The Writer is Out There.

A while ago, I pondered changing the name of this site to 'The Whistling Gypsy' since it seemed there was more music than words being produced.

 Now, I'm wondering whether I can call myself 'writer' before all else. I mean, I no longer have a paying job to speak of. But there's not been a whole lot of writing going on, either, if I'm honest about it.

So: writer, support worker, English teacher, traveller, slacker? What do you think?

I know there’s a lot of catching up to do. Can you rearrange the order of posts, or do I have to copy, delete and repaste it all when I get around to doing more?

Tel Aviv is fantastic. The hostel’s great, the beach is great. I’ve spent 3 days wandering between the two of them, and up a street of musical instrument and secondhand book stores. I REALLY wanna buy that red sax. And half the comic fantasy section.

I can make coffee, in full sized mugs, eat TOAST (real toast, with melted butter and stuff!), cook whatever and whenever I feel like it. There are always cool people to talk to. I can wear t-shirts, without having to worry about offending. I can SWIM! I mean, I can swim in less than an overcoat. I can read and write and watch people in peace. And it’s warm, without the sweltering heat of Aqaba.

*I love the fact that the as you walk onto the beach there’s a warning sign (complete with ‘dont get burned’ illustrations) and on the back of it, in view as you leave, is printed ‘GO IN PEACE’.

All my knowledge of Hebrew, which I slaved to get, seems to have been nudged aside by Arabic, although it’s very slowly seeping back, aided by the language’s similarities.

I find out where I’m going this morning! Woo!

Shalom!

I skipped Jerash, and explored Irbid instead. I figured that, although it looks impressive, it's gonna be filled with tour buses cramemd with people. I did, however go to Ajloun. Not for the castle, as Edwin did, but for Ajloun Reserve – a place of 'unrivaled wooded beauty'. So we split at the town's roundabout, complete with bizzare model-castle in its centre; he hikes 3km up a hill, and I try to find a taxi out of town to the reserve.

30 seconds later, a taxi driver pulls up

"Castle?"

"No, Ajloun Reserve."

"Reserve, okay."

"Great. You speak English?"

"Yes, I speak English. How are you?"

"Great, thanks, and you?"

"Al hamdulilah."

So I get in, and we speed off up the hill.

10 minutes later, we pass a sign to the reserve, and the driver turns the opposite way.

"Um, I think we're going the wrong way."

He keeps driving. Must be a shortcut.

A little while later, I'm getting worried.

What follows is an hours drive through some of the most amazing countryside – rich red soil, fields of waxy bright green scattered with ivory blue, a dozen yellows and poppy reds, violets and a delicate pink. Everywhere on the rolling hills produces a completely different colourscape; an artist could spend a lifetime here. Thick forests in the deepest green – oak, pistacio, olive and fig groves gave wayto levelled terraced hills where small trees were planted in careful blocks. Pinky-yellow and grey rocks jutted from the grasses, gleaming in the sun. Small lean-to concrete or stone huts are scattered between the groves. Here and there a small boy drives sheep from one blade to the next. Once, I see 6 black and white cows, almost like the ones at home, but rough around the edges. Mules wander freely along the road, and man and boy canter past us ineligantly on two near-black saddleless horses. I want to take a thousand pictures, but the driver will not stop.

I ask, and he jabbers in Arabic. It's some time before we establish that neither of us understands, and even then, he keeps on talking. He tries to tell me, I think, that the reserve does not exist, drives around aimlessly and natters with the locals. He could be asking for directions, but maybe he's not. I find myself getting horribly annoyed at him, and have to concentrate hard on the view and fresh air outside the confines of his cab.

He points to my guidebook. "La. No reserve." then he makes a circular motion with his hand"Ajloun, this Ajloun, here." He jabs himself in the chest and lets out a slew of Arabic. Again he jabs the book, and mutters in a discerning tone as if to say "there's no reserve here, the book is wrong, I know."

We find it, eventually, but all promises of self-guided walks are dashed. They;re not available. And with no other visitors, I'd have to pay the full-group price for a guide. That's not happening, so we slowly drive back, after I've circled the camp.

Still, I saw Ajloun, outside the town. And it was a nice view.

Back in Ajloun, I head to the street, on the opposite side to the drop-off point of the bus. I can see no sign, no waiting people, or buses, so I stop at a stationers to ask "bus to Irbid?" Sometimes, the breakdown of my English shocks me, but it's honestly all that severl people understand. key words, yeah!

"Bus? Irbid?" he repeats, puzzled.

I prepare to move on and try elsewhere when he continues "no taxi? bus?"

 "Bus." I arrirm. "Taxi expensive." I use the universal finger-rubbing money gesture to illustrate my point. "bus [thumbs up] good!"

He grins, and I smile back.

Despite little/no interaction between the sexes here, everyone knows it's different with westerners. Most welcome the chance to stop and chat, and almost all respect you. People in shops are pretty safe bets to talk to regardless – it's easy enough to get away if you should feel the need.

"Coffee?"he gestures to his flask.

"la." I hold up my hands in protest "shukran." I think of the bus.

"Is Arabic coffee." he looks disappointed.

I think of how it feels to have your hospitality refused, then of the famed coffee I had yet to sample. 'it's still early' I justify silently.

"Okay, yeah, thanks." I nod, sitting in the offered plastic chair

He pours me half a plastic cup of greenish coffee – the colour of roasted pistacios. It's light, fresh and slightly tangy. Unsweetened, it's smooth and beautiful. I wonder how I might be able to get my hands on it.

