Thinking on Palestine

Objectivity gets buried in conflict. I come to you fresh from the University of Jordan Student Union (Deanship of Student Life) where I had the opportunity to listen to a presentation by the Palestinian community on the history and land of Palestine. The occasion exhibited many of the characteristics of daily life in Jordan: it began late, featured repeated offerings of tea and coffee, and had more recitation of dates and statistics than enlightened conversation and debate. Nevertheless, now is as good a time as any to address an issue that profoundly shapes life in Jordan, where over 60% of the inhabitants are of Palestinian descent, and throughout the region.

Firstly I should confess that while I will be as objective as possible in this post, I do not believe that both Palestinians and Israelis can claim equivalent moral high ground or justification for their anguish. I detest conspiracy theories, half-truths, selective histories presented by both sides. Listening to Palestinians talk about the conflict is disappointing and frustrating because of their willingness to move beyond what I feel are legitimate grievances into absurd positions.

I feel there are legitimate camps within both Israel and the Palestinian community, but listening to the average it is very hard to associate one's self with either the Palestinians or Israelis because of the lengths to which they distort reality to favor their position. A passionate advocate divorced from objectivity is often a terrible messenger to with which to confront the undecided.

We began with a history read in English from the 1895 origins of modern Zionism to the current condition of Palestine in 2010. Dates were accurate, but any mention of Israeli suffering was brief, unmentioned, or justified. I don't want to forgive this, I don't think such omissions are necessary to create a compelling Palestinian Case, but I do believe that in limited time advocates will rarely go into a comprehensive explanation.

The mostly Palestinian audience wants to hear the history they are reminded of every time the subject is broached for both sides, the admission of flaws is often rejected for the sake of ideological purity that is impossible in any conflict of this length and complexity. For Palestinians, the entirety of the conflict's history is often lost in this narrative of profound suffering at the hands of an implacable and mighty oppressor.

Following this rehashing of facts, which while true do not constitute truth any more than Confederate history month can mention the truths of state's rights while remaining profoundly inadequate without a discussion of slavery, we watched a short film on the "Wall of Hate" (see also security fence - Israel, apartheid wall - Palestinian, separation wall - relatively neutral). It was similar to the histories: it told truths yet presented them without distance. This distance may be an impossible hope for anyone so profoundly affected by any issue, but I hope I never fall victim to such temptation.

We listened to a CIEE student who had traveled and volunteered in Bethlehem over spring break. He was especially interesting to me because I'm planning to travel in the West Bank and Israel before I return to the States at the end of May. He talked about checkpoints, the organic farm where he volunteered, and the people of Palestine. We then listened to more impassioned and less impartial accounts of travel from an Australian and Colombian of Palestinian descent. They spoke of descrimination and the terrible pressure exerted by Israeli officials and soldiers on Arabs who attempt to communicate with the West Bank.

The Israeli Defense Force and Israel's general posture is to make life in all its facets as unpleasant, difficult, and humiliating as possible for all those of a non-Israeli bent. This can be seen in the settlements that dot and divide the occupied West Bank, the water policies denying agricultural or economic development to Palestinians, and the humiliating routines that stymie life and commerce on a daily basis for thousands of Palestinians at the over 500 checkpoints that dissect the territories.

I believe that is all true and summarizes a great deal of the substance presented at the meeting. The formal event concluded with a ten minute amateur video shot at various crossings from a sympathetic Israeli perspective. It featured some Israeli soldiers and many Palestinians. It was not narrated and appeared about as honest a record of the checkpoint experience as possible. It was disturbing on many levels and confounding until you confront the underlying reasoning that has spawned this status quo.

Israel does not want commerce or communication to occur within the Palestinan population under their control. They have objectives of preserving security for Israelis, but their presence and behavior can not be justified on these grounds. The following is my opinion of the current state of affairs.

