Oman

Oman is a country where a 4x4 is recommended to see it's sites. Since, they run about $100 a day and isolate you from the people, I decided to go it alone - it's expensive enough in this country. And so I've been doing a lot of walking.

I shared a taxi to Bustan Palace Hotel (my lord the luxury!), where the only other foreigners on my flight were going, and then walked ten miles to my hotel across from the fish market in Muscat. The walk was nice enough. Oman is mountains that go into the ocean with a small strip of civilization in between. White-washed mosques and buildings with brown mountains behind. Very pretty. And the Omanis all wear traditional gowns and skull caps all the time with the exception of the Indian workers who dress western. Every moment is picturesque. The people have been friendly, asking who I am and why I would come to their country. The Indians chat me up the most; they all seem lonely and missing home. One Indian even invited me to dinner and so we had vegitable soup and watched TV in his one bedroom apartment.

After seeing a millions forts in Muscat, I hopped a bus to Nizwa. From there, I wanted to go the Jebel Akhdar plateau, but lacked a 4x4. So, I decided to walk the 20 miles. Through a canyon and up a mountain, I walked for nine hours. I passed four terraced villages on the way, each time with people stopping what they were doing and staring. It wasn't just a "there's a foreigner" stare, it was a "what the fuck is he doing?" At the first and third village men came out, took my water bottles from me and refilled them. At the fourth, they invited me in for coffee, oranges and dates. Aparently, I'm Blanch Dubuois. Their kindness was much appreciated. I walked at night for the last three hours of my journey under a star-filled new moon sky. I arrived, hit the shop and had the most glorious dinner of a can of tuna, two Snickers bars and a Seven-Up.

Coming down was easier and I then headed to Sur, a city on the eastern-most point of the Arabian peninsula. Its location is near an important turtle nesting beach, so I broke down, rented a car and went out to see Mario's enemies. With an Italian tour group in the middle of the night, I watched the giant beasts poop out slimy eggs, bury them and make their way back to the ocean. Uterly amazing, but I did feel a little weird like I was interupting some sort of intimate moment as a voyeaur. Maybe it was because I was staring into a turtle's vagina after dark.

Not much time left here in sunny Oman and when I return it'll be off to a cold Afghanistan. Ug, Aghanistan.

Bahrain

A steady stream of visitors to Amman left me exhausted. From the 21st of December to the 10th of January, I had guests and needed to show them Jordan. It was great fun seeing Eliana, Andrew, Teddy, Miss Petra's four friends, Duncan and Bren, but a vacation for me couldn't come soon enough.

So, off to the gulf for some much needed sunshine and...cultural perplexities. Bahrain is beautiful and weird. I first learned details about Bahrain about ten years ago. I met a girl from Bahrain who complained that Americans thought they wore hajabs in Bahrain. A Tunisian was with us and he said "they don't wear hajabs in Bahrain? I didn't know that. Where the fuck is Bahrain?"

I'm not sure if the Bahraini girl was mistaken or if times have changed, but Bahrain definitely has hajabs and abayas. My first impression when getting off the plane was that I had entered Saudi Arabia. Women were scarce and, when seen, they were covered in black. I decided to walk from the airport to my hotel to get a feel for the city. What some people call Saudi's Vegas seemed like Saudi's Saudi.

Then, I crossed the bridge to Manama and entered not Vegas, but Lahore. Pakistanis and Indians dominated the population. Their restaurants and shops everywhere in the alleys beneith the colorful waved skyscrapers. The food is fantastic, by the way. I've missed Indian food (Amman is a little lacking).

But where was this so-called party? There was noise coming from a hotel lobby so I went in to take a look. All of sudden, there were women. Filippinas, Thais and even Arab women in a abayas lined the bar looking for one thing - customers. Within seconds, the lady sharks saw me and swam toward me quickly. I made my way for the door and it suddenly occurred to me why the hotel reception guy was pushing me get a queen sized bed. I wandered some more and came to an Aussie pub called Diggers. A cloaked smoking Arab sat in front.

"What is this?"
"A pub. Go in, have a beer."

And so I went in. On the stage was a rocking Filippino rock band and at least ten Westerners lined the bar, but, alas, the room was also filled with over a hundred prostitutes. At least twenty tried to get my attention and one purposely bumped into me. I made a speedy exit.

