Year Abroad

Khaled and Maha Continued

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Our apartment comes with a TV with more channels than you can shake a stick at. After rifling through news, sports and ad channels of varying intelligibility – near impossible to downright incomprehensible – we stumbled across a soap that had just started. To give you an insight into the beauty that is an Arabic soap, I’ll sum it up for you.
Roll credits. Boy meets girl. Girl draws portrait of boy. Boy buys flowers for girl. Boy proposes. Wedding. Boy meets mother-in-law. Fat bloke sits in corner crying and scoffing baklava. Boy and girl sign marital documents.

End credits. Boy and girl, after two minutes of vignetted, smile-drowned credits, are filing for a divorce. And all because the boy’s chubby buddy invited himself and two hookers to the guy’s house whilst his wife was out. And all this happened in just under four minutes in total. Part of me cheerily wants to believe that this is the rest of the infamous al-Kitaab Khaled/Maha saga, the other would dearly like to know what in blazes is going on. Everybody speaks at the speed of a bullet train. Everybody, that is, except the titular estranged lovers, who do a lot of the old staring mournfully at each other without so much as a word in edgeways.

Well, it’s just gone a quarter past ten here in our apartment (that’s eight o’clock English time). Sleeping wasn’t easy; not only does this city never sleep, but the room’s been steadily heating up since sunrise. Being just off the main road doesn’t help either. At least it’s vaguely central! After leaving the girls with their drivers at the airport for presumably the last time until class on Sunday, we were driven to our apartment by the surliest of the three cabbies. Andrew tried some Arabic on him but it was a very one-way conversation. But he got us to the front door in the end, and that’s all that matters. It’s a good deal better than what I was expecting, but then again I’ve been living in a £200 pound per month property in Durham: my standards, as you might imagine, aren’t exactly sky-high.

We’re taking it easy this morning. There’s a fair few things that need doing before classes begin tomorrow: namely, finding the nearest bank, post office, market, cafe and, of course, Ali Baba International Language Institute itself, which is supposed to be right next door, apparently. Unfortunately we’re right above a fast food sprawl: McDonalds, KFC, Burger King et al. glaring red and yellow right outside my window. We found a marginally more authentic shawarma joint to take suhuur this morning, but it wasn’t as simple as asking for Combo 8. It didn’t help that our non-conversational taxi driver told us that suhuur was at ‘thantayn wa nos’ – whatever that’s supposed to mean. Ending up going for breakfast at two thirty am on a level guess, by which point most establishments were shutting up shop. Lost in translation again, and this time in a language I’m supposed to understand. Bummer.

If we could find a functioning wifi hotspot as well, that would also be pretty grand, so you can actually start reading these posts. Between getting this iGizmo on Thursday and arriving in Amman, I’ve yet to find anywhere with reliable internet. Here’s to success on that front at least. B’saHa. BB x

Admirals and Army Knives

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Dosvedanya! I’m writing to you from 1500 feet above the Ukraine, where the sun is shining and the sea of clouds below is literally just that: a sea. It looks like choppy water. And this is also the first post from my new iPad, courtesy of Durham’s International Office. Three words into this post and it’s actually trying to predict every word I write next with little to no prompt. Give this gizmo a couple of weeks and it’ll have my writing style memorised so well that it’ll be writing these entries for me. Scary stuff.

Back to the present! It’s been a most interesting adventure already. No hitches at Gatwick, which isn’t exactly a first, although there was a little trouble over Andrew’s Swiss Army knife, which he’d left in his hand luggage. For some reason they allowed him to keep it, though sadly it didn’t survive the less forgiving Ukrainian customs. I should explain, there hasn’t been a sudden change of plan – our flight to Jordan involves a layover at Borispol-Kiev. We – that is, the five Arabists that make up the British Council team – are all heading for Amman together, though how things will pan out at the other end remains to be seen (you’ll be reading this in retrospect, naturally, as there’s no wifi on the plane). Looking around, we’re also definitely the ethnic minority on this flight. I’m hearing snatches of Arabic conversation on all sides. It’s great – and just a taste of what’s to come.
But it wasn’t an Arab with whom I had my first encounter, but an admiral from Odessa. He needn’t have shown me his credentials (needless to say he did and did so with boyish pride), the many colours pinned to his uniform and a large golden badge in the shape of a star were hard to miss. He didn’t speak much English and my Russian is limited to the few words I picked up from Fiddler on the Roof, but he was eager to try, and told me in limited words (and unlimited hand gestures) about his time as Chief Officer of a Soviet submarine crew, traveling the world over from Venice to Swansea, Calcutta, Djakarta, Los Angeles and beyond. He even told me a tale of a 75k fish he’d caught once, but that might just have got lost in translation somewhere down the line. Kind of sad to see him go, really.