"Israel's dissection and repression of the occupied territories cannot be seen as rational unless you believe they see a world without a Palestinian state or Palestinian presence as attainable. Within this context their activites can be seen as sustaining and extending Israel's domination of the West Bank until all other sides abandon their positions in despair. I do not believe this is justifiable, but without legitimate and significant pressure from within Israeli society, from the Palestinians under occupation, the Arab neighbors of Israel, or the West that such a goal is unfortunately at least within the realm of possiblility, though the profound suffering and inhumanity of such a development makes me loath to broach it."

A Jewish CIEE student and friend of mine spoke when questions where solicited. He spoke with great care, but broke the fundamental rule of inquiring if we could not all recognize that there have been injustices on all sides. This is the truth. I will no more associate or approve of suicide bombings and indescriminate rocket fire than the systematic oppression and eviction of a society. The Palestinians unfortunately were not willing to do so. It pains me that a cause I believe has

The CIEE student's words provoked instant and uniformly negative responses from our hosts and surrounding Palestinians. One began by saying that only when two sides have equal position and equal strength can you begin to discuss injustices on both sides. Another protested that the Palestinians are so weak, that they attack from fear, that the rockets are not capable of killing children. He literally said that the rockets may be capable of breaking an arm or a leg, but they are not strong enough to kill a child. Even suicide bombings were defended as killing Arabs as well as Israelis and then all is done from fear.

I want to travel to Palestine. I have no expectations that I will hear objectivity from within either community, but I hope to supplement the opions I hear and the facts I have read with photographs and memories untainted by the hands or minds of others. I think that seeing something so profound and complicated first hand will be an incredibly valuable and potentially life-altering experience. I hope it works out and that I am able to share it with those who will listen.

Just imagine, I could be interning this summer with Russ Feingold, a Jewish (this doesn't matter to me personally, but it could be relevant in this context) senior Democratic member of the Foreign Relations and Intelligence committees. I wonder if he would listen to what I might have to say?

The Long Road Traveled

March 27 From Amman, through Aqaba, to Wadi Rum

Early, so early, no wonder I forgot something. A shame it was my prized sunglasses. I have few material addictions. I am mostly hooked on a steady stream of information. My few concessions to material necessity are those I need for health and comfort, good shoes and something to keep the sun out of my eyes. I discovered my error a mere 200 meters from home, but with the doors locked behind me and no one to stir for at least half an hour I kept on, determined to solve my problem at some later stage of my travels. Hopefully before I arrived in the desert canyons of Wadi Rum.

Sunglasses, Who Mentioned Sunglasses?

A four hour bus ride brought me to the sunny seaside resort destination of Aqaba, Jordan's sole connection to the waters of the Red Sea. A rapidly evolving mix of the hyper resort and a massive port the city is tailoring itself to suit the sun and dive crowd of upper class Arabs and westerners that can afford it. I had little over an hour to collect some provisions and escape via public bus to the quiet of Wadi Rum.

I first tackled sunglasses at a covered market swamped with cheap clothes and salesmen loudly hawking them to the throngs of residents and tourists. I passed up repeated offers for blue jeans and a t-shirt before catching the eye of a vendor perched next to a rack of gaudy aviators and brand name knock-offs. I found a small collection of sporty shades and bargained down from 5 JD to 3 for the privilege of purchasing them.

At this point I realized the shrinking time between myself and my 1:00 departing bus. I had planned to go to Safeway far from the downtown to secure my vegetables, but decided against it as the distance seemed to span infinity while time slipped towards zero. I glanced around and found a small shop, on of thousands dotting Jordan that offer a relatively identical range of basic fruit and vegetables. I bagged up some cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, bananas, and a few apples before hurrying off to the bus depot, an open scrum of aging minibuses and long-range tourers all open to the first through the door.

I clambered into a bustling bus loaded with what could have been a single expansive Bedouin family plus a few local boys made good and returning to their home for a brief visit. The driver chain smoked the whole way out as half a dozen kids played for the attention and treats of a stoic, noble father. I felt awed by the man, so seemingly self-confident despite the immense burdens that must come from multiple wives and the thriving litter that came of them. He seemed to know himself and his world, even if he didn't know of the larger problems confronting the nervous citizens of modernity.

