Our new life in Libya has centered around adjusting to a new school and all that comes along with that, getting accustomed to this country and its culture,, and taking advantage of the many historical sites that abound in this country. Our short visit to Gharyan was a mix of the all three.
One of the obvious characteristics of working at an international school is meeting people from all over the world. While many of our students are from the United States, most are from other countries or are originally from the U.S. but have lived elsewhere for most of their lives. However, as what tends to happen when traveling abroad, people of the same culture tend to attract each other. So, part of teaching at a new school means meeting new students and their parents. And one of the few Mexican families invited us to their home for a barbecue over the Eid Al Fitr holiday, the end of the month of Ramadan.
We where happy to be invited and to spend time with other latinos. Lorena and Cesar live in a nice 2-story home about 10 minutes away from our house. They both work in the oil industry, which is one of the main reasons so many foreigners live in Libya. Their daughter, Ximena, is in the pre-school at our school.
When we arrived we were introduced to their co-workers/friends. We drank some homemade Sangria and snacked on cheese and crackers while the conversation covered the many different aspects of living in Libya. We, of course, were the newbies, they have all lived in Libya for about 5 years, more or less. They all shared their advice with us and talked about their experiences, joking about each other and themselves the whole while.
So we sat there, drinking Sangria and munching on snacks, and eventually the on the delicious grilled steak and green salsa that Lorena's dad, visiting from Mexico, made from local chiles. What struck us as we sat there was the amazing theme of the day. One couple was made of two columbians, another couple was made up of an Argentinian woman and her British husband. There was another pair was from Spain and Venezuela, Lorena and Cesar from Mexico, and Carolina and I. All of these people from different countries and what united us was a common language, Spanish. Yes, even the British guy was speaking in Spanish, I assume that's how he got his wife to marry him.
Over lunch and laughs we gained some insights into life in Libya. One was that everyone is certain that we'll leave Libya with a baby in tow, but Carolina and I are certain that that won't be the case. However, they all subscribe to the same theory, you enter Libya as one person, and you leave as three. These families began as singles, they got hitched and had children all in the few years that they've lived here, so they see themselves as living proof of the theory.
A couple of weeks later Lorena and Cesar invited us to go with them to the nearby town of Gharyan, which is about 30 -45 minutes south of Tripoli. Gharyan is known for two things, ceramics and troglodyte homes. I'll explain more about the troglodyte homes in a bit. First comes the 3-hour drive to the town that's only 30-45 minutes away . . . yeah, 3 hours.
So, we arrive at Lorena & Cesar's home early in the morning, about 9am. We talk a bit and wait for them to be ready, then we load up the cars. In their car goes Cesar, who's driving, Lorena, their son Alonso, and Lorena's father. In our car goes Carolina and I, Ximena, their daughter, and Saida, a Morrocan woman about our age who works as Lorena's house cleaning help / baby-sitter.
So, we get on the freeway and start heading west, towards Sabratha, even though Gharyan lies to the south. Carolina and I both notice the discrepancy, but since we didn't really know our way around too well yet, and they had lived here for about 5 years, we trusted in their judgement.
As we continue to drive, west, not south, we strike up a conversation about Saida. We learn that she's been living in Libya for about 15 years, but she really misses Morocco. Even though she's Arab and Muslim, she doesn't really like living in Libya and wishes she could go home. But she moved here with her family and now has a family of her own and can't really afford to move back. She reminds me of most immigrant families back home, living in one place while longing to return 'home'.
Saida talked to us about Morocco and offered her family's house there for us if we ever wanted to visit. She was very nice and Caro and I were really glad to have met here.
After a while of talking, we noticed that we had passed a couple of freeway junctions where we could have turned south toward Gharyan. But we continued west, not south.
"Are they lost?"
"Are we going somewhere else first?"
"Are we picking someone else up?"
We tried to make sense of it, being cautious not to admit that we're following someone who doesn't know where he's going.
We eventually drove past the town of Sabratha, the location of the Roman ruins we visited our second weekend here. Sabratha is about 1 hour west of Tripoli, as opposed to Gharyan which is about 30-45 minutes south.
If this sounds drawn out and repetitive it's only because I'm trying to recreate the sensation of taking a long time to get to a point that should be a lot closer and take less time to get to.
So, we drive past Sabratha for about another 20 minutes and then pull over at a gas station. Lorena walks out of the car and approaches us.
So they weren't lost, and we weren't going to pick someone else up.
He did not know where he was going.
Well, we turn around at a point about 30 minutes from the Tunisian border. I would have liked to have seen Tunisia, but without my passport I wouldn't have gotten far. Besides, Gharyan was only about 90 - 120 minutes away at this point, no passport required, all we needed to do now was point the cars in the right direction and go.
So we did, and Saida called up a friend of her's for directions on how to get to Gharyan from where we were instead of heading all the way back to Tripoli. So, we took the lead and Cesar followed us as we cut across new (to us) roads on the outskirts of Tripoli. I drove while Saida read the signs and checked in with her friend on the phone.
Soon the mountains atop which lies the city of Gharyan rose into view. Cesar would later comment that he was suspicious that he was going the wrong way because he didn't see the mountains. We began to drive up the windy road to the top and behind us was one of the most breathtaking sights I've seen in Libya. You could almost see clear to the ocean. You could see sandy plains, farm fields and the city in the distance. The mountain itself rose up sharply from the flat dry plain and you could feel the winds trying to knock you down.
We got to the top Cesar took the lead again. We turned off the main road and into a neighborhood of houses built close to each other. We meandered through the narrow streets until we came out into the open, to a clearing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the plains below. We got out of the cars and the full view was in front of us.
Living in the city, you can feel like the world is small. You only see a small street at a time with only hints of a larger world around the corner. It is in sights like the view from the cliff at Gharyan that the vastness of the world is truly revealed. It's not the worlds highest peak, by far, nor is it the world's best view. But from Gharyan you can see from the sandy interior of Libya to the shores of Tripoli, and there is no other place in the world where you can do that.
There at the edge of the cliffs we took pictures and toasted to the end of our 30-45 minute drive, which took us 3 hours to complete. We all gave Cesar a tough time about it, but soon hunger took center stage and moved on.
If you've ever seen Star Wars, the first one, the real first one that came out before I was born, then you'll appreciate this next piece.
We walked towards a nearby house, a modern looking cement brick building that enjoys the same view we were taking in. Lorena and Cesar had made reservations to eat lunch here. But instead of going into the house, we begin walking down a path that lead us underground. There was an entrance that was hidden from the view of anyone standing up top, and we walked into a tunnel. The tunnel lead us towards a small room, decorated with local carpeting and quilts, souvenirs, and baskets. Then the tunnel opened up to a large room open to the sky. We where standing about 20-25 feet below the surface in what seemed like an older living room, with straw and wooden furniture and cactus as decoration. It was a square room that itself was about 30 x 30 feet.
Welcome to the Troglodyte houses of Gharyan.
The Berber people, one of the original inhabitants of Libya before the Arab conquest, used to live in houses that they dug out from the ground. These homes protected them from the heat, the sandstorms, and their enemies.
In the case of this particular house, 300 years later, it's still here. The families that lived here have moved to the surface, and they have converted their old family home into a museum and restaurant.
Mohammad is the name of the young guy who showed us around and was our host. He's dark skinned, shaved head, and carries himself with confidence when showing us around the house, but is shy with his English. He's very friendly.
Each side of the the center square has two or three round doorways that lead to the different rooms. As he described it, between 4-8 different families lived together in these types of homes. Each family had a large room where they slept, and the families shared the duties of the house.
The center room is completely open to the sky, and around the edge of the wall are wholes dug out for birds to make their nests. Mohammad said that they were dug intentionally so that the birds could provide music.
The family rooms are kept just as they were when people used to live here. Woolen blankets, pillows, and carpets line the walls and floors, as well as straw woven mats.
Inside one room, we took off our shoes and rested on the ground. Mohammad sat behind a small stove and a set up of what looked like shot glasses, mugs and a tea kettle. His confidence returned to his face as he sat comfortably crossed legged. He turned on the stove and sat the tea kettle to boil. We chatted for a bit and talked about where we were from and he gave us a few quick lessons in Arabic.
As we talked, he took the kettle and poured the boiling water into a tin mug. He grabbed another mug and began an almost ritualistic movement with the tea and the mugs. He raised one hand up high, and let the tea pour down into the other mug. Then, even before the last drop was out, his hands changed places and the pour it back into the first mug just as he did before. The tea moved back and forth like a slinky. With every movement, the cascading liquid began to foam up.
He separated the foam from the tea, using both mugs. He then poured the foam into the shot glasses, enough for everyone there. Then, he poured the tea into the foam-filled glasses. He served us all and toasted. The tea was a great green tea.
After a while we were told that our lunch was ready. We moved into another large room where our food was set up picnic style on the floor. We sat around a large blanket filled with food. There was a place setting for each of us. A ceramic bowl and a plate, with fork and spoon. The bowl was filled with lentil soup. There was bread and fruit, and a large bowl filled with couscous and lamb meat. There was way too much food, and we all ate way too much.
After eating, we settled the bill and took more pictures. We thanked our hosts and said goodbye. Before we left though, I learned from Mohammad that I would see him again. Our school had a field trip scheduled to come to the house later that month, and I did see him again and had more tea and again way too much food.
We walked out of the tunnel and back out into the open. We got back in the cars and made our way back to the main road. We headed to the ceramic shops which line the highway with their colorful designs and intricate patterns.
We stopped on the side of the road were a lot of shops are clustered together. We walked along and eyed the bowls and vases and candle holders and piggy banks. There were lots of tea sets and souvenirs, plates and spoons and animal figures. All of it is made by hand in the local pottery factories, which are usually small family owned set ups, with a few pottery wheels and skilled artisans.
We spent about an hour looking around and even bought a few things. I won't go into what we bought because some of it is for some of you reading this. Until we go back home, what we bought currently is decorating our home.
After some shopping we began our journey home, which took only about 30-45 minutes, not 3 hours, because this time we headed north, not east along the Tripoli Gharyan highway. Of course, I joked with Cesar before we said goodbye that day, if I ever want to come back to Gharyan, I might just have to go to Sabratha first because I don't know how else to get there now.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Life in Libya
It's been a while since our last entry. We've learned that part of working abroad means everything else that comes with that comes abroad along with you; long hours at work, being tired from your day, short weekends, and for teachers, planning and grading.
But I think that's that real treasure about transplanting your life from one world to another, while we've gotten into some routines, as the weeks go by, our lives become intertwined with the community around us.
That's the big difference between traveling as tourists and actually living in another country. When we first arrived, everything was new, everything was something to discover, it was all exciting. Life in a new relationship, we were in a honeymoon period with Libya. When you travel as a tourist on vacation, it's all the honeymoon period, you leave before that wears off, and your left with the sweetest memories of the time you spent there. But now, some of that initial excitement has worn off and we're getting to see life in Tripoli not as an outsider passing by, but as outsiders stepping in, trying to find our space to call our own.
While we still have big plans in the works, a whole country to explore, I wanted to document just some snapshots of our daily life here. While I use the word routine, life in Libya, we have found, cannot be defined as routine, unless you can call it life with routine elements of surprise. So, I'll be posting a few short pieces from our time here, until our next big trip. Hope you enjoy.
The Gas Station Guy
So, we received our cars with a full tank of gas. With really good mileage, we didn't really have to fill up too often, even after our trip to Sabratha. But soon enough it was time for us to figure out how to get our tank full again.
So, we pull in to the gas station nearest to our home. While there are plenty of pumps, cars line to pump gas from only two pumps. The stations are set up just like at home, two sets of pumps at the island, with a mechanic shop or small store off to the side. It seems that most gas stations have a guy to pump the gas for you. The cars are lined up waiting to pull up to the pump next to the guy holding the money. So, while there are four pumps, each with two hoses, only two pumps are being used. We wait in line for a while, trying to follow what seems like routine to everyone else.
The guy operating the pump in our line was a young boy, maybe 15 years old. There was another guy, older, maybe 30-35 years, taller and heavier, with a big smile. He was going between the two pumps and the store. I get out of the car after we pulled in for our turn. Now the fun begins.
boy - Something in Arabic
me - full - I put my palms together, vertically, then separate them while I say this. In my mind, at that moment, that was suppose to signal that I want my tank full.
