So there’s the big news, of course – I am now officially a teacher! An unregistered, unlicensed, untrained, and more than likely unqualified one to be sure, but I have students and they call me “Mr. Zach” so I must have done something right. The first day was on November 2, and now it’s the 5th, so you’re probably wondering – what’s been happening in the meantime?

The answer is that we wanted to start off on the right foot with our students, so we told them that Sunday’s class was the only official one for the week, and that they should come back a week from then (this coming Sunday the 9th). Factors that played into this was the lack of doors, lack of sinks (we had just big holes in the marble countertops where they should be), and the lack of desks. All very important things for a school to have. But being that this is Jordan after all, no one really minded because whenever something is supposed to start, you automatically add a week onto it at the very least.

So when I last wrote the night of Halloween, I spent the entire next day on the first of November at the site getting all of the network jacks wired into our switchbox. Although we didn’t put the computers into the lab at that time (the lack of doors allowing the computers to possibly grow legs and leave, so to speak) I verified they all worked without a problem with my laptop. I’m quite proud of myself with putting in these three dozen jacks by myself, with no training except for my STT classes back in Madison. Four years ago, all I did then was 2-3 cables in class, but like riding a bicycle, I guess perfectly lining up those 8 tiny wires in a network cable and snipping them to the right length just sticks with you.

Can you think of a more exciting way to spend a Saturday night?

The next morning classes started at 9:30. It was weird how it just snuck up on me; I got to the site at 6:45AM or so, and frantically helped the guys assemble enough chairs for people to sit on (sans desks in most rooms), make signs and print out paperwork, and then when I next looked at my watch it was 8:30 and the first students were filtering in through our big rusty gate outside. We emptied out one of my old computer boxes and wrote “Entity Green Training” on it in Arabic, and set it on one of the gateposts. Meanwhile, Ahmad was being maneuvered all over the place by Jeff and Aaron, always needing him to converse with our students. It was about that time that our new office aide/official translator arrived, a young Iraqi man named Ra’ouf, who barely had time to put down his bag before he was thrown into the chaos as dozens of students and sometimes their parents all arrived at the same time.

Meanwhile, I was sitting in my classroom, watching the activities outside. Aaron told me to wait in there for the students, and “Ahmad would arrive shortly” to translate for me. Technically, I wasn’t even required to teach anything today, as it would be a short introductory day only. As my new students started to arrive, I learned with relief that about 3-4 of them spoke some English, and one of them, a middle-aged man named Ali, was a network admin from a now-disbanded Iraqi tech company. Students filtered in quite slowly but steadily into my class, and I wasn’t able to start until around 10:30 when final student (number 17) arrived.

All told, the age range was startling: only 4 of the students were younger than me, with most being in their early-mid 30’s, and the last few being in their mid-late 50’s. Several of the students were in crutches or had other injuries, and one of the older men was wearing a bandage over one half of his face, and large dark glasses that covered the rest of his face. Later, I learned that it was surgery, not an injury – but he told me in broken English that he had come to Jordan after his son had been killed by Shi’a militants; yanked out of a car and shot several times in the head. He wrung his hands as he spoke, trembling with emotion.

Ahmad and I introduced ourselves, and I gave them the rules for the classroom – emphasizing things like responsibility to each other and to the equipment we would be using. I have noticed that many Arabs don’t like to admit fault if something goes wrong, and I made it clear that no one would be punished for mistakes here, that everyone made them, and that all I asked was that we be able to talk about what happened so we could fix it, and even use it as a learning experience for everyone involved. Of course there were the basic rules like not smoking in class, cellphone usage outside only and if necessary, and not all speaking at once if they had questions. By the time Ahmad and I had gotten through all of this, taken questions about course procedure and policy, and added a few other comments, it was time to break for lunch at noon.

After lunch, I ran into a problem. Ahmad was needed elsewhere, and so I was left with nothing to do look helplessly at the ceiling and make small talk with the English-speakers. However, Ali became a great assistant when he offered to translate for me in Ahmad’s stead, and I spent a very enjoyable hour getting into the very basics of computer layout, talking about basic computer standards like hard drive and power supplies dimensions, and why they’re so important to our industry. I got them a little excited talking about how much money they can save themselves doing their own technology work and network construction, and they definitely seemed to be enjoying themselves. Ali was an excellent translator, the other two English speakers told me; although they liked Ahmad, they told me that the young Palestinian was a little hard to understand for Iraqis, and that he spoke far too quietly. I assured them (and the rest of the class, via Ali) that I would talk with my friend about this for them.

