Jordan: Amman, Petra, Jerash and the Dead Sea

Sometimes life in Yanbu reminds me of that Neil Young song that begins "I was lyin' in a burned out basement, with the full moon in my eyes. I was hopin' for replacement when the sun burst through the skies." Leaving Saudi for a visit to Jordan is a bit like that. We left lots of sunshine for more sunshine, but we also left a country with a sort of gloomy restrictiveness for one much more open. People are somewhat shrouded in Saudi (most women literally so) but in Jordan the faces more regularly beam. The capital, Amman,a city of four million, felt much smaller, very friendly, and quite welcoming.

Built like Rome on seven hills, Amman has a lot of up and down to it, and at the bottom, right beside the main shopping area, the "main street," is an ancient Roman amphitheatre which cost one dinar (a whole buck fifty) to enter.

The city is thought to be the longest inhabited city on the planet with population data going as far back as 10,000 BC. About 300BC its name is changed to Philadelphia and then somewhere around 150AD the Romans take over and build this amphitheatre. And there it sits, probably still used for music, dance, what have you. It is one of those places that inspires, spooks (but in a good way), and enthralls. We could have spent hours. You can see from the look on Rose's face that those seats have an effect.

From Amman, we headed south to Petra, a three hour drive that took us through a lot of desert scrub land, into very old rolling stony hills, and finally into the valley of striking sandstone cliffs, chasms, and outcropppings. We were agape during the long steep descent into the town of Petra.That's the town in the background, surviving as far as I can see on the trade that the famous tourist attraction brings. The sandstone caves and cliff homes are in those darker hills in the back left of the photo. Once you enter the site, it's an exciting winding walk of about 4 or 5 km along a chasm floor which opens out in places to become more of a canyon or valley floor, but always on both sides rise vertiginous cliffs, usually with homes, tombs, or meeting halls carved into them.






Here you can see Rose and Marsha about to enter the narrow chasm that leads down to the centre of the ancient carved town. This goes on for about 2 or 3 km until you come to a stunning facade called the Treasury, and it is a gasp-inducing sight.Meanwhile, your neck feels the strain of constantly looking up at the soft undulating walls, often showing a varying array of natural colours. You can see in the one photo here all the colours occurring naturally in the ceiling and the walls. It seems there has been some polishing involved, but nonetheless it is remarkable.

The Treasury, all carved from the stone face.

One of many entry rooms, but notable for its polished ceiling.

Me sitting at the foot of an apartment complex.

From Petra,we headed back to Amman with our driver, Jamaal, for next day's excursion to the ancient Roman city of Jerash, just north of Amman, and then the Dead Sea in the Jordan valley. Jerash was built by the Romans starting around 60 BC. It is a huge spread of a ruin, covering many acres. We saw a re-enactment of Roman soldiers attacking barbarians and then did a tour of the ruins.

I'd pick the middle one to be on my team, I think.

   Two of the more interesting sights at Jerash, and there were loads to choose from, include this long Roman causeway with what must have been a pretty spectacular set of buildings in its heyday, along with that endless line of columns along the other side. And the second picture below is of the columns in  the Temple of Artemis. I took that picture lying on my back at the base of them. One of them sways a bit if there's a strong breeze; in fact, a small spoon has been inserted in the base of the column and with one hefty push anyone can make the column move, as the local coffee vendor showed me, pushing with one hand on the column and pointing with the other at the spoon that moved slowly up and down as the pressure from the column dictated. An earthquake in the 17 or 1800s cracked the column and it's been swayable ever since.

Roman road/pedestrian way

Columns at the Temple of Artemis, from the ground up.

The columns on the left appear in the picture above.

Oh, two other things. First of all, we never expected to see and hear Jordanians in traditional dress playing the bagpipes. And they played Amazing Grace. What's that about? In the other pic, you see our driver bargaining with a roadside nut and dried fruit vendor. He gesticulates admirably but we still aren't sure that he saved us money. Fun for us to watch though.