The big guy comes over - Something in Arabic - he smiles while he says this
me - full - I make the same motion with my hand.
big guy - Ah Ah, full!
Success!
He tells the kid to pump the gas. I look at the numbers and try to make sense of them as two sets of numbers start counting upwards. I realize that the price of gas is about .20 dinars a liter. I don't know exactly how to convert that, but I'm pretty sure a liter is less than a gallon, and .20 dinars is about 14 cents.
So, as the gas is pumping, the big gas station guy and I try to make conversation. I figure out that he's asking me about where I work.
Big Guy - company? company?
I tell him I work at the American School, in Seraj, which is one of the suburbs of Tripoli.
Big Guy - house?
I tell him we live not to far away, right here in Janzour.
What might seem like a 2 second conversation took up most of the time since we spoke with more hand signals than words. But he seemed pretty excited about talking with us about anything.
Soon we were done, I paid the guy about 8 dinars, like $5.60, for our full tank of gas, and said good bye, and shukran, which is thank you in Arabic.
Now, the best part of this story happens a few days later. No, the gas didn't mess up our car. But we ran into Big Guy again. We were driving home from work one day when we saw a car behind us get really close. Now, back home, tailgating can be pretty aggressive and dangerous. Here in Libya, tailgating is pretty routine. And by tailgating, I don't mean just staying close behind, Libyans don't really see a need to keep more than just a couple of inches between you and the next car. In my rearview mirror, I can't even see the guy's hood behind me, much less his front bumper.
So, we see this guy tailgating, and just wait for him to pass us up. When he does, he slows down next to us and honks. We turn to see the Big Gas Station Guy waving and smiling at us, honking his horn. We wave and honk back, then he almost cuts us off. He pulls of to the side of the road, then makes a u turn, waving and honking as he goes back the way we came.
He basically drove out of his way, drove dangerously close and around us, simply to say hello because he recognized us on the road. Thats how nice people are around here. That's how eager they are to welcome folks from outside. So, we always go back to that gas station, hoping to be able to say hi to our local gas station guy.
Ordering Meat
We went about three weeks without eating red meat. Now, it wasn't a health conscious decision. It wasn't really a decision at all. It came out of the fact that in order to buy meat we would have to go into one of the many butcher shops around town.
Now, if you grew up watching tv like I did, you know that butcher shops are supposed to be clean, with a fat jolly guy with a mustache behind the counter that kind of resembles Super Mario. Maybe it's just me, but I don't remember the cow carcasses hanging in the windows and the blood on the floor. It's kind of hard to walk into a butcher shop when the cow's eyes seems to follow you as you walk by the shop, like a creepy old painting in a Scooby Doo episode.
After almost a month of eat chicken and potatoes and pasta and rice, we decided we had to grab the bull by the horns and order a nice chunk of cow. And we failed miserably.
The first time we walked into a butcher shop we were chased out by the thick stench of blood. That and the utter helplessness of not knowing how to order meat from a butcher. The smell and sight overwhelmed our senses and soon we were back in the street. We would have to try again another time.
So, we found another butcher here in the Janzour area that didn't have as much blood on the floor. We walked in, took a breath, and were fine. No foul stench of death in the air, just a bunch of guys behind the counter and a bunch of guys ordering meat. No Super Mario, but we could handle it.
So, now to order. We waited for some of the crowd to thin out before approaching one of the butchers. Meanwhile we looked around and tried to guess as to what exactly we were going to order. We decided we would start by asking for some ground meat, even though we saw none around. So, one of the guys asked what we wanted, and we started again with the hand signals. We noticed that they had a machine to ground up the meat, so we asked for a kilo, which is pretty universal, and pointed to the grinder, and to make sure he understood I made a motion with my hands like one would signal for 'movie' when playing charades , to signal the grinder.
We went back a forth before we completely understood each other. Luckily there was a man there, also a customer, who spoke English and helped us translate.
The best part of trying to talk to shop owners is the fact that the eyes of everyone else in the room converge on you. The simple act of ordering meat becomes an event that the rest will talk about with their friends, about how a couple of foreigners made the strangest hand motions to do the simplest task.
Finally, we got our order, then he asked what kind of meat we wanted.
Libyano o Braziliano?
eh?
I thought I understood, but our friendly translator helped to clarify. The Brazilian meat was frozen, since it was imported from Brazil. The Libyan meat was fresh and from local ranches. So, we ordered the Libyan meat. Thats when the butcher came out from behind the counter, with a large knife, and walked over to one of the skinned cows carcasses hanging in the window and began to cut off our order of meat. He then walked it over to the grinder to complete our order.
While our meat was being ground and packaged, our butcher asked our translator where we were from. We told him we were from the United States. Next, they burst into an argument about World Cup soccer and the role of the U.S. team in the tournament. That's all we could catch in the argument as it was all in Arabic. But, we would soon discover that soccer is not only a universal sport, but a universal language which would help us in our attempts to make friends here.
Soon we were on our way home with lots of meat to cook for dinner. We've gone back once since then, and will probably be going back more often.
Slowly, we're getting to know the people in our neighborhood, and as they become part of our routine, we'll feel more at home as the days and weeks and months come and go.
But I think that's that real treasure about transplanting your life from one world to another, while we've gotten into some routines, as the weeks go by, our lives become intertwined with the community around us.
That's the big difference between traveling as tourists and actually living in another country. When we first arrived, everything was new, everything was something to discover, it was all exciting. Life in a new relationship, we were in a honeymoon period with Libya. When you travel as a tourist on vacation, it's all the honeymoon period, you leave before that wears off, and your left with the sweetest memories of the time you spent there. But now, some of that initial excitement has worn off and we're getting to see life in Tripoli not as an outsider passing by, but as outsiders stepping in, trying to find our space to call our own.
While we still have big plans in the works, a whole country to explore, I wanted to document just some snapshots of our daily life here. While I use the word routine, life in Libya, we have found, cannot be defined as routine, unless you can call it life with routine elements of surprise. So, I'll be posting a few short pieces from our time here, until our next big trip. Hope you enjoy.
The Gas Station Guy
So, we received our cars with a full tank of gas. With really good mileage, we didn't really have to fill up too often, even after our trip to Sabratha. But soon enough it was time for us to figure out how to get our tank full again.
So, we pull in to the gas station nearest to our home. While there are plenty of pumps, cars line to pump gas from only two pumps. The stations are set up just like at home, two sets of pumps at the island, with a mechanic shop or small store off to the side. It seems that most gas stations have a guy to pump the gas for you. The cars are lined up waiting to pull up to the pump next to the guy holding the money. So, while there are four pumps, each with two hoses, only two pumps are being used. We wait in line for a while, trying to follow what seems like routine to everyone else.
The guy operating the pump in our line was a young boy, maybe 15 years old. There was another guy, older, maybe 30-35 years, taller and heavier, with a big smile. He was going between the two pumps and the store. I get out of the car after we pulled in for our turn. Now the fun begins.
boy - Something in Arabic
me - full - I put my palms together, vertically, then separate them while I say this. In my mind, at that moment, that was suppose to signal that I want my tank full.
The big guy comes over - Something in Arabic - he smiles while he says this
me - full - I make the same motion with my hand.
big guy - Ah Ah, full!
Success!
He tells the kid to pump the gas. I look at the numbers and try to make sense of them as two sets of numbers start counting upwards. I realize that the price of gas is about .20 dinars a liter. I don't know exactly how to convert that, but I'm pretty sure a liter is less than a gallon, and .20 dinars is about 14 cents.
So, as the gas is pumping, the big gas station guy and I try to make conversation. I figure out that he's asking me about where I work.
Big Guy - company? company?
I tell him I work at the American School, in Seraj, which is one of the suburbs of Tripoli.
Big Guy - house?
I tell him we live not to far away, right here in Janzour.
What might seem like a 2 second conversation took up most of the time since we spoke with more hand signals than words. But he seemed pretty excited about talking with us about anything.
Soon we were done, I paid the guy about 8 dinars, like $5.60, for our full tank of gas, and said good bye, and shukran, which is thank you in Arabic.
Now, the best part of this story happens a few days later. No, the gas didn't mess up our car. But we ran into Big Guy again. We were driving home from work one day when we saw a car behind us get really close. Now, back home, tailgating can be pretty aggressive and dangerous. Here in Libya, tailgating is pretty routine. And by tailgating, I don't mean just staying close behind, Libyans don't really see a need to keep more than just a couple of inches between you and the next car. In my rearview mirror, I can't even see the guy's hood behind me, much less his front bumper.
So, we see this guy tailgating, and just wait for him to pass us up. When he does, he slows down next to us and honks. We turn to see the Big Gas Station Guy waving and smiling at us, honking his horn. We wave and honk back, then he almost cuts us off. He pulls of to the side of the road, then makes a u turn, waving and honking as he goes back the way we came.
He basically drove out of his way, drove dangerously close and around us, simply to say hello because he recognized us on the road. Thats how nice people are around here. That's how eager they are to welcome folks from outside. So, we always go back to that gas station, hoping to be able to say hi to our local gas station guy.
Ordering Meat
We went about three weeks without eating red meat. Now, it wasn't a health conscious decision. It wasn't really a decision at all. It came out of the fact that in order to buy meat we would have to go into one of the many butcher shops around town.
Now, if you grew up watching tv like I did, you know that butcher shops are supposed to be clean, with a fat jolly guy with a mustache behind the counter that kind of resembles Super Mario. Maybe it's just me, but I don't remember the cow carcasses hanging in the windows and the blood on the floor. It's kind of hard to walk into a butcher shop when the cow's eyes seems to follow you as you walk by the shop, like a creepy old painting in a Scooby Doo episode.
After almost a month of eat chicken and potatoes and pasta and rice, we decided we had to grab the bull by the horns and order a nice chunk of cow. And we failed miserably.
The first time we walked into a butcher shop we were chased out by the thick stench of blood. That and the utter helplessness of not knowing how to order meat from a butcher. The smell and sight overwhelmed our senses and soon we were back in the street. We would have to try again another time.
So, we found another butcher here in the Janzour area that didn't have as much blood on the floor. We walked in, took a breath, and were fine. No foul stench of death in the air, just a bunch of guys behind the counter and a bunch of guys ordering meat. No Super Mario, but we could handle it.
So, now to order. We waited for some of the crowd to thin out before approaching one of the butchers. Meanwhile we looked around and tried to guess as to what exactly we were going to order. We decided we would start by asking for some ground meat, even though we saw none around. So, one of the guys asked what we wanted, and we started again with the hand signals. We noticed that they had a machine to ground up the meat, so we asked for a kilo, which is pretty universal, and pointed to the grinder, and to make sure he understood I made a motion with my hands like one would signal for 'movie' when playing charades , to signal the grinder.
We went back a forth before we completely understood each other. Luckily there was a man there, also a customer, who spoke English and helped us translate.
The best part of trying to talk to shop owners is the fact that the eyes of everyone else in the room converge on you. The simple act of ordering meat becomes an event that the rest will talk about with their friends, about how a couple of foreigners made the strangest hand motions to do the simplest task.
Finally, we got our order, then he asked what kind of meat we wanted.
Libyano o Braziliano?
eh?
I thought I understood, but our friendly translator helped to clarify. The Brazilian meat was frozen, since it was imported from Brazil. The Libyan meat was fresh and from local ranches. So, we ordered the Libyan meat. Thats when the butcher came out from behind the counter, with a large knife, and walked over to one of the skinned cows carcasses hanging in the window and began to cut off our order of meat. He then walked it over to the grinder to complete our order.
While our meat was being ground and packaged, our butcher asked our translator where we were from. We told him we were from the United States. Next, they burst into an argument about World Cup soccer and the role of the U.S. team in the tournament. That's all we could catch in the argument as it was all in Arabic. But, we would soon discover that soccer is not only a universal sport, but a universal language which would help us in our attempts to make friends here.
Soon we were on our way home with lots of meat to cook for dinner. We've gone back once since then, and will probably be going back more often.
