Life In The Desert & Death In The Sea

Our first view of the Dead Sea.

We had long decided, after my visit to Oman, that when Claire got vacation time from the University she'd drop in for a visit, round about a week. It had previously been arranged that her friend Bev, a British teacher also employed at the same Uni, would be joining her. There was much they wanted to see in Jordan. However, by the time Eid ul Adha rolled around, her school had done so much d*cking around with her schedule that a last minute, 3-day trip was our only option, and sadly Bev could not make this one. Shadi and I were still working on building our furniture (we'd come to the conclusion that buying expensive, arabic style furniture for our apartment when we were in all likelihood leaving the the States in less than 6 months was wasteful and so had chosen to DIY what things we needed instead) and had recently rescued 2 new kittens; this, as you can probably assume, was not the best condition to play host to a guest. After some net-research, Claire, Shadi, and I chose a well-ranked hotel in the downtown area of Amman to be our home base while we took the Dallas Tours trip to Petra and the Wadi Rum, as well as perhaps visiting several Biblical locations like Umm Qais and Bethany-on-the-Jordan. We don't have a vehicle of our own, deeming it too expensive and unnecessary since I am the only license holder of the two of us and Shadi would have most need of it commuting to Amman everyday, so we took several buses to the airport arriving a few minutes after Claire's flight was to arrive. Most planes arrive late to Queen Alia Airport, so we were surprised to find her already awaiting us, fully decked out in a lovely Omani abaya. Claire has a car back in Oman, a real nice French Renault, and so I was slightly worried that traveling by Jordanian standard transportation would not be very accommodating. She didn't seem perturbed, however, and so I scarcely gave it a thought the rest of the trip. I had educated her on the layout of Jordan and its eccentricities, but she was still surprised at a few things, such as the size of the feral cats and their spread. Omani ferals are rather thin, resembling Egyptian & Arabian Mau's more than our common Baladi breeds here. Also, the dirt of even a large, modern city was I'm sure unexpected to her as Oman is a very VERY clean place; sand is not the same as soil mixed with scattered garbage.

Shadi and I had scouted out our hotel in advance before collecting Claire as we had brought our luggage and etc with us from Irbid while escorting my mother and brother-in-law to the travel agency down the street from our midtown haunts that morning. They were off to a week or so in Medina to settle Thamer's residency issues and visit Baba Hassan. All of us, including Cousin Hamoode, had a large breakfast/lunch at Hashem before seeing them off. Afterwards we dropped off our luggage, tried out the shower accommodations in our hotel suite which turned out to be a bathroom closet with a shower head hanging off the wall and a strange water-heating appliance.

After returning to midtown from the airport, and unpacking gifts Claire had brought from both Oman and her recent trip to Sri Lanka, we decided to hit a popular mideast restaurant chain Shadi and I had grown fond of called Tche Tche. It was a nice hike up the hill to 1st Circle my husband had not warned us of, and quite a shock for both Claire and I to notice that it was the pet-store quarter in a terrible condition. Small, expensive breed puppies chained outside and dozens of birds in super-small cages. At least if we looked over the tops of those buildings we could see the brightly lit Amman Citadel rising over the Midtown valley. Dinner was lovely and quite tasty, although as usual served rather late for being a mostly empty restaurant and something that takes 15 minutes to make. The televisions surrounding us either blared Egyptian and Lebanese music videos or a speech given in Arablish by a Jordanian official. The one problem with our choice to stay in Amman during Claire's visit was the rather timely announcement by the government that it would be raising fuel prices beginning with the winter. Jordan is a slow economy, and populated with mostly low-income citizens. Gas powers everything here, and without being an oil-producing Arab nation, they experience the same car fuel prices we do in both the States and Europe. Natural gas runs their cooking appliances, space heaters, water heaters, and the electric grid all across the country. Needless to say this caused a major upset in the country, and a series of random yet large protests had erupted all over the place the week prior to our dinner. The next day a protest the scale of the previous MB hosted one several months before was planned for the exact place we were spending 2 nights; the police and national guard had already closed the main circle that led to this place 2 days ago, trying to prevent large numbers. It was imperative we be out of Dodge by noon that Friday, when the protest was due to start immediately after Jummah. There was no danger to us; protests here are largely peaceful and uneventful for an Arab Spring country, but once it began there was no getting out of town and much of the midtown square would be closed, restaurants, souks and all. We slept early that night as our tour was due to leave around 5:30am, and we were required to be at the tour agency at 4.

My husband woke us at 2:30 after receiving a text from Dallas telling us that our tour had been canceled at the last minute. We did not find our why until late afternoon the same day, nor would we be refunded for another 3 days which severely cut into our vacation budget. While Shadi and Claire decided to catch up on sleep, I could not until I had solved the dilemma of finding something to make Claire's trip worthwhile. By breakfast time I had made a list of places, and after a nice meal on the rooftop restaurant we caught a cab to Madaba to see the Ma'in Hot Springs and finish off at the Dead Sea. We thought there would be buses to take us everywhere, but our cab driver informed us that most were not running today. We hired him as our full-day guide at 30JD and made it to Madaba only to be turned around several times due to a burgeoning protest in that city as well. It was a long drive through the rocky desert to get to Ma'in, an oasis right in the center, and our driver caught us up to speed with the major events and rumors of the day. The rumor of armed gunmen up north stopping cars and robbing them had us the most nervous, as well as finding out that our bus tour was canceled because the bus that had been scheduled to take us to Petra had been vandalized the night before. Thank goodness the desert was all sorts of distracting. Claire observed how strange it was to be driving through the land of Biblical history. Like walking over the footsteps of giants. From a high hill, just before reaching the Oasis, we got our first glimpse of the Dead Sea.

Squinting into the sun.

The falls of the community springs.

The lobster-cooking Family Pool.

View from the bottom of the Hot Springs Oasis.

