White Baboon

The other day we realized that we’d hit hotel bottom here in Amman.

Besides the piles of decade-old dirt in the corners, the obscene toilet, and the smelly blankets, its usually about 50 degrees in our room. To combat the cold, we’ve been sleeping together in one very small bed to keep warm. Which would be a good idea, except that due to our two-inch thick, malformed mattress, it’s like sleeping in a bathtub, with both side at a 70 degree slope. The owner, gold-toothed Tony, with his cardigan, Palestinian symbolizing keyeffieh and New York baseball camp shuffles around with his father and another unidentified mustachioed man. Mealy but mellow and always acting as though he just smoked a doobie, Tony embodies flow. Which would be great if the whole place didn’t have such a nursing home feel to it. Or if he didn’t tell smokers it was okay to “ash on the floor”. Or if the alley its in didn’t include a bum hangout.

But here we are, at $10 a night in the Cliff hole hotel, boiling eggs, drinking Nescafe coffee, sleeping in our clothes and finding a sliver of sunlight to sit in as we start the day. And we’re still lovin’ this life, always ready to get on the road again, goin’ places that we’ve never been, seeing places that we’ll never see again. (We usually can’t wait) to get on the road again.

(Graphic compliments of the graphic wizardess and new mother, Keri Smith at Wish Jar)

Willie Nelson. . . .Herman Hess, maybe mixing icons is a little like mixing metaphors. Just another rule I’m choosing to break.

We’re alive and doing fab. Please don’t anyone worry about a thing.

We rode down to Tyre a few weeks ago along the Mediterranean to South Lebanon, the hotbed of Israeli conflict. Rob, Inma’s Director, was driving. The landrover was full of an unofficial religious delegation. One of these, an American–let’s call him Ray–rode in the passenger seat. He was speaking to Samir Inma’s founder, who sat in the back.

The topic was the upcoming Prayer Breakfast, a Congressional event held every February, where thousands of VIPs, including Bono and the current president, gather to speak with God in a non-denominational setting and without the presence of the press. While in D.C., Samir would be giving a lecture, his reputation as a diplomatic bridge-builder and international businessman preceding him. He and other special guests affiliated with Inma Foundation would be stay together at a special residence. This would all happen in a couple weeks.

As the six of us listened, Ray gave Samir a complete play-by-play of the Prayer Breakfast’s schedule of events, including where he thought they might lunch, at what time they would coffee break and who he was hoping to speak with.

At this point, Michael and I met eyes. There was nothing wrong with this scene. Nothing offensive. Nothing rude. But all we could think about was this: Those Americans, they sure do like to plan. Then they like to talk about the plan.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile. Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shiite neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assassination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep, we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.

Beirut, upon first glance, is a Disneyland of dreaminess. There’s Chili’s, Hard Rock Cafe Starbucks, Subway, and this bizarre obsession with retro-style American diners, such as the one you see behind my unhappy husband.Because we want it so badly to be true, we are instant victims–convinced of this burger-oasis between the chicken, hummus and fatoush all around it. At first, as soda-pop-jerk-dressed waiters walk the floor, Cadillac headlights glow across our red-leather booth, and we spot bacon-cheeseburgers and coke-floats on the menu, we are forced to close our mouth and dab a napkin at our drool. But it’s only one bite in, and one exchange with the server when we know we’d been duped.There’s something special about American cattle and exaggerated customer service. And it just doesn’t travel very well.

We are now living in Lebanon. I say living because I believe that once you buy Cheerios and eat them with milk and bananas in a ceramic bowl with a real spoon, you can no longer claim to be a tourist.

In the news, I see that Clinton has won N.H. and Nevada, Obama stole the hearts of South Carolina, McCain’s gaining ground, and Kenya is in chaos. I learn that Heath Ledger is dead, China has outlawed plastic bags and that Bush was recently just a couple borders away having coffee with Abdullah.

But here’s what’s freaking me out. Through the same source, a day after the fact, I discover that while I was complaining about no hot water the night before, an American-vehicle targeted roadside bomb killed four Lebanese in “war-torn” Beirut.But wait. I’m LIVING in Beirut. And if I wasn’t online, I’d never know.

Yes, this is bizarre. Just as bizarre as getting a text message from our NGO director on January 21st that said: “Due to the situation in Gaza, we will not be having activities in the camp.” Just as bizarre as being advised to go home on January 25th because an undercover agent had been assassinated, and the tire-burning had begun.