Slowly, we're getting to know the people in our neighborhood, and as they become part of our routine, we'll feel more at home as the days and weeks and months come and go.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Sabratha
The city of Tripoli has a long history. Just south of Italy, Libya sits right between the western and eastern Mediterranean. The ancient Phoenicians, and later Romans, established three main colonies here, Leptis Magna, Oea, and Sabratha, hence the name Tri (3) poli (city). Tripoli sits directly over the ruins of Oea; Sabratha and Leptis lie directly to the west and east of here.
When our first work week came to an end we were ready to rest, but also eager to explore. Our first adventure outside of Tripoli was to the ruins of Sabratha, about 45 miles away. We got some simple directions from Terri, one of the few other teachers here that wasn't new. She said it was pretty much a straight shot on the main road, and it was, almost.
We woke up that first Friday morning and got on the road. Fridays here are like Sundays back home, it's the Muslim day of worship, and because of Ramadan, the streets were completely empty. We navigated our way to throughout the Seraj circle, a roundabout, counted the exits until we got the one for the freeway, and we were off.
Right away we began to look around for markers to be able to recognize our exit on the way back home. The freeway, a two lane road, is more like a mix between the 99 and Highway 1 in California. It's two lanes both ways, but with multiple side streets and stop lights as it works its way through the suburbs of Tripoli and the cities beyond. There are really no freeway exits; just pull off to the side of the road if you see a place where you want to stop. And often people traveling on one side of the road will pull over then cross the freeway on foot to go to whatever shop they need to go to; so you gotta watch for pedestrians.
We were on the road for about 30 minutes when it began to curve as it entered the next town. We made a wrong turn and ended up driving into the city. We stopped after a few minutes. I got out of the car and approached some men sitting on a couple of benches. After they accepted the fact that I didn't speak Arabic, despite my Arabic face, they understood that we were lost. I just repeated 'Sabratha, Sabratha,' and they pointed the way back to the freeway. We got back on and about 15 minutes later we saw the turn out for Sabratha.
The was nothing special about the street leading to Sabratha, so even though we were pretty sure that we were getting close, it was until we saw the massive theater that we finally let go of our breath.
I don't know what words to use to describe the scene or what we felt upon resting our eyes on the sight before us. As we drove up to the parking lot, a 2,000 year old theater dominated the land and sky. When you think of ancient ruins, you might imagine piles of stone and marble thrown about kind of like what's left behind when a child plays with lego blocks. But the theater at Sabratha stands almost completely intact and does not stand delicately at all but rather with all the permanence of the pyramids themselves.
I've been to other ancient sites, and some are either piles of rock with signs and drawings of what used to stand there. Or, they are intact structures like the Colosseum in Rome which is there to testify for itself. Sabratha is one such sight.
We paid the entry fee and once we left behind the security guards at the gate, we were happy to discover that we had the site almost all to ourselves. We made our way to the theater and the columns and arches rose higher into the sky as we inched closer.
We walked in from a side entrance, quite possibly into a changing area for performers. Those of you who have performed on stage would have found this place very familiar. It's a testament to these ancient people, that very little has been done to improve on their designs. Not because we aren't smart enough, but because they were so proficient at the art forms we continue today, the act of performing for an audience and all that comes with that, from the actual movement and placement of actors and dancers, to the architecture and design of the buildings themselves.
The stage itself has actually been slightly restored and modern productions continue at here. We took pictures all over the stage and seating areas, as we were free to explore the entire building with our only limitations being gravity itself.
We met a young Frenchman, exploring on his own, and he took a picture for us at the top level of the theater seating. There was also a couple of Englishmen we ran into, but mostly we were on our own.
After we finished searching through all the passageways of the theater we continued on to the area just outside. Old sights were temples and houses once stood now only the mosaics remain. These mosaics are still nearly entirely intact, and depict stories from ancient mythology or of daily life in ancient Rome. For those that might not know, a mosaic looks like a painting on the floor or on a wall from far away. It isn't until you get closer that you realize that there is no paint involved whatsoever. The images and designed are put together using different colored pieces of tile or rock. Every color is a natural occurring color found in the materials used. They are placed together to form vibrant scenes of battle, fishing, sex, worship, are intricate geometric designs.
We walked along the coast examining all the remains, the heat got the best of us and we headed back to the comfort of the theater to eat our lunch. Despite the beating sun, the theater is full of passageways designed to create wind tunnels where the temperature drops dramatically. We sat in one of these and comfortable ate our sandwiches and snacks amongst the ancient ruins. After eating we visited the museum to see the statues and other mosaics that had been salvaged from the elements before heading back home.
As the day passed we made our way out of the site and towards our car. We saw the security guards washing their feet, hands and heads using an outdoor water fountain, that was more like a big hose poor water from a pump or well. It was then that we heard the afternoon call to prayer. We began to drive back and encountered lots of traffic on the road. We got back on the freeway and learned more about daily prayers.
The road back to Tripoli is dotted by mosque after mosque after mosque. As we approached a mosque we saw dozens of cars pulling over and parking wherever they could and their drivers and passengers, all men, rushing inside. Every mosque we passed was surrounded by parked cars, and the flood of people crossing the highway increased as they parked across the road to get to the mosque. It seemed to us that wherever they might be, Libyans simply went to their nearest mosque whenever the call to prayer is sounded.
20 minutes later, we were still on the road, but now people were leaving the mosques and filling the highway. Suddenly, as we approached a mosque, all the parked cars came alive and wanted a piece of the road.
This was no longer the empty road that we enjoyed on the way west, heading east it was a different thing altogether. Cars weaved in and out of lanes, through the shoulders, and into the opposite lanes all for a few yards of road. Stopping at a stoplight is troublesome, because you don't know if other drivers are going to stop or not. When you do stop, the lights that are actually functioning have a countdown. Usually from 60 seconds, the numbers count down how long until a red turns green. People start honking at the front cars at about 5 seconds left, trying to urge them to go, even if the other traffic hasn't cleared the intersection.
Soon, we began to recognize the signs for our exit, got off and maneuvered through the circle and onto the street that would lead us home. We stopped to run some errands at the local markets, before finally getting home. It was a good day, but we were eager to get some rest. The rest of the weekend was spent getting ready for the start of school the following week.
When our first work week came to an end we were ready to rest, but also eager to explore. Our first adventure outside of Tripoli was to the ruins of Sabratha, about 45 miles away. We got some simple directions from Terri, one of the few other teachers here that wasn't new. She said it was pretty much a straight shot on the main road, and it was, almost.
We woke up that first Friday morning and got on the road. Fridays here are like Sundays back home, it's the Muslim day of worship, and because of Ramadan, the streets were completely empty. We navigated our way to throughout the Seraj circle, a roundabout, counted the exits until we got the one for the freeway, and we were off.
Right away we began to look around for markers to be able to recognize our exit on the way back home. The freeway, a two lane road, is more like a mix between the 99 and Highway 1 in California. It's two lanes both ways, but with multiple side streets and stop lights as it works its way through the suburbs of Tripoli and the cities beyond. There are really no freeway exits; just pull off to the side of the road if you see a place where you want to stop. And often people traveling on one side of the road will pull over then cross the freeway on foot to go to whatever shop they need to go to; so you gotta watch for pedestrians.
We were on the road for about 30 minutes when it began to curve as it entered the next town. We made a wrong turn and ended up driving into the city. We stopped after a few minutes. I got out of the car and approached some men sitting on a couple of benches. After they accepted the fact that I didn't speak Arabic, despite my Arabic face, they understood that we were lost. I just repeated 'Sabratha, Sabratha,' and they pointed the way back to the freeway. We got back on and about 15 minutes later we saw the turn out for Sabratha.
The was nothing special about the street leading to Sabratha, so even though we were pretty sure that we were getting close, it was until we saw the massive theater that we finally let go of our breath.
I don't know what words to use to describe the scene or what we felt upon resting our eyes on the sight before us. As we drove up to the parking lot, a 2,000 year old theater dominated the land and sky. When you think of ancient ruins, you might imagine piles of stone and marble thrown about kind of like what's left behind when a child plays with lego blocks. But the theater at Sabratha stands almost completely intact and does not stand delicately at all but rather with all the permanence of the pyramids themselves.
I've been to other ancient sites, and some are either piles of rock with signs and drawings of what used to stand there. Or, they are intact structures like the Colosseum in Rome which is there to testify for itself. Sabratha is one such sight.
We paid the entry fee and once we left behind the security guards at the gate, we were happy to discover that we had the site almost all to ourselves. We made our way to the theater and the columns and arches rose higher into the sky as we inched closer.
We walked in from a side entrance, quite possibly into a changing area for performers. Those of you who have performed on stage would have found this place very familiar. It's a testament to these ancient people, that very little has been done to improve on their designs. Not because we aren't smart enough, but because they were so proficient at the art forms we continue today, the act of performing for an audience and all that comes with that, from the actual movement and placement of actors and dancers, to the architecture and design of the buildings themselves.
The stage itself has actually been slightly restored and modern productions continue at here. We took pictures all over the stage and seating areas, as we were free to explore the entire building with our only limitations being gravity itself.
We met a young Frenchman, exploring on his own, and he took a picture for us at the top level of the theater seating. There was also a couple of Englishmen we ran into, but mostly we were on our own.
After we finished searching through all the passageways of the theater we continued on to the area just outside. Old sights were temples and houses once stood now only the mosaics remain. These mosaics are still nearly entirely intact, and depict stories from ancient mythology or of daily life in ancient Rome. For those that might not know, a mosaic looks like a painting on the floor or on a wall from far away. It isn't until you get closer that you realize that there is no paint involved whatsoever. The images and designed are put together using different colored pieces of tile or rock. Every color is a natural occurring color found in the materials used. They are placed together to form vibrant scenes of battle, fishing, sex, worship, are intricate geometric designs.
We walked along the coast examining all the remains, the heat got the best of us and we headed back to the comfort of the theater to eat our lunch. Despite the beating sun, the theater is full of passageways designed to create wind tunnels where the temperature drops dramatically. We sat in one of these and comfortable ate our sandwiches and snacks amongst the ancient ruins. After eating we visited the museum to see the statues and other mosaics that had been salvaged from the elements before heading back home.
As the day passed we made our way out of the site and towards our car. We saw the security guards washing their feet, hands and heads using an outdoor water fountain, that was more like a big hose poor water from a pump or well. It was then that we heard the afternoon call to prayer. We began to drive back and encountered lots of traffic on the road. We got back on the freeway and learned more about daily prayers.
The road back to Tripoli is dotted by mosque after mosque after mosque. As we approached a mosque we saw dozens of cars pulling over and parking wherever they could and their drivers and passengers, all men, rushing inside. Every mosque we passed was surrounded by parked cars, and the flood of people crossing the highway increased as they parked across the road to get to the mosque. It seemed to us that wherever they might be, Libyans simply went to their nearest mosque whenever the call to prayer is sounded.
20 minutes later, we were still on the road, but now people were leaving the mosques and filling the highway. Suddenly, as we approached a mosque, all the parked cars came alive and wanted a piece of the road.
This was no longer the empty road that we enjoyed on the way west, heading east it was a different thing altogether. Cars weaved in and out of lanes, through the shoulders, and into the opposite lanes all for a few yards of road. Stopping at a stoplight is troublesome, because you don't know if other drivers are going to stop or not. When you do stop, the lights that are actually functioning have a countdown. Usually from 60 seconds, the numbers count down how long until a red turns green. People start honking at the front cars at about 5 seconds left, trying to urge them to go, even if the other traffic hasn't cleared the intersection.
Soon, we began to recognize the signs for our exit, got off and maneuvered through the circle and onto the street that would lead us home. We stopped to run some errands at the local markets, before finally getting home. It was a good day, but we were eager to get some rest. The rest of the weekend was spent getting ready for the start of school the following week.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Settling In
In Libya, as in much of the Muslim world, the work week begins on Sunday and runs through Thursday. So, the next morning after our arrival, Judith, the school's director showed up at our doorstep early to take us to school. Much of that first week was filled with orientation activities, some having to do with work, but mostly having to do with getting settled in to our new homes. As a big group of new incoming teachers, we were taken around town and shown some of the best places to get our food and housewares.
But, definitely one of the highlights of that week was getting our company car. We were very fortunate to get a new VW Golf; the car's size and handling make it perfect for maneuvering through the streets of Libya with all its hazards and obstacles.