Ma'in was a 10JD per person entrance fee, as it was a Spa Resort that was much more expensive to stay at. Our driver would wait patiently with his feet in the main pool of the Springs while we ran around in our makeshift swimclothes purchased at the Friday Market in Amman that morning. The existence of a large number of shabab made us weary to enter the pool, but having never been to a hot spring in my life and not wanting to waste the day waiting for them to depart, I led the charge. The water, as expected, was boiling hot and one of the strangest, but not unpleasant smelling water I've encountered yet. The minerals in the water had turned the cave behind the waterfall into a myriad of different colors, looking a lot like dripping paint cans. Pictures didn't turn out well for obvious reasons. We wanted to visit the family pool, but it was supercrowded, so Claire and I ventured to the "womens pool", which turned out to be a dirty-looking, tepid pool with a hastily man-made fall dripping into it to supply it. Again, as in Oman, as we took pictures of the sky from here we were asked to take no pictures, assuming we were photographing the uncovered women. Some women in attendance welcomed us and were surprised at our nationality. After 15 minutes we grew bored, dressed, and left to find my husband. Shadi had stayed at the family pool, and not long after we'd abandoned it, the family's there had too, leaving Shadi to boil like a lobster alone. We reunited with our driver and hit the gift shop to snag snacks to keep us whole until returning to Amman for dinner.

The drive from Ma'in to the shores of the Dead Sea was significantly shorter than Amman to Madaba, so we saved pictures and energy for the shoreline. We stopped at a drop-off to get our first snapshots, and not 20 minutes later we would regret having left it to locate the public beaches. Our budget had not been formed to include paying to get into a hotel beach, and we were unwilling to allow Claire to pay for all of us, so we hit the local spot where the cab driver's family had decided to spend the afternoon as well. A mistake on our part, one we won't be repeating if my Claire returns or my brother decides on visiting. The mud of the Dead Sea is known for its healing properties and ability to sell at high prices, but the copious and disturbing amount of GARBAGE stuck in it and floating around us on the shoreline would certainly not impress anyone. We witnessed locals tossing their plastic both into the sea and abandoning it by the shore. Our horror and miserable disappointment I'm sure was apparent to all. We had planned to wade into the water, but after seeing this, and trying the mud on my own hands resulted in the deepest salty dry-skin burn I'd ever experienced, we left the sea to take a snack with our driver's family, severely let down. I felt terrible for Claire, who'd indicated that the Dead Sea was on the top of her list to visit when she'd arrived. I didn't think the trash problem in this country extended this far.

A sunset view from the hill over the trashed shores; Israel/Palestine

We decided, quite rightly, to only take pictures of the un-blighted shores.

After being fed harissa, a syrupy coconut cake famous here, as well as super-hot tea and much fruit, we headed back to Amman. Shopping was not an option as we had forgotten that the protest during the day would encourage many businesses to close during the duration even up till the next day. We had a quick meal at Hashem to get Claire some good Levantine falafil and hummus, then upon her suggestion hit Afra, a cafe and hookah bar for some after-dinner tapas. The place was damned near empty, so we hung for a few hours while deciding on the final days' events. We'd sleep in that night and hit the Amman Citadel and the Roman Ampitheater before rushing her to the airport to return to Oman.

View from the visitor center at Jabal al Qa'la

A map of the Biblical region of Jordan into Israel/Palestine.

Despite similarities, NOT a mosque. Before Levantine Islamic architecture caught up with the Gulf, this was characteristic of a palace entrance.

Typical remnants of Roman columns.

Wadis, Witches, and Me: 2-Weeks In Oman

Its been several months since my return from my 10-day vacation to Oman to visit my BFF since high school, Claire, who is a CELTA-certified foundational English language teacher at the University of Nizwa. Due to time constraints during the trip, blogging was absolutely out of the question (not to mention our net troubles which I'll go into greater detail about later) and life has been near chaos since my return, therefore making blogging if not difficult, just short of hard to get into. 8 months later however I am back into my groove and prepared to tell my newest story. This post will be about Oman only, therefore I will attempt to condense 10 days worth of adventure into a post that covered 3 back this time last spring.


The day of my flight to Muscat for a mere vacation was more of a stressful, hectic clusterf*ck than my entire leaving of another continent for an undetermined amount of time. My leaving in the first place was contested by a fair few (its amazing how so many people think they have a say in your personal life) as something to be avoided because, according to them, it was "haram" due to my lack of mahrem status. A mahrem is a male guardian in Islam for women; your father, your older brother, an uncle, or when married your husband, of course. Women aren't supposed to travel alone, at least not for extended periods of time. The logic is that we need "protecting", but those who know me are already rolling their eyes and saying "Cause Elena is just the kind of woman who needs 'protecting'." Say in the States most people wouldn't give a flying f*ck, but here its everyone's business and everyone is out to either protect your honor or spread the word about how you sullied it. The official story, come up with by me sadly, was that I was visiting my brother Mike, the major in the US Army, as he was stationed in Oman. (Sorry for the fib, bro) Mike has toured Iraq, Afghanistan, and I'm sure Kuwait, but I don't think short of a layover my older brother has ever been to Oman. Another part of the "Ayb"-ness of the situation ('Ayb' means "shame" in Arabic) was that the person I was visiting was a would-be Muslim female in her own state of mahrem-less being living and working alone in a Muslim country. Now Shadi's only real beef with my going without him was simply that; going without him. The man is in dire need of a vacation as well, and wanted to see Oman too, especially with me for company. Sadly the court didn't take its own vacation until well into June, and the cheapest tickets to Oman were before May. This was my only shot, so I took it. Thanks to my sizeable tax return, I was able to purchase my own round-trip tickets, a camera and phone once I reached Muscat, and fund most of my trip without breaking a sweat. "Islamically" that's totally within my rights as its my money. When I returned Umm Shadi told me she couldn't lie when people asked, but that her explanation flummoxed the stupidest of the gossipers to the point of acceptance. I realized that to be able to post the truth I'd have to dispel the myth about my visiting Mike, and that family members here would probably find out. I've decided I don't care.

