Always Room For Jello At The Hatter's Tea Party

Its only been 2 1/2 weeks, and the days are starting to bleed together. Everything I relate to you in this post has no real chronological order since I cannot recall said order.

Babba Hassan took charge of ordering, assigning, and delivering the wedding invitations. Everything in Jordan, it seems, is done at the last minute. For instance, the wedding is in 5 days and invites are still being hand-delivered to homes. Apparently mail takes forever here. I will post a picture of the invites soon; Shadi's cell camera is all we have at the moment and it takes crappy pictures. There was a little tiff regarding the wording of the invites when I finally saw them: I, the Bride, am not mentioned AT ALL. As I come to understand it, the groom's family issues invites and the wording is similar to a US invite as such: "Mr. Hassan Mahmoud Khazaaleh invites you to the wedding of his son, Shadi, at this date and time blah blah to the daughter of bla bla Elena..." except, since no one knows my father here, my mention gets the boot. Maybe its petty, but I feel kind of like the anonymous or inconsequential bride (despite the fact that I KNOW everyone invited will come to this wedding especially; all the arabs I know love scandal or intrigue) Anyway, I don't know who is invited other than random family members I have met or, as was the case of last night, a girl I'd been running into at masjid every other night and her family. She remarks to me in her broken english that I am to be married in 7 days and that she is attending the wedding. She also inquires about my "foustan"/dress, and upon hearing its from the states and not from Jordan a worried look crosses her face. Understanding of course she believes, like all the rest here, that American apparel is all inappropriate and scandalous, I assure her that my dress is just fine.

We had to return to Irbid a few days ago to register my presence in Jordan and to begin the process of applying for citizenship. A nice taxi driver who worked in NY for 7 years was our chaperone across town for the first half of the day. The police station and registration office, it turns out, is all the way out in East Jesus. Thank Allah for an air-conditioned cab. Along the way we discover that the city morgue has the best view in town; perched atop a scaling hill it peers down into a large valley that when green I'm sure is beautiful. At the police station I am cheered to see at least 6 hijabi female cops busy at work, none looking like women you want to mess with. The registration/application process is long, drawn-out and complicated, making me feel right at home of course. Hello, Bureaucracy! As we wait we come across another Jordanian man registering his Ukrainian wife and she and I size each other up accordingly. This reminds me, of course, of a story Shadi had told me earlier this week about his family. Apparently 25 years ago, his cousin Sami married a Ukrainian woman and brought her here. Some years later however, he would die of some illness, leaving behind his wife and 2 children. As it turns out, his brother would marry the widow in turn. In Islam it is allowed and sometimes encouraged to marry the widows of your brothers or cousins, etc as a way to keep the women in the family. It also dates back to the time of the Prophet where many husbands were killed in battles for Islam, leaving behind many widows or orphans. A revelation n the Qur'an would take care of that. Anyway, they've been married now over 20 years. My hope is that they eventually fell in love, hopeless romantic that I am. Meanwhile, back at the Ranch, we go upstairs, downstairs, back to the cab, copy our Ids, back to the station, and off to where my entire hand, left and right, are printed with the stickiest ink ever. A german woman also seeking citizenship helps us locate a sink which is apparently located in the police station barbershop. No camera, but a barber shop. Oh, Jordan. Naturally everyone in the building follows my movements like paparazzi as my type of personality and behavior is clearly not something seen in this country. When finished, we are informed i have a 3-month temporary grant to return Nov 8 to complete more paperwork and pay more money. Lovely.

All we have left to do is make a payment to the فندق/ hotel and are once again forced to prove our marital status. With his minimal english a manager deigns to tell me its just country policy after I bristle at the request, and Shadi remarks that he thinks it should be that way. I won't get into the reasons I disagree. It is only 2pm by the time our normal errands are over, and since neither of us are eager to go home, we make a trip to the Safeway again to fetch more koolaid  (oh yea!). Once inside however we also end up with M&M's and Oreo Cookies, as well as tweezers and Colgate toothpaste (the last 2 my desire for western hygiene products). Firstly I note that soda can and soda bottle shapes are of course different here, as well as sizes. This cracks me up:

16-32oz representative in liters, respectively. Too lazy to convert.

And then it gets even better:

Hijabi flakes! Way to stay current.

And of course, the piece du resistance:

Introducing Hijabi Barbie!

Abaya included! ZOMG!

Of course as we leave I am in a fey fit of humor and that carries us, heat or no, all the way back home where Momma Aicha soundly reprimands Shadi for spending money he shouldn't have (me not knowing he was broke till payday) and kisses me for taking her side (as someone who is famously terrible with money management, I felt it necessary to avoid  happening here with my husband).



That night, on our nightly walk, I express a desire to hunt down the elusive Ferris Wheel we'd spotted at a distance. Once we arrived we found it functional in a mini carnival that took permanent residency here. We got tickets, and discovered that the man operating the rickety looking machine had actually shared a taxi with us back in April when he remarked to Shadi "now she will take lots of pictures like she did of you when you were sleeping" referring to the video I snuck of him while he snoozed in the cab last Spring. I guess its easy to remember such an event, both "white" people and tourist photos being an oddity in Ramtha. Its on the ride, a thing Shadi has never been on, that I once again lament he camera and only manage to get these shots:

The view of Southern Ramtha at the top of the wheel.

With the low buildings, can be spotted over a mile away.

On the way back we stop at his cousin Aia's house, one of the few relations who speak English. Its a beautiful house with an even more fabulous evening view than the Ferris Wheel. I am seated with the women and the young baby Zaid. Aia's mom serves me several snack courses starting with tea, water, candy, fruit, and qatayef. I can feel myself getting fatter and when I remark so I am greeted with uproarious laughter by the girls. This family, in stark contrast to Shadi's, is populated of 5 girls and 1 boy. The eldest girl, I am glad to learn, is a 29 year old OBGYN who only now has had her first child, little Zaid, and only recently married as opposed to Shadi's soon to marry 15 yr old cousin. The other girls are in Uni or have graduated, like Aia who will go on to be a nurse and cherishes a wish to work at KAUH (King Abdullah University Hospital) Most of them speak fair english. The baby is adorable, and keeps wandering on his knees outside to the patio where the men are chilling. At the end of the evening they serve us a jello mold remarkably similar to this:

I remark to Shadi the american idiom: There's always room for jello.