The first two mornings, we were taken to school by Judith in her car. She reminded us to take notes so that we would remember how to get home on our own when we received our car. She assured us that even if we got lost that we could call, using the cell phones they gave us, and that someone would come get us. Still, it was pretty nerve wracking those few days thinking about having to drive home for the first time.
If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand that not everyone follows the same kind of traffic rules as in the US. Yet, many say that Libya's low population can be very much attributed to its lack of traffic laws; to be more explicit, there are no traffic laws; none. The motto in Libya is, 'if there is pavement, fill it.' Maneuvers that we might consider as aggressive driving back home are very common place here and are done without any bad intentions. Here, one simply wants to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means squeezing between to cars in front of you on a 2 lane road . . . when one of the other two cars is going the opposite way.
Well, after getting our car, we carefully made our way home. Driving under these conditions might prompt some people towards slower more cautious driving, big mistake. While the roads seems full of crazy drivers, there is a certain flow to it; if you're the only timid driver on the road, then you're the dangerous one. Of course, Libyans will also do things on the road that make very little sense at all no matter how you look at it. Instead of slowing down to go over a speed bump, many will go off the pavement and drive over the dirt sidewalks to not have to press on their brakes, even going around a car slowing down for the speed bump.
We hit the road, turned left at the Libyan school, past the 4 or 5 mosques between our home and the school, through the intersection with the non-functioning traffic light, and the cops asleep in the police car that hasn't moved in weeks, another left where the day workers wait, right at the monument, then a left, past the final mosque, another left, and another left on Nopal Ave and around the corner to our Oasis. The gate opens and we pull into our driveway, our green lawn and blue pool welcome us home every afternoon.
Another highlight of the orientation days was a field trip to the Media, the old city of Tripoli. The Medina is still surrounded by high defensive walls, dissected by long narrow streets, and filled with shops and businesses of all kinds.
We drove to school and met there. A bus was waiting for us, we got on board and headed downtown. The bus driver was a young guy, probably late 20s early 30s, and was very welcoming. He joked about driving in Libya, as he maneuvered through the streets and battled it out for space on the road against the traffic. He talked about the upcoming Al Fatah, the anniversary of the revolution that toppled the monarchy and brought Gaddafi to power.
'It's a big party' he said, 'a big party for Gaddafi.' Some of us laughed at this, 'everything for Gaddafi, everything.' His tone was not typically sarcastic, negative or with any ill intent. Yet it was obviously a critique, but accusatory and permissive at the same time.
He joked about this while keeping his eyes on the other drivers, and with a big smile on his face, beneath his wrap around sunglasses. It was the first time that I heard a Libyan utter anything that seemed to resemble a critique of Gaddafi or his government. It was interesting to see the expression on his face while saying this.
In the U.S, as in much of the western world, you could criticize political leaders without fear. You could wear a 'Fuck Bush' t-shirt and not worry about being put on trial or worse. Libya isn't exactly a free country, Gaddafi's been in power for 40 years. But there also isn't a overt show of force. Most police that we see are sleeping in their cars. So far, I've only seen them act when a traffic accident happens. There are no roving bands of soldiers in fatigues intimidating anyone. Libyans seem content, this is one of the richest countries in Africa, after all.
Yet, when I think about our driver that day, he seemed relaxed, happy to be able to express his views in a non-confrontational way, saying very little while at the same time sharing deep insights into the Libyan political and social environment.
The bus moved on, through the two lane highway, past the traffic circles, and down the main road leading to Green Square, downtown Tripoli. We got off the bus and stood before a Medieval wall. The wall showed its ancient age, yet still stood tall and strong and was an intimidating sight.
Our tour guide took us around the side of the wall, and we walked along the shore, the waves of the Mediterranean flapping against the ground. He talked to us about the remains of the fort that once protected the city as we moved past it and into the Medina.
The Medina is a mixture of people, architecture, history and culture. You can immediately see the influence of the various peoples and nations that have passed through Tripoli over the years. Italian architecture, in the form of a clock tower, cuts through the sky and rises above most of the buildings here. The Red Castle, from Islamic medieval times, casts a shadow over the streets around it. As we made our way deeper into the old city the streets became more narrow, and as time passed and the sun rose in the sky, they became more alive as well. Shop owners trickled in. First only a few, then a lot more, they raised the green metal gates to reveal small stands selling everything from basic everyday souvenirs to fine Libyan cloth and even some artifacts brought in from the desert and beyond.
We made our way west along the same roads first laid out by the Romans, millennia ago. As we walked, our guide pointed out some of the small telling signs of the history still present here. Jewish stars, Roman columns, all mixed and meshed together with Islamic overtones.
Along the way, old men sat on the sides of the narrow streets, watching curiously as this group of Americans gazed at their everyday lives as if it were all some exhibit in a museum. Kids ran past us, staring at us as we smiled at them. Their mothers hurried them past, clearly on a mission more important than we were to their children's eyes.
We looked up at the buildings, through the windows and the narrow alleys with the same curiosity and amusement as the locals looked upon us. I've never felt quite right being part of a tourist group, and this was not different. None the less, we continued on.
After a few minutes, turning some corners, dodging passing cars, and taking a few photos, we arrived at one of the highlights of the tour. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius (yes the same Marcus Aurelius from the Gladiator movie, the old one who dies at the beginning). The Arch is about 3-4 stories high. As you approach it, it doesn't seem to stand tall at all, until you get close enough to peer down at the base, about 20ft below the surface of the ground around it. The arch sits like a compass, two road intersect it, running through its four archways, running east to west, and north to south. The the roads are buried beneath 20ft of dirt, stone, metal, brick and centuries, the path they run still dictate the modern city plans of the Medina. The path we had been walking the whole time lays directly over the old Roman roads.
We spent a few minutes here, took pictures, and just tried to take it all in. Standing in the center, you can gaze up and see the inside of the dome, and as you bring you eyes down to rest your neck you see the Roman road, with its perfectly cut and aligned stones. You follow it our northwards, to the sea, and if you can focus your eyes on the road itself, and let everything else melt away, you can almost see the Marcus Aurelius himself, at the head of a Roman legion, marching into the city, here at the gate he built.
We walked back the way we came. The streets were more full, of people and energy. More shops were open and there was more to see and hear. Like in most places like this, you had your share of shops selling typical touristy stuff, things I've seen in other countries. But, there were also some things that set Libya apart. There were some shops with actually jewelry making happening, and you could buy some right from the maker. Some very beautiful pieces. Also, lots of clothing and fabric shops, with very elaborate dresses and clothing for both men and women.
As our group slowly made its way back, we stopped at one corner to listen to our tour guide. Carolina and I trailed behind a bit, and noticed a group of older men, sitting off to the side, calling to our group. When I listened I realized that they were saying hello, but no one else was responding.
"Hello," I answered him.
"Hello, are you from London?"
"London? No, we're not from London?"
"Oh, then where?"
"From the United States."
Their faces opened up, they looked at each other and smiled. "Welcome!" he said with outstretched arms. "Welcome," and something about enjoying Libya. Again I got the feeling that Libyans want from exchange with the west. They might not be fans of American actions in places like Iraq or Afghanistan, but they don't hate America or Americans. I also think that national pride has something to do with it as well. 'Come see what and who we are, and what we've done and what we can do,' is what I think I hear in their welcomes and their open arms.
"You have Libyan skin," he then continued.
I laughed, and went into the same conversation about being from Mexico.
"Are you from Libya?" I asked.
"Yes, see my skin is Libyan."
"And you," I asked his friend. "Are you from Libya?"
"No, I am from Cameroon."
"His skin is not Libyan, see." The first old man pointed to his friends black skin.
We shook hands and I caught up with the group as it had moved down the street.
After saying goodbye to our guide, but before heading back home, we had one more highlight of the day, a very yummy highlight. Tammi and Bruce, another teaching couple at the school, had made arrangements for us to have a late lunch at a great Turkish restaurant. We walked back past the Italian clock tower and into an open plaza, into one of the side buildings and up three flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the walls were covered in quilts of dark reds. We passed one floor of the restaurant, which looked like a smoking lounge, with a soccer game on the tv. We got to the top floor and to a long set of tables waiting for us. We started with some soup, some Turkish flat-bread, and a myriad of dipping sauces. I ordered the Lamb and loved it.
Soon, we were heading back to the bus and to our smiling drivers. We went back along the busy streets, to our school and to our homes. We were eager to go back out, to learn more about what's around us, and to meet more people and to compare our skin colors if that's what it takes. Hopefully soon we'll be able to share more about the people who welcome us and are ready share their country with us.
But, definitely one of the highlights of that week was getting our company car. We were very fortunate to get a new VW Golf; the car's size and handling make it perfect for maneuvering through the streets of Libya with all its hazards and obstacles.
The first two mornings, we were taken to school by Judith in her car. She reminded us to take notes so that we would remember how to get home on our own when we received our car. She assured us that even if we got lost that we could call, using the cell phones they gave us, and that someone would come get us. Still, it was pretty nerve wracking those few days thinking about having to drive home for the first time.
If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand that not everyone follows the same kind of traffic rules as in the US. Yet, many say that Libya's low population can be very much attributed to its lack of traffic laws; to be more explicit, there are no traffic laws; none. The motto in Libya is, 'if there is pavement, fill it.' Maneuvers that we might consider as aggressive driving back home are very common place here and are done without any bad intentions. Here, one simply wants to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means squeezing between to cars in front of you on a 2 lane road . . . when one of the other two cars is going the opposite way.
Well, after getting our car, we carefully made our way home. Driving under these conditions might prompt some people towards slower more cautious driving, big mistake. While the roads seems full of crazy drivers, there is a certain flow to it; if you're the only timid driver on the road, then you're the dangerous one. Of course, Libyans will also do things on the road that make very little sense at all no matter how you look at it. Instead of slowing down to go over a speed bump, many will go off the pavement and drive over the dirt sidewalks to not have to press on their brakes, even going around a car slowing down for the speed bump.
We hit the road, turned left at the Libyan school, past the 4 or 5 mosques between our home and the school, through the intersection with the non-functioning traffic light, and the cops asleep in the police car that hasn't moved in weeks, another left where the day workers wait, right at the monument, then a left, past the final mosque, another left, and another left on Nopal Ave and around the corner to our Oasis. The gate opens and we pull into our driveway, our green lawn and blue pool welcome us home every afternoon.
Another highlight of the orientation days was a field trip to the Media, the old city of Tripoli. The Medina is still surrounded by high defensive walls, dissected by long narrow streets, and filled with shops and businesses of all kinds.
We drove to school and met there. A bus was waiting for us, we got on board and headed downtown. The bus driver was a young guy, probably late 20s early 30s, and was very welcoming. He joked about driving in Libya, as he maneuvered through the streets and battled it out for space on the road against the traffic. He talked about the upcoming Al Fatah, the anniversary of the revolution that toppled the monarchy and brought Gaddafi to power.
'It's a big party' he said, 'a big party for Gaddafi.' Some of us laughed at this, 'everything for Gaddafi, everything.' His tone was not typically sarcastic, negative or with any ill intent. Yet it was obviously a critique, but accusatory and permissive at the same time.
He joked about this while keeping his eyes on the other drivers, and with a big smile on his face, beneath his wrap around sunglasses. It was the first time that I heard a Libyan utter anything that seemed to resemble a critique of Gaddafi or his government. It was interesting to see the expression on his face while saying this.
In the U.S, as in much of the western world, you could criticize political leaders without fear. You could wear a 'Fuck Bush' t-shirt and not worry about being put on trial or worse. Libya isn't exactly a free country, Gaddafi's been in power for 40 years. But there also isn't a overt show of force. Most police that we see are sleeping in their cars. So far, I've only seen them act when a traffic accident happens. There are no roving bands of soldiers in fatigues intimidating anyone. Libyans seem content, this is one of the richest countries in Africa, after all.
Yet, when I think about our driver that day, he seemed relaxed, happy to be able to express his views in a non-confrontational way, saying very little while at the same time sharing deep insights into the Libyan political and social environment.
The bus moved on, through the two lane highway, past the traffic circles, and down the main road leading to Green Square, downtown Tripoli. We got off the bus and stood before a Medieval wall. The wall showed its ancient age, yet still stood tall and strong and was an intimidating sight.
