Amman, Jordan

Amman is just how I pictureed a Middle Eastern city. It's hills are covered with beige block houses in various states of repair or disrepair. Electrical wires and antenae abound. Hill after hill repeat itself - little to no variation on a theme. The repitition is hypnotic and reassuring. The simplicity, beautiful.

The downtown streets are lined with small shops - spices, perfumes, shoes, clothing, food stalls and cellular phones. Male shopkeepers stand in doorways watching the traffic pass and wait for the next customer. The is no hassle, only the occassional "hello."

February in Amman is cold and grey. Freezing rain falls sporadically throughout the day. It is winter and bitter - one's breath visible in the mid-day air. Everyone is wrapped in jackets and scarves. The people are warm, but not overly. If there is reason for conversation, it is welcoming and unabtrusive, but passing communications can be brief and focused. I wonder how this changes with the weather.

I see mainly men. Women are not uncommon, just less. The women I do see are walking or shopping - with purpose. Loitering seems to be a passtime reserved for the men. Every now and again I look up and see male eyes staring at me from behind the windows of a passing bus, but for the most part I'm just another pair of feet walking down the wet pavement. The air is fresh with a chill that kisses my cheeks as the call to prayer in my ear gives a sense of place five times throughout the day.

My First Wedding Ring

The average hollywood blockbuster lasts something like 1.5 hours. In that time the average leading lady (Western) meets a man, is seduced and gets naked. It is no wonder that Western women, with which arabic men have little real contact, make assumptions based on what they see in the cinema or on DVDs - we're easy.

The result is simple. Eye contact, smiles or, heaven forbid, a giggle, will get attention. Sometimes it will be an innocent "hello" or "welcome," but sometimes a more direct illicit offer of a personal tour guide or bedroom playmate. While true harassment happens far less than Western perceptions of the Middle East would have you believe, it's nice to have a backup.

"Are you married?"
"Where is your husband?"
"Why don't you wear a ring?"

Yes.
Working.
...I do, or at least now I do...

Partially to compliment my tall tale to be used as needed and partially as an excuse to buy jewelry (a weakness of mine as everybody knows), I took a trip to the Gold Souk (or gold market) in Dubai and bought myself my first wedding ring. Feels nice, looks nice and is sure beats a jar filled with various colors of sand or a stuffed camel as a souvenier.

The Bus

Islamic law reigns on the Dubai public bus system. Women and men are kept separate with exeptions only for the married who may sit together with the women in the front. Men move to the back, behind the plexiglass partitions.

Overcrowded buses are the norm and will often refuse passengers if there is no room in the appropriate area. Women are nearly always given preferential treatment while boarding, skipping to the front of massive lines of men elbowing to board before capacity is reached. This is both self-policed as well as ensured by the occassional public safety servant. If and when a man neglects to follow the rules, he is quickly repremanded by station police, bus drivers and other passengers.

During one crowded rush-hour journey, a brash man forced himself onto the bus and stood (inappropriately) in the women's section. When the seat next to me was vacated he sat down. I assume he felt entitled as I was obviously not Muslim and Western. Despite my usual ease of interaction with the opposite sex, I found myself speechless and totally offended. He was knowingly disrespecting me under local customs. My reaction surprised me, but provided a curious insight into the power of social norms and environmental conditioning. How dare he sit next to me...how dare he!

I was not the only one shaken. The married couple sitting directly behind took great exception to this behavior. They immediately stood up and demanded the brash man take their seat. The woman, with only her eyes showing through her black veil, sat next to me while the husband moved forward to request action from the bus driver. The bumper to bumper traffic, the overcrowding and the threat of a scene detered the driver from removing the man. The new situation was acceptable and he was content with the little order that had been brought to the chaotic scene.

If Dubai Were a Musical Act...

...she would be Paris Hilton - glamorous, over-produced, filthy rich and unavoidably intriguing.

