Wadi Mujib

We capped off last weekend with a trip to Wadi Mujib—the Grand Canyon of Jordan.

One of our fellow church members, John, is a Marine serving here in Amman, and he graciously offered to take Brock, me, and two other couples to Wadi Mujib in his car . . . a welcome break from crowded buses and smelly taxis!

For those familiar with Zion National Park in Utah, imagine The Narrows with 80-degree water—that’s Wadi Mujib. Unlike The Narrows, however, all the cool stuff happens right as you step into the canyon. None of this walking-two-hours-to-get-to-the-awesome-part business.  The voyage into Wadi Mujib is only 2km long (it ends at a 40-foot waterfall) and, since we arrived early in the morning, we literally had the entire canyon to ourselves.

It felt like stepping into another world. I can’t even begin to describe how happy it made me to get out of the city and spend time outdoors—especially when the outdoors entails 150-foot high canyon walls with the sun streaming through. The funnest part about Wadi Mujib, however, is climbing up and over small waterfalls on your way to the big one. There’s a series of about five smaller waterfalls (maybe ten feet high) that you have to scale, and each one has a rope attached to the top of it that you use to climb up the rock face (Indiana Jones, much?!). Some of the falls even had a smooth, slanted surface that you could use as a slide—so fun!

It wasn’t long before we made it to the big waterfall at the end, where we stopped to splash around for a while. On our way back down, we lied on our backs and floated down with the current. The water level wasn’t very high (for the most part, maybe a foot or so), which made for serious bumps and scratches on my booty—but (or should I say butt?) it was well-worth it!

I’m so glad that we got the chance to go to Wadi Mujib because we found out later that doing so was actually forbidden! Oops. We forgot that we needed permission from our program director to go outside of Amman, and that in order for him to approve anything adventurey, it has to be with a guided tour--which can cost upwards of $100! We only had to pay an entrance fee of 16JD (about $20). Not only that, it’s really good that we jumped on the opportunity when we did because Wadi Mujib will be completely closed for the season in a few weeks (winter is when Jordan gets all its rain, and rain means flash floods).

Luckily, we didn’t get in trouble because it was an honest mistake. NIIIIICE!!!!!  How many times in your life do you get to break rules and walk away scot-free? Unless you’re Casey Anthony, the answer is “never.”  So yeah. Boom dawgy.

As if we hadn’t had enough fun last weekend, Brock and his friend Weston planned a barbeque that night and invited everyone from the program. Brock made an awesome marinade and everybody brought their own meats. Weston’s apartment has a huge patio complete with a gardening plot--with no grills to barbeque with, these boys dug holes in the dirt, filled them with charcoal, and slapped oven racks on top. Ghetto Grillz. I was a little skeptical at first, but they actually worked! Weston's wife, Kami (aka the brains of the operation), figured out the perfect way to fan the coals, and before we knew it BY GEORGE WE HAD A BARBEQUE. The get-together ended up being a total success with great food, drinks, snacks, music, and conversation.

I wasn't able to take pictures in Wadi Mujib because the water would've completely ruined my camera, but John's camera was waterpoof and he got some great pictures! I'll post them as soon as I get them from him. And I do have pictures of the barbeque--I'll update my Facebook album soon.

Just so you have an idea of what Wadi Mujib was like, however, here's a couple photos I stole from the Facebook pages of my friends Mark and Coby (they've been in Jordan since June, and went to Wadi Mujib a couple months ago). !شكرا يا مارك و كوبي 

Dear Family

My dad has this thing with the phrase "I love you." He doesn't like how people say it flippantly at the end of conversations, so he takes extra time saying goodbyeiloveyous (so you know he means it).

He sent me the following email via Facebook yesterday, and there are so many things I love about it. I love the fact that he put "Letter" in the subject line. I love that he started it out with "Hey girl!" I love that he used an Oxford comma. I love that my seven- and nine-year old brothers' "thing" with my dad is hiking 14ers. I love that my dad felt sheepish when he got sick in front of them. I love that he's going on a date with my mom this weekend. I love that he's getting old and goes to bed early (on that note, I'm sad that I'm missing his 50th birthday in October). I loved how he randomly capitalized the word "WIVES." I love that he's proud of me. I love that he always reminds me to treat Brock well. 