I put the whiteboard behind me to good use; drawing out detailed if fairly ugly looking diagrams of laptops and desktops, highlighting their differently-placed but identical parts. Ali closely followed behind me, translating my words into Arabic even as I was still in the same sentence. He was so precise that I wondered if he had been trained in this. The students nodded intently, and some were taking notes. I tried to remember to keep it slow and I was sure to stop every 5-6 minutes to make sure that everyone was following along, and to take time for questions. As Jeff, Aaron, and the IRD representatives arrived to dispense the first attendance stipend to the students, I asked Ali to ask the students to give him a hand, and although he gently tried to refuse the compliment, I insisted; starting the applause myself, gesturing to him and saying “Shukran!” The other students laughed and joined in, cheering as their countryman smiled modestly. The money was quickly dispensed, with each student coming forward and providing a copy of their legal registration with the United Nations Refugee Agency, signing their name, and receiving their envelope with great flourish. Some guy was wandering about, snapping pictures, and interviewing the trainees. I’ll have to try to find him and ask him for copies of the pictures if I can; IRD and I can make a trade of my pictures of Ayn Al Basha’s construction for ’em.

And that was that; the first day of class was over. The Iraqis filed out, chatting and shaking my hand repeatedly. Gazwan, the only younger Iraqi with English skills, thanked me profusely for “coming here and doing this good work” and told me that he couldn’t wait to come back next week. As they headed towards the gate, I leaned against the gritty brick of my classroom and watched them, feeling all the tension of the day leave me. I had done it! I had taken the first steps along the path to my dream: helping the people who need it most, the victims of an unfair invasion that left them the unknown refugees of a broken nation.

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With only a few days remaining before I make my debut as a teacher, I am trying to get as many things done as possible: traveling, hanging out with friends, work at the school, and work at Ayn Al Basha. I come home late like this each night (although it says 3AM, it’s actually more like 4AM to my internal clock thanks to Daylight Savings shutting off) and barely have enough energy to brush my teeth, much less write long blog entries like I was apt to a couple months ago.

However, as today was both Friday and Halloween, I gave myself the evening off from my self-enforced schedule of computer management and went to a couple parties. More on that in a few paragraphs. Ayn Al Basha is coming along nicely, hamdilallah, and not a moment too late. We’re suffering constant delays in getting the products we need from other suppliers, little things like desks (just arrived yesterday) and chairs, as well as – the windows and doors. Needless to say, I have the computers imaged and ready to be installed, but I’m sure not putting $9,000 worth of computer equipment into a room that doesn’t have a door.

Although the electricity is almost totally wired through the building, we don’t have it turned on yet to prevent our two awesome electricians (kharabyee) from toasting themselves. However, we tested out our florescent light system in one room just a couple days ago, the day of the first huge rainstorm. It was incredible; mist, fog and muddy/sandy water racing down the mountains everywhere. I was setting up the first four computers in the admin building (the green one) with Aaron, Jeff, and Ahmad, and suddenly there was a massive flood of light pouring out into the yard next to us. Each room has about 20 long florescent bulbs in them, making each room brighter than daylight. I joked that IRD will want us to conduct classes at night if they hear about how nice the light system is!

Yesterday was the orientation day for the Iraqi students. About 90-120 students showed up throughout the day to hear Aaron speak (or more specifically, for Aaron to make noises, which Ahmad translated into something recognizable for them) and to ask questions about the programs they were enrolled in. I wasn’t in attendance (I had Linux and Windows images to tweak for multilingual support on the other side of the complex) but I heard later that it was really draining. A lot of the Iraqis were upset that they had been put into other classes when the one they originally wanted was full, and wanted to ask Aaron how they could switch. Unfortunately, almost EVERYONE wanted to switch into Computer Hardware – my class. Aaron and Jeff were seriously trying to weigh whether or not to drop the Construction course entirely (which 1-2 people signed up for) and trying to get another 2 Hardware instructors. A lot of the other students were upset with the time of day the class was offered: 9:30 in the morning was too early for them? I raised my eyebrow at that one. They also wanted to know why it was in the “middle of nowhere” in a tiny town like Ayn Al Basha. I happened to be talking with one of the English speaking fathers of one of the younger trainees, and he described it like this, “When we first heard it was in Ayn Al Basha, we thought, Wayn Al Basha?” [wayn is Arabic for ‘where?’]

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There’s only about a week and a half remaining before classes start at Ayn Al Basha, and I can tell that they’re going to be ridiculously busy. Since Sunday, Wajih has had me going onsite every day to help oversee the final stages of the construction, and he’s put me in charge of designing, purchasing, and installing the entire computer networking system on the campus. It’s not like it’s a very BIG campus, but there’s going to be some 350 meters of Category 5 ethernet cable strung out through the rafters and in below-ground piping systems. Wajih just wants me to wait until the electrical is laid out, and then I can get started.