Our tour guide took us around the side of the wall, and we walked along the shore, the waves of the Mediterranean flapping against the ground. He talked to us about the remains of the fort that once protected the city as we moved past it and into the Medina.
The Medina is a mixture of people, architecture, history and culture. You can immediately see the influence of the various peoples and nations that have passed through Tripoli over the years. Italian architecture, in the form of a clock tower, cuts through the sky and rises above most of the buildings here. The Red Castle, from Islamic medieval times, casts a shadow over the streets around it. As we made our way deeper into the old city the streets became more narrow, and as time passed and the sun rose in the sky, they became more alive as well. Shop owners trickled in. First only a few, then a lot more, they raised the green metal gates to reveal small stands selling everything from basic everyday souvenirs to fine Libyan cloth and even some artifacts brought in from the desert and beyond.
We made our way west along the same roads first laid out by the Romans, millennia ago. As we walked, our guide pointed out some of the small telling signs of the history still present here. Jewish stars, Roman columns, all mixed and meshed together with Islamic overtones.
Along the way, old men sat on the sides of the narrow streets, watching curiously as this group of Americans gazed at their everyday lives as if it were all some exhibit in a museum. Kids ran past us, staring at us as we smiled at them. Their mothers hurried them past, clearly on a mission more important than we were to their children's eyes.
We looked up at the buildings, through the windows and the narrow alleys with the same curiosity and amusement as the locals looked upon us. I've never felt quite right being part of a tourist group, and this was not different. None the less, we continued on.
After a few minutes, turning some corners, dodging passing cars, and taking a few photos, we arrived at one of the highlights of the tour. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius (yes the same Marcus Aurelius from the Gladiator movie, the old one who dies at the beginning). The Arch is about 3-4 stories high. As you approach it, it doesn't seem to stand tall at all, until you get close enough to peer down at the base, about 20ft below the surface of the ground around it. The arch sits like a compass, two road intersect it, running through its four archways, running east to west, and north to south. The the roads are buried beneath 20ft of dirt, stone, metal, brick and centuries, the path they run still dictate the modern city plans of the Medina. The path we had been walking the whole time lays directly over the old Roman roads.
We spent a few minutes here, took pictures, and just tried to take it all in. Standing in the center, you can gaze up and see the inside of the dome, and as you bring you eyes down to rest your neck you see the Roman road, with its perfectly cut and aligned stones. You follow it our northwards, to the sea, and if you can focus your eyes on the road itself, and let everything else melt away, you can almost see the Marcus Aurelius himself, at the head of a Roman legion, marching into the city, here at the gate he built.
We walked back the way we came. The streets were more full, of people and energy. More shops were open and there was more to see and hear. Like in most places like this, you had your share of shops selling typical touristy stuff, things I've seen in other countries. But, there were also some things that set Libya apart. There were some shops with actually jewelry making happening, and you could buy some right from the maker. Some very beautiful pieces. Also, lots of clothing and fabric shops, with very elaborate dresses and clothing for both men and women.
As our group slowly made its way back, we stopped at one corner to listen to our tour guide. Carolina and I trailed behind a bit, and noticed a group of older men, sitting off to the side, calling to our group. When I listened I realized that they were saying hello, but no one else was responding.
"Hello," I answered him.
"Hello, are you from London?"
"London? No, we're not from London?"
"Oh, then where?"
"From the United States."
Their faces opened up, they looked at each other and smiled. "Welcome!" he said with outstretched arms. "Welcome," and something about enjoying Libya. Again I got the feeling that Libyans want from exchange with the west. They might not be fans of American actions in places like Iraq or Afghanistan, but they don't hate America or Americans. I also think that national pride has something to do with it as well. 'Come see what and who we are, and what we've done and what we can do,' is what I think I hear in their welcomes and their open arms.
"You have Libyan skin," he then continued.
I laughed, and went into the same conversation about being from Mexico.
"Are you from Libya?" I asked.
"Yes, see my skin is Libyan."
"And you," I asked his friend. "Are you from Libya?"
"No, I am from Cameroon."
"His skin is not Libyan, see." The first old man pointed to his friends black skin.
We shook hands and I caught up with the group as it had moved down the street.
After saying goodbye to our guide, but before heading back home, we had one more highlight of the day, a very yummy highlight. Tammi and Bruce, another teaching couple at the school, had made arrangements for us to have a late lunch at a great Turkish restaurant. We walked back past the Italian clock tower and into an open plaza, into one of the side buildings and up three flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the walls were covered in quilts of dark reds. We passed one floor of the restaurant, which looked like a smoking lounge, with a soccer game on the tv. We got to the top floor and to a long set of tables waiting for us. We started with some soup, some Turkish flat-bread, and a myriad of dipping sauces. I ordered the Lamb and loved it.
Soon, we were heading back to the bus and to our smiling drivers. We went back along the busy streets, to our school and to our homes. We were eager to go back out, to learn more about what's around us, and to meet more people and to compare our skin colors if that's what it takes. Hopefully soon we'll be able to share more about the people who welcome us and are ready share their country with us.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Wave of Warm Air
Our eyes were glued to the tiny window, such a small access to view this land new to us. The plane taxied to its gate and we waited patiently to grab our bags. We exited the plane and felt the warm air embrace us. "It's not that hot," we said to each other as we made our way down the stairs, across the pavement and into the terminal.
We walked up the ramp and into a larger hallway. Right away a new reality set it for us. We were in a place where we didn't speak the language, we couldn't understand the announcements, read the signs, or communicate basic needs. Learning Arabic, which up until now had been an interesting challenge, instantly became an urgent need. In other countries, English is clearly seen as the universal language through which people of different nations can communicate. Here, in Libya, I got the impression that Arabic was put above English, and that all entering should realize that they weren't going to be catered to. It's a notion that I'm sympathetic too, that I support when I travel in countries whose language I understand. But, now, being on the receiving end of the message and not having the tools to navigate the culture, I still agree, but with a sour taste in my mouth.
Not knowing where to go, we made like sheep and followed the crowd. We found the customs lines and waited for our turn to present our passports. After a few minutes, maybe more, a man in a striped shirt, horizontal stripes, walked by asking if people were with the American school. He had a hand written sign, on a single sheet of line paper, American School, it read.
Should we trust this guy?
He asked for our passports and told us to wait on the other side. He pointed to a small but growing group of wide-eyed, lost-looking Americans.
Sure, why not?
We continued past the counter and joined the other group. We introduced ourselves and exchanged hellos and all that stuff. Meanwhile, we kept a close eye on the gentleman who held our very identities in his hands. Soon enough, though, we were all on our way out to pick up our luggage, and our passports were returned to us.
We walked downstairs to an open room and began to collect our luggage. 1, 2, 3 pieces of luggage. So far so good. 4, 5, 6 pieces of luggage. Almost halfway. 7, 8, 9, 10, feeling like the count from Seseme Street. Alright, looks like everything is here. 11, 12 . . . . . . 13?
Carolina's backpack didn't show up that day. Some of the other teachers who arrived with us also had one or two pieces missing. Chances were that it didn't fight on the significantly smaller plane that brought us to Tripoli. Especially since about 6 other teachers and their families also were on the plane, and they also carried more than your average amount of luggage too.
It took quite a few rotations of the luggage carousel to realize that it wasn't going to show up. Carolina filed a report and we hoped for the best. The airport officials got a kick out of Carolina's passport thought, it was as if they had never met a Mexican before.
Before we could leave the luggage area, we had to pass through another security checkpoint. This time to make sure that we weren't brining in any contraband, drugs, alcohol, who knows what else. But we exited into the airports main entrance and found the school director, Judith, who hired us in February. We gathered together, and received some greatly appreciated bottles of water.
Walking out of the airport and into the open we felt another wave of warm air come over us. The bustling traffic, the conversations in a foreign tongue, the reality of where we were, it all came rushing at as just like the air coming from the hot desert to the south. But in that moment, we had our three cartloads of luggage to maneuver through the crowds and to the waiting trucks.
Judith had arranged two big trucks to load all the teachers' luggage and vans to take us to our homes. This is when we met Mafaud. An older man of about 50 years or so, he could pass for any Mexican grandfather. Somewhat short, chubby, but healthy looking. He speaks pretty good English, and was eager to converse with us newcomers. Mafaud is a professional driver, he works for Shadi, a company that provides passenger vans for private companies in Tripoli. We were told to follow him to his van. I introduced myself to him, and he asked if I spoke Arabic. Not yet I told him.
Where ar ru fram?
California . . . the United States
Ah well, you have an Arab face, he said. This is a conversation that I've had with many other Libyans since we've been here.
We got in the van, and witnessed first hand the awesomely terrifying thrill that is driving in Libya.
Have you ever spoken to someone who doesn't really seem to understand the concept of personal space? Even when you slyly back away, they fill in that gap you created between you with their own body. Well, imagine that experience in a car, on narrow roads, traveling at highway speeds. That's driving in Libya. Luckily, Mafaud is an excellent driver.
Traveling through this land one begins to see a certain absence of color. The desert sands, a dull orange with shades of yellow and brown, dominate everything. Small plots of farms lay between brick houses, the vegetation seems to struggle against suffocation.
As we began to enter busier neighborhoods, the streets became more crowded, and the buildings were more clustered together. Still, the desert sands are everywhere, like some force that simply will not be denied.
We left the airport and traveled through the outskirts of the city until we arrived in Janzour, one of the many suburbs that surround the city of Tripoli. We began going from one house to the next. The van would stop in front of a house, and the truck behind us would stop to unload luggage. Eager to get out of the van, stretch my legs, and plant my feet on the ground again, I helped out with some of the luggage. When we continued I jumped into the passenger seat, and struck up a conversation with Mafaud. I told him more about us, and he shared some Arabic words with me, which I've forgotten by now. He talked to us about Libya, about how quickly things have changed in the country over the last few years.
Soon, it was our turn to see our new home. We turned off of a main road and onto a dirt road. We've since named this road, Nopal Ave, not cause we're mexican, but because of the cactus growing there. There is a lot, A LOT of cactus here, growing like weeds along almost every street. So, once on this dirt road, we turned a corner into an alley, then another right, and finally reached our house.
Our house is similar to many other houses in the neighborhood. It has a high wall surrounding the property. There is a metal door to pass through. Once inside the property, there is a green lawn surrounding the house, with lots of different trees, and a swimming pool. This is our oasis in the desert. The house itself is huge, 2 bedrooms, an office, a spacious living room, dinning room, kitchen, and a parlor room with its own bathroom for a total of 3 bathrooms. We're told that the parlor room, which has its own entrance, is used when men come over and visit the home. They come in through the separate entrance so as not to enter the space where the women are at, hence its own bathroom.
Once we unloaded our luggage and toured the house, Judith and Mafaud left with the van and truck. She told us she'd be back the next morning for orientation, but to enjoy the roasted chicken in the fridge, along with some of other food already bought for us.
We were happy to finally be there, in our new country and new home. But at that moment I think we were too tired to really understand that. Our first instinct was to sleep, we but relied on our better judgement to get some unpacking done.
After a few hours of unpacking and eating, we showered and finally rested our bodies on our new bed. There was a new world just outside the walls of our little oasis for us to explore. It made itself known to us even as we readied for bed. Penetrating our walls with ease, was the unmistakable sound of the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. From the myriad of minarets (towers next to Mosques) that pierce the sky, the voices of the many different muezzins (singers/callers) filled the air and call an entire nation to attention. It was a reminder of how alien we were to this land. It was a reminder of just how much there is here to learn, to witness, and to experience. It too was like a wave of warm air that night.
We walked up the ramp and into a larger hallway. Right away a new reality set it for us. We were in a place where we didn't speak the language, we couldn't understand the announcements, read the signs, or communicate basic needs. Learning Arabic, which up until now had been an interesting challenge, instantly became an urgent need. In other countries, English is clearly seen as the universal language through which people of different nations can communicate. Here, in Libya, I got the impression that Arabic was put above English, and that all entering should realize that they weren't going to be catered to. It's a notion that I'm sympathetic too, that I support when I travel in countries whose language I understand. But, now, being on the receiving end of the message and not having the tools to navigate the culture, I still agree, but with a sour taste in my mouth.