Letter

Hey girl!
This week Caden, Connor, and I climbed mt elbert. The 2 boys did great with consistent power up and down. Very impressive. Everyone on the trail was blown away especially the out of state lowlanders climbing their first 14er. I got altitude sick coming down and had to get down to silverthorne before my head stopped pounding and I stopped throwing up. It is degrading to be sick in front of your children and it made me feel sorry for grandpa Kern. You always want to seem invincible for your kids!
Mom and I are popping off to Denver on the Sabbath (friday) for a weekend getaway. I don't know what we will do but it may involve a movie and dinner. Kiana and colby went to homecoming together on kind of a group date that makes Sister WIVES look tame. It will be a great story for kiana to tell her kids.
Anyway it is Sunday night and almost 8 o clock so I better put on my pj's and drink my warm milk. I am proud of you and your life. Take good care of your man and be safe. I love you..... No...I really love you...like the kind if love that makes life worth living kind of love. Dad

Last April when Dad went trekking in Nepal, I remember chatting with him on Gmail. We randomly happened to be online simultaneously, and we exchanged a few lines of conversation before his time expired at the internet cafe.

Michael: Well you get some sleep muffin and dream about Bobo the bat and willie the worm saving the princess from the gargoyle in his cave.

I got the strangest feeling talking to him right then. He wasn't just my dad--he was my dad in another world. It's one thing to spend months apart knowing exactly where I can find him. But there's something about knowing that you're both farther apart that makes things worse. I couldn't help but think that that's how it'll feel like when he passes away. Worlds away.

اسرة عزيزة: You're not here in Jordan with me.

با با, you're not here to call me "Muffin" or tell me that made-up bedtime story for the billionth time.

ماما, I can't smell the Ponds cold cream on your cheek as I kiss you goodnight.

كيلب, you're not here to be the Tutu to my Belle.

كولبي, there are some epic places to unicycle in Amman. And you're not here.

كيانا, I'm not there to stay up late with you talking about how homecoming was.

كيدن, you're not here refusing to eat the local cuisine ("Uh...do you have any oatmeal?")

كونور, I'm not there to hear your latest catchphrase.

But I just want to say: انا بحبكم

No, I really love you.

Like the kind of love that makes life worth living kind of love.

The Picnic

After church on Friday, we went on a picnic lunch with an elderly Syrian man I befriended in a bookstore, Abu Muhammad. He picked us up at about 1:30 and we drove out with his family to the ريف (reef--countryside). Jordanians love picnicking on the weekends, and the park we went to was packed! It actually looked more like a dump than a park--what with scattered, bare trees and trash everywhere . . . I guess the concept of cleaning up after your picnic is foreign here. In any case, it was fun to get outside the city and see Arabs in their element.

Abu Muhammad's wife, sister, nieces, and youngest son, Mustafa, accompanied us. Mustafa is twenty-seven years old and has Down syndrome--he was such a riot to be around! He's a completely uninhibited sweetheart with a smile that never leaves his face. The family picnicking next to us started drumming and singing traditional songs, and he ran over to their group and started shaking his groove thing. Everybody congregated around him and clapped and laughed.

The park we went to (The Park of the King of Bahrain) was really cool. Brock and I were the only foreigners there--it felt like we were crashing some huge Arab party. There were Bedouin minstrel men in kuffiyeh who wandered from group to group offering to play songs on their drums for a small price, and other men who wandered around with horses, donkeys, and--get this--camels offering rides for children! It was a total circus.

Let me tell you, Arabs know how to picnic like it's nobody's bidness. I've never seen so much food in my life! Vegetable salad, baba ghanoush, and traditional Syrian dishes like kubbeh and kufta with roasted tomatoes and potatoes. Not to mention roasted chicken, French fries (Arabs are obsessed with them!), seasoned olives (fresh from the garden), figs, peaches, grapes, cucumbers, fresh pita bread, you name it. People just kept piling and piling stuff on our plates--it was a little overwhelming!

After eating, we all kicked back and the coffee started flowing (not for Brock and me, of course). Abu Muhammad started smoking hookah--or, as the Arabs call it, "hubbly bubbly." I have no idea what type of shisha he put in there, but it smelled freaking good. Abu Muhammad's wife and sister sang traditional songs together as we all munched on nuts, fruit, and sweet bread. Then it started to rain.

Yes, rain. In Jordan! One of the five most water-poor countries in the world. It was the first rain of the year and everybody flipped out like Californians in a snowstorm. We packed everything back into the car and--naturally--the rain stopped right as we finished up. We decided to head home anyway, and continued our powwow on Abu Muhammad's balcony. More hubbly bubbly, more coffee, more tea, more steamed milk with sugar for us Mormon folk (for the record, that actually tastes really good!). Abu Muhammad's brother and niece joined us on the balcony while Brock napped on the couch for a little while.

All of Abu Muhammad's family--his mother, his sons, his sister, brother--live in the same building (each in separate apartments). He used to be a civil engineer, and he spent seven years building this home by hand so that when he retired, everybody would have a place to live. It had been his dream to do that ever since he was a little boy. He's retired now, but he loves being around people so much that he took a part-time job in a bookstore just so he could talk to customers. Every time I go in and speak with him, he has a new life lesson of the day for me :) It's so cute. He speaks pretty good English, but tries not to use it much because he knows how important it is for me to practice Arabic.

