The first two days of Ramadan have been remarkably relaxing. In my previous entry, I was worrying about people being bad-tempered because of the restrictions entailed by refraining from smoking and fasting, called saawm. I left my home early on the morning on the 22nd to head to Whitman, and flagged the down the first empty taxi I saw. I climbed into the cab and magnanimously told the driver, “Salaamu Alayk, wa Ramadan kareem,” which means “Peace be upon you, and a generous Ramadan.” The driver, a middle-aged man wearing reflective orange shades, looked at me skeptically and said, “Ramadan Kareem? I’m a Christian, dude.” I did a double take and apologized to him; out of the thousands of yellow taxis buzzing through Amman, I happened to grab one of the 2% that was driven by a non-fasting Orthodox Arab Christian. As we chatted in the car, I learned that he had lived in America (Cincinnati, Ohio) and even had citizenship, thanks to his ex-wife. However, he told me, he had gotten tired of the constant struggle to get ahead in business in America and had returned to Jordan a few years ago.

After today’s work in the hot but deserted Ayn al Basha campus (all classes are finished now, but I was finishing up the Entity Green website and clearing out my classroom), I was almost starving when I returned home. Jeff, Aaron, Elly and myself had eaten a small lunch, lurking secretively in the dark and silent campus cafeteria, going slightly out of our way to conceal the fact that we were eating and drinking cold water when the recycling workers 30 meters away had been going without for the past 7 hours.

I had just eaten my customary fuul and schwarma a day ago, and wanted to have something out of the ordinary. I remembered eating at Amman’s most famous Chinese restaurant, known simply as “China” or even more simply by taking its owner’s name: “Abu Khalil’s.” However, because it was now the middle of Iftaar, the “breaking of the fast” for the evening, I was worried that like so many of Amman’s restaurants, it would be packed with Jordanian families going out for the evening. Wanting to call the restaurant to see if some takeaway food would be possible, I searched the internet for a phone number, finding not only that but also this article from the New York Times in 1981, describing what correspondent Christopher Wren (not the English architect) referred to as the best Chinese food in the world. With this glowing review in front of me, I quickly phoned the restaurant (06-463-8968, if you’re curious), found that takeaway was indeed available, and caught a cheap service taxi going in that direction, which was forced to slow to a crawl around each mosque we passed to make way for the dozens of worshipers heading into the building.

It's always easy to find Abu Khalil's, thanks to their decorations!

As always, the little restaurant on the edge of the slope of Jebel Amman was brightly lit with lanterns around the top in gold, white, green, and red. This month though, Abu Khalil’s blends in a little bit more than usual with the surrounding neighborhood – Muslims apartments and houses all over the world put up glowing “Ramadan Lights” in many colors (usually green though) all over their windows and especially twisted into the shape of the crescent moon.

The young Jordanian server recognized my voice from the phone call, and showed me that, in fact, almost all the tables in the restaurant were empty and ready to receive me. I changed my mind about the takeaway food and I was just about to be shown to my seat when a spry Asian man with silvery hair and a neatly-pressed slacks and shirt bustled out of the kitchen, directing a flock of young waiters to take care of cleaning up a large table in the back. He stopped as he passed me, shook my hand, and welcomed me to the restaurant. I tentatively asked him, “Are you – Abu Khalil?” He chuckled broadly and said, “Yes, that’s what they call me here!” I returned his smile and told him that I had just read an article about him from the New York Times. “Let me guess,” he responded, “it was from 1981 and looked like this one?” He nodded to a framed plaque behind him, and sure enough, it was a printed copy of the same article which I had read not half an hour before. “Yes!” I exclaimed, “It said you had the best Chinese food in the entire Middle East!” Abu Khalil ran a hand through his neatly-trimmed hair and grinned at me, “Oh, don’t believe a word of it – we do all right, but Wren is such a big talker!”