His Uncle offers to drive us home, and that night we rest, pray, rest some more, nearly miss fajr, and I get sick again from trouble digesting the food here. Almost everything is fried, and contrary to foreign belief, American dinners do not mostly consist of McDonalds or KFC.

As Many As 6 Impossible Things Before Breakfast

The last couple of days have been affected by the first thing that occurred on Saturday morning. Shadi and I more than often sleep on the roof as it is the coolest part of the house while the sun is below the noon. Saturday is the last weekend day in Jordan (as opposed to Sat/Sun in the West, it is Fri/Sat in Jordan) but since Shadi has taken off both the last 10 days of Ramadan and a week after our wedding for our mini-break in Irbid, getting up early was not a priority. We had planned to mayhaps do some shopping with his mother in town that day after Dhuhr prayer. Shadi had already gone downstairs to make wudu and attend prayer at the local masjid, and at 12:45 it was baking on the roof, so I decided to join the family in the second coolest part of the house, the living room. There is a painted over stone staircase that climbs unevenly to the roof, and on Friday I had slid a bit and bashed my arm on the stone "railing". Today was different.

Readers, I fell. I use the word "fell" to describe what happened although ferociously slid might also work in this instance. The top stair is 1.5 inches higher and longer, and on a slant, than the corresponding step below it. Sliding on this, I pitched backwards and slammed into the next stair, left calf first, then right butt-cheek and slid on my wrists all the way down, screaming as I went. No sooner had I landed at the bottom than my Father-in-Law and brother Thamer came racing up from the living room to help me. Shadi came seconds later and would carry me to the floor cushion despite my protests (the unorthodox way he carried me, which was underneath my butt, caused me considerable pain). Momma Aicha brought an ice pack and began assessing my injuries as I had fallen on my ankle. In the end we determined I'd sustained 4 contusions (according to future doctor brother, level 3-4 respectively) and a few abrasions. My wrist swelled slightly as did my left ankle. It was incredible luck or last-minute forward thinking that I'd leaned backwards when I felt myself falling or Momma Aicha said I could have broken my ankle. 11 days before my wedding was no time to do myself such an injury. I'd escaped a hospital visit, but I haven't had bruises this painful since I crashed into my Aunt's truckbed on my bike (my knee was black and blue for a week and stiff, hard to move). I've been praying on a chair for the past few days as coming up from sujood caused me considerable pain. The plate-sized bruises still in residence had better be gone from my sight by the time my "rehearsal dinner" comes around.

The meal Momma Aicha made that night more than cheered me from missing shopping that day. Look below:

3 of the dishes present I have already introduced you to; the bottle at the top right is Mazola, a mayo.

I declined Tarawee that night for obvious reasons, and I slept early that night. Yesterday we went to Irbid to run errands, starting of course at 8:30 since Babba Hassan was to drop Rakan off at King Hussein Hospital for some outpatient surgery. When we arrived at the police station to report my arrival in town, despite the mass presence of police officers we were informed that they probably wouldn't open till 10:30 or 11am, and would close at 2pm. I miss American beaurocracy; at least you can count on the boys in blue (ones here wear blue too) to be open 24 hours. So we hailed a cab (only having around 40 dinar on us for errands since Shadi didn't get paid until the end of the month; 36 of it being mine and all I had in the world since I had to use my emergency fund to take my 3rd baggage with me aboard the flight) Our first stop was a favorite place of mine, the office of the official documents translator. In a previous post, on my first visit to Jordan, I mentioned that his office was something straight out of a Rudyard Kipling novel. Except the addition of a tv to replace government radio, it was exactly how I'd remembered it.

The patio that overlooked the Market street; note the sulhaffa.

My favorite shot

Left wall of the outer office; parakeets, canaries, and a lovebird.

The sulhaffa! Came right up to me when I stepped on the porch

Canaries and 3 infant blue budgies

The man informed us it would take an hour to translate our marriage contract/niqaa, so we decided to window shop in the interim. After 3 stores of women's clothing and accessories (not much choice, that was the scene of this particular street) we found a store that sold what I was looking for (solid color, non-fru fru looking hijab scarves) An amira set (the easy pull-over kind; Mine looks like this ) another long flowered scarf and a blue headcap to match only set us back 5 dinar (the US$ equivalent of $7) and I'm over the moon. The amira alone both online and at the hijab store the girls and I used to frequent typically runs $9-10, a cap from $3-5, and a scarf $12-15. I walk out with a value of over $30 for 23% of that. Needless to say I will be shopping again very soon. We return to the office, help finish off the translation and verify it, then catch a cab to the Irbid Plaza Hotel. Our relatives had suggested Aphamia, which after my extensive expat review search yielded very little to say and only an archived facebook page rather than a fully functional webpage, I had declined. Irbid only has 3 hotels, and the plaza is the best. Aphamia would be a mid-range, and Al-Juede would be a notorious motel in Western standards. We'll spend our wedding night and mini-break here. I'm pleased with the hotel and location, as it is surrounded by shops, and both western/jordanian eateries such as McD's, Papa Johns, Lee's, Pizza Hut, Subway, and KFC.