                                                                                                                                                                      And finally, The Dead Sea. Besides being a place I never really thought about because it never occurred to me that I'd some day get to visit, it provides one of those unforgettable experiences made so by simply  being uniquely strange. First of all, and you may well know all of this already so bear with me, it is the lowest inhabited place on earth, over 400m below sea level. It is impossible to sense that while you're there, but you're  mindful of it nonetheless, even though there is nothing visual or physical to indicate this odd fact. OK, there's a sign, but that's not what I mean. Then there's the water, but nothing to indicate that it will feel like light olive oil when you get in, and it does feel oily like that but not in an unpleasant way . . . much. Lying down in it involves some suspense (pardon the pun)  because you expect to sink. All your senses tell you that. But you don't; the floating feeling is quite wonderful, once you get your balance sorted out. Physically, you're in a position you've never been in before, so it takes some getting used to. Then it's like you are lying in some gorgeous hammock, one that allows you to paddle about, slowly drift and turn, and almost fully relax, as at least one of the pictures below indicates.

Not everyone wanted to take the plunge.

Salt clings to the stones.

Dead Sea rock nymphs.

I bid you all a fond farewell. Put Petra and The Dead Sea on your to-do list.

The Metaphysics of Cheese

I have no idea if this is the place for this rant, but here goes.

Having gone for a run in lovely 24C weather, and feeling like I had thus earned a glass of grape "cordial" along with some cheese, I took out the last bit of St Albans and warmed it up in the microwave so it would be a bit easier for my ryvita crackers to deal with. What struck me was the stunning aroma, that thrice dead gym sock odour that accompanies all decently aged cheeses warmed to perfection. Instantly I was reminded of a rather embarrassing episode which occurred in my second year of college. Having met a young woman with whom I was very interested in sharing life altering experiences, I took her out to a very cheap dinner and then back to my college room for some wine and cheese and late night chat.

It was a winter night. My dorm room was cold, so I had earlier thought to turn on the ancient radiator in my room so as to make things more comfortable. What I had forgotten was that two pair of recently worn running socks were drying on that same radiator. When we entered the room, it was not only as balmy as a Saudi June afternoon, it also smelled as if I were a serious manufacturer of cheesy comestibles, mostly of the blue, roquefort, or seriously aged havarti type. She turned to me and said her favourite cheese was gouda.

My heart fell.

Gouda! Isn't that the sort of cheese that people who don't acutally like cheese eat? Or if not that, then extra mild chedder? The cheese that isn't cheese. The cheese that those same people who used to eat Elmer's glue in grade school preferred. The sort of people whose favourite sandwich is breast of turkey with mayonnaise on white bread, and a glass of milk. Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy breast of turkey and I even at times enjoy mayonnaise, but enjoying gouda may well be proof that the devil exists (Wal-mart and television notwithstanding)

Being a non-believer, it somewhat grieves me to say that we've been blessed with noses and a clear sense of smell, and to not put that to good use is to some extent a crime against existence itself. In support of Darwin, god bless him, our noses have evolved to what we have now because wisdom teaches us that the ability to smell powerful things is a form of higher development. This philosophy leads quite naturally to the conclusion that Gouda is the instrument of the devil and that the finest stinky cheeses may in fact be an argument for monotheism, or some sort of theim.

If there is a god, then she gave us noses so they may be well used; they are not meant to be insulted by things like non-aromic cheeses which lend themselves more to reminders of wall paper paste than to things worth experiencing more fully: smelly cheeses, for instance. Life, god or no god, is meant to be experienced, else why do we have the senses we do? But I begin to foam and rave, curdle, as it were.

Suffice to say, the aforementioned young woman and I went nowhere, much to my delayed delight. She probably found some Wonder Bread eating lover of mild cheddar while I have gone on to the joys of curried rice, garlic pasta, and St Alban's heavenly ordoriforous curds and whey. I speak both metaphorically and literally. Long may the finely sliced, well aged, smoked cheddar reign. Long may the bluers of cheese mould gloriously on.

Dinner in the Desert

As we sat on our haunches beside a slow-burning fire, our host described his family as 'half Bedouin', with homes in the town and this now much reduced camp or small farm holding as a type of evening or weekend retreat. His father, quietly smoking, raisin-complexioned, and comfortably cross-legged sat silently as our host told us how at one time the father herded, milked, and generally farmed 60 camels in the area where now there were six, along with about 30 or so goats, and several sheep.That's Olly, grade three teacher from New Zealand, sitting with the patriarch.