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Well, it’s hard to believe it, but as of today it’s been a year since I arrived in Jordan. I didn’t even think of it until someone on this morning’s bike ride asked me the date, and as I glanced at my watch I realized that the 21st had arrived. I remember thinking about this day, a year ago: “what will I be like after a year here?” and the truth is, I think I’ll save thoughts like that until I move onto the next country and I can truly step back and look at things more clearly. For now, though – Jordan is where I’ll be for the foreseeable future.

In three days I start school again, just differently than before. Instead of just being tech support for Whitman Academy, I’ll also be one of their two computer teachers, teaching ICDL courses for highschoolers. Just because I’ve never taken ICDL myself, or have any training in it, or even had heard of it until I came to Jordan, shouldn’t be a deterrent to parents trusting me with their children’s precious education. I’ve been going over the books all week, and so far it seems like I would probably be able to pass this course myself. In my sleep. While juggling. Anyhow, it’s definitely going to be a change to not have to pause after each sentence to let Wamidh translate for me. I’m tempted to bring him in anyway just so that the kids can get Arabic lessons at the same from him too, but as he’ll be leaving for America within a month, perhaps that ship has already sailed.

Ramadan officially begins tomorrow, and the streets are full of fireworks, loud prayers and the masjid (mosques) are blaring out ALLAHU AKBAR at all hours. Sa’ad gave me a ride home after biking, and we passed by several mosques that were so full of robed men that they were flooding out the doors and into the streets, where they had taken their prayer rugs with them and were salaam’ing towards the south and Mecca. Most Muslim families are currently enjoying massive feasts tonight, in preparation for tomorrow’s first full day without food or drink during the daylight hours. I was lucky that last year, Ramadan was 11 days later than it is now, so I had a little bit of time to learn about the country and how nice the people were before fasting began and everyone gets obstinate and bad-tempered. I’m not sure if it’s the food part that bothers the taxi drives more, or whether it’s the no-smoking and no-sex rules of the shariieh law that depresses them more.

My current plans (with emphasis that these are non-finalized) are to return to America for a little over a month, from Thanksgiving til just after New Year’s holiday. It’s strange, but I feel very comfortable in Jordan. With the exception of the language, the clothing, the food, and the major religion, I just feel as if things are simplified here compared with America. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the Arabs and Muslims that surround me, it’s to relax and not fight things – all the way from my first excursions to the Orange office (how I loathe them) to in the classroom in Ayn al Basha without any windows and doors. They greet any problem with a smile and an insha’allah – they’re willing to be patient without being angry.

I think a lot of us in America have forgotten how to do that. You may argue, and correctly, that it’s the loss of that attitude which has allowed Americans to create so many great things, but at the same time I think that America also suffers from more breakdowns, exhaustion, and depression than many other 1st world countries.

Something for me to keep in mind as I enter Year 2 in Jordan…

As it was Nicholas’ birthday party yesterday evening, I stopped by my neighborhood salon to get a cheap 3JD trim beforehand. My hair still felt gritty and disgusting after that 80K bike ride from Friday, and I figured that I might as well get it cut so that it wouldn’t get quite so nasty the next time we had a long bike ride.

Two young boys, about 11 and 13, were sitting in the air conditioned salon when I entered. The younger one immediately jumped up and offered to get me tea or coffee, then hollered into his mobile that a customer had just arrived. The two of them stared at me eagerly, and I asked them with some amusement what was so interesting. I couldn’t quite understand the entirety of what they were saying, but it seemed almost like they were exclaiming that they had seen me on television. Curious, I asked them for more information, and they mentioned a Christmas concert.

I realized they were talking about the televised Christmas concert from last December. I had no idea that anyone would be able to recognize me from it; it’s been almost 9 months now and I still haven’t seen the video from it (Still waiting on that, Nedy!). I asked them if they liked it, and they asked me about “the big man with the glasses, beard, and long red hat” and if he was Santa Claus. I had to laugh; I wish that Silas were still in the country so I could introduce him to his adoring young fans.