It’s getting dark outside. Just a sliver of light on the horizon. When last I checked we were somewhere over the Black Sea, but it’s too dark to see now. I’m only a little concerned about the technicalities at the other end; namely, getting a Jordanian visa, some local currency, and finding wherever it is we’re supposed to be living in for the next few months. Que sera sera, inshallah etc. At the end of the day, at least I’m not alone. And that’s probably the most encouraging thing.

Oh hang ten – here comes food!

Mm-mm. That certainly filled a corner. Not sure whether the ham salad was such a good idea on a flight bound for Jordan in the first week of Ramadan, though. See you In Amman! BB x

   

Permit Number A38

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All this admin will be the death of me. It’s by far the most difficult task of the entire Year Abroad and I’ve hardly even started. Throw into the mix that I’ll be out of the country in five days’ time and it just gets even more needlessly complicated. Erasmus, ICPC and Placement Agreement forms… They’re all well and good, but it’s the little complications they entail that screw over the whole business. Scanned copies of hand-signed signatures, for one. Only one file allowed per application, for another. Try a passport-sized photograph that must be signed by a relevant public official from a list of possible professions, excluding teachers, lecturers or just about any other convenient notary. My parents are both music teachers. Whilst our family scope is (in this case alone) fortunately minimal, the rest of the social circle I’ve grown up in is filled almost entirely with musicians, artists and other ‘vagrants’ of that nature; those not deemed in a ‘reliable’ position for affirming my identity. That, and they must have known you for at least two years in order to confirm you are who you say you are.

Then you need a chequebook to pay for the whole shebang which, unfortunately, I have not had in my possession for almost five years now. Another unnecessary complication. Admin just makes me go to pieces. As I said, it’s not the idea of it, but the little tasks that make the whole thing nearly impossible. And because there’s that shred of possibility, it makes it all the more exhausting. Oh, and did I mention a deadline? I didn’t need to. It was obvious. Never mind the fact that my application gave details and addresses of two previous teaching positions, the government still needs proof that I’m safe around children. Which is fair enough, I suppose, but it doesn’t half drive me up the wall in frustration. Oh, I’m going to look back on all of this in a few years’ time and laugh, I guess, but right now I’m screaming.

There’s worse: this is only the beginning. At the end of the day, all this is British administration. Spanish administration is notoriously impossible to navigate. It’s almost as bad as the French passion for paperwork, and of course, it’ll all be in Spanish. And I’ve all of this to look forward to! Asterix and Obelix, I feel your pain… BB x

Packhorse on the Underground

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I have too much stuff. Simply put. If that wasn’t obvious once I’d crammed it all into two suitcases, a shoulder bag and a satchel, it was made all the more so when I had to lug it from Durham to Crawley, across the Underground with everything on my back. I weighed it on the bathroom scales when I got back and it seems that between the four loads I was carrying nigh on 65 kilos of clothes, books and other bits and pieces. That explains why my shoulders were on fire this morning, as if I needed an explanation. The insides of my fingers are still burning from the strain. By the time I got to London Victoria I was actually dragging the lot across the floor, bent double, in order to keep moving; my fingers felt like they were on the verge of falling off. If it weren’t for an angel sent to help me at King’s Cross – a kindly Bolivian mother of three who shouldered half of my luggage for me when I collapsed in the Underground terminus – I sincerely doubt I’d have made it to Three Bridges in one piece. Typical, that of all the people in the Underground, it would be a Spanish speaker who came to my assistance. London can be so very faceless and yet there are beacons of hope shining in the darkness. I hope that doesn’t sound too disparaging. I was dead on my feet yesterday and even less sympathetic towards the metropolis than usual. The Underground is bad enough when you’ve only got one load to worry about, let alone four; one strapped to your back, one over your shoulder, one in one hand and one in the other. But all’s well that ends well – I made it home!