Afterwards we hit the local Safeway in search of ingredients to make biscuits and gravy for suhoor, and I am disappointed that very little Western items exist at this location. At the very least I find Tropicana Orange Juice I'd been craving as well as kool-aid which is now a hit at the Khazaaleh house. I also found what I'd come for in the first place, Meow Mix cat food for Firdaus. No more feeding her table scraps, and no more eating whenever she smells meat. Her feeding schedule starts today. We catch a cab back to Ramtha and home to store the cold items and to take a nap after being told by the police station we had to go back to Irbid, only to be told we had an appointment with cousin Mariam and Momma Aicha to go BACK to Irbid and set up my salon appointments for Aug 29 and Sept 1, respectively. Exhausted and starving we protest, and when Momma Aicha discovers that Babba Hassan had not told us this in advance she chews him out soundly in arabic. Prayer, a short nap and we are out again driven to Irbid by Ashraf. This is another instance where I witness other people plan my wedding. I cannot understand a word they say, also because I know nothing about beauty salons, especially the arab version. I return for a cleansing in a week, then on the day of my wedding I will spend 6 hours here being prepped. Shadi will join me afterwards for pictures, and then off to the hall he showed me which for standards of buildings around here is rather nice. Momma Aicha and Mariam then insist on traversing market street on foot, in several layers of clothing, to search for jewelry, wedding shoes, and to my horror, wedding "underwear". My facial expression is still causing Shadi random laughter. I tell you buying sexy lingerie to wear on your wedding night with your in-laws in something I won't readily forget. Shadi doesn't understand my horror, or the image I cannot get out of my head when Momma Aicha remarked that my choice in lingerie was her "favorite one". Also, the combustive laughter I couldn't contain when I read the translation of our marriage contract and saw next to Shadi's "single" status, my status was marked "virgin". I'm still laughing.

That day we get very little sleep as we are due at Mariam's mother Turkia's house for iftar. A massive spread of food including lamb, grape leaves, a meat dumpling and yogurt type gravy, and a variation of kusa awaits us. I am singularly interested in the beverages only as today's events left me dehydrated as never before. Tang, water, and pomegranate Shani satisfy me. I am to spend the evening with these women as the men are in another room and Shadi goes off to Tarawee at Masjid Hamza. In typical arab fashion, after dinner I am served mass amounts of tea, followed by coffee and katayef, then fruit which Momma Aicha bullies me into eating. In between servings I fall asleep and awake to find even more women talking over my head in arabic about my wedding. It is nearly 11 and Shadi is not back. I asked him to return to me after Tarawee to fetch me home as I was exhausted. I inquire Momma Aicha as to his location, and she says he's been back since 10. Adrenaline from anger wakes me at being forgotten by my fiance yet again, and he is summoned to my side to take me home. I berate him soundly all the way home, and we attempt to get some sleep before suhoor.

This little girl, named Sidra, is the bane of my existence.

Sandra however, was adorable.

Shadi wakes me for suhoor but I am not hungry I find. 2 glasses each of water and Tropicana satisfy me, and as I go to the roof once more, and Shadi is praying at masjid, I hear pitiful cries of a kitten. As I look to the street, I see a boy around Thamer's age or younger throwing stones at a cat that seems to keep putting itself in harms way. I yell to stop in arabic, but am unheeded. As I run outside to accost the child, Shadi catches me and I tell him my errand. We hurry to the scene and it makes me want to cry. A  2 month old kitten is at the bottom of a 7 foot wall wailing up at its mother at the top. The boy was throwing large stones at it as it tried to climb the wall back to its mother. The mother's attempt to fetch it herself were blocked by the stones. Shadi begins to shout at the boy to stop as I attempt to corral the poor kitten. It looks just like Firdaus. She is scared however and avoids me. The boy continues despite our anger to throw stones and Shadi stops him. A little girl who was watching comes up to stand beside me and stare at me while the baby finally makes it up the wall and to the safety of its mother. My fiance is redeemed of his earlier transgression by being a hero. :* We stay up awhile longer to watch on both Al-Jazeera and CNN as more and more of طرابلس or Tripoli's districts fall to the revolution. We are certain Qaddafi's days are numbered. :) It is great to watch a true revolution in the region experiencing it. We can only hope Syria is next. Viva La Revolucion!

How Doth The Little Crocodile

Yesterday promised to be another one of those either slow and monotonous days, or the quick kind due to my sleeping all day. It was neither; I woke earlier than I have in the previous week, around 11, and wandered downstairs to discover everyone else awake as well (also unusual for that time) Thamer would show me pictures of الشلالة (Al Shlaleh), a freshwater spring on the outskirts of Ramtha on the way to Irbid. I'd remembered Shadi showing me pictures of it, and posting an album of him "farting around" (as Dad would say) there last fall. Naturally I expressed a desire to go, having no idea if my request would be honored as I could not understand Momma Aicha's reply. LOL.An hour later though, while I am immersed in How To Survive A Horror Movie for the 80th time and jammin' to my Mp3 player on the couch, everyone is dressed and wondering why I'm still in pajamas! I rush to get dressed and make myself presentable, and when I make it to the car of course Aicha has to criticize my skirt for being "too short" despite it reaching my ankles. She said it would be "windy". As I give up and turn away to go back to bed, as I had no suitable alternative since everything else I had was dirty, Babba called me back and we got on our way.

This is Shlaleh as seen from the stairs, and during the summer. Its greener in Spring.

We park and there are many cars there already. We brought along a large plastic container with my husband's name written across it. He told me it was from Umrah and he used it to carry back  زمزم   (Zam Zam Water) from Mecca. Babba reveals we are here to collect drinking water from the natural spring. He leads us to a small tent and instructs us to stay. I'm a little bristled, since I came to see the spring and they want me to stay away from it. My brother-in-law Thamer informs me that I cannot go up there as there are men. I inquire as to how that possibly matters, and he states matter-of-factly "Well look at how you are dressed." Naturally I'm flabbergasted as I can see nothing wrong with my long sleeve shirt, long skirt, and rather heavy scarf on my head. Feeling mutinous, I sit down next to Momma Aicha and explore instead with my eyes. There is a quantity of fig trees growing in the circumference of the little valley, and near us I find the biggest chives I've ever seen in my life. Of course I have to dig them up and come back with three بصل (bussel/onions) and Aicha just shakes her head and laughs. A few more minutes pass and Thamer and Babba Hassan finally whistle and wave for us to climb the steep hill to the spring.