When I first went out to Ayn Al Basha, our stonemason Najeeb (who is also Ahmad’s brother in law) proudly led me to a dim room in the corner and show me the site’s most recent addition: a shaggy-furred black and white Nubian goat, who stared at us curiously as we entered the room. At first I asked Najeeb why there was a goat in a training center, but then I recalled that the important ‘Great Feast’ of Eid ul-Adha was coming up in early December. Najeeb happily drew his thumb across his throat and rubbed his belly. That went a long way to confirming my suspicions that the goat (which I’ve named “Mazie” since the Arabic word for goat is mahweez) will eventually be gracing our dinner plates.

Sorry that I'm going to be eating you eventually, Mazie.

A few days ago, Haitham celebrated his 23rd birthday, and invited me to Zarqa for the festivities, and some extremely tasty birthday cake and cookies that his mother had made. I felt extremely privileged that I was allowed into the inner rooms of the house; usually outsiders are only allowed to see the specialized meeting rooms, like in the case of the Sheikh a couple months ago. We all gathered around the table and sang “Happy Birthday” to him, in English. I asked him why there wasn’t an Arabic birthday song we could sing for him, and he shrugged and told me that he didn’t really care about his birthday, that it was more of his mother’s idea than anything else. “Muslims are not supposed to have any other Eid’s besides the two festivals to God, so I don’t really care about celebrating my birthday. It’s something that was brought over by the West, which is why the song is in English.” Regardless, the food was delicious, and Haitham’s mother, like the Sheikh and every other house I’ve been to, did her best to cajole me to eat every bit of food on the table, while smiling at me fondly.

Haitham and his well-lit (and very tasty) cake.

There’s still a lot of work to be done at Ayn Al Basha, so that trip to Zarqa will probably be the last fun trip I’ll be able to have for awhile. Aaron, Jeff, Wajih, and myself are now constantly in discussion about pricing of electronics, room layouts, and lesson syllabi. I have barely even seen Philip for the last week, because Kahlil has been coming to pick me up at 7:30 in the morning, which for me is extremely early. Thankfully, the classes are going to be from 9:30 to 4, so at least I won’t have to get up much earlier than what I’m used to. With the syllabus I’ve written out, there won’t be much “homework” for my students for Ahmad and I to grade (a blessing for both the students and us).

In other news, I accidentally voted today. Although I view Obama with a general disinterested apathy due to his likely inability to create actual positive change for America, he’s still obviously better than his doddering alternative. Aaron was going to the American Embassy to drop off his ballot, so I decided that since he was going, I’d tag along. After being scanned, searched, and having all my electronics taken away from me (which took awhile) we were admitted into the bland-looking building in the Abdoun district of Amman. I had to throw away the ballot that Wisconsin had emailed to me, and fill out a new Federal one, but at least they paid the postage for it to be sent home – Fedex’s “Express Your Vote” campaign for overseas citizens was charging $24 to send a few sheets of paper back home. Thanks but no thanks, Fedex. Guess now that I’ve done my “patriotic duty” and participated in the farce that is the general election, not much to do but sit back and watch the fireworks show.

Apple released an updated product line for their consumer-grade “Macbook” computers and their professional “Macbook Pro” computers on Tuesday. For the first time, I found myself joining in on various forums around the world with excited Macophiles in the days preceding the launch, speculating on what new features the redesigned systems would bring the world. Although I certainly have never drank the Apple Kool-Aid, I will probably be in the market for a new laptop when I return to the states, and I can just run Windows on it if I want to anyway. It’s amusing to watch Macophiles obsessively banter on their forums about Macs, ridiculing PC users at every opportunity and snarling at anyone who would dare to question the silvery alter of their chosen hunk of metal and plastic.

Apple, what were you THINKING? was the thought that seemed reverberate around the world when we all saw the new computers. Although there seems to be general agreement that the new systems are solidly-built and attractive, for the first time on Macrumors.com I saw that the number of “negative votes” on the launch stories outnumbered positive ones by triple or quadruple numbers. As a hardware technician for both Macs and PCs, here’s my thoughts on the new systems.

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A family plays on the ancient stones of the Temple. You can't see into the middle, but there's a pit about 10 feet down. Careful, kids!

When I went to Amman’s Roman theatre a month ago, I could see the towering columns of the Temple of Hercules easily from the top steps of the theatre, at almost eye-level. Although I had originally planned to visit the Temple and Umayyad Palace (collectively located on Jebel al-Qal’a (Castle Mountain)) the next weekend, the events of Ramadan prevented me from doing so until now. More specifically, it was the fact that everything in Ramadan seems to close down early for people to go home and nap before the daily Iftar and it just wasn’t feasible to skip work to go see a pile of rocks.