Today, we met with the NGO director and were briefed on the situation. Road-blocks and protester-police clashes around the camp means we should stay in our area, a ten minute taxi ride away. You see, the Shiites are pissed about the electricity rationing. . .there’s some aftermath from the assassination. . .but we know this is also a way for the “opposition” to try and weaken the government. Over coffee, the three of us discussed what’s happened since we arrived and who might be responsible. I have to admit, being here is a rush.Between the bombs, the traffic, the strikes, the sectarian squabbles and the electricity outages, we are living in the news. Yes, Beirut is where Drama has purchased a permanent pad for herself and put down some roots. You know, joining the gym, picking out paint swatches, finding her favorite Whole Foods location. And the Beiruti’s, even the expats, have really taken to her. I’m starting to believe they might even feed off her. If we’re not careful, so will we.

But I know Drama. All too well. She’s super clingy. Like Friday morning, around 5:30, as thought-rattling thunder rolled through the sky and the naked women on our wall lit up like Moulin Rouge and the Call to Prayer began and I thought about the cold, long, dark hallway to the bathroom? Yeah. She wouldn’t let go of my hand.And last week, when I locked the door to take a shower and the water strangely stopped working just as I was finishing and then I swore I heard the front door shut, but then Michael didn’t answer when I called and so I brushed my teeth and lotioned my legs and by then he totally should have been home but he totally wasn’t and I had to dry my hair, but I was afraid to get, you know lost in the zone of the hair-dryer sound when clearly, the guys I saw earlier on a nearby roof were members of Al Qaeda and they were now in the house waiting to break down the bathroom door. Yeah, Drama was in on that one, too.As much as I get a rush from our stories of time spent in a city whose very name evokes visions of hostages, terrorists and masked militants. . .as much as I love the fantasy of starring in my own humanitarian action flick. . .and as much as I understand the excitement of leaving the house and never knowing WHAT the day might bring, the big D is not good for my well-being.So the idea of residing long-term in a city who seems to thrive on her very presence. . .well. . .no. Thanks, but no thanks.But I will leave here with a different view of the world and of my government. I am realizing that where your loyalties fall has less to do with open-mindedness or how broad your horizon is, and more to do with who you are deep, deep within. What comes out when your faced with conflicting opinions. The instinctive stuff that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of your genes. A place you don’t typically visit every day.

So whaddya think this means?Okay, so it means no honking. Maybe this is obvious. But when we first saw it, we were trying to picture the council meeting which could have instigated such a sign:

“I’m serious, Sezgin, I’ve had enough of that ridiculous orchestral rubbish and I want something done about it!”

“Now, Erkan, there’s no reason to get all worked up about a little trumpet playing.”

“He’s got a point,” said Ibrahim. “After fifty-seven renditions of the theme from Lawrence of Arabia, even music connoisseurs have a limit . .”

“Okay, okay, I hear what you’re saying,” said Sezgin. “I’ll get a few signs up and give word to the band director at Izmir Musical Academy to give it a rest.”

Our hostel hostess Yoomi, in Pamukkale was a fabulous cook and a motherly presence. I”ll miss her. (Photo by Michael)

What’s that language at the top right?????

We are now in Syria.Although there were stories or interrogations and bright overhead lights, none of that happened. But we had our own initiation–we were taken “hostage” by an overly hospitable border family for 36 hours in what we’ve come to call the Will of the Collective.It all started when “the girls” put us on a dolmush (a minibus) headed for Reyhanle, a Syrian-Turkey border town, with instructions that the family of their friend, Guler, would help us get on a bus to Syria. In Reyhanle, we were intercepted by a guy who we could only assume was the right one. Hussein led us away from the bus stop to his home, where we were served breakfast of bread, olives, jam, cheese and tea in a carpet picnic with the rest of his family staring in awe. It was 9:00 AM. Two hours later we learned that we would be sleeping there and tomorrow we’d go to Syria.

Mmmmhmmmm.

But this kindness killing was nothing new. And these days we were choosing the shabby, often neglected door marked “Time” over the hundreds of fancy French double doors marked “Money”. So it was okay.

Sort of.

