In Jordan: "Special Price for You"

It was interesting to see different prices for different people posted for all to see throughout Jordan. All of the national parks I visited had prices for both foreigners and for locals. For instance, for Petra, foreigners were asked to pay 50 Jordanian Dinars (JD) for a one-day visit or 90JD if one's visit would be the only visit in Jordan without an overnight stay in Wadi Musa--I was told that the 90JD rate was set up to discourage Israelis or other Western tourists from crossing the border for just a day's visit.  As far as Jordanians go, they were asked to pay only 1JD every time they entered Petra.

At the Dead Sea tourist beach that I went to and wrote about, they charged me nearly three times more, 15JD, while my Jordanian counterparts were asked to pay 4JD. Even all the way south in Aqaba, the beach parking asked that foreigners pay 4JD while the locals paid a single JD.

Some of the travelers that I ran into along the way did not agree with this price difference and thought it was discriminating to pay more for the same product or service.  They would often say that a policy of that sort would never fly in a Western country; everyone pays the same price no matter who you are or where you come from.  Actually, when I thought about it, even Morocco didn't have different price schemes for foreigners (at least not posted officially).

I had mixed feelings about the issue. On the one hand, I can see why a government would seek to exploit something that is so unique and so in demand to generate revenue for the government. The question then is do the people benefit from the extra revenue or is it eaten up in government bureaucracy? A number of Jordanians would argue that it is probably the latter.

Also, a higher sticker price can stem the flow of tourists thereby reducing the environmental impact of tourist traffic and keeping the country's fragile historical treasures intact.  That does not seems not to be the case though for Petra.  In fact, just last year a Jordan Times article reported a 42% increase in tourist traffic at Petra National Park during the first six months of 2010 in comparison to the same time period in 2009.  The Art Newspaper worries that too much traffic may endanger some of the most remarkable sites in Petra like, for instance, the recently restored and conserved one-of-a-kind Dionysiac wall painting found in the Siq of Little Petra.

Dionysiac painting in Little Petra

Another Jordan Times article goes on to say that the Petra Development and Tourism Region Authority (PDTRA) plans to use some of the funds to rehabilitate sites and upgrade services to enrich visitor experience, and that the new price scheme was setup with those needs in mind as well as the needs of the kingdom.  In essence, there seems to be little effort to cap numbers, and when things are going this well, I can't see the authorities doing much to contain the flow even if it's for environmental concerns.

Regarding the locals, I think it's wise that the Jordanian government mandate a reduced price for its citizens because the current foreigner price would put many sites out of reach for many.  Reducing the price also encourages domestic consumption of tourism-related services thereby boosting the local economy.  Not only is it good for the economy, I think it's wise that a country's citizenry be well traveled and know their country and their countrymen and women.

For the meantime though, if you're a foreigner traveling in this foreign land, get ready to pay up. But take it from me, floating on the Dead Sea is an experience like no other and walking through the Red-Rose City is once again something for which there is no equal.  Did it hurt to pay? Yes! Was it worth it? Totally!

Chowing Down Some Jordanian Maqlouba

Sometimes when you travel, you set goals for yourself as to what you'd like to accomplish that day. Let's say for example you're in Paris. In Paris, you must, of course, visit the Tour Eiffel, Sacré Couer, Moulin Rouge, and perhaps other landmarks. Some people get a kick out of going to these historical, architectural wonders. I too enjoy taking in the scenery, but other times I like to indulge other senses. So when I woke up in Kerak, already on my third day of what was supposed to be a one-day visit, I got up with only one goal in mind— EATING MAQLOUBA!

The Peace Corps volunteer (PCV), Peace Corps trainee, and I had a very light breakfast so as not to spoil our hunger. Last time when I was treated to mansef, I was not as hungry as I could have been. I didn't want to make that mistake again. Jordanian families like Moroccans don't just suggest that you eat more; they order you to eat and I was planning to comply.

We walked to the Christian part of the town and arrived at the home of a Christian family that had befriended the PCV.  Upon entering, we were engulfed by an assortment of aromas indicating that something good was in the works. Our empty stomachs were ready. The father took us directly to the dining room, seated us, and then called his grand-kids and son to the table. The mother was still rummaging around the kitchen setting the table and giving a large pot its final stir.



Maqlouba

Then came the moment we were all waiting for: the unveiling of maqlouba. The mother brought over a the large pot and a serving tray, placed the serving tray on the pot, and flipped the contents of the pot onto the serving tray in one swoop. In front of us was a mix of Jordanian basmati rice, fried cauliflower and eggplant, and what looked like pan-fried chicken. It looked messy, but it smelled delicious.

Jordanian Maqlouba

The mother and father went about filling our plates. I savored every bite trying to take in all the flavors and spices. I ate and ate until I could eat no more. Everything in that dish was so juicy. The cauliflower and eggplant were cooked just right. The chicken had been seared, but it was still tender. It was a wonderful combination of ingredients that produced another Jordanian masterpiece.

Shortly after filling our stomachs to the brim, the mother brought over some pitch black Turkish-style coffee. A sip of that and any desire to lay down quickly dissipates, and perhaps it was given to us for a reason. Any normal person would simply collapse after that meal. We still had to walk a few kilometres back to the PCV's house.

Jordanian Red Bull - Turkish style coffee

The father told us that he had private classes starting in a few minutes. That was our cue to go, but not before exchanging hugs with both the father, mother, high-fives with the two young boys, and thanking everyone profusely for the marvelous hospitality they bestowed upon us.

Our gracious host

Once again, I thanked my lucky stars and the cosmic forces of the universe for what had just transpired. I didn't see any tall buildings or historical landmarks, but I was fortunate to have been the recipient of some amazing Jordanian hospitality. Muslim or Christian, they have given me the best that they could offer and did it out of the kindness of their heart. We shared stories, ate together, and sipped a little coffee or sweet tea to cap our encounter. I'll forever remember maqlouba and the folks that made that day a day to remember.

___________

Click here for maqlouba recipe Jordanian style.

Breaching Kerak

The first time I heard of Kerak (الكرك) was through an email correspondence with a potential couchsurfing host.  He told me that the city and its famous crusader castle could easily be another day trip from Amman.

Even though at one point I had trudged through Karen Armstrong's exhaustive account of the medieval crusades in her book Holy War: The Crusades and their Impact in Today's World,  I still wasn't all that interested in checking out the sanctuaries and other crusader ruins.  I think my indifference stemmed from having read the gory details of their slaughter campaign through the Holy Land or was turned off by their general ignorance and arrogance.  To be fair, the Crusaders weren't the first to go on a rampage in the Levant.  Prior to them, Canaanites, Israelites, Moabites, and other tribes went on their killing spree sometimes at the behest of a god or for strategic purposes.

So before arriving in Jordan, I had heard of Kerak, but I had no intention to go until a fellow volunteer living in Kerak, who I ran into while traveling Jordan's shamal (north), suggested that I crash his place. I thought, “Why not?” 