Oh yes; Nicholas’ party was great too. A gentleman such as myself won’t reveal my English colleague’s age, but needless to say I was pleasantly surprised by the upbeat hiphop + breakdancing + beatboxing to a political pro-Palestine message that ensued. The EGT group was sitting together in one corner of the beautiful rooftop of the Rainbow House, and Wajih raised an eyebrow at some of the lyrics and commented that they were saying some things about the government that perhaps they might not want to be blasting off of a rooftop with loudspeakers (he and Denise left shortly afterwards, hmm).

Note: before anyone asks; I can barely understand regular Arabic conversation, and this was done at about three times that speed, so I only caught a few words here and there. It was fun to listen to, though!

It was a lot of fun, and I don’t know if Nicholas planned all that himself or whether it was with the help of his younger roommates, but I’m certain he enjoyed it. He’s been doing activist work on behalf of Palestine for longer than I’ve been alive, and he recently returned from a trip there. Many happy returns, old friend!

The summer is rapidly drawing to a close, and with it the end of my first year in Jordan. I moved back to Philip’s place last week, aired out the stale air collected in the dusty rooms over the course of the month. With Wajih’s help and financial backing, I threw a little bit of a “moving back” party at his house the day before I left, making my father’s famous Lasagna recipe for everyone.

Since returning back, I’ve been wrestling with Orange Telecom’s horrendous service and customer support, almost as if they’re cynically celebrating the one-year anniversary of when I made seven trips to their Shemeisani office to get internet hooked up here at the Cafe. The languid, lazy boredom mixed with the typical (but bland) Arab-world politeness infuriates me, and I’ve been spending an average of half an hour a day for the past week asking them why they won’t fix the obvious problem with the line when I’m paying JD50 a month for this “service.” As I get off the phone with them to yet another “We am sorry, sir, we check line you now,” I remember that the average American has no idea how good he’s got it in the customer service department, back there in the land of warranties and 30-day returns. Here, you’re lucky to get a one-year-warranty on a product over JD100, and a 24-hour return. 30-days? You’d be laughed right out of the shop.

I’ve been spending a lot of time over the past two weeks at the Academy, where I’ve been hired back for a second year. This time, however, it won’t be just as a technical support provider but as a computer teacher as well, two days a week. They’ve been adding another level onto the building, bringing it up to 6 floors, and I tasked myself with making the entire network system wireless. Not an easy task in itself, what with all the desktops needing to be fitted with 802.11n cards, but made significantly harder by the constraints of the building. 15-centimeter thick walls, floors that can’t be drilled through, mean that although I’ll be able to remove many of the ethernet cables draped festively outside the windows, it’ll be impossible to remove them all. At least on the new floor I convinced the Egyptian construction workers to embed network cabling into the new walls themselves, which should at least theoretically make that the tidiest level in the building.

Ever since my 23rd birthday last month, I have been absent from my usual weekly Cycling Jordan activities. Sa’ad had been on vacation in America, and the temperature has been increasing to the point where only the most dedicated cyclists want to do any more than 30 kilometers. Today, however, was a good day to die – or at least, suffer from severe dehydration and exhaustion. Sa’ad planned the trip so we’d bike straight from Mecca Street to Madaba (avoiding the tightly-mashed packs of pale tourists being herded around the Church of St. George), and then onwards to the Ma’in Hot Springs. The wind was quite strong on the highways heading south, so we spent much of the ride drafting off each other, taking turns just like the pros would do it.

The first part of the trip was easy road biking, but the second was a massive descent from the mountains above the Dead Sea (about 800 meters above sea level) to 300 meters. In 2 kilometers we had made a half-kilometer fall, which had thoroughly destroyed many of our wrists and my spine was telling me that it was going to start compressing my menisci in protest unless we found another terrain to travel. Several of us ran out of water due to an unexpected detour at around 1 in the afternoon: definitely not the time to be in the middle of the desert in August.

I was on the edge of hallucinations and I could feel my legs shutting down on the bicycle when I glimpsed the angular shape of a squat square desert house in the distance. I was in third position of the eight of us; the two leaders were both former military men from South Africa and Sweden, and both of them ate mountain climbing for breakfast. Ehrman noticed my…slight…discomfort and offered me one of his extra water bottles, which I gratefully accepted. He and Anton appeared no more bothered by the heat and dry, water-sucking wind than as if we were on a walk on the promenade.