Not knowing where to go, we made like sheep and followed the crowd. We found the customs lines and waited for our turn to present our passports. After a few minutes, maybe more, a man in a striped shirt, horizontal stripes, walked by asking if people were with the American school. He had a hand written sign, on a single sheet of line paper, American School, it read.
Should we trust this guy?
He asked for our passports and told us to wait on the other side. He pointed to a small but growing group of wide-eyed, lost-looking Americans.
Sure, why not?
We continued past the counter and joined the other group. We introduced ourselves and exchanged hellos and all that stuff. Meanwhile, we kept a close eye on the gentleman who held our very identities in his hands. Soon enough, though, we were all on our way out to pick up our luggage, and our passports were returned to us.
We walked downstairs to an open room and began to collect our luggage. 1, 2, 3 pieces of luggage. So far so good. 4, 5, 6 pieces of luggage. Almost halfway. 7, 8, 9, 10, feeling like the count from Seseme Street. Alright, looks like everything is here. 11, 12 . . . . . . 13?
Carolina's backpack didn't show up that day. Some of the other teachers who arrived with us also had one or two pieces missing. Chances were that it didn't fight on the significantly smaller plane that brought us to Tripoli. Especially since about 6 other teachers and their families also were on the plane, and they also carried more than your average amount of luggage too.
It took quite a few rotations of the luggage carousel to realize that it wasn't going to show up. Carolina filed a report and we hoped for the best. The airport officials got a kick out of Carolina's passport thought, it was as if they had never met a Mexican before.
Before we could leave the luggage area, we had to pass through another security checkpoint. This time to make sure that we weren't brining in any contraband, drugs, alcohol, who knows what else. But we exited into the airports main entrance and found the school director, Judith, who hired us in February. We gathered together, and received some greatly appreciated bottles of water.
Walking out of the airport and into the open we felt another wave of warm air come over us. The bustling traffic, the conversations in a foreign tongue, the reality of where we were, it all came rushing at as just like the air coming from the hot desert to the south. But in that moment, we had our three cartloads of luggage to maneuver through the crowds and to the waiting trucks.
Judith had arranged two big trucks to load all the teachers' luggage and vans to take us to our homes. This is when we met Mafaud. An older man of about 50 years or so, he could pass for any Mexican grandfather. Somewhat short, chubby, but healthy looking. He speaks pretty good English, and was eager to converse with us newcomers. Mafaud is a professional driver, he works for Shadi, a company that provides passenger vans for private companies in Tripoli. We were told to follow him to his van. I introduced myself to him, and he asked if I spoke Arabic. Not yet I told him.
Where ar ru fram?
California . . . the United States
Ah well, you have an Arab face, he said. This is a conversation that I've had with many other Libyans since we've been here.
We got in the van, and witnessed first hand the awesomely terrifying thrill that is driving in Libya.
Have you ever spoken to someone who doesn't really seem to understand the concept of personal space? Even when you slyly back away, they fill in that gap you created between you with their own body. Well, imagine that experience in a car, on narrow roads, traveling at highway speeds. That's driving in Libya. Luckily, Mafaud is an excellent driver.
Traveling through this land one begins to see a certain absence of color. The desert sands, a dull orange with shades of yellow and brown, dominate everything. Small plots of farms lay between brick houses, the vegetation seems to struggle against suffocation.
As we began to enter busier neighborhoods, the streets became more crowded, and the buildings were more clustered together. Still, the desert sands are everywhere, like some force that simply will not be denied.
We left the airport and traveled through the outskirts of the city until we arrived in Janzour, one of the many suburbs that surround the city of Tripoli. We began going from one house to the next. The van would stop in front of a house, and the truck behind us would stop to unload luggage. Eager to get out of the van, stretch my legs, and plant my feet on the ground again, I helped out with some of the luggage. When we continued I jumped into the passenger seat, and struck up a conversation with Mafaud. I told him more about us, and he shared some Arabic words with me, which I've forgotten by now. He talked to us about Libya, about how quickly things have changed in the country over the last few years.
Soon, it was our turn to see our new home. We turned off of a main road and onto a dirt road. We've since named this road, Nopal Ave, not cause we're mexican, but because of the cactus growing there. There is a lot, A LOT of cactus here, growing like weeds along almost every street. So, once on this dirt road, we turned a corner into an alley, then another right, and finally reached our house.
Our house is similar to many other houses in the neighborhood. It has a high wall surrounding the property. There is a metal door to pass through. Once inside the property, there is a green lawn surrounding the house, with lots of different trees, and a swimming pool. This is our oasis in the desert. The house itself is huge, 2 bedrooms, an office, a spacious living room, dinning room, kitchen, and a parlor room with its own bathroom for a total of 3 bathrooms. We're told that the parlor room, which has its own entrance, is used when men come over and visit the home. They come in through the separate entrance so as not to enter the space where the women are at, hence its own bathroom.
Once we unloaded our luggage and toured the house, Judith and Mafaud left with the van and truck. She told us she'd be back the next morning for orientation, but to enjoy the roasted chicken in the fridge, along with some of other food already bought for us.
We were happy to finally be there, in our new country and new home. But at that moment I think we were too tired to really understand that. Our first instinct was to sleep, we but relied on our better judgement to get some unpacking done.
After a few hours of unpacking and eating, we showered and finally rested our bodies on our new bed. There was a new world just outside the walls of our little oasis for us to explore. It made itself known to us even as we readied for bed. Penetrating our walls with ease, was the unmistakable sound of the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. From the myriad of minarets (towers next to Mosques) that pierce the sky, the voices of the many different muezzins (singers/callers) filled the air and call an entire nation to attention. It was a reminder of how alien we were to this land. It was a reminder of just how much there is here to learn, to witness, and to experience. It too was like a wave of warm air that night.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Bon Voyage
They say the the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Well, it's true, but our journey was more like 9 thousand miles and that first single step was weighed down with nearly 20 pieces of luggage. Luggage, and words of goodbye that were as difficult to let go as the embraces of our families those last moments at the airport, made our last moments at home difficult, stressful, and fast.
On Thursday the 5th, we rented a white cargo van to take our luggage to the airport. Yes, I was not exaggerating about the nearly 20 pieces of luggage, which I continue to refer to as the twenty pieces of luggage, even though it was more like 17.
That same day some of Carolina's family, her mom, dad and brother Alex, made the trip from Hanford to Pittsburg to see us off at the airport. We ran some last minute errands, and had dinner at the Olive Garden, that's right, you're friendly neighborhood Olive Garden, damn their tasty breadsticks!
The rest of that day we spent in last minute packing. We bought suitcase numbers 16 and 17, adjusted some things, washed out clothes, and tried to get a couple hours of sleep before it was time to leave in the morning. Actually, instead of sleeping I went to Denny's with my best buddy Big Rob and Melissa, it was a perfect last meal of all you can eat pancakes!
We left Pittsburg at 3 am, I drove the van and Alex followed behind. We unloaded our luggage at the curb at SFO, then went around in circles until I found a parking garage with a high enough clearance for the van. We had to take the shuttle back to the airline counter.
We checked in 13 pieces of luggage, and thanks to our new employer, the $1800.00 was covered. We spent just a few minutes giving hugs and kisses, then we went through security. I think that airports are the worse places for goodbyes.
A few hours and a couple of timezones later, we landed in Atlanta. Here's an interesting fact, Atlanta is considered to be the busiest airport in the world, according to something I read on the plane. Just our luck, it was damn busy. Whether or not it's the busiest in the world, it might be one of the most inconvenient airports out there. Our gate was the last gate farthest away from the center. We had to walk down a corridor of a about a mile or so. We just followed the line of the non-functioning shuttle to find our way. The walk wouldn't have been bad if we didn't have our carry on luggage in tow.
We knew we were at our gate when we found a room full of Dutch people on their way back home. We met one girl there who had won a trip to Atlanta, it was her first time traveling away from home and she was really nervous and glad to be going home. Carolina made friends with her while a bought my last double-quarter pound at Mickey D's. I know McDonald's is everywhere, but i've eaten at McDonald's in different countries and it's just not the same.
On the plane I sat next to a Dutch man traveling with his wife and daughter. I was wearing my México jersey and he asked where I was from. He told me that there are a lot of Mexicanos in Amsterdam, that he has a lot of Mexican friends and that they all get together and party all the time. Even more reason for me to vist now!
At the airport in Amsterdam I bought a Starbucks frapaccino. It cost 8 Euros, I paid with a $20 bill, I got about 7 Euros back. We seriously need to get our act together America! We're becoming Europe's Mexico, come on!
The time came for us to go through security again before boarding our final flight for Tripoli. In the waiting room we got our first impressions of our new home. The room was almost evenly divided by white European men, or Libyan men. About 10 women total and a few kids rounded out the numbers. Y dos méxicanos, hombre y hembra.
We took off again and promised each other that we would have to return to Amsterdam as tourists sometime soon. 3 hours later we would land in Tripoli, but not before flying over Italy. Seeing the Italian countryside from the air was breathtaking. We could see the sky scrapping Alps recede to the valley's of northern Italy and the Po Valley. We watched as the aircraft brought us southward along Italy's eastern coast against the Adriatic Sea, then over it's western side, entering the Mediterranean as we passed over the eternal city, Roma.
After flying over open water we soon were able to spot a mountain far away near the horizon, Mt. Etna perhaps? Either way, this signaled our quick flyover over the island of Sicily. We left it behind as quickly as we had come upon it. Less than an hour later we first spotted the north African coast, Libya lay straight ahead.
The coast of northern African is bathed by the sea and surrounded by the desert. This was clearly visible as we approached Tripoli and flew over the city that would host us for the next two years. The desert sand was the background on which the city streets and homes and businesses lay on. Mostly flat, with small farms of green stretched to the edge of the sky, and as the plane lowered for it's landing, we could see the Libyans carry on their daily lives.
We landed.
On Thursday the 5th, we rented a white cargo van to take our luggage to the airport. Yes, I was not exaggerating about the nearly 20 pieces of luggage, which I continue to refer to as the twenty pieces of luggage, even though it was more like 17.
That same day some of Carolina's family, her mom, dad and brother Alex, made the trip from Hanford to Pittsburg to see us off at the airport. We ran some last minute errands, and had dinner at the Olive Garden, that's right, you're friendly neighborhood Olive Garden, damn their tasty breadsticks!
The rest of that day we spent in last minute packing. We bought suitcase numbers 16 and 17, adjusted some things, washed out clothes, and tried to get a couple hours of sleep before it was time to leave in the morning. Actually, instead of sleeping I went to Denny's with my best buddy Big Rob and Melissa, it was a perfect last meal of all you can eat pancakes!
We left Pittsburg at 3 am, I drove the van and Alex followed behind. We unloaded our luggage at the curb at SFO, then went around in circles until I found a parking garage with a high enough clearance for the van. We had to take the shuttle back to the airline counter.
We checked in 13 pieces of luggage, and thanks to our new employer, the $1800.00 was covered. We spent just a few minutes giving hugs and kisses, then we went through security. I think that airports are the worse places for goodbyes.
A few hours and a couple of timezones later, we landed in Atlanta. Here's an interesting fact, Atlanta is considered to be the busiest airport in the world, according to something I read on the plane. Just our luck, it was damn busy. Whether or not it's the busiest in the world, it might be one of the most inconvenient airports out there. Our gate was the last gate farthest away from the center. We had to walk down a corridor of a about a mile or so. We just followed the line of the non-functioning shuttle to find our way. The walk wouldn't have been bad if we didn't have our carry on luggage in tow.
We knew we were at our gate when we found a room full of Dutch people on their way back home. We met one girl there who had won a trip to Atlanta, it was her first time traveling away from home and she was really nervous and glad to be going home. Carolina made friends with her while a bought my last double-quarter pound at Mickey D's. I know McDonald's is everywhere, but i've eaten at McDonald's in different countries and it's just not the same.
On the plane I sat next to a Dutch man traveling with his wife and daughter. I was wearing my México jersey and he asked where I was from. He told me that there are a lot of Mexicanos in Amsterdam, that he has a lot of Mexican friends and that they all get together and party all the time. Even more reason for me to vist now!