No Loose Change Around

To get to Kerak, I took a bus from the South (janubia) Amman Station and arrived in Kerak about 2 hours later.  I think the fare was about 2.5JD.  I remember upsetting the money collector when I gave him a 20JD bill.  Small bills and coins, like in Morocco, are a prized commodity. 

I still don't understand why change is so hard to come by in these countries.  Is it because the central bank is not minting enough coins or printing only a few small bills?  Are the general banks and central bank forgetting to turn in and replace the bills that have lived out their life-cycle?  For instance, Morocco's lowest denomination bill of 20 Dirham was the grimiest bill of them all.  Sometimes you could barely make out the images on the bill because everything was so smudged.    

However, before I blame the government or the bankers, maybe the root of the problem is a lack of planning and coordination on the part of the local bus companies who forget to keep change in hand.  I remembered not too long ago in Israel giving a bus driver a 50 shekel bill for a trip that cost 12 shekel and getting my change in bills and coinage in a snap without the frustrated look or rebuke.  It just made me wonder why is something like having a proper flow of currency such a big issue as soon as you cross the River Jordan or in Morocco's case as soon as you cross the Mediterranean.   Fortunately, about halfway through my trip after collecting money from everyone that boarded at the station and the stray passengers they picked up on the way, the money-man gave me and everyone else their change back.

The DL on Kerak

The PCV in Kerak told me to get off at the outskirts of the city near a truck stop.  I got out, and he was there a few minutes later.  Lining a major street leading to his house were a few shawarma stands. We went to one that he frequented and were greeted like family.  We had the Jordanian fast-food combo meal of a shawarma sandwich, a small dish of sour vegetables, and Jordan's sweetened black tea.

On our way back to the PCV's home, the PCV shared some tidbits about the make-up of his community.  He told that there were two to three prominent tribes that controled most of the local government and that the family ties were really strong.  In addition to tribal affiliations, Kerak had a significant number of Christians who actively practiced their faith.  In his community, most of the Christians lived on the north side of the city near their churches, parochial schools, and cemeteries.  He said that in general both groups respected one another and shared some of the power in managing community affairs. 

He told me that both Christians and Muslims made wise-cracks about each other.  For instance, when the volunteer visited a Christian family once and felt sick the following day, his Muslim neighbors blamed his sickness on what they said was the Christians' notoriously bad hygiene.  Christians, on the other hand, would joke that Muslims must believe that Allah is deaf so much so that he needs to hear them say 'Allah u Akbar' (God is Great) so many times during their prayers.      

@ the Castle

Kerak Castle

The following day the volunteer and I went out to see the Crusader's Castle.  The City of Kerak itself is perched up on the same hill as the castle.  We took a small transit van that zig-zagged its way up the narrow and congested city streets and dropped us off a few blocks from the entrance.

I paid a small entrance fee.  The volunteer went over to one of the gate attendants and told him that he lived in Kerak, showed his Jordanian ID, and dropped his host father's tribal last name, which immediately brought a smile to the attendant's face. They spoke to each other for a bit, exchanged a few God phrases, and soon thereafter, the attendant told him to proceed without paying.

The views from the castle were quite stunning.  Most of the fields in this dry and hilly terrain were plowed waiting for the winter rains to come.  Off in the distance, one could make out the blue of the Dead Sea and the silvery haze that hovered over it.

View from Kerak Castle-Dead Sea in the distance

The castle was a labyrinth of tunnels with all sorts of nooks and crannies.  We snaked through the tunnels, checked out some of the major halls, rooms, and wells, climbed to the top, and imagined the siege of Salah al-Din's army.

Angry birds at Kerak Castle

I can see why Saladdin had such a hard time conquering the post.  It was nearly impossible to scale it without getting shot at, burned by any type of scalding liquid, or run over by whatever debris was thrown from the top.  The narrow windows on the fortress walls protected the archers very well.  One had to be quite a marksman to be able to squeeze an arrow through such a narrow opening.  Even though I'm no fan of the Crusaders, I had to marvel at the ingenuity of the fortress architecture.

After an hour or so walking through the castle, we made our way down to the city center where we made a small pit stop to refuel on some delicious kenafa--that mozzarella and crunchy filo dough drenched in honey confection that just never seemed to get old for me.

Kerak City - Making haram billboards halal

On the way there, I saw a number of young girls dressed in fairly revealing Western wear.  I pointed them out to the volunteer, and he knew that the families of those young girls were Christians and that in general Christian girls and guys dressed a little more Western than their Muslim counterparts. 

Change of Plans

A few blocks later, the volunteer and I parted ways.  I went to the bus stop in hopes of catching an afternoon bus to Ma'an, which is about 40k from Petra, where I was hoping to crash for the night.  Once at the station, I asked about going to Ma'an or Petra.  I was told that the only thing available even at 3PM on a weekday was one last express bus to Aqaba, the southernmost city in Jordan.  I didn't want to go to Aqaba to then ride up north again to Petra; so I called the PCV, asked if I could crash, and he obliged.  I went north to the truck stop where I was dropped off the first time and met up with the PCV and with a Peace Corps Trainee (PCT) who was sent to Kerak to observe a day-in-the-life of a PCV. 

Later on that evening, we got an invite for tea from a Christian family that the PCV had befriended.  Coming from Morocco where 95% or so of the country is Muslim, our walk through the streets of the Christian neighborhood seeing crosses, parochial schools, and Christian cemeteries in what is still a predominantly Muslim country was surprising.  At the door, we were met by the father of the house who greeted the PCV with the same God phrases I had heard earlier when the PCV greeted his Muslim friends and neighbors. 

We were escorted to the living room where his wife and a couple of young boys greeted us.  Even though the volunteer had told me that most Christian families don't follow the same protocol that many Muslims do in protecting their women from male strangers or segregating male and female interaction with respect to foreigners, I still hesitated when greeting his wife, who was dressed in a simple blouse and casual dress pants with no headscarf.  For some reason, I felt a sense of relief walking in.  I felt that I could probably be more myself in this home. 

The Holy Bible in 3rabia

We had a nice little chat over some coffee and some cookies.  The father spoke English and translated for his wife whenever she had something to say.  It was a very open environment.  A few boys, who happened to be their grand-kids, were playing in the living room.  One of their younger sons came out of his room to greet us, but then went right back inside to continue working on his latest techno-house-rave mix, which served as the background music to our cross-cultural exchange.  The mother half-smilingly told us that he worked as a DJ for private parties. 

The father shared some stories about some of the scuffles some Christians had with their Muslim neighbors, but he said that for the most part everyone respected each other.  He asked if I and the PCT were Christians to which we nodded yes.  I told him that I wanted to take a look at his Bible if he would allow me.  He brought it over and read a few of the first verses of the first chapter of Genesis.  Knowing already how these verses read in English, it was easy to make out Arabic words in use.  He went on to tell us that the Arabic language Bible is a closer translation than the English version because Aramaic is within the same family of Semitic languages.  He added that the Arabic translation is also much older than the English version having been translated all the way back in the 5^th century.  I asked if I could hold it.  I browsed through some of the pages and just sat in awe of it. 

