Secret Asian Man- Finding Rocket Man

Time ticks by and we start forming lists. Lists of things to pack. Lists of things to buy.  Lists of places we want to see before we go.  Lists of the things we’ll miss. 

Missing things like the melon.  Oh my god!  The melon! First, buttery and savory, with a cool sweet finish. I will have crack-dreams for years over this melon.

Or missing things like falafel. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat falafel anywhere else.  Or shwarma. Same thing.  They’re simple, delicious and darn near free. Paying 7 bucks or more back in the US seems obscene.  

Out with the Mrs. for a spring evening stroll to obtain such sandwiches. The start of the dwindling number, I’m sure. Trying to get our fill.

We came across a new place that had opened a couple months back.  It was bright and clean with decor a step above.  And they were cooking something new. It was like shwarma meat cooked on a large shield-like pan. A little oil, a little lemon juice, some secret spices.  They press some pita down on top of the stew that’s created sopping up any extra juice then they wrap it all up with some tomatoes, pickles and hot peppers and squirt on some lemon juice to finish.  Served with fries.

It looked like a shwarma, but different. I thought I’d give it a try, so I walked up to the counter and picked up the menu.  

“That is all in arabic, but don’t worry, I will explain to you everything.” said the purveyor.

In near perfect English, he explained that this was a Turkish sandwich called a Tantuni. He talked a bit about it and how long they were here.  He and all the cooks there were Jordanian, but they had a Turkish chef who was on holiday.

Chicken or beef, I opted for chicken and placed my order.

I called Mrs. S.A.M. in from her Pokemon hunting. He explained the whole process again. She exclaimed, “That looks amazing, but I’m a vegetarian. That looks like it would be great with tofu!”

The man considers this and tells us that he used to own an Italian restaurant in Guanzhou, China. He said he never had tofu until he went there and grew to love it.

“Ah, I will make a vegetarian sandwich for you that is not on the menu!”  And he proceeds to bark out orders to the guy behind the counter who responded and made some suggestions of his own.  

He throws down a pita, smears on some yogurt, takes some Arugula and tears off only the tender parts.  Seriously, at a fast food street vendor, he tore the stems out of 12-15 individual leaves of arugula and laid them out strategically for maximum coverage.  Some tomatoes, pickles, etc.

“I love arugula”, he says. “I put it anywhere I can!”

We told him the sandwich should have a name.  “I don’t know, I guess a rocket sandwich?! Ha ha!”

I offer to pay for the extra creativity, but he waves me off.  “It is my compliments!” and then after we’re sitting outside he brings out two cold yogurt drinks with froth on top.  He called it Airon(sp?) and said it is a popular dish in Turkey.  “You will drink more Airon than water there.”

Sipping our icee cold, spoiled milk, we wondered together about this man’s story. Here’s a guy with a salad-greens fetish, speaking perfect English, who’s owned an Italian restaurant in China, now importing a Turkish sandwich concept to Jordan. How does that happen?  

We figured that it must be family that drew him back. This country is full of people with postponed dreams. Men or women who went away and did interesting things, but came back to care for mom or dad or in-laws and work the family business or on the side driving Uber or guiding tours.

When I started this entry, I was going to say that people were the other thing I’d miss. Their pride and kindness and stories like these.

But then I realized there are stories and people like this everywhere. I could go to the State Fair this summer and find a fried food vendor and if I stood and listened for long enough, I’d probably find an equally kind and proud person, who just might give me extra chocolate sauce for my deep fried twinkie.

                                                   

Secret Asian Man- It's Raining Mud, Hallelujah!

It’s rained 3 days this week.  Not only rain, but thunder and lightning.  Something I’ve not seen in my time here.  Something I’ve missed.  The tense space between the flash and the deep rumbling in my chest.  Bob Seeger ear worms and counting to five to figure out how far off, I sat and wondered.

Something I’ve not seen is the rain mixing with dust storms. From on high, it rains down mud, obscuring views through glass like cataracts.