This is the first thing I see, minus the copyright stamp and photographer shadow

I enter a man-made cave about 10 meters deep, with sides carved like pipes to carry the quick flowing ice-cold spring water down to the pool carved at its base. The walls are covered in a thick green moss with little flowering plants here and there. Small holes in the caves porous walls have traces of wax in them for I assume both seeing and nighttime ambiance. As we sit playing in the water, Thamer spots this guy:

Savigny's Tree Frog, a misleading name since in Jordan we find him in wet caves and such.

Once again I wish I had taken these shots, but alas Google will have to help me out until a camera is procured :(  I caught him and handed him to Thamer, who then handed him to Aicha who is not your typical woman when it comes to wiggly slimy things :D  We return him eventually to his haunt, and his next move is to perch photogenically on the words

 اللة جل جلاله             

 which translates to "God Almighty" that was painstakingly carved into the wall, along with other such inspiring messages such as خالد (Khaled). Graffiti is the same no matter where you go. On the walls of school grounds, even cemeteries, we see


من أجل مكالمة الوقت المناسب ٠١١٨٦٧٥٣٠٩   


 (for a good time call 0118675309) We mess around a little longer when a stranger trudges up the hill with a long black hose in one hand and a sandbag in the other. He's wearing a corn-farmers hat, a green thobe bunched up around the knees, and some Timberland low boots. I watch in fascination as he rigs the hose by manual suction (he pulled on the hose with his mouth) to drain the water from the spring down the hill to his waiting truck, also blocking the flow to the pool with aforementioned sandbag. I can only stare on as he and my in-laws yack for half an hour about politics with him before taking our leave. Its not long before Shadi calls Babba wondering where we are and especially of course where I am. Babba Hassan attempts to trick Shadi that I am not with them, but he hears my laughter and the ruse is spent. We make one more stop at the family plot of olive trees, and from there we can see the Syrian border and the first house one would pass as they cross into it. Last time I saw into one country from another was Eilat, Israel when we were in Aqaba last spring. We got home to be with Shadi where he and I took a quick post-asr nap. Food was again great, with more shorabat maggi, a fried steak dipped in hot pepper Mazola which was amazing if not about as tough as beef jerky, and I would fall into a comfortable sleep, declining Tarawee for the night and awaiting my husband's return. We finished watching Happy Feet and I fell asleep while he started Signs. 

Today I waited semi-patiently for him to return from Jumaa' prayer, meanwhile I'm laying on the roof hearing 4 masjids duke it out over whose Khutba (friday prayer sermon) can out crazy the other making it sound like a anti-war protest. When he returned he would go to spend his 2 hours with his islamic study group and I would keep his Aunt (one of the towel on the head ladies and mother to my favorite cousin-in law Rusia) her husband, and of course Khalty Fatima. Fatima brings me house slippers, a block of musk from KSA, and also some nail henna. Many thanks Aunty, will use it at my wedding, which by the way is being planned for me. Invites have already been chosen by Babba Hassan, the location by Shadi, the Henna artist by Momma Aicha, and soon the salon by Fatima. Oh well, less stress on me right? (that's how I'm choosing to look at it) Fatima invites me to go to her neices' wedding that evening, and at first I'm excited at the prospect of viewing what mine will be like. Then I realize I have nothing fancy, at least not wedding appropriate, in my wardrobe. As it is a female party, I think that the knee-length black dress I have will be suitable but Fatima puts the kibbutz (no pun intended) on it saying its "haram" since men from the house could see my legs from 3 floors up. I decline then the invitation, and later Shadi and I have another one of our famous arguments regarding hijab. Business as usual. That night after Tarawee we avoid the wedding and head out to his 100 year old grandfather's house. Approximately 20 children play outside, and I am told that this is only 1/3 of his great-grandchildren. In his 100 years, with one woman he fathered 9 children that includes my father-in law, and those 9 children fathered so far at least 3-4 each themselves resulting in a tribe that could take up half a city block. He speaks no english, so all he does is stare at me like I'm an interesting statue while I make friends with all the children, as usual. According to Shadi I'm a hit, and he has to tear me away from the house at 1am. We finished watching Signs tonight and I am delighted to have converted another person to the Church of Shyamalan (استغفر الله). After suhoor and a shower we are off to bed, another full day awaits us tomorrow. 

Too Much Upelkuchen & Eating With Arabs

I have been here now nearly 2 weeks. At this stage, everything that happens, even what was commonplace in the States, is new and different to me. I'm sure the novelty will wear off eventually, but on the other hand I am a person who finds adventure in everything, even the things I do or attend regularly. However, one thing I know I will not get used to quickly is the food. I've mentioned this in previous posts, and I'm certain I've done well in the telling. This time I think I will fully illustrate precisely what iftar was tonight, although I cannot help you to understand how TASTY it was :D

I'm well aware that بطاطا is spelled wrong.

First we have homemade french fries, which have literally been cut and fried just as they do at In-N-Out, if you need a reference :D Beneath those are a Jordanian favorite of fried in spices cauliflower (zahara mqlea) which I myself am not really partial to, but will eat paired with something else. Directly below that is another kind of shoraba (soup) made from maggi cubes and lentils (adis; tastes JUST like Dhal, an Indian favorite dish of mine). On that note, arabic cuisine and Indian cuisine share striking similarities, naturally due to their close proximity's to each other. A dessert I had tonight is essentially Gulab Jamun with less syrup. There is of course arabic fried chicken (djaj mqlea), which is oddly enough not fried but baked, a crunchy skin the only similarity to actual fried chicken. Below that is a plethora of pickled vegetables (mghal alkhdar; something I detest) including carrots which I discovered to my chagrin. And of course no Arabic meal is complete without a quantity of bread (khobis). Now on the side, even and especially at breakfast, there is usually a bowl of yogurt, lebn (a sour milk paste of sorts) and hummus naturally. This picture does not feature those. Standard condiments in arabic dining.