We all sat and chit-chatted away until it got dark outside--Brock and I finally left for home at around 8:00pm. Abu Muhammad said it's not uncommon for him and his wife to stay out on the balcony until three or four o'clock in the morning! Arabs love sitting around and talking. And I'm happy to oblige! :)

Zarqa

This weekend has been nothing short of crazy. I feel like we need another weekend to rest and recover! But the experiences we had were well worth the exhaustion. For now, I'll just blog about our Thursday night outing and cover the rest in subsequent posts.

We kicked off the weekend with a visit to Zarqa on Thursday night. Zarqa is the third-largest city in Jordan (after Amman and Irbid) and is an industrial town about thirty minutes outside of Amman. Our friend Hussein lives there and invited us over for mansaf--Jordan's national dish that everybody here is obsessed with! It's a traditional Bedouin meal of cooked lamb on top of rice that's doused with a dried yogurt sauce (jameed) and garnished with almonds.

We took a minibus from Amman to Zarqa--they're the cheapest way to get around. There's no set routes or stops, but each bus has an end destination. Usually there's a guy hanging out the bus door yelling the name of that destination--Zarqa! Zarqa! Zarqa!--and you just hop on whenever you can. The half-hour ride to Zarqa only cost us 45 qirsh each (about 60 cents), whereas a taxi could've easily ran us upwards of five dinaar (about $8).

Zarqa (at least the side of it we saw) is definitely less developed than Amman. It's got a small-town feel with a big-city bustle. To get to Hussein's apartment, we wound through a huge outdoor market where you could buy clothes, household goods, meats, fruits, sweets, you name it. Hussein was excited to show us everything--he wanted us to see the real Jordan, or at least the real Jordan to him. People here are very proud of their roots.

We met Hussein's father--a retired blacksmith with a big, toothless smile--and wound through a couple more alleys before arriving at the apartment. We made ourselves at home on the floor cushions and began chatting away. I think Hussein was a little worried about how we'd take to sitting on the floor--we'd invited him over for dinner the week prior, so he'd seen our place and knew that it was nice. He kept asking if we were relaxed, if we were comfortable, if there was anything we needed, etc. It was so sweet :) Jordanian hospitality is truly unparalleled.

It wasn't long before the mansaf arrived. It came on a big huge plate that we set on the floor, and then we all gathered around and dug in. I don't know if Hussein's mother just makes a mean mansaf or if that's just how it normally tastes, but it was freaking good. We washed it down with icy cold Coke, and then kicked back and talked (the quintessential Arab pastime!). Brock sparred with Hussein's nine-year old nephew over soccer--which teams were best, which players, etc. It was cute to see these two have a full-on conversation about Lionel Messi, Real Madrid, and Barcelona without nary a shared word of Arabic between them!

Later, Hussein's mother and older brother stopped by to meet us. Hussein's mother wears a niqab (head covering that shows only the eyes), and was even about to take it off for fear that it made us uncomfortable. Again, how sweet is that? We told her we didn't mind at all, and the conversation kept rolling. Each and every member of his family was so nice and so patient with me as I tried to speak Arabic. Luckily, Hussein speaks fairly good English and was able to fill in some of the holes.His older brother told me I spoke well, and that with a couple months' practice I'll be rockin' it. Insha'allah!  We had to leave at around 9:30 to catch the last bus home to Amman, and are looking forward to visiting again and again throughout these next few months :)

I can't believe we're already in our fourth week here--I had a minor freak-out when I realized that this whole experience is 25% done with. I still have so far to go with regards to speaking ability! I am happy to report, however, that I had my first dream in Arabic this week, which was kind of a milestone. It wasn't all in Arabic--just chunks of it--but it still gave me a little high.

I think the key to success will be unrelenting effort. This is definitely a mental marathon of sorts, and sometimes it's hard to keep myself amped when all I can think about is the future--how great it will be when I can speak well, how great it will be to go to Petra, to Israel, home, to start our lives in a new place, etc. For the sake of staying focused, I need to live in the moment. This is the one chance I'm going to have in my life to nail Arabic--I need to wake up every day and think It's go time! I need to visualize myself succeeding. I need to think positively. I need to be the Richard Simmons of Arabic. You can do it!!! You're strong!!!!!! Feel the burrrrn!! Now inhale, conjugate, exhale.....yeah!!!!!!!!!!!


 . . . Or, you know, something like that.

Double Suck

Yesterday in a taxi I found out that my driver was half-Palestinian and half-Spanish. For those wondering, yes, that combination does produce particularly pulchritudinous people.

"Your mom's Palestinian and your dad's from Spain? So do you speak Spanish as well as Arabic?

"Yes. Do you know any Spanish?"