We blew past the visitors center and chugged into the village of Rum in the heart of a beautifully cloud shrouded cliffs and canyons. I had gazed, fixated for the past twenty minutes as we entered the world of pictures and legends that I had seen in Lawrence of Arabia and countless tourist brochures throughout Jordan. I was lucky to catch a cool clouded introduction to the desert fastnesses of Rum. I clambered around that afternoon, comfortable in long-sleeves without fearing for water or sunscreen.

I had plopped my lot in with the Rum Rest House, an old institution catering to the crowd of climbers and voyagers unwilling or undesirous of the 70 to 100 JD a night experience of guided remote luxurious Bedoin campgrounds accessible only by 4x4 or camel. For 6 JD I had myself a tent, mattress, and bedding for two nights without the breakfast and dinner that mad been quoted to me over the phone. As these had added over 10 JD to the price tag I was delighted for the freedom.

I tackled a small ridge right behind the Rest House and scrambled happily over the red granite and tumbled terrain as the day passed into evening. I was hailed by a Bedouin encampment as I began to hike back from the other end of my wanderings. I took the opportunity to scrape the surface of this simultaneously hospitable and secret society and passed a half an hour sipping "Bedouin Whiskey", a sweet hot tea, with a young man and his younger brother who were just beginning to join their father in the management of his tourist campground and tour operation. I spit out my repetoire of Arabic explaining my doings in Jordan and talking about my family in America. It was a wonderful experience, but sad to see the cigarettes and smoky fire that blighted the tent with their vapors.

I hiked along the desert floor between Jebel Rum and Jebel Um al Ashreen, two of the grandest edifices in Wadi Rum, their massive flanks scored by wind and rain with gashes and chasms for the days to come. I walked the streets of Rum as the sun's light disappeared, seeing the collection of cinder block houses that many of the Bedouin split their time between when not out ordering collections of tourists in the desert. The small school and army bararcks were the biggest buildings to the town though the skyline was dominated by a radio or cell tower and the small minaret of the local mosque. The light was gone from the sky as I turned for home beginning to ponder the source of dinner.

Nearby Nabetean Ruins

A mistake! I should have eaten in the light of day. I found the Rest House closed for the night and turned to the several small shops of Rum to get some heartier provisions. I came back with canned vegetables, hummus, baba ganoush, and white beans in tomato sauce. I then begged a can opener from my fellow campers and spent five minutes under the stars hacking into my prizes with a Swiss Army Knife. Escaping injury on the ragged edges I dug in, using a plastic hummus tub from lunch as a bowl and pieces of carrot and cucumber as spoons. My sole kitchen implement was a all-purpose knife left over from the Dead to Red team provisions. It was invaluable as I sliced into a cold but cheery repast ahead of a cold night made roasting by my layers of spandex ski wear.

Moving on Up to the West Side

March 26
Mecca Street, Amman

Military HQ Still Under Waranty

Two early days in a row. Friday, my first of the break, began at the crack of dawn as I ate a lonely breakfast and hurried out of the house on my way to Cycling Jordan's Amman office in the west of the city. I had scoped the route and surroundings on the computer, but my only experience in the area was through the windows of a car on the way to the Royal Automobile Museum.

Just Looking at Mouthwatering Baklava

West Amman and Mecca Street in particular are the site of Amman's great wealthy buildup over the course of the last quarter century. Chiq restaurants, office palaces, magnificent car showrooms, and two massive malls dominate the scene. But just removed from the central corridor one can find traces of poverty, small fires and feces the traces of the homeless. This is the home of many nouveau riche from Palestine and Iraq, but it also hosts the spillover of many construction sites, both laborers and their materials.

Have Faith, Will Travel

I struck out on foot and caught a cab. At 7:20 I was on Mecca Street, navigating from memory towards the landmarks I thought would find me the back street office. I turned on my mobile as I walked and discovered that my haste and expense had been in vain; weather had made biking an impossibility near Azraq. The trip was canceled, and my spring break lost its primer.