That morning Shadi and I had to return to Irbid police department to get a stamp on my passport that would save me from a $300 fine upon return to Amman due to our lateness in fixing my permanent residency status (a point you will note we were relaxed on due to our belief that we were leaving the country too soon to care whether I had residency or not), then to race to 8th Circle to run Thakia by Dr. Alaa's as she had torn her stitches the night before. They fit her with a cone of shame and instructed us on the medicine to use, then we booked it to the airport, unable to stop at an electronics store to fetch me a camera. I arrived almost 2 hours before departure, and Shadi, I would learn later, had found a spot near security where he could watch me nervously search for my ticketing desk and deposit my luggage. As I neared security checkpoint 2, I was informed that my flight was suddenly on final boarding call. I race to the terminal to find it half empty, door closed, and all passengers still sitting patiently in the waiting area; they hadn't even begun boarding. I sat there for another hour jiggling my foot to music and knowing that the flirting flight attendants were commenting on my reading and toe-tapping like it was something they'd never seen before. The flight was decent, the food not so bad, and the Australian business-men sitting in front of me kept me more entertained than the inflight gag show. We arrived in Bahrain 25 minutes early, (I had an hour layover according to my ticket), however upon arrival we discover that our transit flight is ALSO in final boarding status. Once again upon arrival this is not the case, but thankfully the wait wasn't so annoying. This flight was longer, but by the time I felt I'd been in the plane half an hour, we were already descending. I could see ocean, which I hadn't seen since I was a child (both my flights to and from Jordan crossed the Atlantic in the dark). Traversing this airport was no problem; I exchanged my money, purchased my 10-day visa which was mercifully cheap, discovered that my 230JD became 140OR, got my luggage, and set off to hunt down Claire. Easily the only white person in the terminal she was a quick find. I had long tired of the stares, glances, and smirks by both the Arabs and Indians throughout my flights and layovers that I decided to douse them in Americanism. "Ya Amreekia!" I bellowed toward Claire and flagged her down spastically, smirking at all the reactions that sparked and not caring one bit. I gave her a blow-by-blow of my trip as we made our way to her car, also enlightening her on my camera dilemma. The decision was made to hit up the closest mall on the way to Nizwa and fetch one, and we did just that, after a grand display of the style of Omani driving I would become accustomed to over the course of my vacation. We found a camera in 5 minutes, and I chose in under 2. I would be introduced to the Omani style of abaya and shayla wearing in that mall, as well as what counted for interior design (spare no expense in the Gulf, baby) before we hit the road to Nizwa.

The clock-tower in Muscat Claire was rather fond of.

Even with the redbull provided via thoughtful Claire, I was still half-out on the way to her place, and, as it was pitch dark, didn't really notice much until we reached her building an hour later. We would chat, eat a tasty meal at a Turkish restaurant near her place where we would run into a few of her friends and I would find 5 black cats all resembling Javanese or Sphynx's, discover quirks about her new apartment (she'd moved in the day before I arrived) and fall asleep, as usual, rather late. Shadi called near midnight, worried to death because I hadn't called when I'd gotten to Muscat. Claire and I decided a phone for me while in Oman might be a good idea; we'd fetch one the next evening.

Claire had classes to hold the following morning, so I stayed in her new town, Hay Al Ain, to explore it and set up the Nawras net connection on my laptop. Net having failed, I ventured outside with my camera in tow to catch whatever was making that god-awful trilling racket outside the kitchen window and ended up meeting one of Claire's neighbors, a nice older British lady named Elaine who was headed to the Falaj Daris hotel for some swimming. She informed me the bird was a collared dove and fairly common around Nizwa. The promise of bird-watching would lure me further into town an hour later, but not before I would seem to break into the neighbor's apartment with my key absurdly thinking it was the door I'd vacated previously. I was assaulted by a belligerent and fearful lady's voice from behind the door, screaming in an unintelligible Bedouin language before discovering my mistake and booking it up the stairs to my true haven. I decided to wander the streets, camera and money in tow, and would discover how insanely quiet Hay al Ain is. Even as the children were bussed home from school, the only sounds in the area was the occasional catcall from a teenager on the vespa-equivalent of a motorbike (meaning you looked just as lame sitting on one of those in a dishdash as anyone wearing anything would look on a Vespa). As I wandered into the parking lot of a modest masjid, a man I had sworn I saw drive by me not 5 minutes ago pulled up alongside me and asked in mixed arabic and english if I needed assistance. I was warned previously by Claire and my own experience that most people who do this for a white lady either assume she's a prostitute or stupid, so regardless of his actual motive I would tell him in my best arabic that I was fine and needed no help. Thankfully he left without incident. After a few more "Azzayik ya binty" and "ya habiiiiiiiibi" 's (Egyptian/Omani dialect for "How are ya, girl?" and  "oh my goodness/my love") I decided to wander down a dirt road heading into some low mountain terrain instead of the paved road of douchepickles. While encountering random herder-less goat herd #1 and some more randomly abandoned bathroom tile, I approached the hilltop and see a ramshackle hut ahead of me. A teenage boy in a white truck pulls alongside of me and I prepare for the usual. Instead, rather emphatically, he informs me in arabic and international mime "Do not go that way or you'll die". I request clarification, and he further mimes a shotgun in my direction. Thus informed, I make an immediate about-face and head back the other direction. I decline his invitation for a ride home, and consider myself lucky I wasn't the cause of an international incident. Apparently a transient family of rather violent Pakistani workers lived beyond that hill, and embraced the redneck version of "stay off my lawn." I hit the local general store (just like the ones in Jordan) for some soda and snacks, then head back to the apartment to watch Ice Age 2, eat, and await Claire's return at 2pm.

The aforementioned modest masjid of Hay al Ain

Mountain view from "dirt road of death"

First of 400 goat herds

 When Claire returns we hit up the LuLu, a local "mall" monstrosity for a cheap phone for me and new sim card for her, grab snacks at the grocery end, get stared at, fetch tasty sammiches at the Nizwa Souk and head home to eat, set up net, talk to our respective male counterparts, and plan the next day's events. I note that everything in Oman, EVERYTHING, has A/C. Awwwww yeaaa.

The next day I accompany Claire to her University as, while it may be a vacation for me, my dear friend still had to work most of the days I was there. I have been to several college campuses in Jordan, but the Uni in Nizwa, newer than most of those colleges and yet not as prestigious, was lovely. Also, that odd quiet, regardless of the din that usually pervades all college campuses, was disquietingly  (totally made that word up) present. The student population here is largely female, with young women 18-20 coming from the local villages and mountain towns; college in Oman is largely free. That said, I have never, in my LIFE, been the subject of more stares from WOMEN. Nearly everyone I passed by had a look for me, mostly curious bordering on gossip-inducing. Claire would explain the lack of white women in this region, and that most were teachers if not students of arabic in the new program. Again I am reintroduced to the Omani style of abaya: overlong flowing fabric with few embellishments and a shayla scarf wrapped loosely and haphazardly ontop of the head. At first I was flummoxed as to how they managed to not trip all over themselves, the fabric not just brushing the ground but sweeping it like the cathedral train of a wedding gown, or a dress that was far too big for the wearer. That's when I chanced to look down. Right, I'd forgotten about Gulf heels. Hooker heels I am accustomed to calling them back home, near platform height to both add to the slenderizing effect of the black abaya and also to avoid tripping over the fabric, although tripping over the heels themselves should also be a constant worry. In some interpretations of the hijab rule in Islam, it is only permissible to show the feet, hands and face which Gulf women cherish with relish. Therefore the shoes, next to the makeup, are the most ostentatious part of a woman's wardrobe. Over the top I'd say, as I have always hated most high-heeled shoes, even as I sold them to other people. After awhile I'd end up desiring that type of abaya, and would get my chance to wear one later on.

