J learned in one of his Arabic classes this week, that the root of the verb, 'to sideline', is hamisha. But Rashimi is doing almost everything in his power for this not to happen. I'd forgotten about the burgeoning of a personality that happens at around 18 months. He's turned into a diminutive ball of power - and seems to understand a lot of conversation in both Arabic and English thanks to the daily chattering of the Glammy. There are no flies on Rashimi these days.
I'm a little further behind, but still enjoying my classes and am getting braver about meeting people, conversationally diving in there, massacring the language, and emerging with at least a new word and a few corrections to remember.
Last week, Rashimi and I went to play in the old part of the town, with a little girl around his age and her parents. We hung out in a tiny little garden at the back of a crumbling Ottoman style house. It was created by a couple for their child, and other local children to use. While a little venture like this would be nothing remarkable in London, here it stands out, as most families are more intent on taking their tinies to the Mall. Rashimi and his little friend tottered about amongst the pistacchio and almond trees, picking up bits of broken ceramic and digging in the tiny sandpit. I chatted with the parents and they showed me their local area, the flat bread bakery, the Syrian store which sells delicious Shanklish, Syrian salty cheese with a herb crust, and home made jams and preserved fruit. Rashimi fell fast asleep as we wove our way to the Lozenge's school to collect him after what I felt was one of my best mornings here. I even dared to admit to myself as I manoevred the Chevy into Thursday midday traffic, with an accompaniment of angry car horns and piercing police whistles, that I have begun to love this complicated country that hasn't even existed for a century.
J's parents have come to visit and since the weather has been more reminiscent of the west coast of Scotland, we've been allowing plans to fall into our time here. As ever, when you dare to leave empty space, precious things often fall into it. Such as, an invitation to tea with a Duke. We'd been given details of a man called Mamdouh Bisharat by a family friend before we left, and in the chaos of settling in, hadn't contacted him until recently. We'd also heard from others here about a wonderful sounding man called the Duke of Mukhaibeh, the first and only Duke of Jordan. What I hadn't realised, until I received an email from him saying: 'I'm waiting for your call!' that this was one and the same person.
The Lozenge got very excited about the iminent tea party and as he organised his monkey back pack, he said: 'and now I'm off to get ready for the Joke!'
So J, the Lozenge, Rashimi, J's parents and I, wound our way in the minibus (a replacment for the Chevy so we can go on masse everywhere) up the steep roads behind the Roman amphitheatre and arrived at his old-style Jordanian house, behind some green gates, overlooking the wadi of Amman. He came out to greet us, an elegant man in his late seventies with soft brown eyes, dressed in a cream rain jacket and red suede shoes. 'Ahlan Wasahlan,' (the formal greeting here, meaning welcome, but with roots from the Arabic words for 'tribe/family' and 'peace'), he said shaking us all warmly by the hand. 'Good afternoon, Your Grathe,' the Lozenge managed to squeeze out thanks to the practise beforehand.
His house is crammed with sculpture, carved stone busts, artefacts, paintings and little bits of pottery, glassware, wooden objects, and installations he's created himself. You could spend a year in there and still find new things. The boys were in heaven, and we spent a very happy couple of hours there with the Duke and his nephew. Although I spent most of my time on the floor trying to stop Rashimi from smashing something, or being squashed himself, as he cruised around hugging stone busts and picking up delicate objects. After about three bits of cake each the boys turned into dervishes, culminating in the Lozenge falling face down in a puddle outside, soaking his trousers. So he whipped them off to reveal pants the same colour as the Duke's shoes and carried on scampering around. No one batted an eyelid and we've been invited back for dinner this week - luckily when the boys will be safely in bed so I might get to hear a little more about the life of the man himself.
The legend goes that this cultural philantrhopist, archaeology enthusiast, historian and conservationalist, was made a Duke by the late King Hussein in the 70's, who liked him very much, and formalised the nickname Mamdouh had always had because of his number of farms and estates in the Golan area. Either way - he's a fascinating, humble and generous man. And he and his wife seem to spend their energies on introducing people to their country, its history and culture, in a laid back and gracious way. They have no children of their own, yet in some respects it feels like they treat everyone as such. A gentle man, and a gentle woman. Their hearts seem very near the surface.
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| A Rashimi's eye view of the kindly Joke |
Sometimes, when you arrive in a new place, the space in your life that back home is jam packed with friends, family and fun, plans and schedules, can seem so empty and un-nerving. Yet we're seeing that if you can hold that nerve, the space is there for a reason, and reserved for wonderful people like these - who seem somehow destined to come your way, if you only allow them time.
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