"نعم! I mean ايوة! Er . . . "

I remember a time not so long ago when my Spanish used to interfere with my Arabic (si instead of نعم, y instead of و). Now I seem to have the opposite problem--which is just another way of saying that I officially suck at two languages!

FIST PUMP IN THE SKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I Chose This

A couple years back, one of my friends from high school, Cassie, spent a year in France. I vividly remember reading her blog and looking at pictures of her romantic life in Besançon, green with envy and aching with wanderlust.

A couple days back, Cassie sent me a Facebook: "I'm totally jealous of your travels!"

Granted, Jordan is a lot less idyllic than France and this program is far from being reminiscent of your typical play-first-study-later semester abroad. But even so, Cassie's words gave me pause. How the tables had turned! If you had told me in 2009 (back when I was an elementary education major--seems like a lifetime ago!) that I would not only get to study abroad, but would do so in the Middle East, my jaw would have dropped to the floor. It sounds so corny to say, but I am literally living my dreams.

I feel alive here. Nothing puts you out of your comfort zone more than language learning. Simple conversations can be terrifying, let alone when a new Palestinian friends asks you why America supports Israel so much. And you want to explain to them how difficult it is for a person in America to get elected President, how money really helps in that endeavor and it just so happens that American Jews tend to have a lot of it, and there's also the issue of the Bible-thumpers in the South and how if you turn your back on Israel you might as well kiss those electoral votes goodbye, and how one time during the Holocaust FDR turned a whole shipful of Jews back to Europe and we still feel really bad about that, not to mention that Israel is our biggest ally and arguably the only functioning democracy in the Middle East, and besides, the Tea Party keeps calling President Obama a Muslim which, sadly, is not becoming of American presidential candidates (don't worry, being a Mormon isn't either) and appearing anti-Israel will only further serve to strengthen that misconception; oh, and then there's the pesky little issue of nuclear proliferation in Iran and how America really wants to support Israel as a regional counterweight to Ahmadinejad, but in reality Netanyahu and his Likud cronies frustrate the heck out of us and no, we don't approve of Jewish settlements . . . 

 But all you can manage to say is ma b'araf (I don't know). 

When really you do know and you've read books on this and could probably write a book on this and now your new Palestinian friend thinks that you've never given the idea a second thought. 

Bye-bye, Comfort Zone. At times like this, it's tempting to scoff at people who say they're jealous of me.

BUT: I chose this. Whether I like it or not, this is my dream. 

Sounds funny to say, huh? "Whether I like it or not." Shouldn't you at least like your dreams? What's the point of dreaming if it's not enjoyable?

But what I'm learning is, maybe, the sweetest dreams are the ones that kick you in the face for a while.

***

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did." - T.E. Lawrence 

This I am doing.

Thanks for the reminder, Cassie.

Artsy

One of my new friends here on the program was recently asking me why I chose to study Arabic, and mentioned that she'd thought I'd been in some "artsy" major before switching over.

Artsy?

It was the first time someone had ever even implied  that I was artsy, which is why I think this comment stuck with me so much. Because in order for her to say that, I must have been living artfully. Be it in my speech, dress, hair, makeup, actions, whatever. Somebody who barely knew me looked at me and thought "That girl must be artsy."

I took it as a compliment because"artsy" is just another way of saying "unique" or "creative." (Also: "Weird.") Artsy folk tend to notice beauty that others pass by. Like the texture of a sweater or the swirls in marbled wood. And gradually, all this noticing--all the times your parents cocked an eyebrow at each other thinking "Should we take her in to see if she has ADD?", all the incessant double-takes over your shoulder to look at  leaves on the sidewalk and empty Big Gulp cups--makes your life fuller. 

I remember driving in Utah before we left for Amman. Coming out of the mouth of Provo Canyon, I abruptly pulled over and parked the car. A few minutes later, I remember getting back in the driver's seat and thinking Did I really just pull over to take pictures of a sunset? Am I one of THOSE PEOPLE???

I had. I was. And I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride about it, like I had just joined some elitist club of people who order Chinese takeout on the weekends while they "create" and who actually like "Howl."

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how artsy I actually was to being with. I'm not going to give up my day job (oh wait, don't have one!) to pursue a particular medium, but my passions are a Pollock of writing,  photography, fashion, makeup, hair, architecture, food, literature, painting, dancing, singing, film, music, and design. This is basically just a convoluted way of saying I REALLY LIKE PRETTY THINGS. Nothing quite makes my heart swoon like subway tile in a kitchen, succulents in bridal bouquets, the blue undertones in wine-colored lipstick, or a sentence by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I'm not artistic because of what I have created (which, in reality, is just a bunch of carbon dioxide and one of those paper Thanksgiving turkeys made from a cut-out of my hand in the second-grade for my mom) . I am artistic because I notice little masterpieces all around me.