The rest of the day, we were treated like a mix of celebrity, toddler and Christmas toy–never left alone. We were explained how to wash our hands, taught to dip our bread in our cheese and told that we definitely wanted another cup of tea. Hussein repeated to us in VERY minimal English, roughly every seven minutes (I say roughly because it felt like every four seconds), these three messages: 1) that we were all one–that Hussein’s father was our father, his sisters were our sisters, his brother our brother 2) that we would go tomorrow to Syria and 3) that all of us would chat via Windows Instant Messenger so we could continue these fulfilling conversations beyond today.

There was a village tour, a bread-making demonstration and a lot of Arabic music before it became apparent that I was to hang out in the girl’s bedroom with Fatmah, 25 and Selva, 19, and somehow find conversation even though neither of them spoke any English. Michael’s place was on the couch next to brother Ali, Hussein and their father or in the computer room, using the translation software to have very caveman-like conversations. That night I stayed with the girls and I’m still not sure where Michael slept. The next morning when we hugged in a relieved embrace, the show of affection was a spectacle. Luckily, they all thought it was really funny instead of really disrespecting.We finally made it across the border that day. Although the three men’s presence (there was no bus, we were forced to hire a taxi) helped hurry the border patrol along with their tapping fingers and Arabic jabber, we had no idea what they were explaining about our visit, our visa, anything–and we didn’t like that one bit. How, we thought, could it be possible that getting by in a foreign country could be so much more stressful WITH help than WITHOUT?But mostly, we are puzzled by what seemed, regardless of culture, a complete lack of respect for our own schedule or preferences. We were never asked if we wanted to stay over. We were told. And a few days ago, the hotel clerk, Ahmed, a nice guy who we’d become friends with over the past few nights of wine and conversation, did not invite us to his home to meet his family for dinner, he told us we would be going.Let’s be clear. I am very appreciative of this hospitality. But I’m still curious about its roots.In both Turkey and Syria, the dinner table is one big appetizer platter. Almost all food is communal. One or two water glasses serve a group of seven. Bedrooms, due to energy costs and space, are divided only between sexes. The idea of privacy. . .of the individual. . .is missing. These people assume that because we have no friends or family, we will be grateful for the “comfort” of a group. No matter what.

It is simply the Will of the Collective.

Here’s what we had for lunch today in the souk (winding market).

It’s called Fuul and it’s a mix of beans, yogurt, oil, chickpeas and fresh coriander with sweet raw onion. Community water glass and pita bread included. Cost:30 Syrian Pounds (65 cents)

Other Syrian costs. . . .

Hotel Room: $10/night

Kikkoman Soy Sauce for Cooking: $1.50

Falafel & Egg Wrap: 50 cents

Small Bottle of Water: 30 cents

Hour of Internet: 95 cents

Syrian Times Newspaper (English): 10 cents

Large, Squeezed While You Watch Grenadine, Banana & Orange Juice: $1

Sheraton Christmas Lunch Buffet with Alcohol: $57 (Thanks Mom and Dad)

I look thrilled don’t I?Maybe I’m not into rocks. Maybe my history-obsessed friend Nicole drug me toward too many ruins when we backpacked in Greece. Maybe I’m just ignorant. But once you’ve seen a bunch of columns, you’ve already seen a few too many.This was a latrine. That was a slave quarters. Over here was where the Romans had sex.I actually DO like history. I adore antiques. I hear there are seven wonders worth seeing. The Acropolis was cool. So was St. Peters. I have romped through many a castle and monument with fascination. And I can honestly tell you that if I found a genie in a bottle I would go back in time.But a field of rubble and ruins, with sometimes English-translated facts that I will soon forget just doesn’t do it for me.When they unearth new treasures, new tombs, new teeth, I always think about what my husband once said after reading an article about recently discovered dinosaur bones:Put them with the rest.