We slowly made our way through the heat radiating off the ground towards the wavering mirage in the distance, which resolved itself into a house that looked like it was still under construction. Knocking on the door let us nowhere; there was no one here and there would be no friendly old hajji that would come to the door and offer us cold glasses of water. Some of the other bikers found a spigot on the side of the house, which yielded lukewarm gushes of water. We only barely hesitated before plunging our faces in front of the spray and filling our water bottles with it. Someone voiced what we were all thinking; it tasted it like rainwater. But this is Jordan; we hadn’t seen rain here for seven months. I held up my bottle and peered through in into the sunlight, watching little tiny silver specs float in the water and…move? We all looked at each other uneasily as we drank from our bottles, knowing that in any other situation this would be a very, very unwise decision. But our choices pretty much came down to risking dysentery, or spontaneously bursting into flame like ants under a magnifying glass.

Feeling moderately refreshed, it was a relatively simple task to reorient ourselves to the Dead Sea (“somewhere over there” waves hand to the west) and we continued on our way, finding a paved road for the first time in an hour. We evaded overprotective camels who stood in the road and groaned at us (the sounds of their low, toneless murmurs followed us for half a kilometer after we passed), and ate fresh yellow sweet dates off a tree by the side of the road. At long last, after the last five kilometers of beautiful downhill that barely stretched our tired legs, we emerged like dust-and-sweat covered wildmen at the base of the mountain with the Dead Sea glistening in front of us, just 30 meters away. We parked ourselves under a highway overpass to wait for the bus to pick us up, right next to one of the military checkpoints that are so common on the southward route towards Petra and Wadi Rum. The soldiers gave us weird looks as we sprayed ourselves down with the remaining water in our bottles, but at least they didn’t try to arrest us or anything.

(due to security reasons, I have to keep group pictures low-res)

It’s hard to believe that I’ve finished my nine-month stint with Entity Green Training and will be saying goodbye to Ayn al Basha as a part of my daily life. The morning car rides through the dusty desert on the edge of Amman, coffee, constant hand-shaking with a dozen hopefuls, all wanting to get into the next session, joking with them in Arabic as best as possible…it’s weird that it’s over almost as soon as it’s begun. The final session, my last group of 16 students, received their certifications in the Yohm al-Tukhreej, or Day of Graduation.

I had been looking at photographs on the wall in my classroom last week, looking at the graduations for the previous students that had come and gone over the past year. With my first group I was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, for the second I was wearing a tie and slacks. What to wear for the third and final one? I remembered Philip’s gift to me back in January after I had returned from Christmas vacation in America, a long, blue flowing robe, called a thobe in Saudi, or a dishdasha here in Jordan. Why not? When in Rome…

The days leading up to the graduation were like the others; each time we do it a little better and a little more efficiently than the previous one. This time we had all of our certificates printed out, stamped, signed, and bagged early, and our office administrators seemed confident that things might go smoothly. We’ve added three new sessions since November ’08, for a total of about 8 graduating at one time, and we had to take into account that each class’ ceremony takes about 20 minutes to do. With everything prepared the afternoon before, all that was left for me to do was to bring the dishdasha from Jebel Amman over to Wajih’s house.

To be honest, I was a little unsure of how to present myself. Several of my students over the year have been shiookh, (plural form of sheikh), which could be roughly translated as a scholar or devout Muslim. They grow their beards long, wear the traditional cap, and a long, flowing dishdasha – they’re never without these items, and they stand out on the campus since the majority of Iraqis would not be considered shiookh; that’s the Gulf countries you’re thinking about. So what would be their reaction to me, a tall, essentially-beardless white guy, dressed in the clothes that have traditionally belonged to the Followers of Mohammad? I didn’t want to offend anyone. But then there were the students who I saw wore the dishdasha for comfort in the hot summer weather. After all, no one knows how to live in the desert like Arabs do, and the dishdasha is designed for cooling purposes if worn properly.