The little grey camel you see below the picture of Olly is just three weeks old while the others are a few months.

We ride into work each day on a 20 seater bus which Muhammed (you'll see him later in the pics, the fellow with the black thobe) drives for us, and let me tell you that in the kind of traffic he has to drive through--speeders, cutters-off, swervers, 11 year old Mario Al-Andrettis, and so on--he is masterful and careful at the same time. Quiet, unassuming, friendly, struggling but game with his small English. We all really like him. We seem to have hit it off because not too long ago he invited the seven regulars along with a couple of others to come to his family's farm retreat to see his camels and to have a light meal. Last night's visit is the result, and it was very touching, very humbling, and very very cool.

The fellow in this picture is an Egyptian who stays at the farming compound year round to feed, milk, and look after the animals. I feel bad that I cannot remember his name, but we met a lot of people last night, and I was probably a bit tipsy from all the sweet tea and camel milk.You can see he is a bit wary of the mother, but you can also see she is a bit wary of her camel-ette being manhandled. Moments before I got this shot, she had bent her head down and lightly butted him on the shoulder, probably as a warning that worse was to come if he wasn't careful. Look at her eye: she's watching very closely.

All the animals were guarded in their approach to us and probably for good reason. When you see how the front leg gets tied up for milking, you'll see that much of their treatment at the hands of humans involves discomfort and probably some pain.By the way, that's our driver doing the milking. It took me back to my summers and winter weekends on my Uncle Doug and Aunt Bernice's farm, minus the tied front leg.

Once the rides were over, we moved into a very comfortable outside parlour where tea was served quite formally. The youngest brother was being trained in how to do this properly, so extra attention to propriety on our part was called for. Often one doesn't know quite how to act as a guest in the home of a host whose roots are foreign and this was a bit more complicated for us because we were being entertained in the home of a family for whom in some ways we symbolised an occupying force. (There are about six million Saudis and over one million expats, and we're the ones who do a good deal of the more meaningful labour: oil execs, teachers, doctors, engineers, and so on, but this is changing, albeit slowly. Many expats do pretty menial stuff too: house cleaning, garbage collection, corner shops, street repair.) In this case, though, we felt nothing but welcomed and respected.

Notice Rose of the Desert perched somewhat royally above it all. Getting onto a camel is like a slightly too large piece of cake, a bit more than you expected or hoped for; in many ways it's a bit like mounting a large bicycle. However, sitting on the camel while it gets itself up off the ground is a lot like sitting on your sofa while being lifted by a giant wave: first you plunge well forward, then you plunge far backward, then finally everything comes steady, but by this time you're so disoriented as to what's going to happen next, you start looking for the gravol . . .  or a chiropractor (at least I did). Once you're up though, the ride is delightfully smooth until the getting down part and then you are back on the nausea train.

In this picture you see Mohommed's older brother carefully straining the warm mild through a seive, probably to make sure none of the hundreds of flies have got themselves caught up in the delicious foam. These bowls were then passed out to us and you could tell it was a bit of a game for the natives as they were all smiles and close looks as we received and then dealt tentatively with the contents. As I said earlier, it reminded me of my days on the farm, so I tilted the bowl back and drank gamely, only to be pleasantly surprised by not only how warm the milk was but also how mildly sweet. No hint of sand, heat, or camel about it. Delish, as they say.

This preceded a traditional Bedouin meal of meat boiled in spicy water for about an hour and a half, served with a small mountain or rice. Normally, this would be eaten by hand--the right hand only--by making little balls out of the meat and rice which are then popped into the mouth. For us, the whole line of cutlery was provided, but a few of us chose to get good and greasy, using the hand method. It was delicious. The fat is left on the meat, perhaps because it's a sign of well-fed animals and this in turn is a sign of prosperity, but I am only guessing. I managed to avoid most of the fat without avoiding most of the taste. Like the milk, it was delicious.

The night ended with a drive through the starry desert, thanks again to Mohammed our driver, who left the dishes for the others to tidy up. We were well fed, well treated, and well satisfied by our excursion into the private lives of people we live and to some extent work closely with but who remain in many ways a distant mystery. Shukraan (shook rawn), Mohammed. Shukraan.