I think that may be a trap that a lot of people fall into--the thought process of "I'm not crazy artistic, so I'm not artsy." First off, who even wants to be crazy artistic? That's usually just a euphemism for "substance abuser" anyway. But I think a lot of people are so quick to cast themselves into their own personal stereotype, and it's important to take a step back every now and then to look for all the beauty in yourself that you may not know is there. I am not just a student of politics. I am not just an Arabic language learner. I am not just a Mormon or runner or wife or blogger or bitch or lover or child or mother (NOT AN ANNOUNCEMENT, JUST A 90s POP CULTURE REFERENCE). If I were to typecast myself into just one of these things, how boring would that be? How boring would I be?

Embrace your inner kaleidoscope with vigor! 

Anyway, the fact alone that my neurons have spewn forth this much content from a comment that a person made to me over a week ago is probably testament enough to the fact that I am, indeed, artsy. Or that I'm a Type A, over-analytical, self-obsessed person who fishes for compliments and validation when there is none to be had (aka A BLOGGER).

But I had a dream last night where an elephant walked on water to bring me my shoes (which were in a helmet), right before a porthole in a fjord spat me out in the Comorosian jungle where my friend from Chicago who I haven't seen since 2009 almost ate a poisonous frog.

 So . . . I'm gonna go with artsy.

Jordanian Cuisine

30% of Jordanians over the age of 25 are diabetic. It's easy to see why:

1) Nobody exercises because everybody smokes. 

2) Schwerma.

3) Falafel.

4) The infamous Arab sweet tooth. Pastries with enough syrup, butter, sugar, and dough to send even Tony Horton into cardiac arrest.

I had some yogurt for breakfast in this morning, which is all I could bring myself to eat until dinner. I mean, I like schwerma and falafel--but I'm already sick of the "cement stomach" phenomenon that inevitably follows their consumption.

I think it's funny that I'm taking issue with the unhealthy food here because I'M the girl who lived on Sprinkles cupcakes, oatmeal creme pies, and toasted bagels with delicious, full-fat cream cheese all summer. In yet another testament how much I value independence, I enjoy unhealthy foods when I choose to eat them. But when they're my only viable option, I choose something even less appealing--starvation--simply for the sake of making a choice! What's that Amman? No fresh salads or all-fruit smoothies in the food court? FINE. WATCH ME GO HUNGRY. WATCH.

Imagine my joy when I came home and discovered Brock had made fajitas for dinner. Lean steak, onions, green peppers, tomatoes, lettuce . . . come to mama. It was a home-run on the Brock front. Which is good, because he struck out last week when trying to buy milk.

"Honey, this carton doesn't have the Arabic word for 'milk' on it."

"Huh? It was in the refrigerated section and has a cow on it."

"Yeah, but it's not milk."

"Then what is it?"

"The Arabic says shabeebeh."

"Really? Lemme taste."

***

Turns out shabeebeh is a mixture of yogurt water and salt.

That facial reaction was fun to watch.

Thunder From Down Under

"Brock, your hair looks amazing today."

"Dude I know. I've been looking at it all day. In mirrors. In windows. Everywhere."

 later . . .

"Don't even tell me my hair doesn't make you want me."

later . . .

"If you're wondering where your lingerie is, it's in the drawer on the left."

***

You give a man one compliment--one compliment--and he thinks he's a Chippendale. Ladies be warned.

Purpose

I’ll be able to start posting regularly because we get internet in our apartment on Monday—huzzah!

What a week this has been. Monday was our first day of classes, and it went pretty well. Until classes start at the University of Jordan in a couple weeks, my schedule looks a little something like this:

9:00-10:00: Homework.

10:00-11:00: Issues class at the Qasid Institute. Everyone in the program has been separated into different groups of about eight or nine, and we all have different teachers for both our Issues and Performance classes. My teacher’s name is Fadi, and he’s awesome.

In our issues class we discuss various subjects in Arabic. And when I say “we” I mean Fadi talks for about forty minutes and then the rest of us try to express opinions—which usually end up being a sentence and a half long. I feel good that I can understand the vast majority of what Fadi is saying, but speaking is a whole ‘nother ballgame. This week we talked about the ins and outs of Jordanian government and the rich history of tribal law.

11:00-12:00: Performance class. Everybody in the class prepares a three-minute presentation on a certain topic, and then we get feedback from the class on how our Arabic sounded. This week we spoke about ourselves in ‘aamiyya (colloquial) Arabic, and about the history of an Arab country in fusha (formal) Arabic. I’m getting to the point where I feel comfortable with Jordanian ‘aamiyya. At BYU we learned Egyptian ‘aamiyya for the past two years (remember when this study abroad was supposed to happen in Cairo?), and Jordanian ‘aamiyya is different. It’s really only about twenty words or so that aren’t the same, but they’re twenty words that you use all the time (what, why, I want, I speak, etc).

