The most popular girl in school

'You speak english very well' (leally? churs bro!), 'tomorrow you will follow Kholoud to school and speak english with her students.'

I have never been so popular in my life. By now I'm used to everyone staring (apparently their mothers never taught them its rude to stare). But at school,they didn't just stare, they followed. Followed me out the staff room, down the hall, up the stairs and to the classroom. Now Ive been swarmed by children in different countries before, but Im telling you: this was extreme. They crowded around the door, ignoring Kholouds orders to disappear. She shut the door; one girl got up and locked it. So there I was on one side of a locked door with 40-odd giggling, whispering fans and another mob of the same the other side...the only difference to me was that on this side the teacher was there for crowd control. So they all stared and smiled and asked me about myself and I drew a horrible map of Australia and NZ to show them where our noble country was and then Kholoud got on with her lesson. They were learning about 'Medieval Spain': 'Muslim scholars made many discoveries' 'Astronomers built many observatories to watch planets and stars' 'Nothing matched this knowledge until the 17th Century...'. What amazed me was that they could read and write all this, but then struggled to ask me the simplest of questions: 'Is you have brothers and sisters?' 'How you Jordan like?' 'Do you love you like?' (couldnt answer that one...) One girl raised her hand 'I love love you'.

The next few classes weren't as crazy, ie it was safe to leave the door unlocked. Though every 2 mins there would be a knock: 'Miss do you need chalk?' 'Miss, can I speak to my friend?' 'Miss, a message for so and so...' Oh they'd to anything to get a peek at me! The other teachers realised this too, after letting the same girls out 'to the toilet' multiple times. 'Haven't you ever seen a chinese before?' I asked them. They have many tourists in Madaba. 'Yes, but we haven't talked to one before or had one visit our school! ' Glad to make your day then.

I'm sure I'll be the subject of conversation in days to come, but I don't mind. Under the white head scarves and green jackets are young, cheeky, curious minds. I hope they don't lose them when they grow up. And though it was amusing to see the mania I thought it rather sad. All they've ever known are white headscarves and green jackets: the community here is very closed, Kholoud said. I didn't do a dance, make a speech, score a try or win the Lotto. The everyday me in my everyday clothes and everyday unbrushed hair fascinated them so. How I wished I could've shown them more of the things I've seen. I'm realising we've got a lot to learn about this world, but I think we also have a lot to give.

Nearly killed by kindness

Yesterday I went to Salt (pronounced 'Salit'), a town near Fuheis. ALL by myself (big girl now). My host mother told me how to take the bus there and back again...I desperately tried to understand her instructions. So, armed with my Lonely Planet and Rough Guides books, my notebook of Arabic words and numbers and a piece of paper with 'Salt' 'Amman' and 'Fuheis' written in Arabic, I set off....

The shortest route to Salt involved a changeover of buses in Swaheleh. There, I stopped to top up my phone card and ask where ‘Malgef Salt’ (bus station for Salt) was. I expected to be pointed in the general direction, but instead found myself following one of the shop workers down the street, across the road and at the doorstep of the correct bus. ‘If you need anything, come back’ he said, and disappeared.

In Salt I wandered around the old streets lined with market-style stalls and small shops. Pausing at one, I asked what the pancake-like pancake things were. I forget their name in Arabic, but the nice old guy gave me one to try. How good his hygiene standards were I guess I’ll find out in a few days. He started chatting away in broken English. Where are you from? What are you doing in Salt? Come in, have a seat, do you drink tea? And so, in his little store by the stove we sat and chatted for at least a good half hour.

Two teenage boys came in to change the gas tanks for him. They too spoke broken English.‘Beautiful,’ one said. ‘Inti (you) beautiful’. I rolled my eyes. Probably the most beautiful Asian tourist he’d today. Saleh (the pancake seller) said I was the 1st Chinese (‘Number one!’) he’d actually properly talked to. I didn’t see any tourists – Asian or otherwise - all day, though he said a decent number could usually be found in Salt. They'd probably be more common in peak seasons, and I imagine there'd be quite a few Chinese (Chinese are everywhere, right?). But to be the 1st that he’s talked to in 10 years of selling pancakes! Makes me think that tourists – or maybe just Asian tourists - are content to just buy, smile and continue on 'exploring the culture'. They get the pancakes, but the real feast they miss out on.

‘Anytime you want help, tell me’ he said, giving me his number. I know what you’re thinking. Naive girl! Dodgy guy! But I’m telling you: I’m not and he’s not. You can’t make that judgment without being here; one day you must come and see what I mean. How sad it is that, in this day and age, we can’t accept genuine, no-strings-attached kindness for what it is – our skeptic minds are always scanning through the possibilities of what may be the ulterior motive.

‘Excuse me,…uh…Fuheis?’ ‘No, to Fuheis not here’ she said. ‘Tali’ (come). And although the correct stop was a good 5 mins walk away, she led me there, made inquiries and passed me on to a group of students bound in the same direction. I walked in disbelief and I felt so bad. I don’t know where she was going or what bus she was catching, all I know is that this lovely covered- up English-speaking lady went quite out of her way to make sure I was ok, and there was no way I could repay her.

