound except for the distant chatter when suddenly ancient chanting would echo through the large city, cutting the silence like a knife. I just sat in awe at this intimate experience, as if it was only me awake.
As it was Ramadan during my two week visit these Calls to prayer played an even more important purpose, to signify the times to begin the day’s fast, as sunrise, and when you can commence eating, drinking, smoking,even for some swallowing their saliva, again, at sunset. The whole country had become nocturnal, both to avoid the daytime heat and feast all through the night. As our day would come to an end the rest of the city’s day was just begininng. As the sun would start to set you would see family’s running through the streets carrying large plates filled with delectable looking dishes in preparation for the Iftar (the meal to break the day’s fast- as seen in the photo above that I took when passing a tiny little supermarket) and as soon as the evening Call to Prayer finished you can quite literally hear cutlery hit plates! As you looked out people sat on their rooves smoking shisha, kids mucked around all night in the little alleyways and grandpas sat in their garages with his hands on his belly, completely satisfied after the big daily feast, occasionally snacking on dates (the breaking the fast prefered food)
After one long day Neen and I were desperate for a drink and saw that KFC was open, we strolled in to see about 10 people working but only us as customers, we ordered two milkshakes which took about 10 minutes for them to make (‘Do you want strawberry or vanilla?’- Um, vanilla- ‘Sorry we only have strawberry’- umm strawberry then) then were told they were only take-away. As it is illegal to drink on the streets during Ramadan we found outselves hiding down a little shopping arcade, discreetly sipping our cool bevrages. I have no idea how those who do physical labour as occupations cope, not being able to eat or drink as they slave it out under the smoltering summer sun!
Neen and I spent a lot of our time wandering around the Balard (aka downtown) We would catch a white taxi down our steep javal (hill). There are two varieties of taxis in Jordan, the white ones are share taxis that take prestined routes, and yellow taxis, much like our taxis back home. Both are extremely cheap and the easiest mode of transport in Amman, safety however is questionable as it seemed I was the only person in the whole city who wore a seatbelt, and road rage seemed totally commonplace, though I later learnt that beeping wasn’t always a gesture of anger but also as an indication of your precence, to alert other cars. Rear view mirrows are not needed, or safe to use, in the Middle East, you just look forward, it is like a school of fish. Lanes are non-existant and you cross the road and your own discretion! It was interesting taking taxis all the time as I could sit back and listen to Neen converse with the drivers in fluent Arabic. It was an odd experience when you saw the taxi driver pointing at you and nodding etc, I would turn to Neen for translation- He was asking your age- Really, why?- The younger, the better- For what?- Marriage. Yes, despite being a non-Muslim or Arabic speaking girl apparently I was the perfect wife, Western and white.
Roman theatre
Wandering around the Balard was one of my favourite things to do. As an avid people watcher I struggled with keeping my eyes down and not staring at men in the eyes. Before leaving the house Neen would give me a look over to ensure my arms, chest and bum were covered, especially considering we were in one of the most conservative parts of Jordan. Despite having dark hair, it seemed I definitely did not ‘blend’ in as every person we walked by stared as us and men would mutter things under their breath as they passed us and shopkeepers would say ‘Welcome in Jordan’, with one lovely boy even exclaiming ‘Oh what a joy!’ We picked up some amazing freshly made flat bread- 10 for about 20 cents and wandered through the hectic markets. I was even given a banana by a fruitstall seller as he starred at me with a big smile plastered over his face, shokrun! Along the way Neen’s phone rang so as she talked I just stood watching the market’s commotion when two little girls ran up to me, the jabbered to me in rapid Arabic before pulling my hair and grabbing my cheeks. I didn’t know what to do, was this affection or an attack? Luckily Neen swooped in and shooed them off, apparently they thought I was beautiful, not a bad country for the self-esteem :P
Though only about 3000km from France, it was an incredibly different world over here. Due to the old pipes used toilet paper could only be disposed of in waste paper bins, cats roamed the streets tail-less, burnt off by young boys between the age of 8- 12 (the most dangerous people around, according to Neen, who are not afraid of throwing fireworks at foreigners as I later found out!), fresh eggs came in plastic bags, bedouin tents and camels stood next to fancy Western-style shopping malls, Iraqi and Saudi Arabian number-plated cars drove down the street, the occasional checkpoint where the soldiers ask ‘Where you go?’ (a hilarious question when at the entrace to the airport, umm 10 points for guessing right) ill-placed speed bumps appeared on freeways only to be followed by numerous mechanics along the side of the road afterwards (makes you think…), ice cream truck music sounds only to be the gas man’s ute and supermarkets on at the front of every second house, it seems as long as you have a front room or a terrace you can set up a little supermarket!…
Every man and his dog owns a supermarket!
More too come soon- including the Citadel and concert, Petra, my evening walks, the Aussie Embassy, road trip to the Dead Sea, Rochelle, being a ninja and english classes
Insha’allah, god willing…