"Not for you?" inquired the Arab.
"Not for me. Shukran."
"Welcome"

The following day, I decided to walk to some of the sites of the island. Unfortunately, the sites were spread out over a twenty miles. Nonetheless, I got some sun and exercise and met some interesting characters along the way. Outside of Manama, Bahrain becomes Arab again and they were all very curious what a foreigner was doing walking along the highway. "You want car? Taxi? It is long way." Shia posters for Hussein that looked like a romance novel cover lined the streets. I saw a fort and some ancient burial mounds. And there was the long serpentine bridge to Saudi which stretched out into the mist.

Bahrain was simply a puzzle - a Sunni ruled land of Shia filled with ultra-conservative acting ultra-liberal. Highly classist with Pakistanis and Fillippinos living under Arabs, yet everyone is so friendly and giving. Just weird and fascinating.

Colbert

http://www.zimbio.com/watch/ywgjhXbz7w-/Janet+Napolitano/The+Colbert+Report

Ah, delayed gratification, 10 months after my research and traveling around America, my report was published. It was picked up by Stephen Colbert and he asks Homeland Secretary Napolitano about it. She dodges the question by claiming the info is old. Old, but still true.

Pella

The chill of late autumn has infiltrated the desert of Jordan. Yet, rather than it being a time of death and hibernation, it is oddly a time of greenery. Cold nights have created dew for the morning and, suddenly, grass has sprouted impossibly in the sand. The median I cross every morning has gone from lifeless dirt to lush grass. Vacant lots of ugly brown have become unlikely parks.

We decided to drive to Pella to see another out-of-the-way site in Jordan. Hidden between Jerash and Um Qais, this smaller ancient city is often forgotten since it is less than one-tenth the size or its neighbors and incredibly hard to find. My now-sputtering car managed the roads heroically. The drive through green rolling hills reminded me perhaps of a of distant memory of Ireland, but more likely a movie's stereotypical portrayal of Ireland.

We had to ask for directions a half-dozen times and once a deceptive sign brought us to a restaurant rather than the site, but in the end we made it. The rapidly descending dusk, fell upon the hills where Jordanians were picnicking. It could have been a July Montana night at 8 p.m., but it was a December Jordanian evening at 5.

Other than a few Jordanian children who were interested in climbing and a few parent who were interested in sitting in the grass, the site was ours. Half-covered mosaics ands two-thousand years of pottery shards made the site seem like after archaeologist had their way with the excavation, it was again forgotten.

Israel and Occupied Palestine

The border went smoothly and we were off to Jericho in the West Bank. Past the isolated and walled Israeli settlement, we drove up and down the quant and gritty Palestinian town looking for Hisham’s Palace. Jericho didn’t look too different from Jordan save a good number of bicyclists and a lot more trees. We eventually had to ask for directions and two Palestinian police officers warmly pointed us in the right direction.

After Jericho, we drove to Jerusalem to meet Paulina and Anna. We went to the Wailing Wall and wandered the streets of the old city. While we rested on a bench, an American college student struck up a conservation with us ad asked where we were staying.

“Grand Court outside of Damascus gate.”

“Oh my God, dangerous area!”

We rolled our eyes as the area was not in the slightest dangerous, but merely Arab. Later, we hit a trendy restaurant and a beer garden. Packed and hopping on Tuesday, Jerusalem definitely has a nightlife. And the falafel was to die for, though about 20 times more than what I pay in Amman.

The next day we went to Marsaba Monastery, about fifteen miles east of Bethlehem in the West Bank. We had to ask for directions about a dozen times to find it, but the thousand waves of random Palestinian villagers made the trip pleasant. The monastery didn’t allow in women, but sat perched on a cliff in some stunning surroundings. The monks were mainly Greek and Paulina spent some time talking to one in both their native tongues beneath a tree out front. He spent most of the time asking her why she wore such a short skirt.

The skirt caused some more attention in Bethlehem where men stared and called her a “heart breaker.” The Palestinian guard wouldn’t let her into the Church of the Nativity without covering up, so she wore her scarf like a sarong. Surprisingly, the greatest site in Bethlehem was the “security” wall, which was filled with fascinating art. At the wall, we saw a photographer with a security detail. We weren’t quite sure what she was being protected from.