We run through the usual topics, all in pigeon English, and he periodically goes to the door and peers out for the bus.

"Big bus or small bus – serveece?" he asks the first time.

"Big bus. Is cheaper." I gesture again.

He laughs.

"But English is good money!"

"Maybe, but me, poor. I save money. Serveece expensive."

After a few checks he gestures from the doorway. "Come – bus Irbid."

7th March. 

I never filled you in on Irbid, properly. Here goes. (Edwin – sorry man, you were with a writer. You are one, so you know: feel free to use me in a similar manner.)

Edwin and I head out into Irbid once we're settled into our respective rooms. We have two missions; lunch, and replacing Edwin's camera. Camera #1 was shattered carelessly against a rock. #2, an expensive replacement, has a faulty shutter. He opts for a 20JD film-fed automatic.

Stopping for a snack (pretty much all we did that day was travel and eat!) we talk over a myriad of things. I successfully spray pepsi all over myself, much to the amusement of the guys at a nearby table. Why do they have to have sardine can ring-pulls? Edwin opens his with caution, and checks out his new piece of kit "like a 12 year old with his first camera" and figures out its buttons.

The mosque's late with its afternoon call  and its absence shocks the pair of us.

"They are not so religious here as Egypt." Edwin muses, "Here they might pray once a day and it's okay, it's enough. Not there. There, at the call, everyone stops in the street, wherever they are. I once saw an old guy in a koyfiyeh stop on a small patch of grass and turn to face Burger King for his prostrations. It was quite an image!"

"You didn't sneakily take a picture though?" I'm horrified at the thought even as I'd be curious to see.

"No. I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."

As we talk of ethical art (I'll say it again – you know I'm a writer :-p) a young boy strides out into the street. He's dressed in a smooth, creamy grey suit which looks like it's tailored to fit. A group of his peers, dressed in scraggy red and blue sports shirts and trousers a little too short, call out to himn excitedly.

He doesn't reply, sticking one hand in his pocket and continuing down the road with a jaunt that says 'I'm one of the big guys now'.

"Now that would be worth a picture."

On the walk back, we both stop and gawk at the outside of a mini-market. "Trolleys! No way!"

Then Edwin spots something else: that one's from a Dutch supermarket! "NO way!" he takes a picture. "Too funny!"

It has him chortling all the way down the hill.

When we get to the roundabout near our hotel, he, self confessed photo-freak, reaches for his camera. "City picture." he calls. Aiming his view, he steps from the sidewalk. His grip on the camera slips, and fumbling for a fraction of a second he loses it. It crashes into several pieces on the street.

Neither of us can believe his luck – he even manages to split the batteries.

—

That night, a Friday, when we head out for dinner the city's bare. There's nothing open, not a soul in sight on the first street we try. We climb three flights of stairs in darkness, to a 'good restaurant', past a decrepit looking lift. It's closed. It's like walking through the set for '28 days later' after the sun has fallen. I'm glad of company to stop my mind getting completely creeped out.

Hoummous, tabbouleh, 'potatoes' (chips again, why not boiled, just once?) vegetables (raw pepper, gerkins and one large green chilli) and a cheese parcel cost less than 1JD. Fresh mango juice, in a father christmas mug scripted 'hohoho' costs another 1.

—

I'd meant to write in the hotel that night, but found myself instead reading Vonda McIntire's Fireflood and other stories. Every one of the tales is rich and elegant, and horribly sad.

—

For a while, I listen to the noise which seeps thorugh the wafer thin walls. Through the far wall, Arabic soap opera's dramatic voice, and the deep masculine chuckle of spectators.  And by my head, through the window, streaming traffic and occassional brief honking of horns, loud conversations of passers by, vendors trying to make one last trade before closing, and the bouncing hollar of Arabic pop which drifts from a flat across the street.

—

8th April.

I awake to the same noises as I fell asleep to, only now it holds some urgency. It confuses me for a second before I remember where I am. I lay in bed for  a while, soaking up the noises so absent in Amman – daily city life noises; the rolling of metal shutters, the shifting of produce from street to store or store to street, going to school or to work, touting for passengers or sales. Al l the voices below me talk in fast energetic tones, which at times I can't distinguish between excited and irritated. It's simply loud and brash.

Eventually, I get up, and bag up my laundry. It stinks in a way which only week-old (that's unwashed for a week, not worn for a week, you understand. Really.) socks and worn/ re-worn clothing can. Horrible. It takes me half an hour to find the dry cleaners (no laundry, apparently. Oh well.) and it's only around the corner. There are no signs above it, and the grimy window meant I couldn't see inside. The two polite elderly owners think it's highly amusing that the British girl couldn't find their establishment.

"I-ron, or wash and i-ron?"

"Wash and iron!" I nod. If he tried to simply iron them, the excess heat would up the stench and I'd kill off half the street.

The older nods at my pocket, where my whistle sits. "You play."

"Yeah." I shrug.

He smiles a huge smile. Nothing more's said except

"Ma salaam!"

"ma salaama! Shukran!"

I spend the rest of the day wandering through Irbid and teasing torturously slow internet connections. I like Irbid. It's quieter older and more deep seated in its routes than Amman. But then Amman has few roots, it's young. I could get used to being here, though it's a long trek from the hotel to a cafe you could while away the hours in.

Please please please, save your work as you're writing, not just when you publish posts, otherwise, like me, you'll be re-writing 2 hours of prose. Not only is this a desperate waste of time when there are shiny white beaches at my door, but it's a waste of cash, at 15NIS per hour. It sucks. Be careful!