In the past 50 years Dubai has gone from a flat and rather uninhabited desert to a metropolis of International standards. And the transformation continues. Strips of 5-star hotels line the sea, each with distinctive character and outrageous design elements. Of the older generation there is the Burj Al Arab - the world's only 7-star hotel (self-proclaimed) where you can dine "under water" or order a maserati from room service. It takes a cool $100 USD to even get in the door for afternoon tea. Dubai's latest accomodation will take oppulence to the next level. Soon the rich and the richer will be able to stay at the top of the world's tallest building (on the 180th floor) or on their own private man-made island at either the Palms or the World - both land fill resorts viewable from space.

Second to hotels, it is a city of malls. Money is a necessity in Dubai and can buy everything from the most outlandish gems and jewels to 2-hours of surreal enjoyment at Ski Dubai, a moderately "challenging" indoor ski slope that took me 7 minutes to get up and about 20 seconds to get down. The man made slope jets out of the Mall of Emirates, the largest and best known shopping center complete with everything from Krispy Kreme to Prada.

Paris Hilton, of course, also has her "help." Only about 18%-22% of the population of Dubai are citizens of the United Arab Emirites. The rest are high-powered business-minded expats who similarly enjoy the lifestyle or impovrished imports from around Asia and Africa who live 18 people to a room in labor compounds or provide domestic help. The latter is here to scrape together enough Dirham to support struggling familes at home. Few of these groups mix beyond what business demands.

Dubai is also home to 30,000 cranes (25% of the cranes in the world). The desert and the culture are quickly being swallowed by skyscrappers and consumerism. The result: Traffic is terrible with roads jammed with Hummers (affordable when gas costs 25 cents a gallon) and overcrowded buses. Women in hajibs can be found carrying Louis Vuitton handbags and lifting their veils to scarf down a hamburger from Burger King as the call to prayer echos through the mall. Expats live quite happily for years sipping $10 Heinikens by the beach and paying no tax. It's a place of stark contrasts - labor and luxury, sand and snow, glitter, glam and gridlock.

Watch out Paris, Dubai is on the rise (literally).

Goodbye Sydney, Hello Surreal

Dubai is the land of a

Sydney, Australia

Sydney feels a lot like San Francisco. The parallels were instantly clear to me...

It's been overcast and the rain has been much like the "barely spitting" rain one gets on a foggy day in the Richmond District.

I went to see a very quirky Mission-style theater production in a small black-box theater that I loved, but made me question the sanity of the playwrite and actors. Just days later I attended a reading by local authors of their "Erotic Fan Fiction" to raise money for a local art cooperative and there were multiple women and men dressed like Joan Jett.

A homeless man yelled obscenities at me when offered food instead of money just as they do in the Haight-Ashbury...and everywhere in San Francisco, really.

The comparisons continue with other more generic similarities such as areas built for and frequented by only tourists (Darling Harbor/Fisherman's Wharf), parks and bridges that play large roles in the cities' identities, large phallic iconic structures in the skyline...the only thing that seems to be missing is an island prison.

A Slightly Exagerated Tale of My Near Death Experience

Uluru, formerly known by the white man's name of Ayer's Rock, is one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World. It is the world's largest rock...and oh no, not a composite rock you geology fans. Millions of years ago it was formed from sand blowing off a crumbling mountain and collecting in a hole. It was compressed and turned into an underground rock. After some palatial movement, courtesy of mother earth, the tip of the compounded rock popped through the surface and created the marvel that stands today and is 10km in circumference and takes two hours to climb.

I know you think where I'm going with this - did I set out to climb this natural wonder? Did I slip, trip, lose my balance? Did I nearly join the 35 others that have died climbing Uluru since 1985? The answer is simply, no, so let's get that out of your head right now. My brush with death was not so sexy or glamorous, but perhaps of greater discomfort. It all started in a swag.

Swag (noun): Australian term for a portable shelter that is rolled, usually with belongings inside.

From Alice Springs I joined a 3-day camping tour to Uluru, Kings Canyon and the Olgas to take in Australia's most beautiful rocks. The plan was simple - drive hundreds of miles, hike around all day in the sweltering heat and sleep in swags under the outback stars. How could I possibly find myself feverishly close to a meeting with the hooded man in black?