Jordan is one of the most water poor countries on the planet. It’s also home to huge numbers of refugees that that has increased the population by 87% in the last ten years. They all need to cook, drink and bathe.

The people here descend from masters of water. Nabateans collected the rain into trenches and cisterns dug across much of southern Jordan.  Later Roman ruins indicate pools and fountains. Public baths were a regular fixture.

Modern Jordan will proceed soon with an ambitious project to pump sea water uphill 230 kms to the north for energy and desalination.  An immense expense of money and energy.

Keeping up will be a challenge. 

  

Rain averages less than 10 inches per year,falling only for 6 months of the year. In recent times, it’s getting dryer. This year’s rainfall is less than last year’s, which was less than the year prior.  A few months back, rain was so stingy that the country came within days of running out of surface water.  Much of the country is on year-round water rationing.

A freshwater lake, once the size of Rhode Island  and a stopover for the birds migrating from Africa to Europe has been drained to the size of a small city park.

There is a fossil aquifer hundreds of meters below. It has been there for eons sealed off by time and sandstone.  It is not being replenished at any appreciable rate, and has been tapped legally and illegally. It is being drained at an unsustainable rate.

Mrs. S.A.M. remarked to someone about the rain and was informed that perhaps the cloud seeding was finally working.  

“Did they just start?”

“No, they’ve been doing it for 2 years!”

We visitors often look out the window and see clouds and think ‘Oh no! Rain”, but here, when it rains it is a blessing. In a land of arid misery, the later in the seasons the rains come, the more the feeling of a miracle.

It’s raining mud, Hallelujah!

Secret Asian Man- Wadi Mujib on the Downside

I’m nearing the end of my time here at “the crossroads of Armageddon”, as some have put it.  And while we approached Amman with a good deal of trepidation, we’ve grown to enjoy the place. As long as one pays attention, it’s not too hard to live a normal-ish life.  A life quite different from that of the TV screen.

Of course, once there’s an end date, there is also the sudden appearance of a list. A list of all the the things you still haven’t seen or done or eaten.  Or the things you said you’d do again when so-and-so visited.

“Man! They’d love this!”

Hiking Wadi Mujib was one such place. Closed ½ the year due to high water and restricted to those over the age of 18. Lifejackets are required. Guides are sort of posted at the hard parts. It’s only a couple of hours hike.  One hour in. One hour out.  Hiking or slogging up stream like spawning salmon into a canyon only a few meters wide. Scrambling up waterfalls.  Fording deep pools hand-over-hand on a rope. Terminates at a waterfall.  Sometimes you can slip behind for a good natural Hammam experience.  Today, though it was closed. Too much water coming through.

You head out the way you came in. Back down the ropes and ladders or if you can, sliding down the rocks and floating.  Letting the current carry you along. Back down to the car and dry clothes.

Today, was a repeat experience. The water was high from the rain a week ago. It felt at times like every river and stream in the country was pouring through this slot. But, it was as much fun as anticipated.  

If you come, plan on April through Early-December and plan on getting wet. There is no way around it, though it is gentler as the season wears on.

Here are some shots from the day….

Entering the Siq

Small water fall

Crack in the sky. 

Fording the rough parts with ropes.

Secret Asian Man- Who Wants Ice Cream?

Spent a long weekend with family, including a 7 and 10 year old, spending their first time in Jordan.  

After showing them around an Embassy and explaining why we were so well secured, because the American government does things that upset some people, we headed out into the desert.

And maybe because we’d unplugged them from electronic devices for a couple days and, and maybe because the desert is so gosh dang quiet, but little ears hear everything.

So, when one remarks about bombs falling in Syria, little ears perk up.

Child: “Wait. What? Bombs in Syria? Why?”

This is where explaining warfare gets hard.  As an adult we can make all sorts of justifications, but a kid’s world is much simpler. 

Adult: “Well, the US, Britain and France are bombing Syria because their president used poison gas on some of his own citizens. And they believe that’s cruel.”

Child: “Weren’t they bombing them before with regular bombs or starving them?”

