I've had to escape to the ice cream parlour to catch up on my work, as the Lozenge understandably doesn't like it when I need to be in my study on his arrival back home from 'nurthery', so best not to be at home at all, and leave him with the Glammy and Rashimi, who is now known about the block as 'swanji' which means 'womaniser' in Arabic. He's such an incorrigible flirt and these days, likes to reach into the Glammy's LV handbag to spray himself with body spray before he goes out in the morning.
So I'm sitting on the top gallery of the cafe, trying not to be distracted by the huge television screens showing close up shots of someone squeezing iced-gem like dollops of porcelain coloured icing onto revolving cakes; gleaming, roasting baclava and toasting pistachios. It's a strange place, but no one interrupts.
I'm finding it hard to write the article about the Turkmen gypsies because I know in my heart of hearts that the readership hates them. So it's hard to come up with an angle. This society is strange, because it's built predominantly of people who aren't originally from here - other than the Bedouin. Yet, some people still have a problem about who should and shouldn't be here - and constant fuel for this attitude being the ever increasing stream of refugees coming in from Syria. There is a large number of Syrians who don't stay in the camps long, and as a result are coming to find work in an already over saturated jobs market. Because of the sharp Syrian business acumen, some Jordanians find this a threat.
This week J and I went to a fascinating evening by a PHD in the Arabic script, and how it has evolved. The lecture happened in the house of a prominent Palestinian family here, whose daughter is producing some important and beautiful documentaries through interviews with Palestinians who can remember living in Palestine before the 'nakbeh' or 'catastrophe' in 1948, when the Israelis made the first concerted and violent push to get them out - these are people who had been living in Palestine since Biblical times (Philistines, being the very same people). Last night, we watched one of her films, 'My Jerusalem' where the interviewees reminisced about their childhoods before they were brutally evicted. One lady recounts how she begged her father to let her sneak back into Jerusalem from the border, in order to fetch the deeds to their house. She was shot at by Israeli snipers, but made it back alive with the deeds. However, the house was destroyed soon after, so now all they have is the flimsy piece of paper to say they once owned property there. Jordan is now over half Palesinian in ethnicity - none of them any more able to return home, over 60 years on from the nakbeh.
Today, Abu Mohammed and I spent the morning driving about town trying to find some plates which weren't made in China, as we're having loads of people round tomorrow night and we only have 4 plates, which were made in China, and make me want to drop them on purpose when I hold them - which wouldn't be a great start to an evening. I also needed a cupboard or 'khazana' as they say here, for my study since I've been confined to one tiny corner with a large stockpile of camera kit, tripods, starionery, books, printer, wires, wires and more wires all over the floor. Then we had to go and drop 24 bottles of milk with the Turkmen gypsies as I'd promised them I would a couple of days ago. (I had to go back again for more interviews and stories, and we were even more mobbed than the previous time. I'm hoping it was the last…) Then I had a meeting at lunchtime with one of the Royal family who works with the Royal Film Commission of Jordan. Many of the Royals are pretty integrated in society here.
The shops eventually opened at 10am, we found some beautiful Palestinian hand painted plates which we packed and wrapped, then trawled about town trying to find a 'khazana' that wasn't Chinese and overpriced, which turned out to be impossible, so I eventually persuaded Abu Mo to find a 2nd hand shop where we picked up an orange wooden cupboard with shiny gold knobs for £50 (still expensive in my book but the other stuff was nearer £200). It wouldn't fit in his taxi so we had to get a truck to take it back to the house, belt it to the Turkmen gypsies to drop the milk…and at 1pm on the dot we screeched to a halt outside the Film Commission.
The building is stunning - an old traditional house looking over the hill of East Amman - and had an interesting meeting, hiding my dusty shoes under the table as much as I could. The problem is there's no money anywhere here. And the Film Commission, which used to rely on state funding is now having to look for its own resources. It's like the BBC suddenly having to go commercial.
From there, to the supermarket where I managed to spend the statutory £250 on as far as I could see, nothing of great value, other than some quite nice looking lamb and some state of the art tubs of Quaker Oats. My Jordan Kuwait Bank card was refused as they seem to have given me a pin number which isn't recognised, so I had to get out yet more cash. I don't know how people get by here. There are no jobs, prices are extortionate, there are no NHS/child benefit safety nets, and even when you do get a salary it doesn't match the price of food, let alone housing. For instance, the rate for writing two magazine features and doing all the photos will probably be around £50.
I've finished Hilary Mantel's book and I'm now at the other end of the human-freedom spectrum reading Grayson Perry's biography. It's inspiring to see what the UK, as a free society, can produce - even when Grayson had a turbulent childhood in working class Essex, he had the freedom and eventual support, to become the revolutionary and creative being that he is. He says: 'Making things from Lego was a restful, almost meditative, creativity that involved solving technical problems that had no sentimental content. It was an excape from emotional chaos. There were only a limited number of options for how Lego bricks could fit together and that was comforting. I recently made a pot called 'Assembling a motorbike from memory' about how a large number of men are at peace with life taking a motorbike engine to bits, becuase a motorbike engine is finite. It doesn't have the infinite possibilities and muddle of relationships.' Wow.
Then I got back home from the supermarket, with some free lamb bones which the butcher gave me to make stock, and the hugest bag of fruit and vegetables from the local stall which came to only £10. I could shop in the fresh air, to boot, and the men in there are friends with our boys as they wheel past and chat every day.
At home, I squeezed my new bright orange khazana into my study and a few hours later the whole room and corridor stank of cat's pee. I think there's a price to pay for non-Chinese second hand merchandise. The evening was turbulent as the Lozenge has all but ceased communicating with J, refuses to do anything with him, including bath, bed, book which he used to love. It's upsetting for us all. (Perhaps he should try Lego?...) So I spent the evening shaving the peel off some apples and making pastry for tarte tatin, slamming the pastry onto the marble to the latest hit by David Bowie after his decade of quiet (another free UK star in Grayson's league). Meanwhile, J Googled: 'Our 3 year old son is rejecting his Dad' and entered the world of parent forums while I lost myself in Bowie: 'Where are we now? The minute you know, you know you know….As long as there's sun. As long as there's rain. As long as there's fire. As long as there's me. As long as there's you.'
No comments:
Post a Comment