For the longest time, I had associated Arabic with Islam and the Qur'an.  Here I held the very book I had read ever since I was a kid, but in Arabic.  Here was another book, considered sacred by many Arab Christians, that was written in the language many Muslims claim to be the language of God.

From then on, Arabic took on a more multifaceted look.  Not only could this language be the language of Islam, but also Christianity; of not only Muslims, but also Christians.  It was a language for all Arabs no matter what one believed.  They both prayed to Allah, but in different ways.  They both recited scriptures in the same language, but in distinct ways.  Sure, I had heard that there were Arab Christians in the Middle East, but once again just like visiting Jerusalem, meeting various people of different faiths, and seeing the Holy Scriptures in Arabic makes much of what I heard and read much more real.

More Kerak to Come

Before we left though, the father invited us to come back for a special lunch treat.  He asked his wife if she could cook up some maqlouba, which supposedly means upside down, and she smiled and said, “Yes.”  The PCV was super excited to hear this.  The dish was on my list of must-eat, must-try Jordanian meals, but all I had heard was that it was kind of like mansef with more vegetables and different spices.  If it was anything like mansef, it was bound to be delicious.

Because transits to Ma'an only ran in the morning, dining with that family would mean I would have to chill out in Kerak for another full day.  The PCV had no problem letting me crash so just like that I extended my stay for another couple of days.  On our way back, we walked back through the Christian neighborhood and then back onto the surrounding streets leading to the PCV's home.  I thought to myself, “Wow, in just one day I went back in time imagining the days of the Crusaders, had some mouth-watering kenafa again, learned a little about the community dynamics between some Christians and Muslims in this small corner of Jordan, and got to see and hear verses from an Arabic language Bible."

I would have to agree with a quote I read a while back from Saint Augustine that said, "The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page."  I probably got a few pages worth that day.  Even though I was tired, I laid awake in bed as my mind raced to process, categorize, and archive all of the experiences. I finally drifted thinking tomorrow would undoubtedly bring even more surprises.

In Jordan: Umm Qais

Sometimes I travel for a change of scenery and other times I travel to be transported in time.  The great thing is that in Jordan you can do both or as some animal cruelty perpetrators would say "kill two birds with one stone"--Why do people say that? Why kill two birds? What did the birds ever do to you? Are you gonna eat the birds?

Umm Qais Main Street

Anyways, on my last blog I wrote about my trip to the Dead Sea, a place with no equal on the planet, certainly a change of scenery.  When I took a trip to Umm Qais, one of the ancient cities of the Roman Decapolis (Ten Cities) also known as Gadara in Jesus's days, walking through the ruins was like stepping into another time period.  The architecture, the layout, the Corinthian columns, the intricately carved stones, the plazas, the theaters, the remains of their paved roads, and the living quarters were all so different from their present-day surroundings in Jordan.  I presume that their architecture stood out in quite a contrast back then as it does now, and it makes me wonder why the architectural elements of these microcosms of Roman life took little root in this region of the world.  It's true that some elements of Roman architecture can be found in some of the most famous mosques.  The columns and arches are examples of that.

However, aside from that, I wonder if the people of the Levant had so much pride in their culture and past architectural accomplishments that they saw Roman architecture as inferior or too foreign/western?

Umm Qais Corinthian Column

Or maybe there were building codes that prevented the occupied to emulate the architecture of the occupiers?  Was it a way to distinguish between classes? Or perhaps, did adding Roman architectural concepts to your home or city made you a sellout?

I enjoy visiting the ruins of old cities because it reminds me of the transient nature of societies and civilizations--how quickly power comes and goes, how cultures clashed or adapted to one another, how people organized themselves in terms of social hierarchy, and what those individuals way back then valued.  One can draw a lot from the architecture.

Umm Qais Roman Theater

For example, the many theaters demonstrate their love of storytelling, the administrative centers show their hierarchical bureaucracy, and the paved roads were there to facilitate commerce.

To me, these relics of the past given that they seem so out of place in this region could be seen as a cautionary reminder of how western experiments exporting western aesthetics or ideals can go wrong.  It's interesting that even today contemporary western powers continue to prod, nudge, and in some cases take complete control through force as the Romans did of vast areas of the Levant.  I don't necessarily think that all incursions or even all invasions are bad.  Humans have been roaming and invading territories since the beginning of time.  Different groups learn to co-exist while others fight tooth and nail to expel whatever they consider foreign.  Perhaps physical features serve as a basis for separation or maybe a family lineage, heritage, language, religion, type of garment, or even their architecture.  

I wonder would the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan be what it is today without its ancient Roman history?  How would Jordan be different if say the Mongols or the Crusaders had not invaded the territory centuries ago or if it had resisted Ottoman control? What would Jordan look like if colonial powers had not demarcated its boundaries?  I think that these interventions and invasions are part of the human experience with one idea replacing another and old ideas re-emerging as novel.  It's tough to say what's good or what's bad or better or worse.  That's not to say that one should sit idly as change occurs before one's eyes, although if that's someone's choice than so be it, but one could also be part of the change or of the resistance to change.  In some way each and everyone contributes to it whether it be passively or actively.

Stone-carved theater seats at Umm Qais

Time will tell if new experiments, incursions, or invasions will be embraced by the current residents of the Levant.  I guess if they are, we will see replicas, and if not, someone else a thousand or so years from now will be writing another reflection about the ruins leftover from our contemporary world and will perhaps wonder if their new endeavors in this region will be successful.

See links on Umm Qais with up to date travel details and other interesting historical facts :

http://www.kinghussein.gov.jo/tourism3b.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umm_Qais

http://www.visitjordan.com/default.aspx?tabid=176

Safe travels! Thanks for reading.

In Jordan: Journey to the Dead Sea and Back

After a few days chilling out with Peace Corps volunteers in Jordan's shamal (north), I headed south to Amman for what would be an extended stay filled with a number of memorable day trips and some surprisingly fun nights. When I was scoping out couchsurfing opportunities, most of the couchsurfers recommended using Amman as a base for checking out some of Jordan's most famous tourist attractions. They said transportation to several destinations was readily available and pretty cheap, and if you wanted to go in comfort, you could always hire a private taxi.

It was kind of strange that almost every other taxi driver no matter where you hopped on in the city was ready and willing to go all the way to the southernmost or northernmost point in the country at a moment's notice. That was in stark contrast to Morocco where most taxi drivers had to get permission from gendarmes (rural police) if they were to transport anyone outside of their assigned route. Moroccan taxi drivers still pitched driving tourists to far-away destinations, but those hagglers were limited to the grand taxi (old-school Mercedes Benz) that generally hung around the airport and train stations. Morocco's city taxi drivers on their miniature Fiats rarely left the city limits.  In contrast, in Jordan, nearly all taxis were new model Toyota Corollas equipped with digital meters, leather seats, power locks and windows, and AC making them totally ideal for those long hauls.