As for non-standard fare, Shadi and I are avid fans of a beverage found in the Mid East called Al Waha Float Drink. It has about 6 different varieties. I'm currently stuck on Pineapple. For those StL readers who are Vess soda fans, you would notice the similar flavor, but the best part is the floating fruit pieces!

I have yet to try the other flavors, but reader I will!

We took our usual walk tonight and along the way picked up fresh  فلافل (falafel), and when I found Twix I was overjoyed at our acquisitions (the only candy I have found here so far has been of the Turkish variety, which I have to say does not compare in the slightest to Western sweets). Ice cream was also procured for the family back home, and while nice, still also does not compare. I find it poignant in this stage of the tale to backtrack the night a little bit to Tarawea prayer 2 hours previously, as all this food (upelkuchen referenced in title) is the reason for a question asked of me there.

I have now gone to Tarawea for 3 nights, and every night I go more and more ladies seem to show up. If I was a member of the community, I would chalk it up to the approaching last 10 days of Ramadan, in which the Night of Power (ليلة القدر) is hiding. But arabs are often shrewd, and as I am also, I know for sure that it is because of me. Tonight I was the subject of study. Its very hard to communicate with the ladies (men too) here due to my appalling lack of conversational arabic skills. My reading and writing is superb I'm told, but speaking to people is a different matter. Its a struggle everyday. At the masjid we laugh it off, and attempt hand signals. They all become aware I am married to Shadi, and here's the tie-in: one older lady pats my muffintop belly hidden under a dress and asks in mixed hand signal/arabic whether I'm expecting already!! I knew I was overweight.. but damn. Luckily I am charmed minutes later when another friendly woman nearer to my age indicates to me that my husband is a hottie, good job for catching him, and we are a cute couple. Shadi finds this info entertaining, naturally, and Momma Aicha laughed herself silly when he told her of the pregnancy inquiry. Well, its late, so I'm off to bed. Btw, Happy Bad Poetry Day!

The Mad-Hatter's Tea Party or Ramadan In A Muslim Country

It's a bit overdue, but RAMADAN KAREEM!

                                  

My Arabic & Pakistani Muslim friends told me for years how different it was to celebrate Ramadan in a Muslim country rather than a secular one like the States, and I was excited to see for myself. Indeed it has been different, and to my great pleasure somewhat easier to do. Back home, it was always a struggle to maintain my fast. Whether it was pressure from non-Muslim acquaintances who always seemed to want to have lunch only in August, couldn't understand why I wouldn't break it just this one time, or such things like my yearly summer illness, school, work, and etc. Here among a wholly Muslim community it has nearly been a cinch, despite the incredible dry heat and lack of A/C. It doesn't hurt either that for the first time in 8 years I find myself without a job or school at this time in the summer, and the first Ramadan completely uninhibited. However, now the challenge is finding things to DO, instead of finding the time. Time I have in abundance. With the heat keeping most people indoors all day, and for me no Jordanian license until I get permanent residency (I couldn't drive my in-laws car at any rate; its a stick shift) , no A/C, very little english channels on tv, my books back in storage with my parents, and blocked favorite webpages here, I find myself with so much free time I could puke. I usually end up sleeping! One can have too much sleep, I find.

Despite the dry heat, the cool nights more than make up for the time fasting. Iftar is always delicious and filling thanks to Momma Aicha, and the nightly walks Shadi and I take around his neighborhood are a singular delight. Its much like walking through my own hometown during a snow-less Christmas season, complete with oftentimes tacky lighting decor in honor of the celebration.

Pretty much all the lights resemble this one

There remains only 13 more days, or under 2 weeks, to this month of mercy, and I intend to get everything I can from it. To cap off the month, my wedding is the day after sanctioned Eid, and tonight after iftar and my cousins-in law showed up for a visit we got down to brass tacks. Invitations, arrangements, and etc are all on the table. (Apparently it takes a very short time, down to weeks in Jordan to plan a wedding and execute it unlike the year we take in the States. I guess it helps that all your relatives live in the same town and half of them don't have jobs they have to take off of). Its to be a short post tonight; I didn't get my usual amount of sleep post-suhoor and Shadi has already nodded off. So I leave you with images of Ramadan in Jordan. :)

A decorations vendor in Jordan

More lights!!

The main masjid in downtown Amman

Many Meetings

I've only been here a week; that's right only 7 days, and already I feel as if I have been here more than a month. I am accustomed to the routine of the day insofar as Ramadan is concerned. We normally all stay awake (or nearly) from مغرب (maghrib; sunset prayer) until سحور (suhoor/breakfast) and we eat intermittently throughout that period. After suhoor and fajr prayer we sleep. Shadi wakes mere hours later to rush off to work (luckily he leaves an hour later than he normally would b/c its Ramadan; at least that's his excuse) and I will sleep until ظهر (dhuhr; noon prayer) and try to pass the last 7 hours of the fast in the most distracting way I can find. The heat makes it hard to do much of anything, and the family members who remain at home normally lounge around in the coolest room in the house trying to avoid said heat. Today, because I was up nearly 24 hours the day before, I managed to sleep right up until عصر (asr; afternoon prayer around 4:45 here). My husband arrived home in time to wake me and give me crap for sleeping all day. Momma Aicha would also wander in and remark in her arabic and broken english that she supposed I was dead, as well as calling attention to my muffin-top peeking out from the blanket and affectionately deeming me fat.

Last night I finally got to fire up my hookah after much cajoling on my part to Shadi, who promised as part of our earlier bargain to fetch me smoking supplies whenever I requested them since he does the same حرام (forbid/bad) thing for his mother all the time. After finally convincing him, I got under way only to discover that it was missing a ball bearing. I had to jury-rig it with electrical tape just so it would at least pull. Tedious. I had Shadi inquire to the hookah store owner (whom he knew from masjid) and the guy try to pull a fast one by saying it was built in or some crap like that. Good thing I know a thing or two about hookah maintenance. Today he gave us the part on the way back  تاراويح (taraweea; a sunnah Ramadan prayer).