For that matter, I fretted, what is the normal way to wear it properly? Jeff had told me that down in the Ghor Safi region where I had met the Sheikh Suleiman last year, men tend to not wear too much underneath the robe, merely underwear – or less. However, some shiookh worn full undershirts and short trousers, too. I decided to split the difference and forgo a shirt, but wore regular khaki shorts below, as it seemed like the safest route. I realized I could have posed this question to my class, but Iraqis tend to get very excitable and love to debate, and even a debate on what to wear under a dishdasha might take 2 hours to bring to a conclusion. I can only imagine the look on Aaron’s face if he wandered by the classroom and heard people shouting about the benefits of nudity beneath a robe.

When Aaron and Jeff arrived to pick me up from my usual spot near 6th circle that I’ve used since coming to stay at Wajih’s, they grinned, cracked the window, and asked me who I was and if I had seen Zach. They also asked me the “what’s under the dishdasha” question, which I truthfully answered for them: nothing for you to fire me over, gentlemen. My students, as they began arriving in their best suits and clothes an hour later in Ayn al Basha, roared with pleased laughter upon seeing me. “Why are you wearing that Mr. Zach?” a few of them asked me, and I explained the Western world’s tradition of wearing robes on graduation day – it was as good a reason as any! Mahmoud, the chief shiekh of my class, nodded solemnly his approval behind his thick black beard – we were lucky to have him with us briefly that day, as his wife was in the hospital that day having their first child.

As you can probably imagine, it’s hard to walk in a dishdasha, no matter how easy the Arabs make it look with their years of practice. I found it much easier to sit outside in the warm breezes with my students after the ceremony than to try to fight gravity’s wish to trip my feet in the flowing blue robe. We sat outside, sipping Pepsi (or Beebsi, in Arabic’s “p”-less alphabet), and talked about Jordan, Iraq, and America, and finding work in all three of those places.

Me with all of the other teachers after the graduation ceremony

I needed to return to Amman before 3, as the usual post-graduation party was settling down. Late last month I acquired a contract with an organization called PTEE near third circle to do tech support work with them, and I had a meeting to attend. Magid gave me a ride back to the city, but he needed to drop me off still several kilometers from home. I assured him that I could catch a taxi from there – or so I thought. I ended up walking the entire route from University Street to third. There was almost no empty taxis available for me, and strangely enough, the two that did stop for me took one look at the hooded, shade-wearing, backpack-carrying man in a blue dishdasha and then drove off again. I didn’t know what could possibly cause this reaction, until I arrived at PTEE and Dick, the organization’s founder and president, looked at my dusty and sweaty dishdasha and explained that the blue color of my clothing was common in Egypt than anywhere else.

I hate to have to make the comparison, but unfortunately it will simplify things. It’s a sad but true fact that the stereotype of the “Mexican in America” brings to mind a certain level of education and skill set. Racism affects every country, and Jordan and the rest of the Arab world are no different with the Egyptians. Egyptians are expected to be building guards, drivers, and construction workers, and they’re certainly not assumed to be rich enough to afford a standard “yellow” taxi (as compared with the other common forms of transportation in Amman, the “white” taxis (neighborhood-specific local transport) and the bus system. With my hat and dark glasses on, I was given no more than a disinterested passing glance at the color of my clothing before being passed over. If they say that racism means being no more than skin-deep with your judgments of people, than what do you call racism merely based on the color of your robe? It was a disappointing thought for me – after all, Arab nations enjoy calling themselves al-Allum Arabeeyeh and al-Umma, literally “the Arab World” and “the Mother.” This sort of racism seemed a far cry from the kind of brotherhood and camaraderie that I think they would prefer to be known for.