And that’s it for Year Two. Kaputt. After all the stress and strain I’m home again, and I assure you, I’m not taking anywhere near as much stuff with me to Jordan, let alone when fourth year comes to call. Yesterday did turn out some great news though: I’ve been selected to represent Durham as an official ‘Study Abroad Blogger’. Everything I could have wanted and more. I’ll post a link when it’s all been smoothed out to the main page so you can keep up with my colleagues’ exploits when they set off for their various destinations in September. As for me, well, in a week’s time I’ll be on a plane bound for Jordan, via a brief layover in Kiev. Two hours isn’t enough to get out of the terminal and stretch the legs, so to speak, but no matter – Andrew and I will have time to explore on the way home with that generous twelve hour layover. That, at the end of a week to travel around Jordan to take in some of the sights. Candlelit Petra, anyone? Something to look forward to. Get excited: it won’t be long before I’m no longer clawing thoughts out of the air but serving you anecdotes fresh from the Middle East. How’s that for a breath of fresh air? BB x

The Great Admin Flood

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We’re getting to that transitional stage of the Master Plan when it suddenly all gets real. Not the British Council side, of course – details, as usual, are and continue to be pending, but it’s the Arabic side that’s beginning to take off, so to speak. By the end of May, I’m supposed to have completely the necessary admin for and secured:

  • Student Finance for 2015/16
  • Erasmus
  • Form No.6 for the MLAC Department
  • A study placement at an Arabic language institute in Amman, Jordan
  • Flights for said study placement
  • Insurance for said study placement (HAH)
  • Rail ticket home to catch flight to said study placement

All before the month is out. And somewhere in there I’ve still got four exams to go, all revision-heavy and – guess what? – all right down to the wire. The afternoon of the 29th, to be precise. The second the British Council gives me my province, I’ll tackle the lot in one afternoon flat, I reckon. After some kind of tribal rain dance in celebration, welcoming that information like rain at the end of this great drought of ignorance. Too metaphorical? Of course it is. But a great deal less over-the-top than my comparison of the Berlin Wall to a Great-Crested Grebe’s nest in yesterday’s Spanish exam. Yes. Don’t even ask. I simply couldn’t resist using that wonderful word somormujo in an exam. I’ve been waiting for the chance and I took it. I just hope the examiner on the other hand is lenient enough to let it slide. Or has a sense of humour. That’d be preferable. Anonymous codes aside, by the time anybody reaches the letter ‘Y’, they must be getting pretty tired of reading essays, by my (wistful/skewed) logic. Fingers crossed! It’s one thing having a sackful of random, wacky vocab to pull out at the opportune moment, but it’s quite another to find somewhere wholly relevant. But I’m sure you don’t need telling that. That’s more of a strike across the hand for me. Maybe I’ll look back on this in a couple of years and laugh. Or, more likely still, in a couple of weeks, with grades in hand, and berate my foolishness. EIther or.

Major digression. What I was actually intending to write about was my predictions for Jordan. So I was revising Arabic grammar this afternoon at the Student Union building which lapsed into a Jordan planning sesh after a couple of hours of the jussive and the imperative. A couple of hours too many. Two things I found: that an ISIC card should (theoretically) get you a student discount of around 45-60% off flights to Jordan (which, when you consider the £200 average price, is a major deal-breaker), and that the Jerash Music Festival will be taking place during our stay. I’m normally unlucky with that kind of thing, missing out on the big religious festivals or musical events by a couple of weeks when I’m on my travels, but this time I’ve struck it lucky. So although it’ll be way too hot to do some of the things I’d planned on doing – like desert treks, for example – where there’s a will, there’s a way. Jordan is going to be expensive, which is a major downer, especially when you compare it to Morocco, which is where I’d planned on going. Not only did Fes grow on me when I stayed there over the Easter, but when you compare the flight rates to those of Amman – £20 to £240 – you almost want to tear up the carpet in frustration. I did, anyway. Almost.

Check on me later when I’m in a more stable state of mind. This evening had me finally get around to fixing the wobbly wheely chair with super glue, which naturally had a little get onto my hands which then required a mad dash to the kitchen and boiling water. Not a stable state of mind. I’ll let you know when the BC gives me a province, okay? Hasta pronto x

Green Light

/ Benjamin Barnabas / 3 Comments

Six months and six days after sending off my forms, the British Council have finally given me the go-ahead I’ve been waiting for:

‘I am pleased to inform you that you have passed the eligibility and quality assessment stage for applications to Spain and that we will now be proposing your application for a post.’