Of Pizzas, Pinnocchios, and Piazzas

There's a poem by William Wordsworth composed while he was standing on Westminster Bridge in London, looking at the city in the early morning light, and it's probably the best poem about the way a city can sometimes catch your eye as a beautiful place: "Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty." That's London in 1802. I came to know exactly what he meant, but in Rome in Dec/Jan 2010-11. What a stunningly gorgeous city Rome is. The river, the bridges, so many of the buildings. The history, the wine, even the pizza. And the art; man, it is incredible. All of this and more make for a city holiday unlike any I've had.

Don't get me wrong here. There was trash, muddy banks along the river that made running unpleasant, beggers, unsightly garish shop windows, stalls selling plastic Vatican replicas and cheap trinket renditions of ancient buildings. In fact, there is so much of this tat that it's easy to imagine we'll all drown in some enormous plastic waste site some day if we don't stop making it all. But that stuff, sadly, is almost everywhere.  Visit a WalMart.

But there's only one Pantheon, there's only one Colosseum, one Vatican, and so on. Those of you who've been will know. Those of you who haven't been and who enjoy a city holiday, put Rome at the top of your list. I'll take personal responsibility for your enjoyment. Those of you who prefer the countryside, the beach, or just plain staying at home, you may in fact be the wisest of us all. I don't know, but what I do know is I loved this city and I can't wait to go back. Can you tell?

Now, part of my reaction may well be that this holiday involved two things I've never had a chance to experience before, each one very special. First, Rose and I got to see Claire and Neil after a span of several months of not seeing them, and we got to see them over the tail-end of the Christmas season and the New Year's celebration. We've never done the Christmas holiday quite like this before and it was superb. Few things compare to those great long hugs. Secondly, we got to leave the desert for its opposite. The cool rainy welcome to Rome was a type of blessing. And on top of all this, we got to spend time with a close friend, too. Scott came with Claire and Neil so I got to have a real runner to run with and a real friend to hang out with when the shopping became too much. Dull indeed would he be of soul who could pass by an opportunity so full of family, laughter, and cool experiences. Wordsworth knew of what his words were worth.

But enough carrying on. Two quick stories. It's Christmas Eve, Rose and I have been in the city since noon. We've been to a local grocery, bought fresh pasta, wine, cheese, fresh Italian bread: the stuff of Heaven. The pasta is on the boil, the wine is half gone (as am I), the cheese and bread quickly disappearing. I plug in the kettle for some tea. Instantly all the power goes out. Both windows are shuttered. The place is absolutely black. Outside rain is falling lightly but steadily. Luckily my phone is in my pocket so I turn it on and in the dim glow of its digital beam I look about. For what, I don't know. There are no candles nor matches that we can find. Were I to find an Italian fuse box I'm not sure what I'd do with it. There is no breaker switch in sight. The lights in the hallway are on, as are the lights in the apartment upstairs. It's just us. I dash to a phone booth with my slip of paper to phone our landlord. Providing no shelter, the phone booth experience proves laughable. Within moments the ink has run and the number is obliterated. I've managed to get it dialled but I'll never remember it for next time. Blissfully unaware last-minute shoppers waltz happily by in the rain. No one tells me that there's an extra button you have to push on an Italian outdoor phone after you've dialed your number. The phone goes dead. In my mind's eye, I see Rose on the sofa sitting somewhat glumly in the soft blue light cast by her iPod. . . . "Dull would he be of soul . . . " I race to the grocery, hoping against hope. It's open. Oddly, one has to dash through a clothing store to get to the grocery store entrance. Ha! The Italians. What will they think of next? Struggling to make myself understood, I finally learn two things: the store is closing and they don't carry candles. Upstairs, on a table of shirts for sale, there happen to be some Christmas candles for sale. I buy four and dash back downstairs for matches. As the steel doors are rolled into place, I make the universal sign for lighting a match, pleadingly. I learn two things: they are closed and they don't sell matches. I begin to run back to our flat, remembering a tobacconist's along the way. He's open and he has matches and suddenly, running in the rain, soaking wet, clutching my Santa, reindeer, and north star candles, I am a supremely happy man. I start chuckling out loud, saying to myself, "I'm running in the rain with a Santa Claus candle at 8:15 on Christmas Eve along cobblestone streets in Rome! How often does anyone get to do that?" I think of Rose in the by-now-dimming light of her iPod. I stop chuckling to myself. Home, dripping but happy, I light the four candles and almost instantly find a little recessed niche in the wall by the main door where quietly sits a breaker switch which, curiously, is off. I turn it on and all the lights come on, the pasta begins to heat up, and I don't plug the kettle back in.  Meanwhile Rose has completed 16 games of Shanghai successfully.