We hitchhiked today. It was the first time for both of us. Never took more than six minutes to get a ride and four friendly people carried us across the southwestern half of the country. A Turkish bus (complete with wet wipes, tea, juice, cookies and water) is not bad, but hitchhiking is better. It’s cheap, a challenge, and just so much more interesting. Most of all, it’s a move that expresses our comfort in the seat we call the universe. Not every situation, time of day, country and road are right for it, but today was. It’s how we found ourselves learning Turkish numbers while drinking tea in a hospital, a pit stop for two young well-dressed medical workers who picked us up, because you know, in Turkey, a hitchhiker-host just doesn’t think twice about running an errand and figuring you’d like to come too. How the first guy with his shiny SUV and three-year old begged us to come back to his house for breakfast and meet his wife. How we were eventually between the leather of a mafioso’s BMW, smoke seeming to come from his ears as much as his mouth, racing along the mountains to a Michael Bolton meets Oriental kind of tune. But he bought lamb-roasted lunch from his wad of 50s. Delivered us well. Made sure we were comfortable. Like Tony Soprano, he was mad at his boss and his cell phone and his past and his money—not us.Besides, he was so obviously a blinking neon light: Michael. Andrea. You’re on the right track. Money isn’t exactly the key.Indeed, hitchhiking is liberating.But this was only the first half of the day. Then we arrived at Yakabag Farm. Which is basically a commune. For those who like to think of your life as a movie, please picture mine a cabernet-merlot blend of The Tuscan Sun, Stealing Beauty and the Beach, but with more hippies. No, really. I think I saw Ken Kesey in the hall yesterday.People come and go. You can stay as long as you want. There are few introductions and less instructions. You learn as you go. If you have a question, just ask. The atmosphere, along with whatever tribal rhythms happen to be on, seem to say cheerfully: There’s so much to do but all of eternity to do it in.You can clean the kitchen. Or not clean the kitchen.The grape vines which do a shadow dance on my wall will keep growing either way. The pomegranates with their nest of sweet, fossilized rubies stacked inside, (the fruit which flavored my grenadine’d girlie drinks through college,) will keep falling to the ground, ripe and real. This morning I practiced yoga on the roof. I learned to make bread. I met the horse I am encouraged to ride. I saw the complex, olive-smashing machine, which has just now begun working—the one Sinan hired an Italian to make seven years ago. I signed up to make breakfast on Saturday. I was assigned to weed the orchard. I sat on a wooden blue chair and ate olives and tea and oranges for breakfast with nine housemates.Oranges I had picked that morning I helped Michael make lunch, chopping tomatoes upon a cutting board made from a two-inch thick tree slice. I learned what goes in the garbage, the chicken feed bucket and the compost bucket. This is not a work camp. It’s not a provincial farm with some Turkish mother. It’s just. . .different. Tomorrow we might pick olives. But then again we might not.And the scenery. We are in a fabulous fairytale valley of villages, orchards, headscarf-wrapped tractor drivers, stone farmhouses and a lot of chickens and sheep. A mosque’s wandering minaret with its tiny megaphones whose prayers awake us at 6:30 each AM, pricks the sunset. Mountains are every which way but up.While the attic of this 19^th century farm house is a shadowy, bamboo-sheet divided barn of sleeping bags, blankets and candles, much like the hut where we stayed in Thailand, the only appropriate word for our room is spooky. A fireplace painted with ocean swirls and Hindu temples was painted by someone who, I can tell, might have been, say, a teacher, but just got up one day and decided to paint the fireplace. Two window seats, shielded by satin curtains on one side and Ottoman timber shutters on the other, are a perfect hiding place between worlds. The shelf above the naked black seamstress’s mannequin bust is lined with handwritten-labeled potions and oils. A light bulb cradled by a wide-brimmed hat, sliced to let in the light, creates what can only be described as an extremely eerie glow. A crinoline mosquito petticoat bustle hangs above our heads. No less than seven swaying dream-catchers are not letting anything, good or bad, out of that room. A red and decadent elephant tapestry, which I just realized I find happiness and safety in, lifts its trunk from one wall. No wonder. Because a Ouija board, patient and perfectly crafted by good ‘ol Parker Brothers, is propped within the fireplace’s forgotten ashes.And now, we lounge, a shelf of luscious unread books at my side. I just changed the CD —someWoodstock sounds—and to my surprise, just as we end our umpteenth conversation about our hitchhiking experience, Hitchin’ A Ride comes on. What’s stranger is that my Mom had this 45 when I was little. I can picture the label. It was red. Yet I had always passed it up for Crocodile Rock. I’ve never once heard it before right now. Even on those late night commercials.I guess it’s been waiting for me to understand.That 