Do not fart in the Dead Sea

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I admit that two years overseas have definitely compromised my competencies in a few “Americanisms.” I can’t tell you who won the Rose Bowl and my March Madness bracket was unfathomably pathetic. I probably couldn’t even tell you what MLB even stands for anymore. I don't know which agnst-filled popstar did what, where last week. Anchorman is affirmatively the last movie I can confidently quote. My iPod hasn’t been synced in something like a year; I had to have a Jordanian cab driver identify Chris Brown’s “Forever” yesterday which I painstakingly proceeded to locate and play on repeat in a sad attempt to reconnect with Western pop culture. The most shameful regression though has to be my grasp of the English language. When I was 17 I scored a full 800 on the English writing section of the SAT’s - the American gods of higher education deemed me perfectly masterful of English grammar. Look at me 6 years later after having spent two years operating in pidgin English, and somehow my brain has come to think those Koreans are onto something with the skipping of articles, and maybe Singaporean English isn’t so bad after all, lah.

I suppose this is all give and take though. My level of grammar may have been reduced to that of an illegal alien and my vocabulary to that of prepubescent, but hey... at least I can tell you the latest in European football and I have really mastered the Developing Country Squat Toilet. I am doing alright - I don’t need you, America. Or so I thought until my 20-yr old brother flew in straight from the Homeland to shatter all these reassurances.

Last time I saw my brother was in August 2007 bungee jumping over Legian in Bali. This time I fly Stephen in from Houston via Air France through Paris to Cairo, where I was intending on meeting him. Well as I have fallen way behind schedule, skipped Lebanon and Israel and had barely even arrived in north Jordan, I then book him in for another flight from Cairo to Amman arriving at midnight. I am a little worried not because I think he cannot take care of himself, but he really hasn’t traveled outside of the developing world and never by himself. The Middle East is going to be a huge shock. Speaking to him in Cairo, I tell him I am going to arrange an airport pickup for him in Amman so that he doesn’t need to stress about getting to the guesthouse himself. He blurts out that I must meet him at the airport. What a rookie - fine, world-traveller Big Sis will step in. After 24 hours of airports and 3 flights, his face when he sees me at Arrivals floods with relief, appreciation and acknowledgement of superiority. I mentally reassert myself as the better of the family children.

That reassertion doesn’t last very long. As he collapses onto his bed and begins unpacking, my insides tighten up. He pulls out first nail clippers and then a full hand-sized, battery operated, 3 rotating-blade razor. He then pulls out normal economy-sized tubes of Off! Skintastic AND SPF50 Coppertone Sport, probably conveniently picked up from the neighborhood Walgreens or Eckerds... or maybe even.. Sam’s. He pulls out the very same black iPod nano I gave him for Christmas, but full of freshly-minted hits straight from North American MTV. I look down at my even newer iPod nano knowing full well the newest song on there was probably 6 months old only recently hitting Hong Kong. Then he reaches way down in the front pocket, I brace myself for a bottle of Scope. A smug snarl clouds his normally stoic face and my eyes follow in slowmo as a compact pack of floss nonchalantly falls on the pillow. The Patrick Bateman in me explodes. The J&J branding on the cover burns into my eyes. I tear my eyes away, ashamed, and fight back the tears that come with the sudden realization that I have failed my country. What has happened to me and the hygienic standards that seemed so inherent? Did my brother, only traveling with me for 8 nights, really totally just tell me to Eat It with his superiorly-packed dental care arsenal? Have I completely forgotten the standards that I am always to hold myself to even when - God forbid - thousands of miles away from any American dental center? I collapse in defeat and silently hope the Coke Stephen is sipping on is on my side.

Aside from his arrival reminding me of how inadequately un-American I have become, I suppose it is nice to see who I would consider my favorite and best friend in the world. This 6-foot beanpole is the only thing in the world I ever miss when living abroad and ever since I left Houston for school, then work, I try to call him at least every other day. One tip to males in Amman: If you ever want to be really popular with the locals, buy one of those checkered head scarves the men wear. After schooling me on dental hygiene, Steve starts to freak out about sun protection. This makes no sense as he is just as tan as me, without any freckles or probably the ability to burn as well. He whips out his American college baseball cap and a Handy-Andy paisley bandana. I raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds to spread the bandana over his head and secure it by slipping on the cap. The result is a Chinese-Mexican lawn mower, I laugh so hard I swear a little pee comes out. I tell him there is no way I am walking around with him like that, and he insists he needs something to cover his neck and face. I jokingly tell him to get an Arab head scarf. 20 minutes later he picks one up on the street, entirely serious. I am mildly mortified until an Arab man comes by and stops him, insisting on rearranging the sad drape job Steve had piled on his head. Before we know it, 3 more men stop and soon my skinny 6-ft tall Chinese brother is surrounded by short, big bellied Arab men. 5 minutes later one of them painstakingly steps back to admire his masterpiece (in the same way the guy in Palmyra stepped back after dressing me up as his Bedouin bride, only the Arab man didn’t try to kiss my brother) and proclaims “King Hussein!” The rest of the morning we have random men nodding, complimenting “Good!” at his head; apparently it is one of the most complicated wrappings and the one that King Hussein used. The next day I take him around Amman and he meets Amer who fusses over him like an old woman with her freakishly small dressed-in-human-clothes dog. Amer’s mother thinks Steve’s head wrapping was professionally done.

We head to the Dead Sea for the afternoon which is about an hour out of Amman. So just a quick brief: In case there is any uncertainty, the Dead Sea is just that - totally dead. It is the absolute lowest point on earth and contains 30% salt as opposed to 5% in normal seawater and can sustain no plant or aquatic life. For some reason in my mind I had pictured the Dead Sea to be murky or dark at least. Surprisingly though it is amazingly clear and pleasantly even algae-free. Nothing on the camel-brown bottom. The surface is as calm as a librarian on tranquilizers, and Israel is just within reach on the other side. The periphery of the coast on the Jordan side is laced with armed guards and passport checks. (It is a pretty apparent fact that Jordanians, like my experience with Syrians, really dislike Jews. This leads to interesting dynamics in Jordan however because a ton of Jews visiting family in Israel actually do come into Jordan whereas they are not allowed in Syria.)

When I was in Damascus I heard a story about one guy that farted in the Dead Sea. Physics kicked in and a natural suction system injected this mutant saline solution into his asshole. He barely ate for four days because utilizing his asshole affected an unworldly burning sensation. I warn Amer and Steve of this as we wade in. The water is beyond description salty, it doesn’t even taste like salt. I feel like it violates your tongue and all your senses the way mace violates your eyeballs. Within a few steps in, I was literally floating in the water. You can bounce yourself rightside up like an astronaut or do crazy abdominal workouts on the surface. The only thing you can’t do is submerge yourself or dive under. One, you are told not to even shave before and reconsider if you have any recent cuts - you certainly don’t want that ish in your eyes or up your nose. Two, you must have Iron Man powers (a reference I can only even make after Steve educating me about the biggest baddest recent Blockbuster from the West) to fight the buoyancy that is raping your body from below. Floating on that water is an experience not to be missed. If you really want to screw yourself up, jump into a regular pool afterwards and see what drowning must feel like. Alternatively you can just eat a can of beans before hitting up the Dead Sea.

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Comments

[tala]

glad that you had such a good time in jordan:) i am tour guide and i never heard that someone had such a problem in the dead sea ,good to know