Determined to travel on the cheap, I relied on locals, travel blogs, and a Lonely Planet guidebook appropriately titled Middle East on a Shoestring Budget for information on public transportation, directions to and from stations, and pricing estimates to avoid getting ripped off. Not surprisingly, I got conflicting information wherever you looked or whoever you spoke to.

Asking locals for information was quite entertaining. When I asked one person, another individual perhaps a relative or friend would inch closer as the conversation progressed and then later would add his two cents about the information discussed. When one of the individuals thought some of the information was incorrect or could be improved, the other individual began raising his voice until he drowned out the other and then touched my shoulder to direct my gaze towards him. If the other thought that the new information was worse than the original suggestions, he would raise his voice even higher and would begin flailing his arms to explain his point. Sometimes there'd be a bit of name calling, but it was all done with smiles and laughter. Naturally, all this commotion attracted other people, nearby shop owners, customers from their shop, and even passersby. Before I knew it, my one-on-one exchange turned into a group counseling session.

Sugar cane juice cures everything

Some individuals did want to help while others who expressed a desire to help were also in the business of helping themselves by offering you transportation, hotel stays, and packaged tourist trips for a handsome price. Each one would say that the other didn't know anything, so most often than not you left more confused than when you first started. After the dust settled though, my brain would start to process the info, I'd jot a few notes down, and then proceed to matching some of the advise to the info in the guidebooks and on the blogs.  Eventually, I would develop a rather loose outline of what my next few days would look like.

Another memorable taxi ride

As you can imagine, doing all the research and asking the locals gets a little tiring, and I was tempted to just hop on a taxi to the next destination.  I wanted to go to the Dead Sea, but was undecided about taking the cheap route detailed in the Lonely Planet guidebook or take the prearranged tour option from the hostel, Farah Hotel, which was charging about 15JD for a small minibus transit for groups of 5 or more.

Prearranged tours can be a lot of fun sometimes, but they can also be a bit dull.  In arranged tours, you usually don't get lost in the way so you never experience those moments of panic and confusion when all you're thinking is how the heck did I get here and how the heck do I get out.  I know this sounds weird, but to me that challenge can be exhilarating and more often than not total strangers have been incredibly hospitable and helpful.  Also, in prearranged tours someone else has done the price negotiations, which means that your trip is devoid of all the haggling, posturing, or name calling.  This can also be a lot of fun because after the name calling I've sat down with those same people for a cup of coffee afterwards.  Lastly, in prearranged tours there's usually a guarantee that you'll arrive at the publicized destination, whereas on your own a lot of things can go wrong from getting on the wrong bus, transit breaking down, or on the upside seeing areas that would have been passed over.

Since I had no specific date to be anywhere at any point in time, I decided to take the cheap route.  I took a taxi from the hostel to the Sweimeh transit bus station.  As soon as I got on, the taxi driver asked where I was headed and told him the Dead Sea.  He immediately insisted that he take me there directly. I conversed with him in a mix of Modern Standard Arabic and Moroccan Arabic. His English was pretty rough so he appreciated my effort to converse in Arabic and said that because of that he would lower his starting price from 30JD to 25JD. He then asked where I had picked up my Arabic. I told him Morocco and he gave me a hearty ahalan wa sahalan fik, a pat in the back, and then said, “Welcome to Jordan”. He said that because I lived in Morocco that he would give me the Arab price of 22JD.  I tried to tell the taxi driver that I was not a typical tourist and showed him my knockoff, second-hand clothes and tattered plastic bag where I was carrying my swim trunks and towel. I told him that I couldn't afford 22JD. He followed up by asking me where I was from because I looked Arab. I told him Venezuela and he became ecstatic. He told me how much he loved Chávez and because I was from Venezuela he would lower his price from 22JD to 17JD. 

He shared that his assl (origins/roots) were Bedouin and that he was not like other Arabs from the city who only care about money. He reiterated as he had done in previous offers that he couldn't go any lower. I told him that 17JD was a good price, but still too expensive for me. As we drove into the Sweimeh transit station, he presented his final offer, “Okay, 15JD, excellent price!” I said, “Thank you, but no thanks.” The meter said .600 pistares or just a little over half a JD.  He said that I owed him 2JD. I told him that he was crazy and gave him 1JD and asked for the change. He repeated that I owed him 2JD. I repeated that I wanted my change.  He told me to xrrj (get out)! I repeated rather sarcastically and mimicking his accent, “Welcome to Jordan.”

Onto the Dead Sea (Bahar Meillet)

I asked a few gentlemen leaning on one of the small passenger vans going about their customary chain-smoking if their van went to Sweimeh. They grunted, which just like in Morocco means yes. The money collector sitting inside asked if I was going to the Dead Sea and I grunted back. He then asked for about .600 pistares, and once the transit was semi-full, we took off. We winded through Amman picking up passengers on the road. We got out of the city limits and went into smaller towns on the outskirts. About 30-45 minutes later, I was dropped off in an intersection on Highway 40 near the Dead Sea Highway and not in Sweimeh where supposedly, according to the Lonely Planet book, there would be transportation in the form of private transits or taxis to the Dead Sea. The driver told me to talk to some gentlemen leaning on some other smaller transits and taxis. I told some guys that I wanted to go to the bhar meillet (Dead Sea). They asked me where I was from. I said that that wasn't important. I was trying to use my Moroccan Arabic and several of the gentlemen murmured that I was Arab. Another guy approached me speaking fluent English and said that he could take me in his private car for 5JD. I said I'd go for 2JD. He laughed and said 4JD. I told him 3JD and he finally obliged at 3.5JD.  

Amman Beach Resort pool

We were on the Dead Sea Highway for about 10 minutes or so before we swooped into the Amman Beach entrance. I wanted to go to the people's beach that Lonely Planet said would cost 4JD, but the driver said that this was the only option for tourists--another lie. The Amman Beach Resort was super clean, with a sparkling pool, nice tables and lounge chairs, equipment rentals, shops, and food and beverage stalls, but there were very few if any Jordanians. I wanted to go elsewhere, but I had a taxi driver who was probably getting a kickback for taking me to this particular resort telling me that there were no other options and front desk personnel confirming what the driver was saying. 

By the time I arrived at the resort, the sun was at its peak. Not willing to endure a sun-scorching walk on the Dead Sea Highway, I budged and paid the extravagant 15JD sticker price intended for foreigners; Jordanian citizens paid only 4JD for access to the same facilities. Later on, back in Amman, hotel staff told me that the Jordanian government had just begun to raise prices on all their main tourist attractions and I had arrived on the second wave of increases.
 

Dead Sea

Dropping 15JD hurt, but I was consoled by the fine state of the facilities and the cleanliness of the place.  There were no hotties at the pool.  In fact, the place felt more like a South Florida retirement community center.  Lots of pensioners were basking in the sun soaking up the rays and enjoying the therapeutic benefits of this one of a kind natural wonder.  Various waves of tour groups seemed to come and go.  There were a few young couples here and there, but in terms of solo travelers I think I was the only one.