70’s DayWe hitchhiked today.It was the first time for both of us. Never took more than six minutes to get a ride and four friendly people carried us across the southwestern half of the country. A Turkish bus (complete with wet wipes, tea, juice, cookies and water) is not bad, but hitchhiking is better. It’s cheap, a challenge, and just so much more interesting. Most of all, it’s a move that expresses our comfort in the seat we call the universe. Not every situation, time of day, country and road are right for it, but today was. It’s how we found ourselves learning Turkish numbers while drinking tea in a hospital, a pit stop for two young well-dressed medical workers who picked us up, because you know, in Turkey, a hitchhiker-host just doesn’t think twice about running an errand and figuring you’d like to come too. How the first guy with his shiny SUV and three-year old begged us to come back to his house for breakfast and meet his wife. How we were eventually between the leather of a mafioso’s BMW, smoke seeming to come from his ears as much as his mouth, racing along the mountains to a Michael Bolton meets Oriental kind of tune. But he bought lamb-roasted lunch from his wad of 50s. Delivered us well. Made sure we were comfortable. Like Tony Soprano, he was mad at his boss and his cell phone and his past and his money—not us.Besides, he was so obviously a blinking neon light: Michael. Andrea. You’re on the right track. Money isn’t exactly the key.Indeed, hitchhiking is liberating.But this was only the first half of the day. Then we arrived at Yakabag Farm. Which is basically a commune. For those who like to think of your life as a movie, please picture mine a cabernet-merlot blend of The Tuscan Sun, Stealing Beauty and the Beach, but with more hippies. No, really. I think I saw Ken Kesey in the hall yesterday.People come and go. You can stay as long as you want. There are few introductions and less instructions. You learn as you go. If you have a question, just ask. The atmosphere, along with whatever tribal rhythms happen to be on, seem to say cheerfully: There’s so much to do but all of eternity to do it in.You can clean the kitchen. Or not clean the kitchen.The grape vines which do a shadow dance on my wall will keep growing either way. The pomegranates with their nest of sweet, fossilized rubies stacked inside, (the fruit which flavored my grenadine’d girlie drinks through college,) will keep falling to the ground, ripe and real. This morning I practiced yoga on the roof. I learned to make bread. I met the horse I am encouraged to ride. I saw the complex, olive-smashing machine, which has just now begun working—the one Sinan hired an Italian to make seven years ago. I signed up to make breakfast on Saturday. I was assigned to weed the orchard. I sat on a wooden blue chair and ate olives and tea and oranges for breakfast with nine housemates.Oranges I had picked that morning I helped Michael make lunch, chopping tomatoes upon a cutting board made from a two-inch thick tree slice. I learned what goes in the garbage, the chicken feed bucket and the compost bucket. This is not a work camp. It’s not a provincial farm with some Turkish mother. It’s just. . .different. Tomorrow we might pick olives. But then again we might not.And the scenery. We are in a fabulous fairytale valley of villages, orchards, headscarf-wrapped tractor drivers, stone farmhouses and a lot of chickens and sheep. A mosque’s wandering minaret with its tiny megaphones whose prayers awake us at 6:30 each AM, pricks the sunset. Mountains are every which way but up.While the attic of this 19^th century farm house is a shadowy, bamboo-sheet divided barn of sleeping bags, blankets and candles, much like the hut where we stayed in Thailand, the only appropriate word for our room is spooky. A fireplace painted with ocean swirls and Hindu temples was painted by someone who, I can tell, might have been, say, a teacher, but just got up one day and decided to paint the fireplace. Two window seats, shielded by satin curtains on one side and Ottoman timber shutters on the other, are a perfect hiding place between worlds. The shelf above the naked black seamstress’s mannequin bust is lined with handwritten-labeled potions and oils. A light bulb cradled by a wide-brimmed hat, sliced to let in the light, creates what can only be described as an extremely eerie glow. A crinoline mosquito petticoat bustle hangs above our heads. No less than seven swaying dream-catchers are not letting anything, good or bad, out of that room. A red and decadent elephant tapestry, which I just realized I find happiness and safety in, lifts its trunk from one wall. No wonder. Because a Ouija board, patient and perfectly crafted by good ‘ol Parker Brothers, is propped within the fireplace’s forgotten ashes.And now, we lounge, a shelf of luscious unread books at my side. I just changed the CD —someWoodstock sounds—and to my surprise, just as we end our umpteenth conversation about our hitchhiking experience, Hitchin’ A Ride comes on. What’s stranger is that my Mom had this 45 when I was little. I can picture the label. It was red. Yet I had always passed it up for Crocodile Rock. I’ve never once heard it before right now. Even on those late night commercials.I guess it’s been waiting for me to understand.