Welcome to Jordan

I continued on, determined to make a thorough examination of Amman's upper crust. I had all day to look for the office and check out City and Mecca Malls. It was lucky the trip had been called off, I wandered the vicinity for hours and never came across a sign of Cycling Jordan. Unruffled, I still enjoyed framing the luxury around me for the camera and making my way through such opulence while listening to Jon Krakuer's Into the Wild.

I wound up in City Mall and perused the deserted gleaming monument to western consumption. Friday starts slow and ends early in the Muslim world. I was surrounded for the first hour by the staff of the stores and the security personnel determined to prevent any indoor photography. I wandered into Amman's Carrefour, an outpost of the massive French international "hypermarket" chain.

Laying the Foundations for the Next Generation

I perused the cookbook section, examined laptops, and investigated every isle in the massive grocery store, lingering in the spices and produce section ruing the fact that memory would have to suffice as I took in the new vocabulary. I returned on foot and over the course of several hours and hilly miles. I got back for lunch and was thankful for the extra time as I wrapped up my application for Senator Kohl and prepped my back for another six o'clock departure to Jett's office on the morrow. It was late when I finally sank into bed and slipped off to sleep.

The Run up to Spring Break March 10-26

How does an environmentalist, non-spender, studious kid spend his spring break in far away Jordan? I missed the flotilla of groups going to Egypt or Turkey, the bunches of friends packing off to Syria and the Levant. I didn't get my act together until a few weeks before the best chance for travel I would encounter, the 10 day Easter break that splits my semester. The trouble is not merely my lack of attention to the preparations of my peers, but also my differing tastes in adventure.

I like absorbing a place, or at least that's how I describe it to myself. I've loved my time in Amman, even as it sometimes leaves me drained and overwhelmed. My trip to Ajlun was spiritual healing as much as a day's jaunt to the countryside. I love the outdoors, the spaces and views without the crowded doings of man intruding on my mind. Yet when I hike, bike, walk, or climb alone, I always do so to the accompaniment of an audiobook or podcast. I don't lose absorb myself so much in nature as I surround myself with nature while enjoying a relatively distraction-free time with a good book or clever lecture.

I finally awoke to the approaching break and my utter lack of thought given to any independent travel on the weekends and my inexperience with the workings of greater Jordan. While my peers had been to Syria, Jerash, Aqaba, and beyond in rushed weekend jaunts, I had been in Amman preparing applications, studying Arabic, and making excursions only to a few city sights. My sole times outside the city had been within the folds of CIEE's management.

I spent days pouring over my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide to the Kingdom. I had briefly considered a larger adventure, but frugality, and desire for a more sustained experience in either Istanbul, Damascus, or Cairo left me focused on the sights of Jordan. Wadi Rum was an obvious candidate, Dana Nature Reserve emerged as a central element, Wadi Mujib's canyons flitted in and out but were ultimately discarded because of price                                     and impracticality. A sudden message from Cycling Jordan added a Friday sortie to the eastern Wetlands of Azraq to the start of my vacation.

The cliffs of Rum at sunset

Plans came together, without a team of friends or peers to assist or accompany me. I would traveling alone, an oddity anywhere but especially in the tightly bound society of Jordan and the carefully scripted tour experience of the nation's tourism. I would take public transit, sleep in the cheapest rooms I could find, and spend my days in the wild's of Jordan on hikes and scrambles through two of its most renowned natural places.

12 km hike from Dana Village

I eschewed the typical guided 4x4 or camel trek to a lonely but luxurious, and ruinous, Bedoin desert camp. I don't want the emissions, the aches, or the expense. I called the Rum Rest House and was assured that tents would be available without a reservation. I couldn't get into my preferred Dana Hotel but was able to book two nights in a room and one in a tent with the Dana Tower Hotel. The two are played against each other in guide books with obvious preference stated for the collectively owned Dana Hotel against the "ugly" and privately owned Tower. I bought my one way ticket to Aqaba and managed to accomplish all my preparations as I scrambled to complete internship applications with my congressmen and a few D.C. think tanks.