For the past 2 nights now Shadi has taken me to taraweea prayer at his masjid. Momma Aicha expressed an apprehension about me going since I did not know the women there, but as I have been welcome at every masjid I have ever entered, I was certain this would also be the case here. One of the things that saddened me to hear about my husband's community was the state of the women in their Islam. While they may all walk around dutifully in their hijabs and big bulky abaya; stay away from strange men, marry and not date, etc, the culture here regarding what they do is somewhat amiss. In Islam, women are full partners and also wholly encouraged to be deeply involved in their religion. Prayer, education, quranic memorization and recitation, etc. And yet here in Ramtha it is nearly what the Western Non-Muslim fears about Islam. The women are at home, nearly all day if they are not teachers at the local schools. They cook, clean, host, serve --all the things a classic housewife does. A woman here is not brought up to expect to go to college and find a job; she is groomed to be mistress of the house and be a wife. A cousin-in law of mine is only 15, and already engaged. My worst fear for her I know will be realized; 16 and pregnant, home-ridden, uneducated beyond reading and writing and how to make kebsa. Women's participation in the masjids here is very little. Some places do not even open their female sections because none ever show up. It is not the masjid's that are keeping them from coming, but themselves and this culture. Not so in Amman, where it closely resembles Chicago, and thank Allah. I would much rather live amongst like-minded people (obviously). 


 Tonight we went across town as a family to visit with Khaly Mohammad and his family. He is a self-made man; having gone to school for engineering in the 60's/70's in the former Yugoslavia, he did not finish but was hired in Libya to translate Arabic to Yugoslavian for a company. He made quite a bit of money, came back here and worked as a fuel transporter for several years while building an enormous compound of a house, getting married, reproducing, and finally now retiring. It is at his house I discover both pomegranates and a new fruit tree, فيج (figs). Shadi, Khalty Fatimah, the two youngest cousins, myself, and Thamer are enlisted to truss the fig tree for ripened fruit. If you saw a little boy and grown man climbing a tree at midnight with a flashlight the size of a baseball bat knocking down fruit you'd have thought you'd lost your mind. I'd never had a fresh fig or pomegranate before, only ever in differing forms like Fig Newtons or Pomegranate Flavored Italian Soda.

   

How a fig really looks

How Americans think they look

I had both tonight (figs and poms), not entirely ripe yet but still rather tasty. At an Arab household, when a visitor stops by (and I mean "stops by" as in does not give notice of visit prior to arriving) it is customary to serve several tapas or tasty snacks along with a juice or tea. The end of the snack would include another round of tea or arabic/turkish coffee. Khaly Mohammad's wife and daughter pulled out all the stops tonight, first with the figs and poms with oddly enough Tang as our beverage of choice, followed by almonds pulled right off the tree behind Rakan, petit fours, tea, and then the aforementioned coffee. I have yet to have a turkish coffee better than the one my Palestinian friend Haneen makes back in the states.

Oh Haneen, I miss your coffee

We decided to walk home from our Uncle's place after I forcibly removed yet another cookie from Shadi's hands (he's a sweet freak, and we made a deal to severely limit our intake of said desserts until after the wedding) but along the way managed to run into some ice cream :) As we were heading in the gate to his house, we spotted Ashraf inside our neighbors supposed garage. Instead of a car however we found about 15 cages full of birds. Parakeets, doves of all sorts, lovebirds, canaries and giant pigeons the size of cats everywhere. Shadi translated for his neighbor to me that he collected the birds out of interest and hobby. He said he also had a snake living somewhere in his old car.  In the states, this might be called Animal Hoarding, but here its a "hobby". Another night of staying up till fajr, and hey, maybe I'll sleep another day away.

                                                                              Elena

She forgave us after a nice snack.

By the way, we accidentally locked Firdaus 

out when we left for our Uncle's house.

   

Absalom, His Hookah & His Giant Arab Cousins

Update: I finally have my hookah! As I mentioned in a previous post, Shadi and I were at an impasse regarding my wearing of a hijab-like scarf while in Ramtha. We made a deal that if he secured me a hookah and found us a nice hotel for after the wedding, I would concede to at least pretending to cover my hair. Hookah was achieved last night, oddly enough the base resembles my previous baby nearly 100% identically. Naturally I can't wait to try her out.

After a week I have come to understand that the famous slogan "Everything is bigger in Texas" is not mutually exclusive. Jordan is a country of biological contradictions. In the winter, it rains rather than snows. From May to Oct the weather, for a foreigner at least, is damn near unbearable. The air lacks water; the ground lacks water. Everything is dry, including my skin after only 4 days and numerous lotion applications. With a lack of H20 you would think that, consequently, less vegetation, smaller quantities of blooms, and less animal competition for said resources. Wrong. In addition to the thriving cat population here (which survives on the largest natural resource of Jordan, trash, of which I will cover later), living creatures and untamed vegetation abound. Not only are they numerous, but BIGGER. Now to be fair, in my particular home, Momma Aicha waters her massive tangled garden everyday before the sun rises, so of course they grow better. But better does not necessarily equate to bigger. In Jordan, it does. For instance, I've never seen a bigger hibiscus plant. Lemons are the size of footballs at maturation, and even the tomatoes are bigger and redder. But what stumps me most is the size of the insects. Last night I discover, both to my obscure delight and horror the creature whose scum trail I found days earlier on every paved or brick surface.

Its a half hour before suhoor and I'm combing the garden for the grapevine hoping to snag a bunch for a quick sweet snack. As I'm climbing over flower pots and bushes, I step on something awfully squishy. When I look at my shoe, its just a gooey mess. On the ground I see what looks like cat turds and I shudder and attempt to scrape my shoe off on the wall. This is when I notice the turds... are moving. Upon closer inspection I discover their true nature. GIANT slugs the size of British Bangers, I shit you not.