12:00-4:00: “Free” time. Except not really. We have to find a native speaker(s) to talk with for two hours, and also have a load of homework due every day at 4pm. We also have four half-hour appointments scattered throughout the week during this time (two fusha, two ‘aamiyya, one writing).

4:00-5:00: Culture class and newspaper review with Dil (our program director). Each day we’re given a three or four newspaper articles to read and translate. (At the minimum, this takes two hours.) 4pm is when our translations are due, and then we go over the articles in this class. We also talk about different facets of Arab/Jordanian culture, which is super interesting.

9:00-10:00: Time for a chunk of miscellaneous homework and vocab review before hitting the sack.

***

Crazy, eh? I’m barely keeping on top with everything I need to do, and some of our classes haven’t even started yet! I actually really enjoy just about everything we’re assigned to do. I think the newspaper articles are fun despite the fact that there is so much vocabulary I don’t know. Dil tells us which articles to read, and then says “Oh, and by the way, here’s a list of vocabulary you may not know.” Which usually totals about 80-100 words. Sigh.

The speaking portion of the day is what fills my soul with terror. The easiest way to reach your two-hour goal is to catch a taxi to the gam’aa (University of Jordan) during the afternoon and find people to talk to there. Unfortunately, classes don’t start for another two weeks at the gam’aa so there isn’t a ton of people on campus yet, but enough.

Speaking is my least favorite part of the day because A) I sucketh and B) It’s hard finding girls to talk to. Approaching guys (“Hi! I’m Kristi. What’s your name?) is very forward and can be taken in the wrong way, so I’m limited in the conversations I can start.

The women here seem a bit stand-offish. Generally (not just in the Arab world, everywhere) a guy can approach another guy, say “What’s up?”, and they’re instant friends. With girls it’s soooo different. Also, what’s up with women traveling in huge groups?! That makes it even harder to approach them. (Dear Males of the World: I kind of get what it’s like to ask a girl out. Never realized how hard the Friends Fortress was to break into!)

Anyway, on Monday I did find two speaking opportunities. One was with two girls sitting on a bench, and another happened with a larger group. One of the Arab girls in the larger group spoke pretty good English, and she completely dominated conversation. Unfortunately, an English-speaking Arab does little to help me (yet another obstacle to swerve around!).

Even though my speaking experiences on Monday weren’t completely abominable, I left discouraged. Then I went home and got kicked in the face by 100+ new vocab words from my newspaper homework. I went to bed mentally exhausted, overwhelmed, and feeling completely hopeless. The more Arabic you know, the more Arabic you know you don’t know.

These feelings carried over to Tuesday. I was on the brink of tears all day and couldn’t bring myself to go out and try speaking again. I was sad, angry and jealous that the guys on the study abroad had things so much easier as far as speaking opportunities go.

Things came to a head at the end of the day. After watching the Jordanian national soccer team play China (that’ll have to be a different blog post!), we were exiting the stadium with friends and heard somebody shout “Willyum! Willyum!” in the distance. Will is a TA on the program, and we went to the soccer game with him, his wife, and their adorable baby boy. He recognized the person who was shouting and went over for a quick conversation. Upon his return, Will explained “Oh, him? That was the guy who sold me nuts at the grocery store last week!”

The guy who sold you nuts at the grocery store last week?!!?

Like I said: So much easier for guys to make friends here!

Will is a really outgoing, fun person and makes friends everywhere, but what kills me is that so am I! But I can’t be that way in Jordan. Around men, it comes off as sexually aggressive. And most women here seem pretty reserved (at least at first)—I feel like my strong, Western personality is a turn-off to potential friends.

So, let’s see what adjectives I’ve used in the past few paragraphs: Discouraged, exhausted, overwhelmed, hopeless, sad, angry, jealous, and sexually aggressive. That’s a lot of emotions! (Okay, so that last one was taken out of context, BUT STILL.)

Anyway, I woke up the next morning and felt prompted to turn to the scriptures. I went to the topical guide and searched for verses that talked about struggling, since that seemed apropos at the time. I turned to Ether 12:27.

27 And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.

“I give unto men weakness that they may be humble”—this really hit home for me. It’s no secret that I’m a very independent, headstrong person (dragging my husband with me to the Middle East so I can learn one of the hardest languages in the world . . . go figure). I prefer to navigate through things on my own and sometimes scoff at people who do this thing called “asking for help.” I look at them and think I figured it out. Why can’t you? I think being an oldest child is a double-edged sword for me: On one hand, I’m a very resourceful person who doesn’t rely on others to solve her problems; on the other, I tend to view humility as a sign of weakness.