The view from Karak

I went to bed on Thursday night excited for my first bike ride in Jordan and a trip to the otherwise remote and unlikely Azraq reserve. The place is a small tragedy within the larger story of water shortage in the Kingdom. 10% its former size and a shade of its former glory for migrating birds, Azraq is now kept on artificial life support with few hopes for improvement. My spring break had begun!

The Hills of Ajlun are Alive with Americans

    I didn't realize how oppressive city living had become until I had the chance to escape last weekend to the northern hills of Jordan and the beautiful village of Ajlun. To put you in context you must picture the hills and valleys of California wine country. A picturesque jumble of geology and climate that when nurtured in the right hands results in dozens of small farms, olive orchards, and flocks of goats grazing to either side of the sole highway. Ajlun is renowned for its castle which I did not see and for its peaceful countryside which I did.
    I traveled to Ajlun with a group of my CIEE peers to volunteer with the Abraham's Path Initiative which is working to bring sustainable eco-tourism to the area. They help locals renovate and improve their houses to make them accommodating as guest houses. The initiative is also developing hiking in the area to display the region at its best. We were joined for a morning hike by two experienced British hikers and climbers who had "discovered" Wadi Rum (setting of Lawrence in Arabia) in the 1980s.
    Our day began at the Ajlun Soap house and excited meetings and introductions with the project managers and the local head of the Soap House who gave us a well rehearsed tour in her blossoming English. We were shown the beautiful bath and hand soaps crafted from local olive oil and herbs that village women then cure and cook into highly priced but worthy pieces of value-added souvenirs.
    I did my rich American's duty and purchased several cakes of soap and a small jar of fig jam for the Mother's day that occurs in Jordan on March 21st. For my little bounty I parted with close to $11 dollars, a far cry from the pittance that such goods would cost a local "hypermarket", but well worth the price hike for the knowledge of what went into their elegant manufacture. The following Monday I was able to surprise all the women of the household with my unlooked for gifts that meant I didn't have to cling to Darcy's roses as my co-idea as a poor second. Mother's day in the Twal home was a truly international affair with Skype and phones ringing off the hook from all the corners of the world wishing the best to Munah, our sturdy matriarch.

    From the Soap House we set out into the valleys of Ajlun for a brief hike before lunch and a welcome round of litter pick-up, seeking to combat the rampant culture of throw it where you stand that is practiced by almost all Jordanians. We arrived in the village and were shown to the village meeting room and an old church that Abraham's Path is hoping to renovate. From there we repaired to the home of Eissah, our local guide for a feast.

    Lunch was fabulous, a full spread on the floor affair with all the students perched around the edges of the room on low cushions. A welcome change from the western chairs and tables that dominate the capital. The combination of cuisine and quarters were a revelation. The centerpiece consisted of twin towering platters of Maqlouba or "Upside Down" which is a mass of rice, nuts, vegetables, and of course meat which is baked in a pan and then flipped onto the serving tray.

    After that fantastic repast we rumbled off in our bus to the local school which was our official objective for the day. We were set the task of painting classrooms and hallways on two floors with a mess of watery whitewash and assorted rollers and brushes. We were greeted by the principal, several students, and a thoroughly coated worker that was more white than I am for his fresh latex hide.
    We went to with a will and enjoyed ourselves as the grime and graffiti disappeared beneath our repeated assaults. After two hours we had covered the halls, staircases, and rooms with a respectable showing of enthusiasm and whitewash. The work was praised all around and as we returned by bus to Amman the day rang true as one of my best in a long time.

    The expedition was providential as well for the opportunity it may afford me this summer. As the morning and afternoon wore on an exciting three party conversation was underway with Abraham's Path on one side, the American students on the other, and our CIEE coordinator fielding questions from both sides about a return to stay for part of the summer. Living without pay at a local household, building a new economy for the people of Ajlun, and receiving the 24 hour Arabic immersion that is impossible in Amman were all enticing details that emerged in the course of the day. For now the respective parties have retreated to their camps to work out details and discuss possibilities, but for me at least the air is ripe with potential and a truly incredible summer experience.