First seemed smart, except the haze here is more present than the sun.

Claire's office building; yes those are all date palms.

One of many deluges experienced here; I literally watched this come in.

We visited her office first, where a handful of foreign english teachers sat babbling about the weather and latest scandals. I was most pleased to meet a teacher from Alaska named Ernie that Claire had joked so much about. Voted most likely to be a Tea-Partier I DIDN'T hate, Ernie regaled us with tales of his misadventures in the Alaskan wilderness (also known as Fairbanks), his take on politics including Mrs. Palin, his local trials and tribulations, his jeep, and his many experiences at the local hotspot The Golden Tulip (or Turnip as the expats called it; actually, probably just Ernie). According to Ernie and some of the other experienced teachers, the Turnip (which has a more reputable location in Amman) was the hang-out of Russian and Ukrainian mobsters, and I'm so not kidding. The entertainment provided by the hotel were female singers, hires from the Ukraine and Russia that were rumored to have been kidnapped and forced to work for the mobsters in Nizwa. Ernie said they weren't allowed to leave their rooms at the hotel except to perform every night, and their "keepers" watched all men in attendance very, very closely. He was particularly enamored of a lady named "Tatiana". After making plans to meet up with him at the Turnip later that week, Claire and I booked it to her classroom where her all-female class awaited us. She had previously informed her foundational english class that her American friend would be visiting her for 2 weeks and would come along to class from time to time. Being in the classes was nearly as fun as the rest of the trip, thanks to these amazing girls. As agreed upon the night before, we took care to pretend I spoke no Arabic until the end of the class. As impressed with me as they were in the beginning, especially my clothing choice ("Fashion, teacher!") when I murmured my first arabic retort I'd never seen such excitement. Really? It was nutty when they discovered I could sing, and would request I honor them with a performance in the next class I attended. We ended the class by encouraging one of the students, a girl with incredible beauty and bedouin roots to boot, to sing for us instead. According to Claire and the girls, she had even made a demo recording in Bahrain, but her conservative family and upbringing would never allow her to use her talent that far. Pity. I returned to classes a few more times during my visit, 2 for tests proctoring (where we discovered a 'sophisticated' underground cheating network of writing it on the desk and having the next tester try to copy it; smooth for a 5th grader and one who didn't realize that the tests were different in every class) and one for the singing event (in lieu of our mutual vacation and love of country music, Claire and I would sing "Knee Deep" by the Zach Brown band to great glee and confusion) and each time was memorable and mostly hilarious. I won't forget getting caught in the most random storm of my life, or the nonchalant reactions of the Omanis caught in the same storm (or seeing a water/sand spout alongside the highway)

We spent the vast majority of our nights after classes at a hookah bar down the street, or selecting a different place to eat. I was an avid hookah smoker back home, and friends would forgo hookah bars to come to my place instead. Thanks to tutoring from both Saudis and Palestinians, I had one great home shisha bar. So, needless to say, I was hella excited to experience it in the land it came from. Having not been disappointed in Jordan (argeelah under the stars in the Wadi Rum is a smoking experience I shall never forget) I was keen to see what Oman had to offer. In Nizwa, I was sorely disappointed. Every time we went to this particular place, populated by staring men of course, the argeelah was a sad excuse. Maybe it was the flavors I chose, since Claire's flavors were far tastier, but I was sorely disappointed just the same. Even the hookah at the expensive beach-side restaurant Japengo would not impress me much. Luckily the food would not disappoint. One night, after exploring the famous Nizwa Souk (Nizwa Fort & Historic Souk), we took our meal at a new fish restaurant called One World. The food culture in Oman, like the rest of its heritage, is largely a mix of Indo-Arab influence. Spices abound in this country whereas others, like Jordan, Syria, and some Gulf states as well, lack in fire. We had a fish and prawn combo that may never be duplicated. The Souk and Fort in Nizwa is one of the oldest of such places in Oman. Tourists are welcome to enter the old fort and shop within its walls, weary of being priced for being "white" (the white tax in the Middle East is the new black tax) however the beautiful Masjid is reserved only for Muslims. We decided to not test our luck as it may have been interesting trying to prove Islamic status being white, uncovered women. After receiving a family dinner invite for the following week by Claire's merchant friend, we returned home to plan our weekend.

Remains of one of the older towers still standing.

Over the course of the first week, Claire and I discovered discrepancies in the amenities offered her in her newest apartment. While lavishly furnished, A/C provided and appliances, a major hiccup in the arrangements would prompt our hotel stay that weekend in Muscat. The water. The WATER, for Crissakes' was nearly entirely absent for 4 days. Ever gone without a shower that long? Don't think so. Flushing toilets? Ha, better do it on campus. And to make things worse, her asshat of a resident manager gave us the arab run-around like nobody's business! Claire has been swindled and tossed aside by this expat tenant's nightmare all year. A threat to involve her fiance AND my husband finally got some things done, but I do not envy her in this regard (altho I did envy the rest of her employment package, including her salary, at the time) We decided our next trip would be to Muscat, and we left that morning armed with charged cameras, dying cell phones, and the firm desire of a nice beach ahead. I mentioned earlier that the drive to Nizwa at night was uneventful, even seemingly empty as miles had passed me with very few lights to indicate towns or homes. As we hit the main Oman highway I would discover, to my unparalleled delight, why. Claire could only smirk, having expected my reaction after seeing how her fiance Yasser had taken it, as I gawked and gaped at every sight surrounding her Renoult 4-door sedan. MOUNTAINS. Mountains as I had never seen in my life, even in the glories of states like Utah and Colorado. A literal fishbowl we were in, with cliffs so steep and sharp I couldn't imagine how they'd carved a road through it. Small towns and villages dotted the jagged landscape with centuries-old look-out post forts, miniatures of the Nizwa fort. Pigeon huts made from clay spewed their inhabitants into the sky. I nearly wiped out my camera's battery taking photos and video here.