The next day, we waited in line for al-Aqsa mosque and Miss Petra was able to find a stone for a woman in her village, which I’m sure the woman will worship. We saw a million and one churches in the Old City built around locations where events supposedly happened. Paulina, Anna and Miss Petra absolutely loved the Old City, but I was secretly turned off by the hordes of tourists and the invented importance of random spots where mythological events supposedly happened.

After handling a flat tire with the help of a miracle Palestinian tire shop, we headed to Tel Aviv hoping to find some beach time, but was met by a city in scattered showers. We made the best of it, though, and did a bit of walking in the city and frequenting of restaurants, bar and clubs. Tel Aviv was impressively welcoming, but Paulina hated the 1960’s architecture and plastic furniture.

One night we hit a club in a shopping mall where Paulina and Anna were hit on by some Russian Israelis. One chatted with me for a while.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“America, but I live in Jordan.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“What? No. No. Not at all. It’s like the safest place I’ve ever been.”

“Maybe for you. Fucking Arabs, Fucking Arabs.”

We drove to Elat, where I wish we would have spent more time and then passed back to Jordan where I showed Paulina Petra, Jerash, Madaba and Amman. A great trip, but, as always, its nice to be back in Amman.

Marathon in the Desert

For my sixth marathon, I somehow got the brilliant idea that I would run the Amman Marathon. Because I had been working and traveling, I hadn’t trained at all, but was curious to find out about the “cold marathon.” Ironically, being untrained was the least of my worries and it was anything but cold.

Most marathons are in the autumn when it’s cooler and usually in the morning to avoid the noonday heat. Amman had planned to begin at 7:15, but it was 9:30 when it began. A harbinger. My running partner took a look at the organization and said “you know what? I’m just running the 10K – good luck.”

And so I was off alone dodging the incredible turnout for the Amman 10K, which was over 10,000. It was hot early and I was struck early by how few water stations there were. Other than the crowds, things went well for the first six miles, but I was worried about the water and the scarcity of food, Gatorade or anything with calories (2 Red Bull stations was it).

The 10K finished, and an isolated few (only 100 were in the marathon) continued down the long highway hill towards Marqa airport on an annoyingly uneven surface. Water stations were still sparse, so I would grab two bottles at a time and run double fisting. Through smog and past a sewage treatment plant I ran to the turnaround, which meant now that long hill down was now a long hill up. On the way back, I noticed locals were carrying off crates of water from the relief stations. That can’t be good, I thought.

At 21K was the halfway point and the beginning of the second loop. It was also the finish for the 10K and the professional marathon runners (who were just lapping me at that point). It looked grand - they would run into the old Roman amphitheatre, which was filled with people.

But I continued on to my second loop shirtless and exhausted at a little before noon, which hit 95 degrees. My nipple bandages had sweated off so I had to take off my shirt or else I would suffer serious chaffing. Ammanis clicked away and yelled things in Arabic at me as I searched for a water station. They had been dismantled, but the locals would hand me their half-finished waters, peace be upon them. There were no energy stations either on the second loop and I had only drunk two cups of Red Bull on the first loop. Thankfully, a car drove up the road around kilometer 28 and handed me some bananas. I love you. Seriously, I love you.

Again, I went down the road to Marqa airport passing empty stations, but, again thankfully, a few kids with half-finished waters kept me alive. At the turn around (kilometer 35), I was completely spent. So, for the last leg, I ran until my calves’ cramps forced me to stop and walked until the pain subsided. By kilometer 40, there was no running at all and I was simply trying to not pass out from heat and dehydration. Dizzy and ill, I ridiculously asked people at kilometer 42 in mixed English-Arabic “wein finish line?”

Around a corner, it was there. I was greeted by a crowd of fifty Jordanians with a medal and, more importantly, a bottle of water. The amphitheatre was empty. Whatever party they had was long gone. And for the next 45 minutes, I sat in the shade and waited for my consciousness to return

Iraq II

I saw a bit more of Iraq this time. Site after site, I met with hundreds and hundreds of Peruvians and Ugandans. Who knew that I’d use my Spanish so much in the middle of Baghdad? Their presence all seemed normal to the people working there and managing the program. But, in truth there were many things that were seriously wrong and it was so obvious to the outsider.Funny how when things get too close, they get out of focus again. I would love to say more, but the work may be the biggest deal of my career so far.

After sixteen days of working twelve-hour days without a day off, I returned home to Amman. I need to stare at a wall for a while.