These two are either related or in the same tour group

I quickly changed into my swim trunks, went down the steps leading to the Dead Sea, and parked my belongings next to a plastic lawn chair provided by the resort.  It was funny to look out and see people completely covered from head to toe with the dark blue Dead Sea mud.  It was as if the Blue Man Group had come to chill out on the beach.  A couple of gentlemen were manning a stand next to the on-duty lifeguard that sold the full-body mud treatment for 3JD.  Family members and friends helped each other lather  up.  I went up to get my treatment and paid the 3JD, but I was told to take a dip first and then apply it.

I didn't run into the water because Dead Sea water is not the type that you want running down your face.  With roughly 30% salinity, a little drop in your eye could turn things ugly.  I had also shaved that morning, something my guidebook advised against.  So I walked out treading ever so slowly to a depth of no more than 4 or 5 feet deep.  Once I reached a location away from the commotion of the various tour groups, I reclined back slowly and lifted my feet off the ground.  As I fell back, it was as if the water pushed back and propped my feet and legs up, a water Lazy-Boy that engulfed me, but held me in suspension.  I had read about the amazing buoyancy of the water, but to feel it was like something completely out of this world.  The water was warm and the sun's rays were dispersed in the haze that hovered over the water.  I took a deep breath, took in the surroundings, relaxed my muscles, and just floated.

After a good 20 minutes in the water, I went to get my mud treatment.  Coming out of the water was really interesting.  The water was so thick and slimy that exiting was like emerging from a vat of egg whites.  No matter how much you shook, a clear, thin film stuck to your skin, but the slime was exactly what was needed for a smooth application of the Dead Sea mud.

Dead Sea mud-treated

I grabbed a couple of handfuls and began applying it making sure every inch of my skin was covered.  With no partner in crime on this leg of my journey, one of the attendants applied the rest to my back.  I was told to let it dry so I went back to my plastic lawn chair and finished a couple of articles from an Economist magazine a fellow Peace Corps volunteer had lent me.

Supposedly, Dead Sea mud is highly sought after for its healing mineral properties.  The high concentration of calcium, bromine, and potassium are considered to be therapeutic for the skin and other ailments.  Consequently, there is no shortage of companies extolling the mud's benefits.  What I can say in full confidence about the mud is that after 10-15 minutes when the mud begins to dry various parts of your body will get itchy fast.  Perhaps the itchiness is part of the healing process, but as soon as I felt it, I went back to the water.  The last thing I wanted was to get some sort of allergic reaction.  What's great is that if there is any hidden bacteria in the mud, a trip back to the water will undoubtedly kill it.  I took off the mud and then proceeded to recline back to my gravity-defying Dead Sea rocking chair.

On my Dead Sea lounge chair

I got out of the water when my fingers and toes had turned to raisins.  I stepped out for a while, did some respiration meditation, and then went back to my beach chair.  Within 15 minutes, the transparent, slimy film that coated my body turned pasty white.  I went straight to the outdoor sprinklers to try to take off some of the salt and sand and then afterwards took a long dip in the resort's pool.  It was around 4PM when I decided it was time to leave.  The facility had nice showers where I was able to soap it up and take off more salt.

The taxi driver that dropped me off told me to call him when I got out, but as I soon as I walked out, there was a gentlemen chilling by his car that offered to take me to Amman for 10JD.  He said he had finished work and was heading back home.  I told him I just needed to go to the bus stop to Amman.  He said he could take me there for 5JD.  I told him 3JD and he agreed.

Now, Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide claim that hitchhiking back to Amman is pretty easy from the Dead Sea.  I think that's probably true if you're a white Westerner and more so if you're a female, and I'm guessing most of the travel writers are one or the other or both.  Other couchsurfers I spoke to experimented a little by having either a guy or girl flag down cars.  Another American traveling through Jordan with ethnic roots from Iran said that people would just honk at him to tell him to scoot off the road.  While his travel partner, a tall, blonde female, could have a car stop at will--this may not be just in Jordan, but probably worldwide other than maybe Nordic countries where every other girl is a tall blonde.

If you are Latino and look Arab, like I do, and wear the same second-hand clothes that some of the locals wear and carry around a tattered plastic bag like others do, some people just think that you're just another local trying to get a free ride.  I got many free rides in Morocco and I figured Jordanians would probably be just as generous.

Whenever I do hitchhike, there's a big difference between hitchhiking with a white Westerner, male or female, and hitchhiking solo.  When I'm with a white Westerner I get to ride shotgun with my white Westerner travel partner.  When I'm not, I'm told to hop on to the back of the truck with everyone else, sheep, chickens, and all.  In some cases it's nice to get that star treatment, but in others, it's nice to blend in.  Normally, I wouldn't object to riding with sheep and chickens, but I had just showered.

I got to the bus stop on the opposite corner (northbound side on Highway 40) from where I was dropped off earlier.  I paid the bus driver 1JD, and he gave me .600 pistares back.  The bus ride back was no more than 20 or so minutes.  On our way to Amman, we rode a pretty scenic four-lane highway overlooking a number of parched valleys with isolated plots of vegetation.  By the time I got back, it was already dark.  The bus dropped everyone off at the North Station on the outskirts of Amman.  From there, the usual scammers were there offering to take people downtown for 7JD.  The taxi cab that had overcharged me 5JD to take me to my hotel the first time around recognized me and offered to take me again for 5JD, but I told him that this time I'd go by the meter.  He explained to me that the meter is nothing or not worth it for him.  Another taxi driver walking down from a little snack shop approached me and told me that he would be willing to take me downtown for 2JD.  I said, "Yallah (Let's Go)!"

By the time I got into the hotel, I had dried up and felt some white residue behind the ears, around the back of my neck, and my hair felt like it was moussed up.   I took one last shower, scrubbed well, washed my hair, and then promptly climbed into bed.  Lying in bed made me think of my time floating in the Dead Sea.  It was simply unbelievable.  I think my mind was still trying to comprehend how that was possible.  As I began to dose off a bit, I turned sideways on my pillow and felt as if the skin around the back of my neck had stretched. I felt around the ears and near my hairline and felt a bit of caked up salt.  Two showers later and I still had salt on me.  I thought, "Eh, what the hell, souvenir."

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Before you rush into buying the Dead Sea mud or salt, be mindful that although it is "all-natural", excessive exposure to high levels of certain minerals could be toxic.  The National Institutes of Health National Library of Medicine has several research studies on the Dead Sea mud.  Some highlight its antimicrobial agents and its effect on alleviating rheumatoid arthritis symptoms, but it also has another study that does not recommend a high percentage of the mud in everyday hand and body lotions.  Read them before you buy.

Anti-microbial properties of Dead Sea black mineral mud

Mud pack therapy in rheumatoid arthritis

Low levels of toxic elements in Dead Sea black mud and mud-derived cosmetic products

On a side note, I ran into some Spaniards at the Dead Sea resort who said that they had come from Madaba.   The Spaniards had a lot of good things to say about it and it is fairly close, so it might be better to do the day trip to the Dead Sea from there if you prefer a smaller town feel rather than the sprawling Amman metropolis.  Plus, if you're big into checking out Byzantine-era relics, chapels, and cathedrals, Madaba has a large number of fine mosaics.   