I went with several teachers from the school, after stopping by Reem’s at Second circle to load up on delicious schwarma. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has the advantage of only living five minutes away from it! Another one of the teachers and I wanted to walk there, but Silas wisely decided that since there was 5 of us, we’d have to take two taxis. He’s been here a lot longer than the rest of us, and it was good that we listened to his advice because it ended up being a lot farther away than I thought. Although Jordan isn’t quite as strict as say, Saudi Arabia in restricting travel options for lone women, Silas and I still split up to take the front seat in each one of the taxis. One thing is definitely true: women, whether Arab or not, will never travel in the front passenger seat of a taxi. Ever. It just isn’t done.

There was a little bit of a worry when we got there. I had apparently not been thinking clearly when I suggested to everyone that we go on a Friday, the holy day, and the place was actually closed (to white tourist-looking people at least; we could see a dozen Arab children playing football on the top of the hill from the entry gate). I thought we would be turned away and was bracing for the heaped derision from my companions, until the guard asked Silas if he spoke Arabic. Hamdilallah! I thought; a good thing Silas came with us! They exchanged a few sentences, and then we were let up the hill without even being asked for the usual charge of two JD’s. “Just keep walking and don’t give them time to change their minds,” I muttered to the girls as we all followed Silas up the tiny service road. “The hill is technically open all the time,” Silas commented, “but suppose they just get tired of seeing disrespectful tourists trash their monuments and wear culturally-inappropriate clothing.”

The view from the top of Jebel al-Qal’a was simple breathtaking. As one of the tallest of Amman’s many mountains, it was chosen by the Romans as an excellent place to build a fortified castle for the Imperial regional government. According to Biblical belief, it’s said that during the 10th century (edit: B.C., thanks dad), King David ordered the warrior Uriah the Hittite to the front lines of a battle on this mountain, with a distinct interest in his death in order to be free to woo Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba. Uriah was killed here, David got his wish and new bride, and so history continues.

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Last weekend, I went up north with Silas and Haitham to see (and as it turned out, participate in) a traditional Muslim wedding ceremony. The two of them had already planned on going, and they invited me along after my depressing-sounding taxi stories from that night. I was a little surprised to receive an invitation from Haitham, since I had just met him a few days before, but he assured me that it wasn’t a problem, that no one would mind my attending. Haitham just told Silas and I to show up at his house in Zarqa the next morning, and he’d take care of everything else.

The bus station the following morning was hot, dusty, and on the east side of town, where I’d never been before. Silas and I shared a taxi over there, and he commented that it was a very different world compared to the west side of Amman, which is filled with western shops, commercialization, and most noticeably, uncovered women. “You won’t see a single uncovered woman in this conservative part of town. It just isn’t done,” Silas commented as the rattling, tiny bus pulled away from the station and roared into the sunrise.

We met Haitham outside his home in the quiet city of Zarqa. As it was a Friday morning, not many people seemed to be up yet, enjoying the day off. Silas and I relaxed in the front meeting room of his house, stretching out our sore muscles from being jammed into the tiny bus (probably broke both my kneecaps). We chatted with Haitham’s father, a cheerful older gentleman who spoke passable English and, coincidentally enough, was a veterinarian, like my mother. Haitham made the two of us some tasty sandwiches (there’s few things better than Arab hospitality) and drinks, and we passed an hour in the cozy little front room, waiting for the bus to Irbid to arrive.

We met up with Haitham’s mother and sister at the bus station, and the six of us took the last seats in the front of coach bus. Thankfully, it was much roomier than the preceding one, with dark velvet shades pulled over all the windows and the typical decorative hangings all over the ceiling. I’ve come to expect an interesting decor inside vehicles here in Jordan; everything from Majid’s little Honda to the massive garbage trucks I’ve rode in have tassels, prayer beads, and thick plush covering all over every surface.

Haitham looked at me with mild curiosity as I pulled out my ever-present camera and started snapping pictures of the wind-swept desert hills and valleys as the bus left Zarqa. “What’s the point of taking pictures of the desert?” he asked me. “It’s just different from what I’m used to, that’s all,” I replied. He gazed out the dirty window into the sands. “Ever since we are little, we are taught that green is good, and the desert is a bad place,” he mused. “Even though we are surrounded by it and it makes up our whole lives, and we cannot escape from it. I am happy when the rains come for a few weeks each year, and when the sky fills with clouds and no one can see the sun.” I told him that in America, we have the nursery rhyme, “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day.” He laughed at that, shaking his head in disbelief that children could be so flippant about the life-giving liquid.