You will never look at sausage the same way again

Even now I shudder

This also explains the scum trail Shadi discovered on my shoe after the previous night's giant fail. As Aicha and I await the men's return from masjid, she shows me around her garden and gives me the arabic names for her plants. I want to show her the place where the apple tree hides, so she walks around but I run to where I thought I'd taken a short cut earlier. Remember I said that she waters her garden before sunrise. I didn't remember this, and as I jump onto what I assumed was dirt my sandal clad feet sink 6 inches into the thickest mud next to river mud and I go flying headfirst into the lemon tree, ostensibly leaving one shoe behind in a backwater version of Cinderella. Momma Aicha helps me hose down my feet and I have to change my clothes. Shadi returns soon after and gets his jollies making fun of me, of course. Btw, you will never look at sausages the same way again :D



Tonight's wanderings to an old Muslim cemetery (مقبرة) I run afoul of a man-toe sized cockroach of which Shadi informs me is only of the medium sized variety. If I find a Brazilian Hissing Cockroach sized one, I'm outta here. We also notice a donkey (حمار) chillin' in the cemetery as if he totally belonged there. We came to the consensus that he could probably hear the dead and that's why he hung around, and left it at that. Muslim cemeteries are both similar and rather different than the traditional western graveyard.

This is close to how the one here looks; real pics later

According the Sunnah, muslim grave markers are to be simple, with only a stone and the dirt or sand that covers it. Most of the stones bore the message "انا لله وانا اليه راجعون" which translates to roughly "From God, and to God we all return". The one we encountered was so old that it was hard to tell what was a gravestone and what was merely a rock. We're chased out by someone who thinks we're up to no good, and end up chatting with him and discovering he is a relative. Of course.



Tonight's iftar was a thing of beauty, especially because my husband to be helped to make it. :) Fatayer, a meat pie, is a favorite of mine. Also present is homemade fries (actually made by 13-yr old Thamer), a plate of salted tomatoes (بندورة ) and a soup called (شوربة ماجي) shorabit maggi which turned out to be chicken noodle soup :D Best iftar so far, I think. A good suhoor would include FALAFIL!!

Elena

Following The Rabbit

Just like Alice, I am strange no matter where I am. What may be perfectly normal (or at least acceptable) in the US is apparently either a cause for ridicule or at least queer looks. Take today for instance. Shadi had to work, and Babba Hassan always gets home at lunch, so everyone else is home. Not being acquainted with casual day to day life during summer and especially Ramadan, I contented myself with traditional American leisure activities, including reading, mp3 player listening, and wandering around my mother-in-law's garden which led me to discover to my great delight that a lemon tree was not the only fruit growing in Momma Aicha's little oasis. There exists of course the mammoth lemon tree, but also a الرمان (pomegranate) tree, also apparently translates into 'grenades' (as if that isn't pun-tastic enough in an Arab country)  التفاح (apple), عنب (grape or grapevines, which hang delicately over the veranda) and some sort of as yet unidentified berry as well. Anyway I digress. While reading, I notice a small and gusty سلحفة (turtle) wander into my room! Of course I'm tickled pink, so I snatch him up and take him to the kitchen to fetch him a cold tomato slice, then take him outside to watch him munch.

According to Babba Hassan, turtles and all sorts of critters wander into their house regularly, so I'm guessing its not an event to them, but it sure is to me at least for the time being :)  A cousin shows up at the house to speak to Momma Aicha, ostensibly to share the gossip of the day I assume, and after he leaves the rest of the house begins to stir as Thamer and I were the first to wake of those left behind. I get dressed, snatch my mp3 player and book and chill, but a earth-shaking song starts and it inspires me to dance around the garden and explore. I try not to take notice of the strange looks my "family" are exchanging. It's not 20 minutes until I discover this morning's interloper hiding amongst the false flora on the patio and I bring him/or her to the threshold to present to the Khazaaleh's. Most smirk or chuckle, but Momma Aicha notices the turtle's fear reaction to being picked up and that my shoes are on while standing in her doorway and ushers me out, handing me a towel to clean up Crush's lil accident. Shadi told me that he wanted me to feel like a daughter in the family, and that being treated and spoken to as if I were is a good thing but I admit I was still a little stung at being addressed like his 12-year old brother. Perhaps I will get used to it, just as I am attempting to adapt to using the hole in the ground that serves as a toilet. Firdaus (my aforementioned kitten) notices the turtle and begins to bat madly at it. I'm laughing, but once again receiving similar facial expressions from said family. Shadi also assures me that my behavior is new to them on many levels (never having had a daughter, boys never having had a sister, and etc) and that they really do love me, they are simply needing to get used to me. This I understand. It is at this point that Shadi makes his surprise arrival (I was not expecting him till after Asr around 5pm) and I related my tale to him.

We woke having missed Asr, but instead of going straight to prayer Shadi critiques my clothing noting that my skirt when in prayer shows my ankles and a bit of my lower leg, and that this is not appropriate for praying. We spend a half hour arguing over scholarly opinions on the hadith regarding this subject until finally I relent simply due to feeling the heat of my hijab and wishing to take it off. At this point in my story today I think its fitting to explain the newest stress I am under, having shook off the stresses from my previous home. Ar-Ramtha is a small town in Jordan, and just like small towns in the US, they often breed small minds, or at least ones not accustomed to different behaviors or opinions. This town is fairly conservative, and not one woman currently living here is uncovered. I was/am determined not to misrepresent myself to its people and Shadi's family/tribe, and as I am not hijabi I intended to live that way, albeit dressing still more conservatively than in the States. Apparently, this is not enough nor acceptable to the people of Ramtha. Shadi and I had another half hour disagreement last night regarding my covering. He is not insisting I do permanently, only while in his hometown to which I have several misgivings. Firstly, if he is cool with me being uncovered in Amman, a town full of strangers, why is he not willing to present me to the people he knows best and thinks best of? Secondly, I want him to understand my unwillingness to pretend to be what I am not just to make people comfortable. Am I being selfish or is he? Needless to say we go for our nightly walk in the cool air sans headscarf, and it begins. The entire town comes alive at night when the weather is finest, and so Shadi and I walk resolutely by each and every member of the community determined not to notice the stares. No one says anything, but knowing Arabs as I do I'm certain its already all over town that I eschew the scarf. The reaction of his annoying neighbor that the entire family avoids confirms as much. Shadi says that of a pious family like his, people half expected him and his brothers to end up as Sheikhs (religious scholars/leaders) and that the eldest and most religious having married a non-hijabi revert is off the wall. Specifically, my lack of covering. That they will talk about them in a negative way, and that it is significant pressure on them. The man assured me before I agreed to marry him that he could take this type of pressure, just as I have made sacrifices to be here. He soon forgets the crowds and we wander, Shani (my fave Pepsi-made beverage in Jordan) in hand up to his family plot and olive orchard. From here we can see the entire town, all lit up for Ramadan. Children play soccer in the street. A wild cat wanders past us and meows a greeting. I manage to sit on 3 very sharp burs of wild burdock. I gotta get to know the flora/fauna of this state. 