My second tale is much shorter. Ahem . . .having been warned about pickpockets, we plan each outing carefully as to where our wallets, phone, and other things we don't want to lose will be kept. All goes well for several days. On our second last day, Scott and I decide we want to go to a famous art gallery while the others beguile themselves with shopping. (This reminds me, other than doughnut shops in Owen Sound, I have never seen a concentration of shops anywhere in the world the way that Rome is crammed with shoe shops. There cannot be that many feet in the world, it seems. But I digress.). The gallery, sadly for us, is not letting anyone in without a ticket for the next three days. It is late in the afternoon and we decide the best thing we can do is find some comfortable spot for a drink and thus soothe our disappointment. I buy an Irish coffee for about 20 Canadian dollars in a very swanky streetside bar and it is delicious. Scott, sensibly, has red wine, also delicious. We stroll to the Rome version of Toronto's subway and find the platform very busy and the trains absolutely packed. Another train pulls in, the doors open, no one gets off, and the train is steel-strainingly full. Suddenly from behind, we both end up being pushed onto the train, squeezed into the people already on board so closely packed as to make me blush. Scott is in a bear hug and our pusher is a short burly man, so burly in fact that I expect his last name is Burly. His whole family is probably pictured in some dictionary by the word burly. We're all on there now, the doors are still open, my left hand is squeezed into my pants pocket and I feel a strange wiggle against the plush paper napkin I've borrowed from the swanky bar. Mr Burly has his hand ever so gently deep in my pocket feeling about for something of value. There's only the napkin. I grab his hand, twist three fingers up into the tiny space between my left shoulder and his face and give him a glare which has absolutely no effect on him. Suddenly all apologetic and bewildered, he takes his hand back and just as the doors begin to close, with the practiced art of the seasoned con-man, he takes one step back onto the platform, the doors close and we are whisked away. We stare at one another for a moment, open-mouthed (as you do), and in the space freed up by the thief's departure do a quick accounting and find nothing gone. Thanks in part to the coffee and wine, we find we can laugh about the experience. Nonetheless, it was not only pretty weird but somewhat disturbing, too.

The ceiling of the Sistene Chapel is as gorgeously impressive as people say. The Colosseum gets its name by rights: it is enormous, jaw-droppingly so, and architecturally astounding to boot. The monuments; the churches; the piazzas with trees, fountains, and statues; the paintings, the parks, and the pizza. A stunning holiday in a stunning city. Even when it rains. Go. Your soul will thank you.

In order: a shop specializing in I don't know what (Rose has developed a new obsession with big noses).

One of our morning cappuccino stops.

Ummmm . . . Gladatorial umbrellas?

A non-Sistine ceiling, but beautiful nevertheless, and about a kilometre long. OK, I exaggerate, but only slightly.

Me in my new hat, scarf, and jacket. Oh, and the rest of the family too. At our as yet to be finished hotel.

And . . .

. . . the five of us on New Year's Eve. Have a superb 2011 everyone. From all of us.

Pre-Christmas Nose Job

On the day before we broke for the holiday, we had a staff gift exchange to which six of us wore the noses you see pictured below. The six of us ride the bus to work each day, along with Justine and Olly's 3 year old boy, Zinzan. Olly and Justine, at either end, bought them a month or two ago for us all to wear into work for a good laugh and we finally managed for the staff party. That is not Olly's real hair, by the way; it comes with the cap but he likes it well enough to request a set of his own. 

Here we are pictured in Olly's grade 3 classroom. The other one is of Robert and Rose trying to sort out a Christmas kiss. It's a bit like Pinocchio meets Miss Piggy.

The Phelps just left today for their 26 hour odyssey to southern California to have Christmas with Robert's 93 year old mother along with their own children and grandchildren. The Olsons flew out this morning for Christmas in Thailand, and in a few hours we head to Rome for a ten day stint with Neil, Claire & Scott.  My second glass of wine will be a toast to you all for a peaceful and happy Christmas.