Either a fort or a pigeon hut along the highway.

One side of the fishbowl.

And the other... HOLY BALLS.

Because I was so intent on saving my camera battery for the beach, I didn't take any photos of the city of Muscat or the drive to the beach Claire knew about. Finding parking was fun, as a beautiful day in Oman meant everyone was out and about. We settled on lunch at this cute little restaurant popular with expats, and I continued my effort to locate the best Limon-Nana (Mint Lemonade beverage) in this or any other world. I settled on a nice tuna melt sandwich and we managed to charge our phones and cameras in the restaurant. I'd brought along my swim-tunic and leggings (although western style swimsuits are fine in Muscat, I preferred not to be harassed anyway) so we changed in the bathroom of what turned out to be a mini-mall the restaurant was a tenant of. After exploring an expensive perfume shop and more expensive Arabic giftshop, we hit the beach. The tide had been high before lunch, but now after 1pm, it had receded and left behind on its near white sands millions and millions of tiny sea-creatures and their former homes. I retrieved bags from the beachfront coffeeshop and Claire and I went to town collecting as many as humanly possible, with me diving into the warm blue ocean every so often. Swimming here was miles better than the public beach for the Red Sea in Aqaba, and I relished every second, but wished my husband had been with me. After about 2 hours we noticed a group of Arabic shabab (young men) slowly following us down the beach, nonchalantly. It was to be expected, however as I was in no mood to deal with the same issue I had in Jordan since this was my VACATION, I approached the group on my own and in my usual arableezi requested that they cease and desist as we were married women on vacation together and were uncomfortable with their presence. Their "Rep" responded in his best english, apologizing and agreeing to stay put as we moved off, handing me a sizeable shell they had found and thought we'd like considering what our current activity was. I thanked them and we headed another way, leaving them behind. At this point I discover a crab scuttling near my feet, and we chase it attempting to catch it for posterity. No dice, but a tide pool full of smaller critters digging into the sand made up for it. The sun began setting after our 3rd hour there, and after one more dip and some sunset photos, we cleaned up and headed out in search of the hotel we had scouted on the net the night before that had good reviews from expat clients.

Told ya.

My last moment on that beach.

Best place for a sun-salutation, amirite?

Our hotel was called "The Beach Hotel" aptly and creatively named due to its close location to said beach. A nice, clean double room greeted us with the best bathroom I've seen in a hotel my whole life. The shower head blasted hot water like a burst water main, and the tub could have fit two. We decided we'd each get a bath later; for now a shower would suffice since the cold slow drip we'd had 2 days before left us pining for a real clean experience. Our evening activity was planned for the Muttrah Souk, a famous city some miles outside of downtown Muscat well-known for its amazing shopping experience and fisheries. It was here that I would achieve my goal of taking home a Gulf-style butterfly abaya, gifted me by Claire as a belated wedding gift. Claire would also purchase what they told us was an abaya meant for weddings, but she looked so fabulous in it there was no question of her taking it anyway. We decided to wear them while we continued our shopping adventure, finding things here and there to take home to my family. After 2 hours, we got feeling more than a bit peckish, so we headed back into Muscat proper for a dinner down on the beach. Our original destination was a well-known spot called Tche Tche, but after being seated in a niche surrounded by shabab we chose to trek down the road a bit to another place called Japengo. It is at this juncture that I finally discovered where all the disgusting desperate men hung out in Oman. In Jordan, they were everywhere and anywhere; you'd never know what situation you could end up in. That whole week in Oman the only annoyance we'd received was at the hand of Indian workers in Nizwa. To find dinner tonight, we had to traverse the well-known trap that was the Shatti-Al Qurm. Apparently, when the sun set anyone was who anyone and anyone who was no one drove up and down this road soliciting hoots, howls and catcalls from enormous groups of young men on the sidewalks on either side. Even Claire, fully decked out in abaya and hijab (I had abandoned mine in the car) was not left out. After passing 2 such groups with only calls, we hit a would-be biker gang just waiting for us. "Hark! A herd of Douche!" I cried, knowing what awaited us. I was not wrong. Mixed english and arabic whistles and calls met us, and no english swearing or nasty hand gestures were spared by either of us, but unlike Jordanian shabab, they were not daunted. At reaching Japengo, Claire finally shouted "Qussimich!" (this word, meaning "your mother's *****" is possibly one of the most inflammatory arabic statements) The doucheherd fell into shocked silence, possibly at the fact that a white girl knew how to swear as good as any of them. She would later lament her use of the female tense, but I assured her that the message reached them all the same. It was while we sat ourselves we ran into an Indo-Omani acquaintance I had known in college named Haneen. She and a group of her fashionable Muscat friends were seated beside us, and we made idle plans to meet for coffee later that week that never happened. She was scandalized at our encounter with the bike-riding shabab down the street and was sure they would come after us. I was unfazed, even after one rode around the circumference of the restaurant more than once that night. The food and argeelah was decent, despite the high price, and we enjoyed a nice night near the beach.

Entrance to the Muttrah Souk.

One wing of the ginormous souk.