The fun with the dishdasha wasn’t finished yet. After work I briefly stopped by my usual residence at Philip’s. There I found a new tall, black gate with a shining gold lock on it that certainly hadn’t been there two weeks ago when I last stopped by. And here I was, without the key to my own home and wearing a garment that definitely wasn’t going to make my usual Mario-esque wall jumping any easier. I went next door long enough to greet Marwan at his grocery store (who greeted me with his usual “Mr Zach the teacher! Welcome Marwan’s Shop”) and let him know that if any of our other neighbors asked why a strange Egyptian was climbing over Mr Philip’s wall, he should reassure them on my behalf. Then I hitched up my dress around my hips, tossed my bag onto the top of the wall, and then scaled over the side into the welcome dust that eased my landing. I was very, very glad I had decided to wear something under the dishdasha.

I dropped off some paperwork and put the dishdasha back on its hanger in the corner of my room. It was an strange experience to use it: both physically for the feel of its cold, smooth silk around my ankles but also the reactions that it brought me, both the good and the bad.

I’ve started so many posts with “It’s hard to believe that…”. Ever since I first arrived in Amman almost a year ago, there’s at least a couple things every day that makes me think or say that phrase – some great, and some less wonderful. Although the main reason I came to Jordan was to help people that had lost everything in their flight from their terrorized country, it’s also just as true to say that I came to the other side of the world specifically to find things that I’d find hard to believe.

Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if the government ordered McDonald’s sell Burger King’s products at all of its restaurants, simply because Burger King did not have as many locations? Wouldn’t you roll your eyes at this example of the government sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong? Doesn’t that seem like it would be unfairly punishing McDonald’s for having more restaurants than Burger King, and then add insult to injury by forcing the company to sell their competition’s products?

Welcome to the insane world of the European Union, which doesn’t seem to have anything better to do than make money by suing American corporations. Ever since Microsoft’s anti-trust suits in America, the EU has decided that instead of encouraging their own corporations to flourish and breed competition to the world’s most widely-used operating system, they will instead attempt to suck huge lawsuit-related profits out of Microsoft in order to allow the company to sell in Europe.

In this case, the “hamburger” in question is Internet Explorer, every tech’s favorite punching bag. Now, I’m no real fan of Internet Explorer either; I think a company like Microsoft with all of its power and money should be able to make a browser that’s much more secure and functional, but that’s beside the point here. Microsoft made the operating system, which includes certain pre-built programs: it comes with a calculator, text editors, picture and video viewers, and of course an internet browser.

The EU objects to the inclusion of this software. In previous years with Windows XP and Windows Vista, the software targeted was Windows Media Player. Even more ridiculous, the EU demanded that Microsoft release the source code for its server operating system so that competitors would be able to get full Windows Server functionality, without paying for Windows Server. As the linked article points out, these two stipulations also included a fine of 800 million USD, the largest the EU had ever leveraged. After the EU declared the Microsoft had not met their expectations, they started fining the corporation 1.5 million USD per day until they “complied.”

It’s not over yet. The EU continuously rates Microsoft’s compliance as unacceptable, and last year handed out a ruling of almost 1.5 billion USD to the American company as punishment for “foot-dragging.”

Microsoft has since released versions of XP and Vista in what they refer to as the “N” series, which removes Windows Media Player. However, the EU is not content with this, and in their search for new and more lucrative ways to loot American intellectual property, have their sights set on the upcoming Windows 7. Microsoft perhaps sensed this, and even as the EU hemmed and hawwed about telling Microsoft to take out their long-included Internet Explorer, Microsoft proudly whipped off the cover from their new baby (which has been extremely well-reviewed by dozens of sources) which pretty much allows for everything in the OS to be modular – install it when you want, uninstall it when you want, including of course Internet Explorer. They even offered to make a version for the EU that didn’t have the browser built into it. I’m sure they felt they had all their bases covered.

The EU was disappointed, as this meant there would be no lawsuit for them to leech off of. So, they came up with a proposal that they felt sure Microsoft would never go along with (= another lawsuit), which is to force Microsoft to offer a “ballot box” option that would appear the first time a Windows 7 computer is turned on. This “ballot box” would ask customers what browser they want to use, and then upon the selection, that browser would be installed and made the default. Basically, they told Microsoft to sell their competitors’ software, for free.

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