Although I had been planning on sleeping for the bus ride, Haitham and I ended up discussing Islam and Christianity for the entirety of the trip, comparing interpretations of the holy books and asking each other questions about what makes people good – is it the shame of religion, or a natural impetus for harmony? I played the devil’s advocate here (somewhat literally!) and questioned Haitham’s interpretation, that without religion and the fear of an angry God, the world would be overrun with chaos. I asked him what he would do if he found out tomorrow that there was no God. He considered this thoughtfully for a moment: “In this situation, I suppose, I would try to be a good man and carry on the tenants of Islam. But, as time went on, I would begin to be angry and do bad things because I would have no fear of the next life. This is why we need religion, to be good people.”

When our coach reached Irbid, we transferred to progressively smaller vehicles as we wound our way up into the mountains, until by the time we reached our destination and stopped by a little dukaan (convenience store) for a jug of Pepsi, I felt like we were either going to break through the dirty wisps of cloud, or fall off the side of the cliff we were perched on. Feeling my knees creaking from being jammed into the truck of our most recent transportation (a minivan) I got out and stretched. A few pickup trucks rattled by, packed with wide-eyed children who stared bug-eyed at me, mouths agape. “Yeah, you might as well get used to people staring at us while we’re here; this definitely isn’t Amman,” Silas muttered behind me.

After a few more minutes and another couple hundred meters up the mountain, we came to the site of the festivites. The minivan squeezed the six of us out with a tired gasp, and rumbled away down the road, as a crowd of people descended on Haitham’s family, leaving Silas and I awkwardly staring at the ground for a few minutes until one of the men, a muscular man who introduced himself to us in perfect English as Mohammad, and invited us down the short hill to his house where the party was taking place.

Almost ceremoniously, Silas and I were led through a crowd of forty people, all of whom rose to their feet when we approached and lined up to shake our hands. Smiling and nodding, they grasped my hand and spoke, “Ahlan,” “Asaalammu Alaykum,” “Ahlan wa Sahlan,” “Marhabah,” as I tried to fumble my way passably through returning the proper response to each different greeting (it’s like a confusing game!)

At the end of the line, we met the patriarch of the family, and learned that this wasn’t just a wedding, it was a double wedding. The Old Man (which is what I’ll refer to him respectfully, since I never did catch his name, and usually fathers, especially older fathers, are merely referred to as “Father of (son’s name)”) was marrying off the last of his sons, of which he had 10 others and two other daughters. “Alf Mabrook!” (A thousand blessings!) I stammered to him, awed by this prodigious progenitor who was now smiling up at me. Of all of the Arab men I’ve met so far here, he seemed to fit the wise-and-venerable-grandfather more than anyone else: he wore a long, flowing blue robe, traditional hatta (headdress) bound with thick leather cords around his forehead, and a short, neatly-trimmed white beard. His face was incredibly weathered and lined, but as he beamed at me and pumped my handed happily, I quickly saw that they were all smile lines. As we all sat together, drinking the hot spicy coffee that I had been first introduced to at the Sheik’s residence, the Old Man never stopped smiling congenially at the throng of well-wishers around him, laughing, and shaking the dozens of hands that were being continuously proferred to him in blessings.

Mohammad and the Old Man were neighbors, and the party was split between their two houses, with us men sitting outside in a long patio in front of Mohammad’s residence, and apparently, the women cloistered within the Old Man’s house (I could hear them occasionally, and less occasionally an ornately covered head would peep out the door to look up at us. As I listened to Mohammad explain to Silas and I, there had been hundreds more people earlier in the day for lunch, but now people had gone home to prepare for the festival in a few hours. Suddenly, he recalled that we hadn’t eaten yet, leapt up, and led us four latecoming men (Haitham’s mother and sister having instantly vanished to join the other women when we had arrived) down the hill to the Old Man’s welcoming room, where a huge plate of Mensaf was set in front of us, complete with the delicious sour cream sauce, thick fluffy yellow rice, roasted peanuts, and roasted chunks of lamb (bones and all). Mohammad sent another man down the hill with us, who silently seemed to have the sole purpose of slicing up the lamb into smaller chunks and pouring more cream sauce over the rice.

Moments after eating, the “parade” began! People started pouring over the hill to congregate in the road outside the Old Man’s driveway, surrounding two young men in pinstriped suits that I deduced were the two grooms. Shouting and cheering, the crowd began singing and chanting, and the two men were lifted onto the shoulders of their older brothers and were carried briskly down the street towards the south.

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