For the last few weeks I have been meeting with my peer tutor Abdullah every now and then to play cards, talk about girls, and drink coffee. Every time we meet he is with his friend Amar, who’s English is just a little better. Amar is a great guy, he is in his 5th year of electrical engineering and he lives in an apartment behind the Khalifa (CIEE) building with 4 other guys. On Monday, Abdullah called me from Amar’s phone (as he often does) and asked me to come meet him at the university restaurant. Of course I obliged and hurried over to discover him and Amar sitting smoking cigarettes and drinking soda. I sat down and exchanged pleasantries but soon realized their attention was elsewhere. It became clear when Amar asked me not to turn around but to observe a girl through the reflection of the window in front of us.
“What do you think of her?” he asked. I gave her the up and down (in the safety of the windows reflection) and told him that I approved. She was a very modestly dressed but gorgeous Arab girl. He then explained to me that he loved her. I asked him how long he had known her and he said he didn’t really know her, but that they had exchanged the superficial “hello” and “how are you” a few times now. He asked me what he should do and I told him he should just go over and say hi. He explained to me the issue was that she is in a different college within the university and that she is always with friends, which makes him apprehensive and nervous.
“The issue is her DUF,” Abdullah said. “Her what??” I replied, assuming this was an Arabic word I hadn’t learned yet”
“Her ‘designated ugly friend’” he answered and both Amar and I broke out laughing. Apparently her DUF as Abdullah so bluntly put it was copping his style, not unlike what I have experience all throughout my life in the US. I began to unfold the mission of the wing-man to both Amar and Abdullah as they both watched and listened with keen interest. After my lengthy speech they both looked at me with as if with a newly earned respect. Amar then proceeded to pick away every piece of knowledge I have about talking, meeting, and courting women. This wasn’t the first time this has happened to me on the trip. Last Thursday my new friend Munir told me that he would call me for advice before sending a text message to the girl he was newly courting. I’m not sure if it’s my confidence, or if Arab men think all American men are players (as the TV shows them(thank you Jersey Shore)), but I’ve become a bit of a counselor to many of my new found friends. I’ve tried to explain to them my run of bad luck with the ladies in Jordan, and that I don’t consider myself an expert at all, but they just assume its modesty. In fact, I haven’t been on a single date since getting here and don’t really expect to anytime soon, but if they wish to continue hounding for my advice I won’t let them down.
After this comedic and somewhat sad interaction of male insecurity Abdullah took off to go to class and left me sitting alone with Amar. Now was my time to pick at him about his culture. It Turns out that Amar is from Ajloun and his family runs an olive oil farm. He promised the first time we met to bring me oil (zeit) which I believe he will, but hasn’t yet. Judging from this little information I assumed he came from a well respected family/tribe and that he must have a pretty traditional background. I decided to ask him about his siblings.
“Amar, how many siblings do you have?” I asked (in Arabic). He looked at me and broke down laughing. I asked him “Shou” (what) assuming I had messed something up in Arabic. He asked me to give him a second, so I did.
“I have 21 siblings” he finally answered. My mouth dropped, his mouth opened again with laughter. Cautiously, not wanting to assume, I asked him how on earth his mom had given birth to so many kids. “They aren’t all from my mom, of course” he answered. “How many wives does your father have,” I asked. He answered, explaining to me that his father had passed away, but that he had had two wives. His mother was mom to 13 kids, including him. They all lived in the same apartment, excluding a few brothers who had married. The other mother lived in another apartment in town with his other siblings (half siblings? What have you). He told me that he was the youngest brother and that his older brothers supported the entire family. He told me that it is better to be the youngest son, because when you need something you just go to the older brothers. He joked that each week he called a different one requesting that they send him money. When I played along and laughed with him he sternly looked at me and said, “of course I will one day do the same if I am needed to.”
This lunch time interaction was a good wake up call to me. As Joseph and I sat at home listening to the call to prayer today he turned to me and said, ”I keep forgetting we are in Jordan. I can’t believe we have been here 1 month.” These revelations continue to occur for him and I, and I would assume my other CIEE colleagues. It is interactions like the one I had with Amar or even tuning in to the prayer as it blasts from loudspeakers 5 times throughout the day that remind me of where I am. It is easy as a foreigner to surround yourself in modern life and Western lifestyles in Amman and forget that you are in a predominantly Muslim country. You need only travel to any of the 8 circles to be surrounded in fancy resorts, posh restaurants, and hip cafes. It actually takes some work to evade this lifestyle. Amman is rapidly changing and has been for decades; it is not the Bedouin trade post I fantasized of over Christmas break or the half-assed attempt at modernity that some articles I read described it as. It is full of educated, bright young citizens who are torn in a hundred different directions. I won’t claim to have begun to understand anything that this youth feels. All I can recount to my friends and family back home is the amazing friendships I am building.
When deciding to come to Jordan I thought I was doing something far-out and ambitious. It has truly been a challenge so far (academically and in respect to the language barrier), but as I reach the one month mark I’m realizing that this trip feels more familiar and homely than I ever imagined. I am very thankful that I made the decision to travel to Amman and not somewhere else.
Wish me good health for the marathon, as I am coming down with a nasty sore throat! I hope to have a new blog post up after the weekend to brag about my run and lounge on the beaches of Aqaba!
Your friend,
Wylie of Arabia
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