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.