The first day was grand. Up at 5:00 am to catch the bus we drove to Kings Canyon for a few hours of hiking around the rusted sandstone rim. Geology lessons and a swimming hole complimented the experience. Later that night, worn out from the day and with pasta con ground camel in my belly, I had no problem adjusting to the feeling of the swag's stiff canvass casing. The gritty sand left from the last occupant nor the glowing light snoring of one of the camp's occupants could keep me away from dreamland. Unfortunately the cold damp pre-dawn dew could. I awoke around 2:30am with an unbeatable chill and a growing sore throat. This was the beginning of the end.

My wake-up call came at 4:30 am - there was a lot of driving to do before reaching the Olgas (Uluru's lesser known composite rock neighbor). My tingly throat persisted and as we drove through the morning and I felt my temperature rise along with the sun. Surely a 7km hike in 107 degree heat would chase away whatever bug had penetrated my swag and my body, now flashing hot and cold. Surely.

It was hot. I stayed hydrated. It became harder to swallow. Minutes seemed like half hours and then hours. My head started to hurt as if a 1/2" lead pipe had been shoved between my temples. The giant rocks began to resemble familiar shapes - the orange ghost from Pac-Man, a lady's rump bent over a stool, a cuddly bunny...dressed up as the orange ghost from Pac-Man. I drank more water. Later I sought shelter in the air conditioned Aboriginal Cultural Center where I continued to think I was hallucinating, but realized that it was just a very obtuse film of Aboriginal dance - women with enormous sagging painted breasts dancing/hopping on one foot while making alien sounds with their voices and rudimentary bush instruments. I was comforted by the blank stares around me. I was still sane.

Back in the bus I began to sweat. My forehead was on fire. I knew what I needed: antibiotics, the Lord's sweet serum for strep throat. If I can only push through until tomorrow when we're back in Alice Springs....

The rest of the trip went something like this: sleep on the bus to lunch, sleep through lunch, take a Tylenol, drag myself on a "cultural walk" after finding out it was only 300m of actual walking, sleep on the bus, rally to sit and watch sunset at Uluru next to bus loads of retired Americans sipping champagne with fly nets over their heads, eat something...slowly, set up my swag, sleep, sleep on the bus to Uluru, sleep through the 10km walk around Uluru, sleep on the bus home waking only for bathroom stops, re-hydration and more Tylenol.

Back in Alice Springs, I checked into my room and completed the task that had been on my mind for the duration of the 8-hour journey back: visit the doctor, the nearest doctor, the Emergency Room doctor.

I (slowly) marched myself the 4 blocks to the Alice Springs Hospital, still in 107 degree heat. My energy nearly gone, I stumbled into the ER waiting room and took a seat among the other Aboriginal families and filled out my forms. Did I know that as an American I would have to pay for my treatment? Of course..."JUST GIVE ME THE TREATMENT!" I screamed inside my brain...ouch. (Note: Had I been a citizen of the commonwealth or even a nation with nationalized health care I would not have had to fork over the $144 to be seen by a doctor.)

Pulse: high. Temperature: 104.5 degrees. Throat: Pussy and red. The nurse gave me more drugs to reduce the fever. I got a pillow soft bed and fell asleep to the Australian Soap Opera, Home and Away, waiting for a doctor. A strange European murse (man-nurse, not man-purse) kept checking in on me. I tried to listen in on what was wrong with the Aboriginal woman next to me. It was too hard. My head hurt.

2 hours later (fever reduced)...

Doctor: "Feeling better?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want some antibiotics?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want to go home?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Good. There we go."

She handed me a box of penicillin tablets, instructed me on how to take them and I was on my way, feeling better the instant the cure was in my sweaty little fingers. I would survive.

Note: None of the temperatures in this account are exaggerated in the slightest. If anything, they are rounded down in the conversion to Fahrenheit.