All my life, I’ve set goals and achieved them through hard work. Most of my biggest goals have been physical--helping my track team win a state championship, completing an Olympic triathlon, the Boston Marathon, a 50-mile ultramarathon. Of course I’ve had the help of the Lord in achieving these things (how else could you explain all these years of running with nary a sprain to speak of?) but physical goals are different than mental goals. It’s a simple physiological fact that if you train hard for something, your body will become strong. And with enough strength, you’ll probably achieve what you set out to do.

Train hard. Succeed. Boom, done.

I wouldn’t say I was overly prideful about the physical goals I’ve met, but I will admit that I felt like I could do them mostly on my own with just a little bit of help from the Lord; i.e. train, train, train, and then say a quick prayer when things got nasty at mile 44. No matter how you cut it, I wouldn’t have succeeded without the Lord’s help, but I’d rest my prideful head on my pillow at night thinking “Well, at least I did most of it by myself.” What am I, four years old?! How awful is that? It takes for granted that the Lord gave me my healthy, strong body in the first place.

I love how Arabs consciously praise God in all things. You ask them how they are? Alhamdulillah. What a beautiful baby you have! Masha’allah. You’re planning on arriving at seven? Insha’allah. Praise be to God, whatever God wills, if God wills. Yes, it gets repetitive and yes, it gets routine, but that doesn’t mean it’s without principle. Arabs are almost humble to a fault, and I think that’s something I’ve tried too hard to avoid. I mean, being humble is one thing, but c’mon—I make my own decisions! I choose my own path, I set the course of my life, O Captain, my Captain, etc. But in an effort to avoid being fatalistic (i.e. whatever happens is God’s will, nothing you can do about it), I have failed to give God proper credit. And by “proper” I mean “all.”

I think the reason Tuesday was so difficult was because I had to come to grips with the fact that no matter how hard I work, I need the help of my Savior. And not just at mile 44, either. I freaking had a breakdown on the second day of the program—mile zero! I’m going to need His help from start to finish. Acknowledging my weakness wasn’t the hard part. I’ve always been able to do that. Accepting it is what humbled me.

I am here in Amman because learning Arabic is one thing I literally cannot do on my own. I need other people to practice speaking with, and I need the Savior to help me buoy me up against continual discouragement and frustration. Comparing myself to others or succumbing to jealousy will only hamper my efforts and lead me farther away from my goals. I know it sounds cliche, but if I hone in and have faith that the Lord will help me be the best that I can be, I’ll walk away from this experience having achieved more than I ever thought possible.

I am weak now, but I know that through faith I will be made strong. I think it’s kind of funny that Heavenly Father knew the only way I was going to learn this lesson was if He dumped me in the Middle East with a seemingly impossible task before me. I must be really prideful! J I am grateful, however, that my purpose in being here revealed itself so early on. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’ll even use Arabic in my professional life, so if I were to go through these next four months thinking that’s the reason why I’m here, it would be very hard to stay motivated. But I know that I am here to develop true humility, true faith, and a true relationship with the Savior.

That will get me through.

Insha’allah.

Settled

We are finally settled down in Amman--classes start tomorrow and I am so excited to get going. I'm going to start using this blog as a language journal sorts. I'll write down my frustrations, my anxieties, my successes, and weekly goals. But FIRST! I believe I have some updating to do :)

Sunday, August 28: 11:58pm take-off from Denver International Airport.

Monday, August 29: 5am touchdown in Dulles. THIRTEEN HOUR LAYOVER. Kill me. Actually, don't. I still need to learn Arabic. 6pm takeoff for Heathrow.

Tuesday, August 30th: 5am touchdown in Heathrow. Six-hour layover. 2:00pm takeoff for Amman. Flew on BMI (British Midland Airways)--BALLER! The Europeans know how to make an airline. Comfy leather seats for everyone, lots of legroom, ambient music as your board, and a pretty legit dinner as far as airplane food goes: Lasagna, tabbouleh salad, cheese and crackers, mineral water, strawberry creme mousse.

Touchdown 8:30pm. Saw the exchange rate and realized we'd gotten screwed in London (1 dollar = 0.61 dinars in Heathrow, 0.70 at Queen Alia Airport. We exchanged$1400. For those of you who aren't math majors: Bye-bye, $200). Learned that our apartment wasn't ready (somebody was still living in it --legitimate problem). Drove to our interim apartment that we shared with another couple, Jason and Kimberly. Interim apartment spacious and beautiful, but nasty. Dirty sheets, dirty floors, dirty bathrooms, dirty kitchen. But we were so exhausted that we didn't care. Shared a "twin-and-a-half"-sized bed with Brock and slept like a baby.