Upon return home, Momma Aicha serves me and Shadi's favorite treat, قطايف (qatayef; a tasty sweet and salty fried cheese treat), drink a Pepsi that tastes somewhat different here, and sleep directly after. Tonight's iftar was a meat over hummus, homemade fries with sumac, tamarind drink, and now قطايف once more. There are guests over, family members of Shadi's. We are required to sit with them for as long as they choose to stay, so now I must say goodnight and sign off. After they leave, Shadi and I will hunt down my elusive hookah and visit a lit-up Ferris Wheel in town. God I wish I had a camera!

Addendum: There is nothing more pleasant on this earth than sleeping outside in cool weather. I look forward to sleep more now than ever since I can do it on a roll out mattress on the Khazaaleh roof, under the tent they pitch every summer.

Return To Underland

I promised my husband that after I graduated from college this summer's end that I would return to Jordan no later than a few days after the date. My graduation ceremony was August 6th; I left for Jordan August 8th. Just as before, the trip to my new home had to be exactly as chaotic as the last one. Instead of a sudden blizzard in StLouis, I was grounded for nearly 2 hours by Chicago O'Hare because of thunderstorms at the airport. A more boring flight there never was. Since we arrived so late, once I got to the International Terminal 5 at O'Hare, everything but the RJ counter was closed, including the currency exchange I'd planned to use to convert my $ to Dinar since the Immigration checkpoint at Queen Alia only takes dinar for visa purchases. The line to get in the security gate was 20 minutes long. When traveling, I always happen to meet the most interesting people. This was no exception. The first person to speak more than a few words to me was a older woman on her way to Turkey to visit her daughter who was teaching English in the capital. From there she would leave with her daughter to India for 5 weeks for travel and a Buddhist retreat. She got to asking about me, and my itinerary and husband, etc. It is here that I note that for some reason even strangers seem to trust me with intimate or no-so-obvious details about their life. This lady shared with me, on the topic of relationships, that she was in contact with someone she also met on the internet and would meet in Hawaii after her India trip. That the individual owned half the real estate in Kuai, and that this business person was a woman. She said it with apprehension of course, looking into my face to register my reaction to her announcement. I know she was probably expecting a reprimand or something since we already covered my religious beliefs, but as my husband knows and will just have to deal with, I have no problem with homosexuality. I wished her the best, rushed through security and made it on the plane just as they were working on final boarding.


Of course once I get on I have to negotiate for a seat and luckily ended up next to a nice Californian woman whose final destination would be Cairo to meet up with her mother. Another interesting person, Ma'a was Filipino origin and a nurse who advised me against the Ambien I was prepared to take. Sleeping was hard, but plenty of movies and my Mp3 player kept me in decent spirits. The first thing I noticed before even landing in the country was a strange form of censoring by the Jordanian airline of its movies. In the West, we censor what we consider swear words or sexual innuendos. Apparently here the phrases ("Oh god"  or "jerks" are swears/inapropriate in movies here LOL) The food, normally the quality of a low-grade MRE was alright this time, although I did not partake in the breakfast served us before we landed, since last time I was unable to eat the food at the restaurant my family-in law took me to after I arrived in April. When I arrived at Queen Alia, I was lucky enough to have remembered my previous ordeal at Immigration and headed a repeat off at the pass. I exchanged all my cash at the bank kiosk (I had totalted $97, it exchanged to $63. Gah!!) I took care of my visa, bypassed the creepy man by the escalator who resembled the former creepy man by the escalator, and a nice cart man (looking to make a dinar of course) offered to help me with my 6 suitcases/bags. Took forever to find my luggage, but made it through the last security checkpoint and into Shadi's open arms where he once again presented me with flowers (this time also remembering my tender penchant for Daisies, the friendliest flower) As it turns out, Shadi's brothers and Uncle were waiting for us near the airport and we completely missed them. We'd catch up at the gas station to get aseer fuaka (fruit juice) to break fast since we would still be driving at maghrib. Babba Hassan swore at every bad driver as usual and we made it to Ramtha before 8pm. Meeting my new brothers-in law was as awkward as I'd imagined (Ashraf and Rakan are naturally awkward people, Rakan less so)

The first individual I wished to see was very prettily sitting next to Thamer, apparently awaiting my arrival. Firdaus, my dowry kitten, is 2 months and a runt of the litter, and the most adorable thing since Faten. She already loves her momma :D Iftar was a type of unfried kibbeh (a meat pie of sorts) and we all chilled on the roof under the tent and stars. I passed out halfway through due to jetlag and the most comfortable cool wind whipping through the tent. I slept till suhoor, ate a nice meal of arab favorites, and retired back to the roof to sleep till 10am. I never want to sleep anywhere else but a roof in Jordan :) During the day we fasted, prayed, read Quran and hung with family trying to beat the heat. Iftar today was my favorite Magloobeh made for me and Arabic lemonade. Tonight we will shop for a hookah and wander the streets of Ramtha now that its cool in the desert. Ramadan here so far has been beautiful.