Run Ragged

My left knee hurts. My calves hurt. My hips hurt. The sun is hot on my face. Sunscreen is mixing with my sweat and pooling on my lips. I am twinging as I run. This will all be over soon. 100 yards ahead, half a world away the chase car pulls to the side and the next runner steps out. I'm not happy or relieved, I don't want to think that hard at this point. My headphones dangle uselessly from my iPod. All thought of music forgotten. I had off the hot, sweaty glow stick to my replacement and cram myself into the back of the Subaru. One more stint, and it will be over. Just a finish line to cross and then I won't have to run again.

I don't like running. I view it as a good if unsatisfying way to get exercise. I've never been driven to run long distance, I never storm the finish line ahead of all the other sprinters in a practice. I run to work out and then only when I have no other options. I am a biker, a hiker, an eliptical and stairmaster enthusiast. I work out regularly, at least three times a week when I can get it. I've ridden over 50 miles under the blazing sun and called it fun, but I've rarely had that sensation on a run.

I learned of the Dead to Red Ultra-Marathon on the first day of orientation at the Dead Sea. I raised my hands along with many of my fellows when our coordinator mentioned that CIEE would be running at least two teams. I had no idea of what to expect, a condition that would persist until the very week of the race. The terms of the race were always in doubt until our final briefing two days before the start. Teams were pulled together haphazardly and I found myself sitting on the sidelines without any leads.

I debated with myself as teams formed up and the remaining slots seemed to be disappearing. I told myself that I wouldn't be able to study, a genuine drawback for me. I countered that this would be a once in a lifetime experience. Despite the fact that I didn't love running, this would probably be the only time in my life that I could experience a twenty four hour slog from the Dead Sea over 242 desert and deserted kilometers to the Red Sea and Aqaba, Jordan's resort town.

I reached out. I put my name in front of the chaotic group that was forming into teams and miraculously, out of all the unclaimed runners that wanted a shot, I was given the go. I was lumped with a team of strangers, a team without a name. I was responsible for the official name that graced the team roster, Drenched and Burned, yet our vans would be aptly adorned with Team Last. We met for the first time a week and a half before the race. At this point my lack of training and dearth of information on the challenge had already led me into a panic and back out. I had seen others who would be running and reasoned that if they felt up to the task then I should have no problems or excuses.

After that first meeting, a lot remain unsettled. The details, such as date, distance, and provisions, emerged only at the final CIEE teams briefing. There would be food, beds, and a beach awaiting us in Aqaba; a van and chase car for each team; and CIEE would be buying running food for each team. This last detail, a relief at the time, would prove to be as much a joke as a service.

ِMy team was eclectic. Our team captain was a short, fit kid who looked up to the task. The only other guy was a tall, ROTC grunt that lit up as soon as we crossed the finish line. Seven girls ranging from a running camp alumni to a girl fresh out of knee surgery. Some had trained, all worked out regularly, none seemed to regret coming out for such a crazy endeavor. As we loaded our vans in the basement parking lot of CIEE's office tower we traded jokes and stories before our hour trip to the start.

I read an Arabic reference grammar en route. If that doesn't convey my strangeness of character while my teammates were laughing and chatting in the back seat, I'm not sure what will. We arrived at the Dead Sea and lathered up with sunscreen, broke into the CIEE provisions, and snapped way too many meaningless photos for my taste. At about 3:40 we left our starting runner and moved out for the first transition some six kilometers away.

At all times there would be one runner, two team members in a chase car some ten feet behind, and the rest of the team loaded in a van a few kilos off waiting to switch out the car and put fresh shoes on the road. We had plenty of water and food; time to stretch, if not to sleep, and plenty of support in the case of emergency.