Referenced Reads: Bear in mind that the shoestring budget hotel recommendations from the Lonely Planet book can land you in some pretty dank places.  The regular Jordan guidebook offers accommodation options at varying prices, so it's worth moving up a notch if you can afford it.  As with any advise, compare and contrast it with other info or if you want to make it even more interesting, ask the locals :-).

Is Your RPCV Exhibiting Errant Conversations Syndrome?

Just recently, Peace Corps released the latest in a string of public service announcements (PSAs) commemorating the agency's 50 years of service to the United States and many parts of the world.  One PSA in particular captured my attention because it did an excellent job of portraying the random anecdotes I've been sharing with friends and family when I come across something that reminds me of my time in Morocco.

When greeting people for instance, I've been shaking people's hand as you customarily do here in the States, but now I proceed, as I did in Morocco, to place my right hand near to my heart to show my respect or to express how dear that person or that encounter is to me.  In Morocco, it was second nature to follow the handshake with a tap to one's heart, and despite being back home with old friends and in a completely different setting, my body almost involuntarily follows the same process.  Sometimes I catch myself in the act or others point it out, and explaining the gesture is often a topic of an errant conversation.

As far as language, I miss speaking darija.  The Moroccan Arabic dialect was fun to speak.  Phonetically speaking, it was a challenge to sound off the "ع" (aain) or "غ" (ghain) or the back of the throat "ق" (qa) or even the emphatic D, T, or to differentiate between the airy "ه" (similar to the 'h' for hello) or the raspy "ح" (similar to the sound you make to check if your breath smells).  During the first few months of service, combining some of these sounds seemed impossible, but after some time my tongue somehow came to accords with the sounds my ear was finally able to recognize and distinguish and slowly began to mimic them 'to the t'.

Even more challenging was understanding the hidden or indirect messages in Moroccan speech.  During training we were told that Moroccans used a ton of what our cultural and language facilitators called "God phrases" as part of their everyday language.  So instead of saying goodbye, they would say llah y3nk (God help you).  To thank someone for a good deed or to ask for a favor, they could say 3afak (the equivalent of please), but in most cases they would say llah yrHm l-walidin (God bless your parents) and my all-time favorite, preceding or following any statement calling for or mentioning any future action, insh'allah (God willing).

When I first arrived in site all 'gun ho' about starting a new project and building community support for it, I spoke to a number of people and tried to persuade them to join me in addressing some of the expressed needs of the community, but towards the end of our meetings, a large number of people would simply finish off our conversations with an insh'allah.  While it is true that we do not know what will happen tomorrow and we have little control over the future, being told that it was all up to God's will seemed a little fatalistic to me.  Later on though, I learned that the use of insh'allah was not only a way to show respect to the all-knowing God, but it was also used to say 'no' without offending the other person or to express that something is unlikely to happen.

Later on when people recognized that my speaking abilities had improved and I had demonstrated some fundraising capacity, some of the same people that had inshalla-ed me before began proposing their project ideas to me.  Unfortunately, by then I had already made commitments to other groups and had enough work for the rest of service, so without offending them, I respectfully inshalla-ed them back.

Back in the states, some people have proposed going to such and such an event or organizing something, and I've involuntarily blurted out insh'allah and I'm not doing it out of respect to God (although I respect It greatly), but mainly because the event or the activity does not appeal to me.  Sometimes I catch myself and sometimes others catch me saying it and wonder what the heck came out of my mouth, but then I explain that I do not know if I can or will be able to because it truly is up to God.  I say that I can't rule it out, but that I'd rather defer to God because no one really knows what the future may bring.  Unfortunately, this answer does not fly with most of my friends who still interpret this answer as some sort of newfound religious piety--not at all consistent with my beliefs and lifestyle--and not as a cordial way to say 'I am really not that interested'.  Then again, most U.S. Americans prefer directness, which is a cultural aspect that I've had to get readjusted to and that is often another subject of an errant conversation.

See the minute-long PSA titled "Conversations" below:    



Errant Conversation Syndrome (ECS) is common among all RPCVs.  Most exhibit symptoms throughout their lifetime.  They speak about their projects, language challenges, cultural differences, past bowel movements, pros and cons of Peace Corps, and a host of other service-related experiences.  At this time, there is no known "cure" (nor should there be) for this phenomenon, but I hear that active listening and a non-judgmental attitude are always welcomed.  And who knows? You may learn a thing or two from all these random pieces of information.  Thanks for reading.

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If you'd like to learn more darija, please visit the Friends of Morocco page on Learning Moroccan Arabic. I've also selected a few books on one of the recommended book widgets.  BssHa to your learning!

To watch other Peace Corps PSAs, please visit: http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.media.psa

Back in Jordan: Holy Land Divided and Partitioned

After a few days in Jerusalem, I made my way back to Jordan.  I had to go back the same way I went in by way of the Sheikh Hussein Bridge, but the second time around took a lot less time.  On my way up Bayt She'an, I stopped at the King Hussein crossing, but was told by one of the border guards that I could not cross because I had an exit stamp from Jordan meaning that I would need to pay for another visa to cross into Jordan.  Essentially, Jordan considers the Palestinian held territory to be theirs as well--granted it was at one point--so visiting Ramallah for instance to Jordanian authorities would be as if you had never left their country.  So in order to make it back to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, I would need to go through either the Sheikh Hussein Bridge or head all the way down south to Wadi Araba.  I knew that a bus headed to Bayt She'an would come around in about 20 or so minutes so I parked my stuff on the west side bus stop and waited for the next northbound bus to pass through again.

Delicious falafel and Hebrew brew to wash it down

Once I arrived in Bayt She'an, I grabbed a falafel sandwich and a kosher beer at a fast-food joint just down the block from the bus stop next to the McDonalds.  The kosher beer was a decent pilsen, but nothing too exciting; however, knowing that I was on my way back to a Muslim country where drinking is haram (forbidden) even though it does happen in tourist areas , I took my time taking in what little scenery there was while I savored the brew.  The falafel was quite good actually mainly because of the tangy yogurt they slathered all over the bread.  After finishing the beer, the restaurant manager asked if I needed a cab to go to the crossing.  I said, "Yes," and within minutes the same cab driver that brought me to Bayt She'an a couple of days ago was there to take me back.  Whaddayaknow, small world!

This time around, though, he said less offensive things about his neighbors on the other side of the river and was mainly interested in how I spent my days in Jerusalem.  Towards the end of the short trip, he gave me his business card and told me to call him next time I pass through so I can dine with his family.  It was a nice gesture to leave on.

At the crossing, I paid my Israeli exit tax (98.50 NIS or roughly $30, ouch!), and on the other side I paid for another Jordanian visa (10 JD or approx $15, ouch again!).  Knowing that I would now have this visa for the next 30 days, I decided that I wasn't going to rush my travels in Jordan.  I called up my Peace Corps volunteer contacts near Irbid.  One of them told me that I could totally crash his pad for another night.  Unfortunately, the only way to get out of the crossing station on the Jordanian side was to pay 19JD or a little over $25 for a 12km ride to the Jordan River Crossing taxi service, which in NYC would be a bargain, but in Jordan, it's highway robbery.