Upon returning to our hotel, we settled on a swim in the private pool that was walled on either side by portions of the hotel, sparing us sidewalk onlookers. However, after 20 minutes and a man watching from a balcony, we chose to return to our room for the promise of a hot bath and talking on the phone to our respective spouses. That bath, btw, was one of the most sublime experiences of my life abroad. I weep inwardly every time I take a bath at home. In the morning we snagged some Caribou coffee and headed back to Nizwa as we were set to have lunch with Ahmed the Merchant's family at his home near the Souk. We picked him up at closing time, since Friday was a half-day for the souk, and made it to his neighborhood filled with old homes and more date palms. Ahmed's family homestead turned out to be nothing short of a zoo, and I mean the literal kind. Every sort of animal either wandered his yard or sat in large cages, including domestic cats! His yard had flooded with the litter rain that we'd gotten days before, and flies were everywhere. As it turned out, his wife and kids were eating with her family, and we were alone save the presence (guessed) of his own mother who'd made lunch in the form of an Omani fish beryani. We ate with our hands, and discussed differences in Jordanian custom vs. Omani tradition. I slyly snuck in a jibe about how Jordanians would never allow 2 young women alone with a man who was not their relative or husband. I took his blush to be the proper amount of shame in assuming rules didn't apply to foreigners. After lunch he took us around town to show us the old mosque and the falaj park. We returned home after Asr. Claire would allow me to drive her car while she worked that week, and I spent that time adventuring in places off the beaten path: the falaj daris, a date palm and banana farm, a neighborhood near said farm, and abandoned roadside mini-fort, and the LuLu learning to use Omani currency (called the Omani Riyal; OMR) Taking a picture of a man-made water fall at the Daris I encountered a group of women washing their carpets in it, right next to a sign in english and arabic forbidding said act. One of the women , an older motherly type, spotted my camera and freaked out, calling "Ma fi soura! Ma feesh!" (I want no pictures! None!)while her daughters calmed her and translated my arableezi indicating I only wanted the falaj and no women were in my pictures. It is a normal custom that women not be photographed without permission, but in Oman I sensed even more. We were close to Bahla, that interestingly paranoid town where magic was very much alive and a great fear. Could I also have been stealing her soul? Not a very Islamic concept, but not unlikely considering where I was.

One of the many inmate's at Ahmed's home zoo.

The aforementioned falaj

Date and banana palms at the falaj park.

A falls at the Falaj Daris

A wadi on the way to Jabal Akhdar (Green Mountain)

The rest of the week passed in hookah bars, a nice Indian restaurant, one more visit to U Nizwa and some goodbyes to Alaskan Ernie, as well as some last minute gift purchases, henna tattoo experiments and red hair henna dying. I was homesick for Shadi and couldn't wait to get to him, but the thought of leaving Oman was awful. I resolved to get us here to live, at least for awhile, as soon as I could. Claire dropped me off at the Muscat Int'l Airport and another nutty plane-ride home ensued. I spent 5 hours on a layover in Bahrain reading a book Claire had lent me "Girls of Riyadh" (one that had been ironically banned in Riyadh due to its content, talking about the sordid personal lives of Saudi women) and managed to finish it before boarding the flight for Amman. Shadi awaited me at the terminal, and we were both greeted by my first "mud-rain", a rain that contained so many dirt particles that cars and everything were coated in a nice layer of dust for days to come. Sleep was both hard and easy that night, missing the mountains and odd quiet atmosphere, but gladder than ever to be back to the love of my life.

Bahrain Int'l Airport, view from my terminal.

Fort or what?

Peppercorn's Indian Restaurant, tasty place popular with Expats.

The monstrosity that was the Lulu Hypermarket.

View from the datepalm farm.

The Falaj Daris family park near Hay Al Ain.

Baking In When Its Baking Out & The Red Queen

Lately I have been attempting to improve skills I possess while stuck in Jordan with nothing much to occupy me. I know I can cook well; many reviews from friends and family confirm this. My baking skills however are lacking severely. I think it has to do with mathematics, my archenemy. With cooking entrees, many things can be "eyeballed" or to the taste; alot of things can be substituted, adapted or interpreted. With baking however, there really is no such thing as eyeballing the ingredients; doing so can ruin a perfectly good recipe. 1 cup, 1/3 of a cup, 2 tbsp, 3 liters, etc etc etc. All numbers, all exact... all plotting against me. The ingredients I had come to love in entree cooking hate me when I associate them with baking powder or eggs. Cornstarch, flour, sugar, milk (and wtf is cream of tartar??) In baking there is no substitution, or very little chance of it. Its even worse when you live in a country that has never even HEARD of some of your very normal ingredients that you took for granted back home.


Jordan, this is cream of tartar:

You have the brand, how come you don't have THIS?

Ontop of which, ovens here are not electric. Unless you make 2 grand per month, you can't even think of an electricity bill that could cover an electric oven (don't get me started on electric washers/dryers and AC). All are run on propane, and you can imagine trying to bake cookies on a camping stove. Its like that. Its even hard to make the classic entrees I'm an expert at making without burning it, overcooking it, undercooking it, or taking an hour when it should take 20 minutes. Its not just the oven, its the cookware. Unless you can shell out 80 dinar (which is 160 bucks in the US) when you only make 350JD per month, you are using the wedding cookery some family member got you that should only serve as decoration. Hence overcooking and burning by the ton. Even when you do have these, like at my mother-in law's house, we're missing one essential thing: mixing bowls. Now anything, you say, can be used as a mixing bowl. Yes, and nooooo. Yes when its a spoon or spatula; no, when its a hand mixer. Today was proof, when my sloppy lemon frosting was pit all over the walls and floor of the kitchen (the one I spent cleaning all day yesterday) Since last week I have been attempting lemon bars, one of my favorites. The first was a tasty disaster. The second attempt in Irbid at my friend Aubrey's house, though thin, was a great success. Last night they looked even better, but with the cream cheese additive to temper the sugar amounts, we lost much flavor. Younger bro in law wouldn't eat it, and I couldn't stop him from eating the 2nd batch before. I intend to, despite my baking history and missing items, be the bakerwoman from Drury Lane by the time I return to the States.

Miss you guys.... :-(

On a more somber note, every time I go to the store here I am painfully reminded of something that's missing or different. Last week it was corn meal; 2 days ago it was a martyr.

Victims and refugees from Duraa routinely make it to Ramtha for aid and asylum. Sadly, many of them only come here to die. 2 days ago Issam Ali Alfashtki escaped to Ramtha only to die later on that day. Residents declared him a martyr or "shaheed" and began a funeral procession the next day to bury him in the local cemetery as getting his body back to a bombed out Duraa was next to impossible. Having a shaheed buried near your relatives is like being buried in the holy land soil of the Sedlec Ossuary (Sedlec Ossuary) or Church of Bones, so naturally those involved considered it an honor. All except a few. In Ramtha there is a small tribe of people who identify as Shia, and as the Shia have been big supporters of Syrian Basha, especially Hezbollah, most of them do not celebrate the dead as martyrs but as traitors. As the funeral procession began, members of this tribe threw trash, stones, and excrement at the body and funeral party. The man was eventually buried, but the outrage caused a protest today at the town Capital building to insist upon the culprits being forced to apologize and make up for their behavior. My brother witnessed it on his way back from school today. In Ramtha, we hear fireworks every night since the spring started; its wedding season. In Syria, the exploding sound is greeted differently, and lights in the sky signal terror. My heart goes out to those suffering people, who could have easily been my husband and his family had the border been just a few miles further inland.