Enjoy the holiday; put your feet and your brain up for a bit, and stay away from all those sweets.

Juxtapositions

We've just returned (three weeks ago this would have been true) from a glorious six days in London, including a very rewarding one day English Teachers' Conference. We left Saudi in the early evening and arrived in the centre of London at about 6:30 a.m. It was 36C in Saudi and about 8C in London. The start of the trip set the pattern and provides the title for this blog. O,how I could go on about the joys of London and how different those joys are from our experience in our land of sand, but I won't.

It has now gone three weeks since we've come back from England and much has happened, well beyond my powers of procrastination. And I say that in the finest spirit of "trying-to-get-things-done-on-time" but with little success. We've been to London to see the Queen, been back to Saudi to see the King (to no avail), been snorkeling, fish buying, "cordial" drinking, and so on. It has been a time. It has indeed been a time.

So, instead of this being about juxtapositions, its more about moments, or better yet, episodes. So, to begin, London in a nutshell. A couple of highlights: friends and books (which reminds me, if you ever want inexpensive yet comfortable accommodation in the heart of Westminster, a ten minute walk from either the Brit Library or the Brit Museum, the Arosfa Hotel (b&b) is the place to stay). We met up at the National Science Museum with some close friends from our days in Portsmouth in 97/98 when Claire was 11 and Neil was 7, and though we didn't have a pint together, we did share many a fine memory and an equal number of fine moments on the day. This picture is of Rose, Martin (Head of Maths), Joe (now a prof with the British National Police Training College) and their three girls Sian (she's on the left), Meghan, and Alice (which, curiously enough is Rose's mum's name and my dad's mother's name). Sian was born in Feb of our year there and she's now the age Claire was when we arrived in Portsmouth.
London was such a tremendous break from the sometimes stifling air of SA: the heat and humidity, the sand in the air, the strange rules about what women can and cannot do, the taking forever of setting up a bank account or getting a driver's license. We've met some Saudi's and almost all of them have been so friendly, so accommodating, so helpful (he said seriously without even a nod to the official party line regarding communicating with the West). It's true. We had a divine lunch with our friend Steve from Norwich whom so many of you met at our leaving party at the Murphs. Steve and Hazel were over from Blighty for a few weeks back in Canada and they gave up part of their tour to come to Bill and Jean's for our going away. An absolutely lovely friend (note the early stages of Steve's movember stache. One shudders.).

Two quick pics. The first is of a delightful little bookstore Rose and I found quite by accident. There we were, walking along near Uni of London and I noticed a street sign over an archway which read Pied Bull Yard, so we went in. And there was a timeless little cobbled yard with a wine bar, bookstore, and other little shops, just minding their own business with virtually no nod to commercial advancement, waiting for whatever trade might come along. Rose went into the store pictured below while I investigated the next door wine bar, to great avail.

The second one is a pile of all the books we purchased during our six days in the big city. Thirty four of them. If you haven't read the Seamus Heaney, it's a remarkable new collection and the two Don Paterson, so lovingly recommended by Fran McA are equally moving. Even his light verse on consuming pints of Murphys make the purchases more than worth while and his more serious stuff is enough to make you thank god someone had the foresight to invent poetry.




Since then it's been pretty focused on making sure we can do what we can do to help the school passes its latest rounds of inspection for approval of its license to be an accredited school for the American Middle Schools Association (middle as in middle states, w e t f t i.)  We had four principals and lead teachers visit us for three days to look at everything the school does, is about, makes available for students,  and on and on. We passed with flying colours but a few of us are wondering what we newbies did to deserve that. This approval process started before we arrived, so we're a bit new to the whole thing. Suffice to say, we are now approved for another seven years.


