You speak English?

There are definitely moments where it hits me full-on that I am in fact in the Middle East. Take, for example, our class trip yesterday to visit (among other places) the believed site of Jesus’ baptism by the Jordan River. As a note, the Jordan River here is the border between Jordan and Israel; from where we were, we could see Jericho in the distance. Archaeological excavation on the area didn’t even start until after the 1994 peace treaty between the two countries had been signed. As a result, our tour guide’s speech included a warning to stay with the group and not “monkey around” because we were in a militarized zone (if the barbed wire fences and machine gun-wielding soldiers hadn’t given us a hint). His other warning was, “please stay on the beaten path- there may be mines not yet uncovered.” Normally, when I think of Jesus getting baptized, I do not envision landmines in the same geographical location. Perhaps trails were very clearly marked for a reason (you had to hike a short way to reach the church and river). Anyway, lo and behold, right next to the idyllic-looking spot where you could touch the Jordan River (which was small and murky) there was an armed, no-nonsense soldier standing guard. Just across the river (maybe ten yards?) was Israel, whose bank was neither touristy nor at all inviting like Jordan’s. It is experiences like today that remind me that I really am in a region with far more political tension and animosity than I have ever experienced. I have no doubt that if someone had even jokingly started to wade across the river, there would have been soldiers from both sides shouting at the person to stop, machine guns ready. This is not to say that I felt at all threatened or unsafe today- especially since the Pope’s visit in 2000, the baptism site has become increasingly frequented by tourists, although to get to it you do have to take a special shuttle from the parking lot a little ways away. It’s just that there are rules that both sides have agreed to. No one from Jordan crosses the river into Israel; no one from Israel crosses the river into Jordan. As long as this is clear (the soldiers make it crystal clear, trust me), everyone is fine.

So that was the “whoa- I’m in the Middle East” moment of the day. Overall, Jordan continues to be amazing. I keep making sense of little bits of the cultural fabric here. For example, social interactions in taxis finally clicked for me. If you’re male, you’re supposed to sit in the front seat and try to form at least minimal rapport with the driver. This can be anything from casual conversation to smoking cigarettes together depending on the circumstances- anything to form a bond. However, if you are female, you should sit in the back seat and keep conversation to a polite minimum. I must be getting good at giving off those “I don’t want to talk to you- please take me where I need to go” vibes, as very few drivers have attempted to converse with me at all lately. Lest I be misunderstood, I should clarify. It’s not that I don’t like talking to people- many people here have fascinating stories and are genuinely warm and friendly. However, as many of my female friends have found as well, taxi conversations are often different. A sample conversation (true story):

Driver: “You speak English?”

Me: “Yes”

D: “Are you from America?”

Me: “Yes”

D: “Welcome to Jordan. Why are you here?”

Me: “I’m studying Arabic.”

D: “Ah. Are you married?”

Me: “No- I’m too young.”

D: “You are here by yourself?”

Me: “No, I have friends here.”

D: “Ah.” ::eyes me weirdly:: “Do you like to drink coffee or tea?”

Me: “Neither, it’s late in the day.”

Me: “Here is fine.” (I got out a couple blocks from my apartment)

Some notes on this encounter: 1) My tone was one of indifference and disinterest throughout. 2) I went home and made tea- it is never too late in the day. Anyway, to avoid getting hit on like this, it is best to look detached and business-like from the beginning. I think it’s definitely helped that my Arabic has improved such that taxi drivers don’t automatically assume that I’m American anymore; if they do, I guess I speak coherently enough that I don’t seem lost and confused. It’s a nice feeling.

That's all for now, off to class. Yalla bye, asdiqa'.