Adult: “Yes. But, there is a belief that being gassed is an inhumane way to die?”

Child: “So, is it like a video game where if you use a special power and the other person doesn’t have it, it doesn’t make it fair?”

Adult: “Something like that….”  I sensed difficulty ahead in trying to explain a conflict I have a hard time understanding myself.  I felt like reverting to an age old trick, one that, as I thought about it, seems to happen way more than it should. 

“Hey kids! Who wants ice cream?”

Secret Asian Man- A Brief Squee!

This entry may come as a disappointment.  Especially for those of you who've anxiously returned to find out the answer to last week’s puzzle - namely, do I feel cooler with a shaved armpit or not?

But it's still a bit cool to reliably test that, so allow me a brief squee.

Because of the way things are, I sometimes need to move around from place to place in a helicopter. Usually, this is done in big helicopter with small windows, where everyone sits with their backs to the windows facing each other. 

There's not a lot to see.  We get in, we go up, we go down, we get off.

I'd heard there was a smaller chopper - A UH-1 Huey, they use when the number of passengers is low. I never thought I'd get a chance to ride. There were always too many people. 

I was thrilled my last time, though. I walked out and saw the Huey waiting on the tarmac. An airman buckled me into the back seat with a lap belt. A length of rope was fashioned into sort of a handle and hung from the ceiling.

Strapped in, we lifted off and banked out over the city, my toes hanging out over the edge, the sun rising over the cool morning as millions below wake up and try and get through another day.

The job has its hassles, but a boyhood dream fulfilled is worth it.

No photos allowed, but here is what I imagine it looked like.

Wheeeee!!!!!

Secret Asian Man: Hammam Amman and on and on

Caution: The following contains graphic descriptions of a grown man having a bath. You’ve been warned.

S.A.M. doesn’t ordinarily go in for massages. Or spa treatments. I've come around to foot massages, but the rest is outside my comfort zone. A Turkish bath, though, has been on my list of things to write about since arriving.

The proposal came in an email from a friend.

“Hey! Was wandering around the Souk and found a Hammam or Turkish bath. One review said it may be the oldest in Amman. It could be sketchy, it could be great. Are you in? “

Spouseless and bored, why not? We made plans for the following day and headed down to the Souk area. Amman's oldest area in the shadow of the Citadel and old Roman amphitheater.

Relying on memory, directions from strangers and a ferreting sense of manly moisture, we found the place. Down some crumbling steps and then down some rickety stairs to where street level must have been hundreds or even thousands of years ago.

The front door is open. Green carpet covers the floor. Several men sit around talking and smoking. A soccer game is on one tv.  Arabic news on another. Pictures of Mecca and, maybe, Khadijah cover the walls. Another man is napping in the corner. It's humid. There are plastic plants. This must be the place.

Mid-sentence, the man behind the desk calls into the back. Two men appear. Turns out they're from Iraq. I didn't get their names. I imagine that the must have real names and Hammam names. In my head, I name them Usay and Uday.

Usay speaks better English. He shows us around. Translate the Arabic price list. Steam, sauna, bath. The works.  Let's do this.

We head through the laundry area to the locker area. We're given a locker and lock. “Put everything here. Money, phone, clothes.”

A man changing next to us speaks English very well.  He emphasizes  “Yes. Put everything away.  Everything.”

Wrapped in a bit of a bed sheet, and broken flip-flops we're led on in. A shower first. A couple of buckets of hot water dumped over head. Then on to the steam room. A 6x10 foot cell with steam so thick and hot, the presence of others is revealed only by voice.

15 minutes in, I remember that my toast and coffee breakfast was 9 hours ago and I've had nothing to eat or drink since.  The steam seems to get thicker. I excuse myself.

“Haha, you can be the guinea pig!” Shouts my friend as I slip out early.

I was hoping for a breath of air, but Uday is waiting for me, now dressed in a bed sheet. He points at me with a finger and beckons me into a stall. Marble slab along one wall. He pats his hand on it. “Up!” I climb on

Scalding water washes over me. I might have shrieked. “Sorry!” He cooled the water immeasurably.  