CIEE made its inexperience with running blatantly obvious with the nature of our provisions. While the fruit, nuts, and candy bars could all be defended. I was less sure about the 1 kg pack of graham crackers or the bag of lemons. The three pints of milk, ranging from skim to whole fat, were absurd as were the individual packs of sugary cereal they were meant to be paired with. We had all the medical supplies we could ask for, although extra ice packs in place of the maxi pads may have been a good idea.

Two CIEE staffers accompanied the teams throughout, driving and parking through the night, weaving between the teams as the pack separated. Allison, our program director was there to see us off and showed up near Aqaba with unwelcome ice cream treats as we confronted the final 40 km. They provided sympathy, laughs, and an unexpected challenge when one of them, Stuart, stuck his car in the roadside desert in the middle of the night with only a team of college runners and their drivers to assist him.

The running. It all came to resemble itself. There were highs and lows, hills and villages, aches and pains. I was nervous up to the point I first hit the road and put in a brief stint amidst the confusion of early rotations and distances. As the race wore on, stints shrunk from 2k to two 1k to four .5k. The original rotation disintegrated as night wore on, one girl's knee wore out, and sleep became an overriding consideration. At around 1 am it was settled that four runners would do a 20k rotation and give the other six a chance to nap. I settled into my seat to try for some desperately needed repose.

I was jerked awake without any advanced warning. The last runner was standing outside the driver's window, I had no time to waste. Not so much groggy as sleepy I wrenched myself from the car, cold and unready, and set out into the night. I was running through a tiny village in the middle of the desert. The chase car was blessedly still tied up at the van and I had a few minutes of the night to myself. Cocks crowed on either side and the small sounds of humanity passed behind me. As I got my stride, the call to prayer broke my still surroundings. I had my experience, the reason I had signed up for this ordeal. I had a memory.

Things started hurting in earnest as Friday unwound. Heat for the first time became an issue and water went fast in the car and in the van. We knew by now that we were miles behind all the other teams. The deadline for completion was 4:00, 24 hours from the start. We were well within the limit, and better by far than the teams CIEE had fielded the year before, but living up to a team name and having so many team members cheerfully remind you of the fact doesn't make it anymore pleasant. I had signed up to do my best, to put in my miles, to challenge myself. I accomplished all that and more, but I'd rather not have had to focus on the state of my team in the scheme of things.

Running into Aqaba brought new complications into the mix. Traffic became a constant competitor for space and right of way. I ran through a crowd of worshipers leaving Friday services, a stroke of luck for our team because scantily clad western women would not have been a welcome sight for such a gathering. My knee only began to hurt in new and interesting ways over my last 1.5k on the road. For the first time it hurt to run for reasons other than my aching muscles. I desperately stretched and paced as I waited for my next turn.

The final kilometers were an agony of expectation, exhaustion, and uncertainty. Our goal was the Radison hotel some 15 kilometers outside of Aqaba. Each turn in the road brought us closer, but never gave us any sign of our progress. We were staggering alongside a highway crowded with beach goers and holiday makers eager to hit the sand to our right. When we finally sighted the finish banner it was an immense relief and a time to all come together in one great scramble for the end of it all.

We were greeted by CIEE when we arrived dead on the spot. I didn't care about the illusory offered free massage. I am still not comfortable with the idea of a stranger devoting themselves to my comfort in such a way, despite the pain I was in at the time. I cared about real food, and after settling in at our nearby lodgings in the Adventure Village dive resort for a weary and exasperating hour we were presented with bags of pita and falafel sandwiches that were better than I could have hoped for.

I napped before the awards banquet and arose, having changed and showered ready, more than ready, for a feast. The next hour of waiting out an interminable awards ceremony was brought to a blessed end by the audacious move of my ROTC teammate to go up to the buffet and begin dinner. He was shortly joined by all the other participants despite the pleas and protests of our hosts and servers. I stuff myself at buffets both because they are all you can eat and free, but the primary reason is that this is one time that a meal doesn't center around the bread. As a diabetic it’s a blessing to be able to stuff yourself with a mountain of eggplant and taboulleh without having to worry nearly so much about carbohydrates as you do about the structural integrity of your stomach.