At the airport in Amsterdam I bought a Starbucks frapaccino. It cost 8 Euros, I paid with a $20 bill, I got about 7 Euros back. We seriously need to get our act together America! We're becoming Europe's Mexico, come on!
The time came for us to go through security again before boarding our final flight for Tripoli. In the waiting room we got our first impressions of our new home. The room was almost evenly divided by white European men, or Libyan men. About 10 women total and a few kids rounded out the numbers. Y dos méxicanos, hombre y hembra.
We took off again and promised each other that we would have to return to Amsterdam as tourists sometime soon. 3 hours later we would land in Tripoli, but not before flying over Italy. Seeing the Italian countryside from the air was breathtaking. We could see the sky scrapping Alps recede to the valley's of northern Italy and the Po Valley. We watched as the aircraft brought us southward along Italy's eastern coast against the Adriatic Sea, then over it's western side, entering the Mediterranean as we passed over the eternal city, Roma.
After flying over open water we soon were able to spot a mountain far away near the horizon, Mt. Etna perhaps? Either way, this signaled our quick flyover over the island of Sicily. We left it behind as quickly as we had come upon it. Less than an hour later we first spotted the north African coast, Libya lay straight ahead.
The coast of northern African is bathed by the sea and surrounded by the desert. This was clearly visible as we approached Tripoli and flew over the city that would host us for the next two years. The desert sand was the background on which the city streets and homes and businesses lay on. Mostly flat, with small farms of green stretched to the edge of the sky, and as the plane lowered for it's landing, we could see the Libyans carry on their daily lives.
We landed.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Upon Arrival
Quick Update
Well, after nearly a whole day's journey, we've made it safely to Tripoli. Upon arriving at the airport, we immediately realized that learning the language would have to become one of our top priorities. Everything is in Arabic, except for the advertisement, funny enough, there are plenty of commercial posters in English.
Apparently, I have a Arabic face . . . according to everyone here. Libyans I've spoken to are surprised to learn that I don't speak Arabic, "not yet" I tell them. But they're even more surprised to learn that I'm not Arabic at all, that I'm actually Mexican.
We took a tour of our new school, met our fellow newbies here, and will meet the rest of the staff later this week.
There's lots else to say about our new home, but we'll catch up on that later. Thanks for becoming a follower to our blog! We'll try to keep it interesting. Stay tuned, we might soon be writing about visiting Malta in the next couple of months.
Well, after nearly a whole day's journey, we've made it safely to Tripoli. Upon arriving at the airport, we immediately realized that learning the language would have to become one of our top priorities. Everything is in Arabic, except for the advertisement, funny enough, there are plenty of commercial posters in English.
Apparently, I have a Arabic face . . . according to everyone here. Libyans I've spoken to are surprised to learn that I don't speak Arabic, "not yet" I tell them. But they're even more surprised to learn that I'm not Arabic at all, that I'm actually Mexican.
We took a tour of our new school, met our fellow newbies here, and will meet the rest of the staff later this week.
There's lots else to say about our new home, but we'll catch up on that later. Thanks for becoming a follower to our blog! We'll try to keep it interesting. Stay tuned, we might soon be writing about visiting Malta in the next couple of months.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
July TwentyTen
Wow, what a month! July truly proved to be one of emotional highs and lows. The last four weeks were full of reunions and goodbyes with friends and family. Thank you everyone for all the love, support and fun times. Looking back at this month Carolina and I have really seen just how hospitable, generous and simply great people can be. Hopefully we'll be able to capture some of that in the narrative that follows below. Feel free to skip around to the different topics, or read the whole thing if you're bored.
Marc & Shireen
Damien's Wedding
Staying in Hanford & Pittsburg
Emilio & Cecilia's Wedding
Week in Florida
Final days before take-off
Marc & Shireen
Sitting down to write this together, Carolina commented on how long ago July 1st actually was. At the beginning of the month we were staying with our good friends Shireen and Marc. Shireen has been Carolina's partner teacher for four years at H.A. Hyde Elementary in Watsonville. They were very generous to open up their home to us while I finished attending the workshop with the Central California Writing Project.
It was great to have roommates again, really! Especially when one of them is an excellent chef, thanks for all the yummy food Shireen. Also, playing video games with Marc was lots of fun; it validated my arguments with Carolina video game time is essential for a healthy relationship.
I HAVE to mention our 3rd roommate, WALTER! Walter is one of the best dogs in the whole world, and one of my bestest friends. He's a big black puppy dog, who was always ready to play. Sorry I didn't say goodbye Walter.
Shireen and Marc rent a house on Shireen's family's land just outside of Watsonville. Staying there was like staying at some spiritual retreat. The home sits on acres of land full of cows, dogs, and two donkeys. We slept and woke to clucking, chirping and mooing. We got to feed the cows and Haydee came to visit. She brought her son Josh and Francisco Borja, who came all the way from Spain to practice his English. The cows were like big slow dogs, and where surprisingly agile. Josh and Frank rode a mini tractor; first time for everything.
While I was attending the writing project, Carolina spent her days hanging out with Haydee, or Shireen, or Walter. She went surfing a couple of times, did a lot of reading, and basically relaxed for the first time since we started moving out. It was a well earned break.
While at the project, I made a new friend, lol. Antonio Vivó was the only other Mexicano male at the workshop, and we got along from the start. We kept each other up on World Cup scores, and shared strategies for teaching, and vented about what it means being Latino teachers in a White world. Plus we had a couple of beers to commemorate the end of the project. Good luck Antonio on the job search.
Damien's Wedding
As soon as the project ended Carolina and I sped to San Diego for Damien's wedding. It was great to see old friends, it was like a college reunion. Miggy, Jaq, Carlos, Dame, Rob, I can't believe we're all grown up. It was like we picked up where we left off, drinking and joking around. The wedding was on a boat, on a boat on a mutha@&*#ing boat! It was cool to see Damien happy, the ceremony was really nice, the sun setting while we cruised the bay of San Diego, the city shimmering in the background, fireworks, dancing, and of course the open bar set the stage for an awesome night. Congratulations Damien, and for the rest of the guys, lets make sure that we don't wait for the next wedding to hang out.
The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, got some free slurpies at 7 Eleven, on July 7th, stocked up on Advil and water, then set out for L.A. There we spent some time with some of Carolina's family; Carolina's madrina Alicia and her tío Sergio, her cousins Evelyn and Angie, her mamá Cuca, as well as her other cousin's, Ivy, Cristian, Marcos, Javi, Laura, and her other tío Heriberto, and her tía Esperanza and Evelia. We had some yummy pozole, watched the final World Cup game, frustrating as it was, and watched Alicia and Sergio's wedding video; it was entertaining seeing everyone as they were 20 something years ago.
Staying in Hanford & Pittsburg
We spent the rest of the week in Hanford. Here the days slowed down. We had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and loved it. The heat kept us in doors, or in the pool. We celebrated Caro's mom's birthday with a carne asada in the backyard. It was fun hanging out with the Medina girls, bouncing a ball around their pool. We also spent a few days at Alex's friend's awesome backyard pool, with her dad and her siblings, Alex, Efrain, Brenda and Ruth. I almost won at Eclipse the game, but Neida beat me at the end. I had everyone convinced that I was a secret Eclipse fan, which I still deny.
The weekend between the two weeks we spent in Hanford we spent at my mom's house in Pittsburg. My brother Enrique's girls played on the Slip n' Slide, and we had carne asada and hot dogs. I made my argument for them to name their soon to be born baby boy after me. We'll see how my argument held up soon enough.
Emilio & Cecilia's Wedding
The next wedding on our Tour de California took place in Oxnard! This was a reunion of Los Mejicas alumni. We got to Oxnard on friday the 23rd and had some great food at the home of some of Emilio's family. The wedding the next day was great. It was a nice day and Ceci was of course a beautiful bride. The priest was entertaining and insightful. The reception had lots of good music, fun dancing to the live band, and good food. It was a classic Mexican wedding; Emilio wore a mandil, a kid got knocked out during la vibora, and we got to watch all the padrinos dance with Emilio & Ceci. Good times. It was sad to say goodbye to more friends, but we'll see each other soon.
Week in Florida
The next morning we ate brunch with two of Caro's old roommates from college. Yogi and Jackie drove up from the LA area just to meet us. We caught up on each others' stories and we filled them in on our whole Libya thing. As soon as we finished though, Carolina and I hit the road again, this time straight to the Bay Area. We had to go to my mom's house, do laundry and repack, then catch a flight Butt-Early Monday morning.
We got to Tampa, got our rental car, then found our way to my sister's house thanks to the handy dandy GPS system. As soon as we walked in the door we were rushed by Alma's six kids; Jasmine,15, Abigail 13, Josiah, 10, Aaron, 7, Joye Alina, 2 and Aurelia, 2 months. We hadn't seen them since the wedding, 2 years ago, and it was the first time we met the youngest two. We pretty much didn't rest the whole week, but it was fun playing with my nieces and nephews. We took the boys to an aquarium in Tampa, and the two oldest girls to Busch Gardens. We got rained out at Bush Gardens, but we were able to salvage the day. Abby got on the Phoenix with me, a rotating boat that flips over itself 4 times. The next day we ALL went to Sea World. When we weren't at an amusement park, we were home playing, listening to the kids play piano, or eating lots of yummy food. One of the highlights was summing in the gulf waters, tar-ball free, it was nice and clear and warm, with white sandy beaches and clear blue skies. Summer!
Our flight home was almost an adventure in itself, almost. We got to the Tampa airport early, checked in and passed through security, when the mother of tropical storms washed past, full of wind and rage and lightening and chaos. Our plane had to be diverted to Orlando, so our flight was delayed, threatening our connecting flight in Houston. We played it cool though, and the storm passed, and we soon boarded. When we got to Houston, though, we had to run clear across the terminal to catch our flight back to SFO. It was all just enough to keep things interesting.
Last days before Take-Off
Our last days in California were spent in Pittsburg and Oakland. We packed and packed and packed, bought stuff, then packed some more. We were fortunate enough to spend some time with good friends to say goodbye, again. It's the day before we leave as I write these words, and we're almost done packing. Carolina's parents and Alex are on there way here to see us off at the airport. It's completely real now, and the emotions are too many and too mixed to really relate in words. Thanks everyone for being so kind and for expressing your friendship in all the ways that you do and did this past month.
We give everyone an open invitation to come visit us. If you can negotiate the hurdles of the Libyan Visa process, then you'll have a free place to stay in Tripoli.
Thanks again for visiting our blog, our next post will be posted from Tripoli, as soon as we can. See you all in 10 months, if not sooner, drop us a line every now and then. Besos y abrazos a todos.
Marc & Shireen
Damien's Wedding
Staying in Hanford & Pittsburg
Emilio & Cecilia's Wedding
Week in Florida
Final days before take-off
Marc & Shireen
Sitting down to write this together, Carolina commented on how long ago July 1st actually was. At the beginning of the month we were staying with our good friends Shireen and Marc. Shireen has been Carolina's partner teacher for four years at H.A. Hyde Elementary in Watsonville. They were very generous to open up their home to us while I finished attending the workshop with the Central California Writing Project.
It was great to have roommates again, really! Especially when one of them is an excellent chef, thanks for all the yummy food Shireen. Also, playing video games with Marc was lots of fun; it validated my arguments with Carolina video game time is essential for a healthy relationship.
I HAVE to mention our 3rd roommate, WALTER! Walter is one of the best dogs in the whole world, and one of my bestest friends. He's a big black puppy dog, who was always ready to play. Sorry I didn't say goodbye Walter.
Shireen and Marc rent a house on Shireen's family's land just outside of Watsonville. Staying there was like staying at some spiritual retreat. The home sits on acres of land full of cows, dogs, and two donkeys. We slept and woke to clucking, chirping and mooing. We got to feed the cows and Haydee came to visit. She brought her son Josh and Francisco Borja, who came all the way from Spain to practice his English. The cows were like big slow dogs, and where surprisingly agile. Josh and Frank rode a mini tractor; first time for everything.
While I was attending the writing project, Carolina spent her days hanging out with Haydee, or Shireen, or Walter. She went surfing a couple of times, did a lot of reading, and basically relaxed for the first time since we started moving out. It was a well earned break.