Wednesday, September 1st: Spent the day cruising around a little and getting to know the area. Ate shwerma for the first time at the Mukhtar Mall--delicious! Spent a good part of the day back at our interim apartment chatting away with Jason, Kimberly, and our other friends Raage and Nicole. While walking to our apartment, we came across a group of kids playing around in the streets. Our hearts stopped when we saw what they were playing with: guns! Thankfully, they were just toy guns--Jordan must not have the same toy requirements that the United States does (i.e. a toy gun must look like a toy), because these things looked freaking real.

It was so interesting these kids play together. There were two distinct groups, and they both ran around trying to shoot each other and shouting "Allahu akbar!" You can't judge their culture for this or condemn their parents for allowing such violent play because that's just the way it is. My friend Stacy was telling me about a new toy that a little boy was opening on the bus in front of her the other day--a fancy 3-in-1 package with a fake gun, grenade, and knife. American boys play with Hot Wheels, Jordanian boys with weaponry. Tomato, tomahto.

Thursday, September 2nd: Busiest day to speak of thus far! We visited a small town right outside of Amman called Madaba, which is famous for its mosaics. There, in an old Greek Orthodox church, lies a 1,400 year old mosaic of the Holy Land--it was absolutely incredible. After Madaba we went to Mt. Nebo,which is spoken of in Deuteronomy. It's where Moses looked out over the Promised Land, and later died. It was surreal to stand there and look out over areas that I've read about in the Bible since I was a little girl: Jericho, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Jordan River, etc. I lagged behind the group a little bit and had the lookout area all to myself. It was perfectly quiet on top of Mt. Nebo, and the view really hasn't changed since Moses was there. To stand there and think that I was standing where Moses stood, looking at what Moses had looked at, was a very special experience.

After Mt. Nebo we drove down to the site where Jesus was baptized along the Jordan River. The actual area itself was completely dry--kind of an"Oh, this is it?" moment because you're expecting to see a flowing river like in all the paintings. But that still didn't take away from the experience. It's still hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea of Jesus was here. Not that I don't believe He was a real person, but that just makes him very real to me . . . almost incomprehensibly so. I know"incomprehensibly real" makes no sense. But I'm the girl who stumbled over her words when she met Chris Heimerdinger in the BYU Bookstore (Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites books, anyone? Anyone?).

I didn't have these feelings on Mt. Nebo--Moses is one thing, Jesus is another. To live in the land where the Savior lived, standing in front of the place where He was baptized . . . I almost feel like my testimony of the church isn't ready for something like that. My testimony is based almost purely on faith, not on knowledge. But physically standing where Jesus stood and feeling that overpowering sense of Oh my gosh, it was all real almost removes faith from the equation, replacing it with knowledge. I know 2+2 is 4 and that the capital of Somalia is Mozambique and that Jesus stood here. All of a sudden my testimony is based on something tangible--an experience that I had--which is so different from faith alone. I was surprised at this reaction, and think I'll need to go back a second time to soak it all in now that I've processed it.

Next on the list was the Dead Sea--yep, it's as weird and other-worldly as it looks. And it freakin' HURTS! You instantly become painfully aware of every scratch on your body. Definitely a one-and-done kind of experience. You need to be care not to get a single drop of water in your eye (unless you're ready to b be blind for a few minutes) and at 93°F the water isn't refreshing in the least. Brock and I coated ourselves in the black Dead Sea tar mud and baked in the sun for a few minutes. It's a great exfoliant that gives you baby-soft skin. I can't believe Brock made it through the day sans sunburns and only minor dehydration. DC prepared us well! :)

Friday, September 3rd: Friday is the Sabbath day here in Jordan, so we went off to church at 10am. Speaking of religion, can I just say how much I love hearing the Islamic call to prayer? To hear allahu akbar ("God is great") literally being sung from the hilltops five times per day is very special--Islam is such a beautiful religion.

The branch here is tiny and our group of 60+ BYU kids was no short of an inundation. Good thing, too, because it sounds like this branch is really struggling. The Church isn't recognized in Jordan, and it probably won't be until its members here learn to get along. My first Sunday School lesson in Arabic was cool, but kind of demoralizing. I could hardly understand a thing! At the conclusion of the lesson, however, the teacher bore his testimony, and I did understand the brunt of that--the Spirit speaks in every language :)

Friday was also the day we moved into our actual apartment--yaaaay! It was so nice to finally unpack and live in a clean place. Our neighbors Will and Tasha (Will is the study abroad's TA) showed us around the neighborhood a little and helped us grab some basic food supplies at . . . Safeway. Yes, Safeway. In Amman. (Ah, globalization!) Did I mention it was right next door to a KFC?

Saturday, September 4th: Free day. Grabbed some more groceries with our friends Weston and Kami, got some laundry done, and went to bed early.

Sunday, September 5th: I've been taking tests all day today. Speaking tests, listening test, reading tests, you name it. Again, I'm overwhelmed with how much have to learn! Baby steps, right?