The dispatcher was trying to convince me to go all the way to Amman and pay 35JD for the trip, which was even more obscene knowing full well that a Hijazi bus from Irbid to Amman runs about 2JD, but it was a better value per kilometer nonetheless.  This was one instance when traveling with someone else would have made the trip much cheaper.  A lot of Jordanians at the crossing were already traveling in twos or threes and split the fares to their destinations.  The few Israelis that had crossed over got into a tour bus that was waiting for them.  Finally, the dispatcher gave up trying to convince me to go to Amman and made the call for a taxi for Irbid, and I reluctantly paid the 19JD.

Once in Irbid, my volunteer host told me that he was sightseeing in Umm Qays with another volunteer and some of his Jordanian buddies that I had hung out with on my first visit to his village.  So from Irbid, I took a transit to Umm Qays for 1JD.  Normally, it's about .500 pistares/half a JD for the 15 minute ride, but because it was still Leid Kabir /Al-Adha or the Grand Holiday Feast weekend, the unlicensed, private transits wanted a little extra.

Upon arrival, they told me that we were going on a little road trip. I hopped onto another passenger van, and instead of going back on the road to Irbid, we went the opposite direction, downhill from Umm Qays and towards a military checkpoint.  Our driver and our Jordanian friend asked us for our passports, they handed them to the guards, and then went about asking the guards where they were from, which village exactly, family names, and then told them that we were American tourists passing through.  The guards took a peek in.  Saw all three of us and none of us looked stereotypically American so he asked our guide again if we were indeed American.  He confirmed we were, the guard nodded, and then signaled that we could proceed.

We went another mile or so until we reached another checkpoint.  Now, I was thinking, "Maybe I should have asked where we were going before jumping onto this van." For a moment, I thought that maybe we were headed to Syria, which seemed unlikely, but then Umm Qays is a stone's throw away so it wasn't too far fetched.  At the second checkpoint, our Jordanian friend followed the same procedure, but this time one of the guards mentioned a village that one of our friends recognized.  From there, they went back and forth dropping names of mutual acquaintances.  That guard only glanced at our passports and then handed them back.

After that checkpoint, our driver cranked the car into second gear as we climbed a hill overlooking the Yarmouk River Valley sandwiched between the towering Golan Heights and the Jordanian east bank hills where a few families were there picnicking and watching the sunset.

Golan Heights from Jordan

Our Jordanian friend asked a gentleman who was laid out on a blanket on the hill's edge to point out some landmarks for us.  The man pointed north to the Golan Heights, which is currently under Israeli control, but that he considered to be part of Syria.

He pointed east and said that the olive-tree-dotted hills were part of Jordan and then pointed west and said that the fertile valley extending towards the Sea of Galilee/Lake Tiberias was Palestine.

He then pointed specifically to a certain area in the valley and said that his family had lived there before the war drove them out.

He said that he came to that hill often to gaze into Palestine and he hoped that one day he would be able to go back and live there once again.

The sun was setting quickly so our driver and friend told us to get back in the van.  We descended down the same hill and got back on the road.  We stopped at another military checkpoint.  We showed our IDs and were flagged through.  We stopped on the side of the road about 2-3K from the last checkpoint to see the Palestinian territory up close and the barbed and razor-wire fences on the other side of the river.

We were told that this was the demilitarized zone and that entire stretches on both sides of the river were lined with land mines.  One of our guides commented that it was like fillaha (agriculture/farming).  Along with the land mine cultivation, there were some fancy irrigation channels with all sorts of tunnels going in and out of hillside.

After getting a few pictures, we made our way back to Irbid.  It took me a while to process what I had seen.  For so long I had heard about the tensions in this region of the world, had read about the Six Day War, and had watched one Al-Jazeera documentary after another about the Israeli occupation while living in Morocco, but now I had met someone, a  Jordanian national of Palestinian descent, who was personally affected by the conflict.  I had seen first hand how decades of unresolved border disputes had led to a buffer of land mines to prevent further incursions from either party.  It was just hard to reconcile the land mines, military checkpoints, razor-wire fencing, every other young Israeli carrying assault rifles, and the animosity on both sides of the river with the messages of peace and compassion that I had read in the Bible, and I wondered whether, if ever, the message to love thy neighbor and to do unto others as you would like to have done unto thyself that is central to all Abrahamic faiths would ever be manifested in the very place where it was preached thousands of years ago.

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I think we are all guilty of dismissing every other beauty queen's wish for world peace.  It seems preposterous in the face of the calamities this world has witnessed and the conflict-ridden state of affairs.  I also dismiss it because it is hard to imagine what that world would look like.  Where and how do you begin?  How do you sustain it?

In a follow up to her Charter for Compassion, religious historian Karen Armstrong talks of reviving the Golden Rule.  She mentions in the TED talk below how doing so has the potential to turn us from an ego-centric mindset to a transcendent state, "an imaginative act of empathy, putting yourself in the place of another", which has the effect of making us value the life of another as much as we value our own life.  Towards the end, she paraphrases a theme in C.S. Lewis's book Four Loves in which the author differentiates between erotic love when one looks deeply into another's eyes and friendship when two people stand side by side gazing out towards a goal.  She says, "We don't have to fall in love with each other, but we can become friends....and when people of all different persuasions come together, working side by side, for a common goal, differences melt away.  And we learn amity.  And we learn to live together and to get to know one another."  It's a thoughtful response worthy of some serious consideration.  See the full TED Talk below:

My Unfinished List of Moroccan Culinary Treats: Mint Tea, Marinated Olives, Pure Olive Oil, Chebekia, and Harira

Moroccans are proud of their cuisine and they should be; it's some of the most tasty, best seasoned, and diverse in the Mediterranean.  Sometimes you need to take a drive to experience the diversity, and if you do, you'll certainly be rewarded.  Below is just one list of many lists to come.

I actually did not cook a lot of Moroccan food while in service, but was a happy recipient of a lot of home-cooked meals.  In most cases, the kitchen was off-bounds for me so I had to ask other female volunteers or search the web for insight into the magic that was taking place behind closed doors.  As I sit back and reflect on my two years of Peace Corps service, the cuisine is something that I'll surely miss.  However, even though I am back stateside, there's no reason why I shouldn't try to recreate the magic.  I'm going to give it my best shot.  Some of the items listed have links to recipes and preparation videos so I invite you to do the same.  Enjoy the read and enjoy the food!

Aatay b na na (Moroccan Arabic name for their sweet-as-molasses Moroccan mint tea) a.k.a. "Le Whisky Marocain"

Some Moroccan Tea at the Cascades of Ouzoud

Moroccans cannot be separated from their tea.  If the price of tea were to go up or if the government were to impose a tax on the consumption of tea, without a doubt there would be a massive revolt.  It is a Moroccan staple that is unlikely to change for many years to come.