I stuffed myself and fell back to the hotel for a brief meander around the pool reading the Economist and my food digested and my legs unlocked before falling into bed at around 9:00. Mosquitoes awoke me at around 10:30. I had left the door open to allow a desperately needed breeze and had signed my own death warrant. For five minutes I stalked my prey leaving greasy red smears on walls, furniture, and ceiling as I purged my quarters for the night. Both my roommates had lived up to their plans and departed for the clubs of Aqaba, but I had no desire to join them.

At 2:30 in the morning they returned, drunk and stupid, to the resort. About half the CIEE runners had gone out and all were in a similar state of alcohol induced idiocy. Some had locked themselves into their room with the key and couldn't get it open for one of their roommates. I went to sleep with the sonorous snores of an unexpected female roommate pouring from the third mattress on the floor.

I awoke at around 7:45 was able to chat with some of the other early birds. We got to eat at last at 8:50 and devoured the simple repast of pita, tomato, cucumber, and hummus. After that we set out for the beach. It was miraculous as I worked my way into the cool waters of the Red Sea. I could move my legs as I swam without a twinge or a twang. Aside from the occasional sharp stone my body felt at piece and without pain for the first time in 36 hours. After that blessed break we all packed at the hotel and left around 1:00 for home.

Within ten minutes we came off the rails as some asked to stop for lunch. In the usual confusion of multi-cultural and bi-lingual coordination we wound up in the middle of Amman with three quarters of us being led by our well-meaning drivers to a hour and a half's sit down lunch while the rest, my broke self among them stewed outside. I resented the delay having made sure to have food for the trip back taken care of and was happy to be belatedly back when we finally returned to Amman.

The weekend was over. I would have two pages of vocabulary to memorize the following day and a week of mid-terms ahead of me. I had torn my legs apart for some two and half hours of running stretched out over 22 for our team. It was thoroughly worth it.

Living With the Twal Family

A Family Affair

I live with one branch of the Twal Family in Abdali in an upper class neighborhood in the heart of Amman. Another CIEE student shares this house with me; Darci Dweyer from Boston, Massachusetts lives on the 3rd floor while I live on the 1st floor. The second floor is divided into two apartments, one of which I should move into around the 17th of March. The current lessee has become something of an awkward point as he was originally slated to depart for Saudi Arabia in early February.

Like most residences in Amman, it is a multi-story affair with little space for cars or a yard when compared to the Midwest or Southern California that I know, but it has a pleasant outdoor garden with citrus trees, a patio, and room for several cars around the front. I regret not living more in an American city as a point of comparison, but it is roughly similar to the Queens row house of Ray and Tina Verta where I stayed for a week.

I live with Muna, the matron of the household; her sister-in-law Samira; and one of her four sons, Raja'i. Raja'i smokes, but only outside. Muna subsists on a diet of American coffee with condensed milk in the morning, red meat at lunch, and very little else. Muna and Samira sit with me most mornings talking, listening to the radio, or reading a national Arabic-language newspaper.

The 3rd floor is home to another of Muna's sons, Marwan, and his family of five. Nooha and Marwan are happily married with their eldest daughter Dinah, 16; their sole son, Odeh, 13; and their youngest daughter Leen, 10. All three attend private Christian schools and the entire Twal family is to some degree a practicing Catholic.

Leen the Youngest

The Twal family is of Jordanian 
origin - a key part of any identity is the origin of one's family - though Nooha is of Palestinian descent. The family congregates around the television after work and school for international soccer, regional soaps, and the latest American movies and television programs brought in by one of the ubiquitous satellite dishes perched on rooftops across Amman.

Dinner is a strange and sometimes confusing mix of communal and individual. Family members eat full meals as they come in from school or work then congregate for an evening meal at which Darci and myself are the primary diners. Most social activity takes place on the first floor, but I'm welcome on the third floor to study, cook, and play with Marwan and Nooha's children.