Two mornings ago I went to the local fish market with some teaching friends while Rose stayed home and caught up with some marking. I, however, went searching for fresh fish so I could avoid marking for another few hours. We saw some amazing stuff, and ate some equally stunning fish and shrimp. By way of example, I bought 11 fresh fish, filleted before my very eyes, all of a size you'd find at the Farmer's Market in OS, for 250 Riyals (about 65 Cndn dollars), and they proved delicious later that same day at a fry-up, along with fresh shrimp, salad, the works. The market made we wonder on more than one occasion how the Red Sea could keep providing such abundance: hajir, hamour, shark, barracuda, flounder, flake, marlin, and on and on. Here are two pics of some of what we saw. The big red/orange spotted fellow is nearly as big as my upper torso (ok, ok, so I'm not a big guy, but I've put on weight, as the fish would suggest). Note please, the long gray narrow fish in the second picture immediately to the left of the big guy: that narrow fellow is a barracuda, and it's a shame you can't see his teeth because they'd tear the flesh off your arm before you knew what bit you. It's all a bit startling. The big one in this pic has that kind of forlorn look, as if to say, "There I was, after twenty three years, just minding my own business, and along comes this bit of bait . . . ." Vaulting ambition, writ large.

My last little episode is about the two Pakistani gents who work our local general store, about the size of a 7/11 but without the chainstore sameness of so much back home. Sham-sure and Younus (pronounced you-n-us, as in "You n us are going to the Keady Market an' we're takin' yer truck.") were sitting outside, enjoying the 22 C cool of the evening at about 8:00, having a cup of tea and a bite to eat when Rose and I arrived for some comestibles. They quite urgently insisted we share in their food, holding forth a plate that looked like all the world as if two forlorn fish sticks had landed unclaimed and unannounced. "Please!" they both urged, despite our polite no-thank-yous. Despite our honest rejoinders of having just finished a filling dinner. Despite almost everything we could say. Finally, we relented  because of their "Traditional food! Traditional homeland food!" So I took one slice, suggesting Rose and I would share it.

Now, you must keep in mind, our reluctance was not because it looked or smelled or was in any way questionable; it was because we were full from our own dinner. But who is going to refuse an offer of traditional cooking so passionately offered? No one. And they would not let us share. Rose must have her own portion. I tasted mine, and to be honest, it tasted like fish sticks, but I didn't let on. Rose tasted hers and asked, "Sham-sure, did you make this?" Sham-sure's head is now tossed back in the heartiest of laughs while Younus is trying to control his giggles. Traditional food? Only if you allow for frozen chicken and cheese sticks from about ten steps away in the frozen food section of our little market being traditional Pakistani food. We all had a good laugh over this little joke; well, that's not quite true. Rose and I had a little laugh. Our two grocery store friends enjoyed themselves to no end over the trick they had so convincingly played on their more sophisticated Western customers.

But we'll get them. We'll show them a thing or two about food trickery. We'll make them honest to goodness frozen fish sticks and  convince them it's traditional North American fare. Ha ha! That'll show'em whose ahead in the "my food is yuckier than yours" game and more commonly et in front of the tv. We'll have the last laugh.

Meanwhile, the fresh fish market awaits. As do ten days over Christmas in Rome, six of which we get to spend with family. "Tis twenty years till then!"

Yanbu Daily

Halloween is an unusual affair here, mainly because the only people who do it are the ones who live on the compound. For some strange reason, this evening of ghouls, goblins, and candy isn't a part of the Saudi culture. You might think that with its history of tribal incursions ending in frightening thievery and scary nighttime raids, all of it before oil was discovered here in 1932, Halloween would be a natural. But, alas, it ain't so. Thus, the profound lack of pumpkins at all the local shops and supermarkets. You can get any number of what appear to be Alladin type lamps or badly carved wooden camels, but not a pumpkin. The locals will boast about the Baskin-Robbins, the McDonalds, and Kentucky Fried Chicken, but ask about a pumpkin and the stares are all blank.

So I bought the next best thing: a large cantaloupe which is why my first picture for this blog is of our Halloween Cantaloupe (and isn't that a clever use of brain coral? Yes, that's really what it's called: brain coral.).

Before all the kids did the compound tour for sugar, there was a party for the kids and their parents. I was given the responsibility of managing the gourd bowling event at which the ghouls, princesses, and super-heroes got a chance to try their skills at rolling a hubbard squash at an array of butternut squash so as to knock as many down as possible. It was almost as big a success as the apple bobbing taking place next to me. Gourd bowling may well be the next rage. Not having a photo to prove my ability to reset toppled gourds, I offer instead this photo of the parade of urchins, pre sugar infusion.