Then the Brillo.  Starting with my feet and working up. Every square inch of me is scrubbed with what feels like a Brillo pad. “Ew!”  I hear

A little higher.  “Ugh!” he exclaims. I wonder if this is a normal service. Making customers feel dirty. A couple more utterances. He takes my hand and pulls it back and slaps it on my thighs. “Touch here!”  My rump.  “Touch here!  See this?  This is all skin!

Paraphrasing. “When's the last time you washed?! Did you scrub?”

“You know, I've never done this before.”

He nods in such a way as to say this is obvious.  “You should do this every month! Keeps the skin off!”

Scalding water rinse and then I flip over.  Repeat. My nipples must look like dead skin. They're thoroughly rubbed raw.

Prone again. I'm rinsed. While rinsing, Uday hands me two packages.  “Open these!  My hands are wet.”  He douches me with another few gallons of water. My own filth washes by. I start to laugh. One package is a cheese cloth. The other, an Arab variety of lifebuoy soap. Smells pleasant enough.  

He snatches them from my own wet hands and the sudsing begins. I don't know if it's the soap, or the cloth or the magic, but gallons of foam ensues. From my pinky toes to my skull I'm scrubbed and lathered. There's a rubdown, as well. Bending, massaging.

My head pulls up a nervous song to play a long “The ankle bone connected to the leg bone, the leg bone connected to,the thigh bone…”.

The soapy cloth reaches my soapy ass. “Massage here?”

I clench. “Uh, no”

“What?”

“No, thank you!”

“Ok, ok, ok.”

You know, I’m Glad he asked. I'm not sure anyone back home would be kind enough to ask.  Ok. I'm pretty sure no one back home would strip down to matching bed sheets and massage another stranger on a marble slab. I could be wrong.

Sitting upright now. Uday picks up the bar of lifebuoy and proceeds to lather up the top of my head. Foam again ensues. He starts scrubbing my forehead, then my cheeks.  Then nose. Then eyes. My God the eyes. I have no idea why, but my eyes must have been extra dirty, for he scrubbed and scrubbed. I felt thumbs in my eye sockets massaging suds into them.

“ow, Ow, OW!”

“Relax, relax!”  

“I can't! It hurts!”

“Ok, ok, ok.”

Laying back down the sudsing and massage continues. Wanna know something that hurts?  Soaping up your freshly abraided nipples. Yep, he did.

He raises my arm and scrubs the side of my chest. I'm regaining my sight now.  He tweaks a few of my underarm hairs.

Again, “Ow!”

“Why you don't shave here or…? “ he glances at the bed sheet wadded over my junk.

“It's just something I don't do.”

“You want shave?”, he asks.

“What? My armpits?” There is one dim flourescent light. It's damp and you can’t open a pack of soap.  You think a razor is a good idea?  “No, thank you.”

“You want hair remove creme?”

A double no thank you, very much.

He shrugs and goes back to sudsing.  “You should.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. It's cooler in the heat.”

“Really?” I think, what's your data to support that. I'm really skeptical.  (Stayed tune dear reader for an upcoming blog where I shave one armpit and compare heat perception.)

And another thing, Uday! You can't hide anything in your bed sheet. You've got a super hairy chest and back, how does that make any sense? Cooler in the heat! Pshaw! I say!

A final rinse off with progressively cooler water then he sends me off to the steam room.

I cycle in and out of the steam room waiting for my friends turn, in a state of semi-shock, semi-pain, semi-relaxed.  In the waiting area, other men smoke cigarettes furiously. Of course, we’re in Jordan. Some sing songs. Talk shop. Talk geo-politics.

Three hours after we walked in, we're through. We change and head out. The guy who was napping is now saying his prayers in the corner. We settle up. 15 bucks a piece.

I try and figure out a tip. Any feminine vestiges have nearly been removed. I’m no longer a filthy pig, at least for a month. My eye sockets have been scrubbed. I once was blind, but now I see.  I'm still too hairy. It must be worth 20% for the experience alone.