The bus was full of University students. The girl next to me helped me pay the correct fare (40 piastre – like 80cNZ!!). ‘I'm sick…’ she told me. ‘Influenza.’ Cough cough. Not something you tell to a stranger when you 1st meet them. Whether she’s contagious or not I guess I’ll find out in a few days. ‘Where in Fuheis are you going?’ she asked. I hadn't learnt the name of my small street – I just knew the intersection and landmarks. Popping my head out into the aisle to look for them drew much attention. ‘Wen?(where?)’ ‘Wen?’ ‘Hon?(here?) ‘Hon?’ 'Inti?' And so though uncalled for, I quickly had half the bus, including the ticket officer and driver helping me get off at the right stop. I’m sure I amused them, for they were all laughing as I jumped off and headed up the road behind the cloud of dust.

Walking down my quiet road on Tuesday a car drove past and, as one is used to doing in NZ, I waved. The man pulled over and wound down the window. 'Do you need something?' he asked politely. Did I look needy? 'you waved,' he explained. 'Oh,' (did I?) 'just saying hi...' And with a slightly confused look on his face and a mental note to myself not to do that again, we continued on our merry ways.

Us Kiwis pride ourselves in being of the friendly, helpful kind. But the kindness of Jordanians to strangers (foreigners or of their own kind) is unsurpassable. I’ve never come across any of the sort in any of my travels, anywhere. Despite being the ultra orang asing here, I feel much safer compared to Malaysia. ‘Welcome!’ ‘Welcome to Jordan!’ they all call to me. Even the smaller residential streets seemed safe enough – the only attacks I got were from children 'Hello!' 'How are you?', offering me chips (not for sale, the packet she was eating) and giving me big smiles.

I can't help thinking that this was the kind of hospitality, kindness and care that Jesus (standing somewhere not too far away from where I am) meant when he said 'Love your neighbour as yourself'; the kind that God continually exhorted the Israelites to show to the aliens and in their (this) land. To be on the receiving end is inspiring and most humbling. And how ironic that in this place now full of headscarves, mosques, supposed unrest and holy wars, this is what I'm shown. I think we in the West have a lot to learn.

Angels from Avis

Sun 28 Feb 10

18 hours worth of flights, the 13 hour layover in Frankfurt and very little sleep were all expected. What wasn't was the lack of a welcome party when I reached Amman airport. Our plane arrived in good time. I bought a visa on the spot for 10JD (oh the beautiful sound of those stamps...) I passed security with no problems. My luggage was there to greet me, but no-body else was. I scanned the name placards like a lost kid 'are you my mummy?' in vain. Oh well, perhaps they're running late. But as the people slowly dribbled away I had the that feeling punctuality wasn't the problem. Hmmm...one stranded at 2am in a foreign airport is in need of help.

Help came in the form of 2 guys manning the Avis car rental booth. As there was no payphone or internet access in the arrival hall, they kindly let me use their phone and internet (for free even!Jordanians aren't out to make a buck unlike those in other countries..) The problem was that although I could reach my host family (poor Dana, waking her up at that hour only to worry her!), they weren't the ones responsible to pick me up - my exchange organisation was, and I couldn't get through to them.

The airport was all but deserted - no flights arrived after mine. There's only so much people watching you can do before it gets boring (particularly when everyone leaves and the remaining subjects go to sleep). And reading with a jetlagged brain is non-productive. Thus, with the reassurance of my Avis Angels that they (and their phone) were there anytime I needed, I bunked down on a bench.

I actually managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep, despite the repeated announcements 'We regret to announce that flight _____ from Bangkok has been delayed..' (no ones there waiting anyway, lady...);' May I have your attention please. This is a non-smoking airport' (whilst all the shop owners, security guards and taxi drivers are piping away inside...); 'Please do not leave your baggage unattended' (is unconscious attendance ok?). The 5am prayers blasted from the prayer room woke me up.

At 7.30am I tried the Exchange office and cell phone numbers again, to no avail. Well, one can't wait forever, and besides, my angels were finishing their shift at 9am. (I bought them coffee to say thankyou then thought O shoot, do muslims drink coffee?) Finally, with some good thinking and communication with Dana they put me into a taxi bound for Fuheis (Dana's place). I recruited a Brit tourist to accompany me and we dropped him off at his 'Palace Hotel' (corner backpackers) in Amman city on the way. The taxi driver was also a nice, chatty guy, seemingly oblivious to the obvious fact that neither of us spoke Arabic. The ride was 40JD ($80NZD), which apparently was too much, but there were many worse things he could have done to me so being overcharged was the least of my worries. Oh the relief to pull up at a drive way and my host mother to welcome me with a kiss on each cheek! I tipped the driver 0.70 JD in coins and a complimentary lolly from Changi airport - it was all I had to give.

I was fed with pita bread, eggs, plum jam (made from their homegrown plums), olive oil (pressed from their homegrown olives),fresh thyme (from their garden), dukkah (homemade from the thyme), goats cheese (no goats, unfortunately) and tea. All prepared by their maid who, by the way, is Indonesian. So here I am, supposedly teaching English, desperately trying to learn Arabic yet digging up my Malay I thought I'd laid to rest 3 days ago.

Life brings the unexpected, doesn't it?