No matter where you go, there will be countless invitations to share a little tea.  In the cold winters, there's nothing better to warm you up or to give your body a sugar jolt.  At first, I was really turned off by all the sugar, but then I began to miss the taste of their tea and towards the end I would get on the garçon's (waiter) case about skimping on the sugar.

The distinct taste is a result of two main factors.  Unlike the American or British tradition of pouring hot water over the leafs or herbs and letting it brew in the mug, Moroccans brew their green tea leaves in their ornamental teapots, they then add a brick of sugar and brew it a little longer, and then they turn off the gas and add fresh mint (naa na), verveine (luiza), or other seasonal herbs like wormwood (chiba) - the stuff they use to make absinthe.  All three varieties are super delicious and healthy if you cut down on the sugar.  I invite you to try them all.

You may also find that many Moroccans don't blow on their tea to cool it; instead, they slurrrp it.  It took me a while to master the technique, but essentially you breath it in as you drink it and it has the same cooling effect if you do it right. BssHA (To your health) on your tea drinking! 

Mountains of Olives

Moroccan black olives

Seasoned Moroccan green olives

Morocco is blessed with the perfect climate to produce some of the finest olives in the Mediterranean.  Their seasonal winter rains and clear, blue summer sky are ideal for the sun-loving olive groves.  For someone who was a fan of olives already, arriving in Morocco and seeing heaps upon heaps of olives at the souq (market) was such a comforting and overwhelming experience.  What's even more mind-blowing is how great each variety tastes and even more amazing than that is how cheap they are.  Your typical U.S. supermarket stocks various sizes of green Spanish olives or bland black ones.  In contrast, most Moroccan markets showcase their largess in rows of olive peaks of light and dark green olives marinated in a mix of red peppers or lemon and parsley, purple olives, and the bitter and wrinkly, but flavor-packed black olives. 

Moroccan cuisine incorporates olives into their meals quite well.  I remember one day during my Community-Based Training my host mother marinated a whole chicken with onions, peppers, lemon rinds, and a dash of saffron and other spices, placed it in the oven with all the seasonings and then brought out a golden brown chicken that was surrounded by a moat of tangy chicken broth on an innumerable amount of green olives bobbing in suspension just asking to be devoured.  I had this meal over two years ago and I can remember it as if it was yesterday.  What a delicious feast!

Unadulterated Olive Oil

Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of Moroccan olive oil.  In terms of appearance, it looks a lot like the olive oil from Spain or Italy.  Some oils are filtered more than others.  Personally, I liked the strong bitter taste of some of the country-pressed oil that had undergone less filtering.

A typical breakfast in Morocco consisted of fresh out-of-the-oven bread that was then broken up and dabbed over olive oil.  Not what you would typically eat as breakfast in the U.S., but oh was it tasty.  The hot, toasty bread dunked in a little oil would simply melt in your mouth and the aroma of the oil was so wonderfully pleasant.

With such a large supply of olives, olive oil can be found everywhere also for much cheaper than you would find at U.S. or European stores.  I am surprised that Moroccan olive oil has not made it to U.S. stores yet.  According to the latest "Free Trade" deal between the U.S. and Morocco, olives and olive oil were going to be one of the few commodities that would start flowing to the U.S.  I hope it does, and I hope it does soon.

Ramadan Sweet Treats: Chebekia

When I arrived in Morocco back in September of '08, I got in about mid-way through Ramadan, a month characterized by the dawn to dusk no food or drink fast and more religious observance.  As you can imagine during the day, most people in the streets deprived of any liquids or food are moving in slow-motion careful not to exhaust their reserves.  When I first heard of Ramadan, I wasn't aware of the liquids ban and thought, "Now that's extreme." Then, later on I was invited to break the fast with my host family and tasted my first chebekia and thought, "Now that's extreme flavor!"

Even the bees are crazy for chebekia

These golden brown rolled and folded fried cookie dough treats smothered in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds were a wake-up call to my taste buds.  No MSGs necessary to go on a binge.  These confections are naturally addicting.

Sometimes I think that I should go on an anthropological expedition to find out how different foods came about.  Is there a National Geographic show or something on the Food channel on this?  Well, if there is, the next episode should focus on these crunchy, sweet hard-to-put-down confections.  Until a show reveals the history and evolution of this delicious Moroccan delight, I will thank the culinary God(s) for giving my fellow Moroccans this bit of divine inspiration.    

In my old town of Sefrou, I could buy about a quarter kilo for 5DH (less than $1) from a old medina hole-in-the-wall Hlwa hanut (sweets vendor), and I would typically finish it in one night.  If I wanted some with real honey instead of syrup, I would shell out about twice as much at a fancy patisserie for about the same amount.  It's a dieter's worst nightmare.  Mountain Dew wouldn't stand a chance against these guys in jacking up your blood sugar so unless you're going to expend the calories, eat responsibly.

Click here if you wish to see a recipe.  Fortunately, if you're on your way to Morocco, no need to wait until Ramadan; most patisseries and some old medina Hlwa street vendors carry them year-round.

Harira

Whenever someone utters the word harira, my mind automatically drifts to my first bowl ever where I learned the art of eating it with bowl in hand, swishing it around in circular motion, and then giving it a hearty slurp.  In the cold Moroccan winters, it was a lifesaver.  When I was broke, it would stave off a growling stomach without breaking the bank (2DH or 25 cents for a bowl).

Harira, harira, hariraaaaa!!!

Tomato serves as the base, but with cilantro, parsley, ginger, onions, chickpeas, lentils, carrots, celery, and a handful of vermicelli all mixed in, it's much more than a tomato soup; it's a bonanza of flavor that is full of substance.

Harira is also very common during Ramadan.  Generally, families break the fast with a bowl before moving on to other life-reviving foods.  Not to worry though, harira can also be found year-round at most restaurants, hole-in-the-wall harira vendors, and a lot of families make it to survive the winter.  Some will add a bit of harsha (the equivalent of American corn-bread) to it or will break apart a chebekia on top.  Others that like the sweet and salty combination will simply eat some dates while slurping a mouthful of harira.  There are many ways to experience this hearty soup.  If you're unsure how to approach it, try them all!

Do try this at home! Click here for the recipe.

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Before I wrote this entry, I thought about ranking the items, but then I thought about how silly rankings really are.  I mean how do you compare chebekia to couscous; they're on two different playing fields and my rankings were in constant fluctuation as one couscous tasted better or different in someone's home than it did in someone else's.  Also, every region in Morocco prepares things slightly different depending on the availability of ingredients.  I still have a lot more food items that I need to write about.  This list is bound to grow in the coming months and years.

Thanks for reading and again BssHa (To your health) on your culinary endeavors.

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I found a few bestselling books on Moroccan cuisine on Amazon.  According to one reviewer, Paula Wolfert wrote a textbook-like guide to Moroccan cooking back in the 1970s that is still the authoritative book.  Some of the newer ones have better pictures, but may not be as authentic.  Check them out!