Would I try it again?  I might. I might even spring for a higher quality place with a softer Brillo pad.

P.S.  If you've not been in a while, venture over to notsosecret3.blogspot.com for some interesting questions.

Secret Asian Man- Six Dollar Hookah

My wife left me.

Took the car. Left the dog.  For the weekend.

Hence, in a curious turn, S.A.M was left at home for the first time in a long time. Having been in the Midwest where temps were just above frigid, I returned to a beautiful spring in Amman. Positively gorgeous. 75 degrees and still. The days are getting longer. It's warm. People are out in the evening strolling. It’s a great time to be in Jordan

I decided to plunge down the rabbit hole and seek out a hookah.

There’s a place I've been eyeing for a while. An outdoor place, chosen because I’m not too keen on second hand smoke. Nice garden setting. Terraced overlooking a pedestrian street. They offer food and sweet drinks, hot and cold. And ice cream.

Hookah bars or shisha lounges are big, big, big here. There are very few alcohol bars, but hubbly bubbly joints are everywhere. Everyone needs a place to socialize.

Even the donut shop offers tobacco water pipes. If you think you can imagine a worse flavor combination, I bet you can't. But, they offer it.

You can have pipes delivered to your house. For a fee, a van full of hookahs will drop a couple off at your house along with all the fixings, and pick it all up the next morning. Uber Smokes.

It's never called a bong though. Or at least that I've seen. But that's what it is. A three foot ornately curved glass bong with water in the bottom and a three foot plastic hose.

There's a tray at top to catch the ashes. A funnel-like bowl holds the tobacco, covered with tin foil punched with holes. Red hot coals are placed on top. Everyone gets a clean hose. A single use plastic nightmare.

And then one sits. And puffs in and out.  One person per pipe.

A charcoal tender circulates A little canister of hot coal swinging from one hand. Clicking his tongs-clickety, clickety, click.  Warning you he’s coming through. Replacing charcoal and cleaning up ash.

The tobacco is unlike cigarettes tobacco. It's not finely chopped and dried, but rather shredded and soaked in honey or molasses and other flavors. It looks like darkened coleslaw. Apple is the most popular. But there is grape and mint and a variety of combos. 

I chose watermelon and mint combo. It is surprisingly refreshing.

On a busy night, the lounge is a forest of pipes topped with hot coals. There are children about. Some running, some toddling. It's a family affair. And a huge safety risk, but I guess that's how one knows one’s in Jordan. They must learn from an early age how to avoid the red hot coals at eye level.

Note: 4 Red hot pipes in view

It's funny, but shisha is a majority female thing here. Men do it, but shisha lounges are usually majority female. There are some mixed crowds, but usually women sit with women and men with men. The men smoke the majority of cigarettes in Jordan. The women smoke the argeelah. The charcoal tenders give the women the small pieces of coal, so they need changed more frequently. Vintage guys,like me, get large hunks. Haven't seen my guy much

The health benefits, of course, are nil.  Cigarette packs are all plastered with warnings like they are in many countries, but not pipe tobacco. It's marketed more like dessert. Exotic pictures of fruit and herbs.

A local pulmonologist estimated that one shisha session of a couple of hours is the equivalent of smoking 60 regular cigarettes. The myth is that the water filters the bad toxins, but this is just that. With no filter, one gets all the toxins along with all that flavor. 

But, on a warm spring evening with nothing else to do, 6 bucks gets you hours of conversation. Or contemplation. Passing the time like the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland.

“Who...burble, burble…. are…. burble, burble. …. you…. burble,burble, burble?”

CODA:  3 hours after my 3 hour shisha session, my otherwise jet-lagged and fatigued body is absolutely amped from the nicotine equivalent of 3 packs of cigarettes. Every nicotine receptor in this non-smokers body is positively crackling! Formication is about to set in.

There is a tinge of regret.  It tastes remarkably like watermelon mint and pizza.