Someone was asking about our daily routine at work, what lunches are like, assemblies, and so on. Well, Rose and I get our lunch brought in each day, as do a few other couples, and for less than peanuts we get to have a salad and a main usually consisting of a shawarma or two: chicken, veggie, or lamb. ONe day is rice and chicken instead of the shawarma. At the risk of appearing to be a guy who is far too interested in his food, I've included a picture of a typical lunch. This is by Rose's insistence, it must be said. I'm more of a camel racing guy, but I haven't seen any recently, so lunch will have to do.

Recently our senior boys volleyball brought home the bronze medal from the ISG tournament, the only official games our team got to play because all the other schools are on the east coast and it's too much to ask parents to pay for more than one flight across the kingdom per team. So these guys are at a real disadvantage when it comes to competing. But they did very well and we recently had a short assembly to introduce all the volley ball teams, of which there are four, two girls and two boys. The guys were very proud and wore their medals all day. Sadly, the volleyball season last only three weeks.

Banking is quite an experience here. Each pay day, because we do not yet have an account, the principal takes time out of his day to take me to the bank to deposit our cheques into his account and then transfer the money over to Canada. Two forms get filled out, taken to the teller, and the processing is done. It sounds like this might take 15 minutes tops. At the end of September, it took 1 and 3/4 hours to do the transactions.

This time, at the end of October we hurtled through in just under an hour.

And speaking of men trying to horn into a line-up at airports is a not uncommon sight. The school teaching staff flew back on Thursday morning from the east coast of the country where we'd all been engaged in two days of PD and while waiting in line, about four away from a very slow moving counter (was he the brother of our bank clerk?) and with at least another eight or ten behind me, a fellow walked around us all right up to the counter waving his ticket. I caught his eye, sort of snarled and sneered in that real threatening way I have, and then jerked my head back as if to say "Get to the back of the line!" Shaking in his boots, he turned instead back to the clerk and waved his ticket one more time but with that extra vigour I imagine my fearsome behaviour created in him. Luckily for the rest of us, the clerk looked at him with a sneer similar to mine, pointed at all of us, and waved him to the back of the line. Some moments later when I was about to step up to the counter, guess who appears over my left shoulder: old sly boots, more subtly showing instead of waving his ticket. Wearing my rather full back pack, I swung vigorously around to speak to Rose, thus blocking him out of the way of the clerk. It was the sort of move that makes or beaks a guy trying out for the Ottawa Rough Riders or the Alouettes, and a moment in this line-jumper's sensitivity training of which I am rightfully proud.

I've seen this happen in grocery store line-ups, restaurants, at my desk at school, you name it. If there's a line-up, it seems, then there's an opportunity to butt in. It happens in fast moving traffic with alarming frequencies and at rates of speed that make my heart race.

Most Saudi drivers have an impressive streak of kindness not to be found with such frequency at home. At least three times now, I've been involved in a car-trouble situation and have been very touched by drivers stopping immediately to help. The latest involved our bus from the airport. The spare tire in a rack under the bus somehow came loose and fell off, but we didn't feel anything. We only were alerted to it by drivers, invariably Saudi men, who tried to get our attention so we'd stop. Finally, one fellow pulled in front of the bus, slowed right down, and then waved us over to the side of the road. Without knowing any English, he managed to tell us what happened and offered to drive back a few kilometres, pick up the tire, return it to us, and then go on his way. When he arrived back in about ten minutes, he and the bus driver and another passing motorist, lifted this huge tire up into the back of the bus with some internal help coming from yours truly and another of the male teachers. In the meantime, some teenage boys appeared from nowhere to assist too. The odd one may be a line-jumper, but by far and away, more of them are gracious and generous assistants whenever road trouble happens. Maybe they're all driving as scared as we passengers are passengering so sympathy is the first order of business in the event of road problems.

Let me close with another short note about food. We had dinner out one night while at the conference in Dhahran, across the Kingdom on the Persian Gulf. We went to a sushi place and, without a Japanese person in sight, were fed some excellent sushi in a gorgeous room with very good waiters who managed to be completely unobtrusive while remaining almost perfectly attentive. I managed to not order a non-alcoholic Budweiser and went instead for the green tea, pots and pots of it. See how many types of sushi style treats you can recognize on this plate.