While at the project, I made a new friend, lol. Antonio Vivó was the only other Mexicano male at the workshop, and we got along from the start. We kept each other up on World Cup scores, and shared strategies for teaching, and vented about what it means being Latino teachers in a White world. Plus we had a couple of beers to commemorate the end of the project. Good luck Antonio on the job search.
Damien's Wedding
As soon as the project ended Carolina and I sped to San Diego for Damien's wedding. It was great to see old friends, it was like a college reunion. Miggy, Jaq, Carlos, Dame, Rob, I can't believe we're all grown up. It was like we picked up where we left off, drinking and joking around. The wedding was on a boat, on a boat on a mutha@&*#ing boat! It was cool to see Damien happy, the ceremony was really nice, the sun setting while we cruised the bay of San Diego, the city shimmering in the background, fireworks, dancing, and of course the open bar set the stage for an awesome night. Congratulations Damien, and for the rest of the guys, lets make sure that we don't wait for the next wedding to hang out.
The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, got some free slurpies at 7 Eleven, on July 7th, stocked up on Advil and water, then set out for L.A. There we spent some time with some of Carolina's family; Carolina's madrina Alicia and her tío Sergio, her cousins Evelyn and Angie, her mamá Cuca, as well as her other cousin's, Ivy, Cristian, Marcos, Javi, Laura, and her other tío Heriberto, and her tía Esperanza and Evelia. We had some yummy pozole, watched the final World Cup game, frustrating as it was, and watched Alicia and Sergio's wedding video; it was entertaining seeing everyone as they were 20 something years ago.
Staying in Hanford & Pittsburg
We spent the rest of the week in Hanford. Here the days slowed down. We had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and loved it. The heat kept us in doors, or in the pool. We celebrated Caro's mom's birthday with a carne asada in the backyard. It was fun hanging out with the Medina girls, bouncing a ball around their pool. We also spent a few days at Alex's friend's awesome backyard pool, with her dad and her siblings, Alex, Efrain, Brenda and Ruth. I almost won at Eclipse the game, but Neida beat me at the end. I had everyone convinced that I was a secret Eclipse fan, which I still deny.
The weekend between the two weeks we spent in Hanford we spent at my mom's house in Pittsburg. My brother Enrique's girls played on the Slip n' Slide, and we had carne asada and hot dogs. I made my argument for them to name their soon to be born baby boy after me. We'll see how my argument held up soon enough.
Emilio & Cecilia's Wedding
The next wedding on our Tour de California took place in Oxnard! This was a reunion of Los Mejicas alumni. We got to Oxnard on friday the 23rd and had some great food at the home of some of Emilio's family. The wedding the next day was great. It was a nice day and Ceci was of course a beautiful bride. The priest was entertaining and insightful. The reception had lots of good music, fun dancing to the live band, and good food. It was a classic Mexican wedding; Emilio wore a mandil, a kid got knocked out during la vibora, and we got to watch all the padrinos dance with Emilio & Ceci. Good times. It was sad to say goodbye to more friends, but we'll see each other soon.
Week in Florida
The next morning we ate brunch with two of Caro's old roommates from college. Yogi and Jackie drove up from the LA area just to meet us. We caught up on each others' stories and we filled them in on our whole Libya thing. As soon as we finished though, Carolina and I hit the road again, this time straight to the Bay Area. We had to go to my mom's house, do laundry and repack, then catch a flight Butt-Early Monday morning.
We got to Tampa, got our rental car, then found our way to my sister's house thanks to the handy dandy GPS system. As soon as we walked in the door we were rushed by Alma's six kids; Jasmine,15, Abigail 13, Josiah, 10, Aaron, 7, Joye Alina, 2 and Aurelia, 2 months. We hadn't seen them since the wedding, 2 years ago, and it was the first time we met the youngest two. We pretty much didn't rest the whole week, but it was fun playing with my nieces and nephews. We took the boys to an aquarium in Tampa, and the two oldest girls to Busch Gardens. We got rained out at Bush Gardens, but we were able to salvage the day. Abby got on the Phoenix with me, a rotating boat that flips over itself 4 times. The next day we ALL went to Sea World. When we weren't at an amusement park, we were home playing, listening to the kids play piano, or eating lots of yummy food. One of the highlights was summing in the gulf waters, tar-ball free, it was nice and clear and warm, with white sandy beaches and clear blue skies. Summer!
Our flight home was almost an adventure in itself, almost. We got to the Tampa airport early, checked in and passed through security, when the mother of tropical storms washed past, full of wind and rage and lightening and chaos. Our plane had to be diverted to Orlando, so our flight was delayed, threatening our connecting flight in Houston. We played it cool though, and the storm passed, and we soon boarded. When we got to Houston, though, we had to run clear across the terminal to catch our flight back to SFO. It was all just enough to keep things interesting.
Last days before Take-Off
Our last days in California were spent in Pittsburg and Oakland. We packed and packed and packed, bought stuff, then packed some more. We were fortunate enough to spend some time with good friends to say goodbye, again. It's the day before we leave as I write these words, and we're almost done packing. Carolina's parents and Alex are on there way here to see us off at the airport. It's completely real now, and the emotions are too many and too mixed to really relate in words. Thanks everyone for being so kind and for expressing your friendship in all the ways that you do and did this past month.
We give everyone an open invitation to come visit us. If you can negotiate the hurdles of the Libyan Visa process, then you'll have a free place to stay in Tripoli.
Thanks again for visiting our blog, our next post will be posted from Tripoli, as soon as we can. See you all in 10 months, if not sooner, drop us a line every now and then. Besos y abrazos a todos.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
June TwentyTen
I think we'll get started by just looking back on the last few weeks; more for my own sanity than for the reader's sense of continuity. I'll write more about how we got this job in Libya later.
This June of 2010 was probably the most busy June I've ever experienced. Ever. Well, that is probably not true, but it sure felt that way.
The first week of June was the last week before the Los Mejicas Spring Concert; my last folklórico concert for who knows how long. All night rehearsals and good byes. Carolina was the Stage Director again, she put the show together with grace and professionalism.
This was also Carolina's last week at work at H.A. Hyde Elementary in Watsonville. She and Sarah brought home enough boxes to fill the space in our living room left behind by the couches we sold to the parents of one of my students. We sold most of our furniture this month.
The following week was my last at Santa Cruz High. A bunch of my students threw me a surprise going away party. It was the group of kids that I had taught a dance to, which they performed at the cinco de mayo assembly I organized and that Los Mejicas came to perform in. They got Betty, one of our instructional techs, to get me out of class, when I came back they had everything set up. They had homemade tamales and pupusas, jello and sweets. It was great.
Once we were both moved out of our classrooms, it was full on packing time. Efrain, Caro's dad, came and helped us packing things away. We found some free boxes on Craigslist, really good quality, and got to work. We packed what we wanted to keep, sold what we didn't want to carry, donated what we could, and tossed the rest.
Our June weekends were especially busy.
First was the Mejicas concert, and right after Caro drove down to Hanford to attend Sergio and Vero's baby shower. That's when she came back with Efrain. We all went back to Hanford the next weekend to celebrate Ruth's birthday.
Caro was awesome and threw me a 30th birthday party. Oh yeah, I turned 30 this month. Maybe that's why it seemed like a busy month, I'm just getting old and having a harder time keeping up with everything. Anyways, it was really fortunate for me to see a lot of my friends together before taking off to Libya. Thanks to everyone who came. Carolina also had her birthday, her was the 15th, mine the 16th. It's like a second x-mas cause we just exchange gifts.
Next was Emilio's bachelor party - NEXT SENTENCES CENSORED FOR ELICIT CONTENT - It was fun. That same weekend we loaded the U-Haul truck and dumped our stuff in my Mom's garage in Pittsburg. Thanks to Miguel and my brother Enrique for helping us at either end of the trip.
On June 23rd, Carolina became a U.S. Citizen. So, when we come back from Libya they HAVE to let her back in the country. I told her that if they didn't we could just go live in México, but that idea didn't fly. I helped her study for her exam, which was in May, and she attended the swearing in ceremony and was congratulated by President Obama himself (via satellite or something).
While my birthday party was awesome, my actual birthday was spent mostly at the first day of the Central California Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. I'm in the forth and final week of it as I write these very words during Sacred Writing Time . . .
So, enjoy the pictures and soon we'll post on our July travels, our final month in the U.S. Coming soon; our stay with Mark & Shireen, Damien's wedding in San Diego, staying in Hanford, Emilio and Cecilia's wedding in Oxnard, and a week in Florida with my sister Alma and her family. We take off for Libya on August 6th, so we'll post our first blog entry from there as soon as we get access to internet and more or less are settled in.
This June of 2010 was probably the most busy June I've ever experienced. Ever. Well, that is probably not true, but it sure felt that way.
The first week of June was the last week before the Los Mejicas Spring Concert; my last folklórico concert for who knows how long. All night rehearsals and good byes. Carolina was the Stage Director again, she put the show together with grace and professionalism.
This was also Carolina's last week at work at H.A. Hyde Elementary in Watsonville. She and Sarah brought home enough boxes to fill the space in our living room left behind by the couches we sold to the parents of one of my students. We sold most of our furniture this month.
The following week was my last at Santa Cruz High. A bunch of my students threw me a surprise going away party. It was the group of kids that I had taught a dance to, which they performed at the cinco de mayo assembly I organized and that Los Mejicas came to perform in. They got Betty, one of our instructional techs, to get me out of class, when I came back they had everything set up. They had homemade tamales and pupusas, jello and sweets. It was great.
Once we were both moved out of our classrooms, it was full on packing time. Efrain, Caro's dad, came and helped us packing things away. We found some free boxes on Craigslist, really good quality, and got to work. We packed what we wanted to keep, sold what we didn't want to carry, donated what we could, and tossed the rest.
Our June weekends were especially busy.
First was the Mejicas concert, and right after Caro drove down to Hanford to attend Sergio and Vero's baby shower. That's when she came back with Efrain. We all went back to Hanford the next weekend to celebrate Ruth's birthday.
Caro was awesome and threw me a 30th birthday party. Oh yeah, I turned 30 this month. Maybe that's why it seemed like a busy month, I'm just getting old and having a harder time keeping up with everything. Anyways, it was really fortunate for me to see a lot of my friends together before taking off to Libya. Thanks to everyone who came. Carolina also had her birthday, her was the 15th, mine the 16th. It's like a second x-mas cause we just exchange gifts.
Next was Emilio's bachelor party - NEXT SENTENCES CENSORED FOR ELICIT CONTENT - It was fun. That same weekend we loaded the U-Haul truck and dumped our stuff in my Mom's garage in Pittsburg. Thanks to Miguel and my brother Enrique for helping us at either end of the trip.
On June 23rd, Carolina became a U.S. Citizen. So, when we come back from Libya they HAVE to let her back in the country. I told her that if they didn't we could just go live in México, but that idea didn't fly. I helped her study for her exam, which was in May, and she attended the swearing in ceremony and was congratulated by President Obama himself (via satellite or something).
Of course the back drop for all of this has been the - ¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!
- The World Cup.
¡Mé-xi-co, Mé-xi-co, Mé-xi-co! was my Facebook status when I got to 99 Bottles to watch the opening game with Carolina, Efrain, and Caro's Tía, Angelica her husband Miguel and their daughter Diana. Most of the rest of the games I watched from the writing workshop I'm attending. Stealing looks at my computer screen, logged on to univisión.com. It was heartbreaking watching el Tri fall, then the last African team, and finally all the South American teams loose. My only condolence was to watch the USA loose too. We're now officially saving money for Brasil 2014.- The World Cup.
While my birthday party was awesome, my actual birthday was spent mostly at the first day of the Central California Writing Project's Invitational Summer Institute. I'm in the forth and final week of it as I write these very words during Sacred Writing Time . . .
So, enjoy the pictures and soon we'll post on our July travels, our final month in the U.S. Coming soon; our stay with Mark & Shireen, Damien's wedding in San Diego, staying in Hanford, Emilio and Cecilia's wedding in Oxnard, and a week in Florida with my sister Alma and her family. We take off for Libya on August 6th, so we'll post our first blog entry from there as soon as we get access to internet and more or less are settled in.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