U.N. May Lose Ceasefire
Syrian Citizen Mass Exodus 

No One Likes A Censor

Shadi and I were watching "V for Vendetta" on MBC2, a movie channel owned by Saudi Billionaire and Prince Al Waleed Bin Talal, when I noticed a scene was missing. Beforehand some dialogue had been deleted, but since I agreed they lent nothing to furthering the plotline, they wouldn't be missed by people who'd never seen it. But this one, while not entirely shocking to me, was mildly insulting. The scene I speak of is when Gordon Dietrich shows Evey Hammond his rut-gut room behind his wine cellar that contains all of his banned and illegal items, including a poster of the leader dressed as the Queen of England (titled "God Save The Queen") , a Quran, and finally several photos showing homosexual fetishes. Now while its not entirely necessary to the plot; after all the reason he gets arrested initially is because of the parody of the President he aires, but we find out later he is killed in detention because of the Quran and homosexual desires he harbors. The reason it didn't shock me is because I live in an Arab country. For those who don't know this, Arabs are notoriously homophobic. Some claim its due to Islam, but then the Bible says things against homosexuality too, and yet in a christian nation, while under tough circumstances, we are legalizing gay marriages. But I digress. While I expressed my anger at the deletion of a scene like that, I reasoned that the next scene where Valerie tells her story would not be omitted due to its importance to the entire narrative. Wrong. While the remaining footage of Valerie's tale made some sort of vague sense, the omission of her sexual orientation completely confuses you as to why she was arrested in the first place, as all characters in this movie have a legitimate to the government reason.

This isn't the first time I noticed odd censorship, or what I considered to be odd. While on the plane to Jordan last August I watched "Tangled" on their movie list and noticed, though never having seen the movie, that all scenes where kissing or touching existed were entirely blocked out. Even in "You've Got Mail" the last scene only showed her crying and the sky at the end. The former was annoying, the latter set my eyes to permanent narrow as I have a great love for that movie and HATE when key scenes are "missing". Now Royal Jordanian airlines is a government airline, and the government is supposedly "Islamic" so I assumed that was part of an Islamic censorship that kind of sort of made sense. But on a channel like MBC2 and its partners MBC MAX, MBC3 and MBC ACTION where violence and somewhat woman to male sexually explicit scenes are at least hinted at, the deletion of a scene where no gay sex or etc was shown, merely the idea that the character was homosexual, is one of the most bigoted things I have yet to see in Jordan.


Another strange and somewhat out of place behavior I have noted, especially living in Ramtha, is how animals are treated. Livestock, like cows, chickens, goats, and sheep are treated with something bordering on reverence (being a large part of the economy here its no surprise) animals that lend absolutely nothing to the GDP or taste nice with bread are completely and utterly disregarded. Well, for the most part. Cats and dogs especially fit that criterion. Dogs are already viewed as unclean and vermin thanks to hadith, some weak and some affirmed that states say a black dog is a devil, that angels do not enter homes with dogs in them, that etc etc. Hadith Regarding Dogs I would mention that some of the hadith quoted on this page I would consider weak and not to rely solely upon it, but I know many people here who do so. A hadith is a statement of remembrance by a Companion of the Prophet, recalling an event or the answer to a question they put forth to him. We use hadith to vet parts of the Quran, and vice versa. Consider it a Spark Notes. These recalled statements are put through incredible scrutiny by Islamic scholars, both now and in the past. Many have been revealed as False Hadith, or statements that were incorrectly attributed to The Prophet. Others are weak, here meaning that the method of scrutiny this particular one underwent did not yield satisfying results as to its authenticity, but did not also render too much against it. Strong hadith are vetted and verified, most of which can be found in Sahih Bukhari, written by a scholar hundreds of years ago we still use today. The negative hadith regarding dogs, or at least a fair amount of them, I myself consider and many scholars also gave opinions on their lack of authenticity. The ones that ring true to me can luckily be found in Sahih Bukhari, like this one:

Hadith - Bukhari 4:538, Narrated Abu Huraira

Allah's Apostle said, "A prostitute was forgiven by Allah, because, passing by a panting dog near a well and seeing that the dog was about to die of thirst, she took off her shoe, and tying it with her head-cover she drew out some water for it. So, Allah forgave her because of that."

Dogs are even mentioned quite extensively in the positive in the Quran, such as Surat al-Maedah (The Feast) and Surat al-Kaf, the latter of the two we read on Jumaa (Friday is Holy) in its entirety. And so with so much evidence in their favor, I am shocked at their treatment in small towns like mine. Many Bedouin keep dogs to heard their cattle or sheep, as the hadith and Quran instruct, and I have seen many on the road.

And I've mentioned before, cats have it even worse. Although there is no negative mention of cats either in the Quran or Hadith (in fact its know that the Prophet had a cat of his own), they are one of the most mistreated creatures here.

 :( Young children are especially vicious. Young boys are the worst, treating them often like science experiments or experiments in cruelty. I will not relate the worst of what I've heard and seen. The nicest possible story I can tell you regarding the torture of cats happened in Ramadan last year; this tale I related in my  earlier posts. It was fajr time and Shadi had gone to pray in masjid; I stayed home of course. We slept on the roof in those days since the heat allowed for better sleep closer to wind. I was awaiting Shadi's return when I heard a heart-breaking set of cries (by that I mean meowing) so I got up to search for it from the rooftop. What I saw made me charge downstairs in my pajamas ready to fight tooth and nail. A12-14 year old boy was throwing rocks at a 3-month old kitten and its mother. The mother was ontop of a high wall, and the kitten at the bottom trying to ninja climb its way back to its mother after falling. The mother would try to jump down and grab him, but the boy would aim a rock and she would have to climb up again. He aimed rocks at the kitten, knocking it down everytime it made progress. Incensed I barreled out the door and straight into Shadi where, hysterical, I related the event that was going on and he followed on my heels. Not giving a crap whether he spoke English or not, I thoroughly berated him in the harsh words of my own invent, while Shadi stepped in and chased him off, threatening to go to his mother and father as he was a neighbor and we were well acquainted with them. We stayed until the kitten made it back to its mother and Shadi ushered me back to the roof. Needless to say my hero husband went up a few points :) But this is only the most innocent of things I've seen and been subject to. I've been told that cats spread disease to humans, pregnant women, that they are dirty because they eat trash (its all the have to eat since game is scarce and you throw your trash EVERYWHERE) and etc. My mother in law cannot stand fur on her couch and carpet, the cats sleeping with us for fear we might choke on said hair in the night, and other paranoid delusions regarding cats. Yes, cats can spread disease, just like humans who give each other diseases and viruses all the damned time. If you and your cat are healthy, then there's no worry. I don't hope to change the minds of everyone, but in working with Dr. Ala'a at Vetzone Veterinary clinic in 8th Circle Amman I hope to reduce the amount of suffering animals exposed to this type of mentality and behavior.


Speaking of cats, I believe the male cats in my yard are pedophiles. My youngest pet, Thakia, is a 4 1/2 month old kitten from Amman who has been subject to their persistent and unwanted attention since we moved here. We've witnessed 4 cats chasing after her and cornering her at one time; 5 this morning. They tried with Firdaus but she nearly took an eye out, so most of the attention has left her. Thakia runs to Momma every chance she can, and we can only throw so many hafaya (sandals/slippers) their way. My latest idea is to fill water guns with cat repellent and take pot shots from the porch. Report on that soon. Vaya con Dios. 

Grief In The Arab World

This Post was meant to be published several weeks ago when brother-in law Rakan was visiting; here it is:






Last weekend, as we were preparing to greet Momma *Anya , *Tamer, and *Rashad on their return from Medina, we arrived to a scene of grief rather than of celebration. Our cousin Ali passed away at King Abdullah University Hospital while our immediate family was visiting. He had been suffering from complications of Diabetes, a common affliction here, and had previously had his leg removed 2 weeks before as an attempt to control said complications. It was an unexpected turn for the worst, and when we made it home I prepared myself for a new experience. When I visiting back in March/Apr 2010, the day Shadi and I were returning from our "honeymoon" trip was the day his Grandfather died. We did not learn this until we made it back to Ramtha as our phone battery had died and the tour provided nowhere to recharge it. For 3 days we attended traditional mourning meetings at the house of the eldest son while the men attended divan. A "divan", closely related to its english cognate denoting a couch is a meeting place for the particular tribe or family in cases such as death, marriage, or regional strife. Only the men attend a divan; it can be a well constructed building or a hastily put-up tent. I've seen both. The Alkhazaleh family divan is located nearest to the house of the eldest patriarch, Shadi's father's father, and it overlooks the road to the borders of Syria. The women, in the event of a death, alternatively pay their respects to the surviving females such as the mother, widow and daughters at the house of the deceased. When I attended back in April, the scene was sad but still mostly upbeat as Shadi had recently married and I was a novelty. It was more like an awkward meeting than a funeral.



This time, however, Ali had only passed a few hours since, and this day was not part of the Islamically mandated 3-day mourning period. (Islamic Funeral Traditions) The street surrounding the house was packed with cars and men lined up outside Ali's house while women slipped in silently to the home of the mother, Aunt Naimaa. Shadi and Rakan could not come with me, so I entered with house at the side of a familiar 9-year old female cousin. Immediately I felt intrusive. In Islam it is not permitted to grieve aloud such as wailing, screaming, and other violent displays of despair. All the women, lining the walls of each room, sat silently, not speaking to one another. Every woman, even those I did not recognize as members of the family, were crying or sniffling soundlessly. At home in the US, when we come upon a grieving person we offer comfort, words, and offer a shoulder. So, naturally, my first inclination was to clasp the hand of the nearest relative and express my condolences. However, when I did so, I could feel the eyes on me and temperature of the room became coldly confusing. I had done something wrong, but what was it? I retreated to the nearest corner and sat down near another young cousin. This time, though, I knew I could offer my condolences to her and her demeanor would not change. Any person who is new to a family or a circle can attest to the awkwardness of being present or witness to an event that one has no ability to sympathize with. The 2 other new brides to the family were not cousins also, like myself, and so sat in contemplative silence as I did. We did not acknowledge one another. Perhaps you, like my husband, find these words of discomfort to sound as if from the mouth of a stuck-up person who is merely over-dramatizing. I assure you that if you had been present, no matter how many funerals and such you had attended back in the US, you would be relating my same tale. I felt, as I said before, intrusive and unwelcome, as if I were a stranger who had stumbled into someone else's hospital room. I had no grief to feel for poor Ali as I had only met him once, at the hospital some weeks previously. I could not cry or even look more than sorry, and I felt like I should not be here in this sanctuary for the despairing if I could not even muster a sympathetic tear. Then I heard Aunt Naimaa cry aloud from the next room in grief-stricken arabic. "يا بيي! يا بيي!" and "يا امة!" and all the women began to cry audibly. This I can relate to. When I was 18, my boss Jennifer Zavack died suddenly of a heart attack. She was my age, only 26, when it happened. The entire movie theater crew attended the services in a Jewish cemetery, and I couldn't help but cry hard and audibly. According to my coworkers my tears made them cry when they hadn't been on their own. Even my hard as rocks manager Sean Seyer cried because of me. I did not find tears, however, until I heard Aunt Naimaa scream يا الله، لماذا لم تأخذ ابني قبلي؟" (the arabic I present here is the modern standard; the words were spoken in Ramthowy, the local dialect I have a hard time spelling)

Unfortunately I had just reached "my moon time" this very week and was experiencing painful cramps even as this event occurred. My cousin nearest me assumed I was cold and in pain and ushered me to the kitchen to sit with the younger, injured, and pregnant women near the space heater. I stayed there with Ali's sister and my favorite cousin Rusia until my husband came to fetch me home. The pain of the cramps caused another cousin to run for Shadi and bid him take me home. I was grateful, as the intruder feeling had not left me despite my 1 1/2 hours there. I did not attend the funeral the next day, on Yeom Al-Jumaa (friday holy day) because of this feeling (and the pain) A muslim must be buried as soon as possible after death so that he may await the Day of Judgement in his grave as is prescribed in the Quran. Mostly men attend burial, but women are not restricted from it. We spent the rest of the weekend together not attending to the women; Shadi, Thamer and Rakan would attend divan until it was time for us to go.

This week was spent getting our landlord off our backs with a full rental payment, watching newly acquired movies, doing laundry the ghetto way, and on Wednesday Shadi treated me by taking me to the City Mall for the fast-food equivalent of Indian food.