Hallelujah. Three nail-biting hours spent sitting in the armchair in the living room with a neglected Persian verb table lying open next to me and we have news! And good news, too. They go on to reiterate that it’s not a guaranteed post, just as they have in every email they’ve sent yet, and even though there’s still nothing on a location – nor will there be until the end of the month – it’s still made my day. Next year is now that little bit more certain. And how’s that for an ego boost! Expect a dearth of sarcastic posts for a time. I blame the latent advent of Hip-Hop into my music taste. And myself, of course. Heck, no, not today. I’ll be having none of this self-critical stuff today. Nuh-uh. Today’s about victory. I’m going back. Where exactly is anybody’s guess, but that’s not what matters. I’m going back. A whole eight months’ work in Spain, speaking Spanish, teaching English and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Did somebody say churros? Oh yeah! I’m not going to let an early morning countryside sortie hold me back this time. Not with eight months in the seat!

Of course, it’s all admin from here on up. Admin and exams. So much subtle admin in the wings that I’m a little worried I might overlook one or two of the little tasks. Best to keep your head screwed on for the time being. Anyway, I’d better get back to the Persian revision for the time being, I think. Priority number one for the next eighteen hours!

Khoda hafiz, folks x

Looking Ahead

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Blimey, these Arabic listening past papers are a mixed bag and a half. Learning the vocab in advance isn’t the problem, it’s the random new words they throw in for good measure. The case marking doesn’t help either, but at least we don’t have to do that ourselves. MSA is supposed to be clear and easy to understand, but sometimes I swear it was easier to get by in Morocco. None of this case-marking chaos in the real world. Yes, I am writing this post in the last five minutes of an Arabic lab session. It kind of petered out towards the end. Everybody seems to be in the same boat as far as total disorganisation is concerned. Us British Council hopefuls aren’t the only ones in the dark. The entire Arabic portion of the year abroad is still very much up in the air. Will it be Jordan? Will it be Lebanon? Or will it be Morocco? Cause it sure as hell won’t be anywhere else, since those are our only options. Oh, to have been born a few years earlier and then to have had the chance to go to Syria or Egypt…! Puts everything in perspective, that. I mean, Syria…! As a viable year abroad option! Nobody would even dream of it nowadays. And to think it was at the top of my list when I first applied to study Arabic three years ago. So much for that. Thanks Assad. Thanks IS. Thanks to everyone else on the CIA hit list.

The bigger picture, kid, think of the bigger picture. I suppose Jordan won’t be so bad. It’s just the price hike that bothers me and that’s just me being petty, right? Were I going to the American Language Institute in Fes (ALIF) and not Qasid, hopping back and forth between Spain and Morocco would be easy as anything – not to mention adventurous, since it would entail docking at either Tangier or the Spanish enclaves and then traversing the Rif to get to Fes. How’s that for commuting? As it stands, it looks like Amman is the only viable option, and it’s not so easy to get to and from Spain – let alone the UK – from Jordan at the snap of a wrist. Well, I’ll be playing it by ear for a little longer, I think. These first few posts have quite a sarky, waspish tone to them that I don’t like. That’s probably lingering BC stress and pre-exam tension setting in. The sun, however, is shining brighter than ever. The long British heatwave known as ‘summer’ is upon us. Things can only go up from here, right?

Learning to be Patient

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The long-awaited reply came back from the British Council today regarding the allocation of teaching assistant posts in Spain for the coming year. The deadline’s been extended – so we won’t be hearing the results for another week. Not only that, but it’s been split into parts, so we’ll only have the full picture after three weeks. And somewhere in that mess I need to organise the rest of my year abroad around eight ghost months that still may or may not be happening, and the later I leave it, the more expensive that will get. Frustration doesn’t cover it. It’s been pretty galling hearing from the other applicants on the French and German side getting both their placements and their regions in one go, and hearing nothing from Spain – and now this – but I guess I should have seen that coming. It is Spain we’re talking about, after all. Since when did any self-respecting Spaniard adhere to the laws of time? I’ll hear when I hear and I guess that’s just it. It’s not like I don’t have other things to think about. Oral exams, for one. Prioritise, man!

So this is just a first post to touch base, really. I’d counted on christening it with a confirmation from the BC, but obviously that will just have to wait for the time being. All I know for now is that I’m in with at least a ghost of a chance because I had the common sense (or total lack of it, depending on your point of view) to tick the ‘small town’ and ‘rural’ boxes on the application form instead of the horrendously oversubscribed ‘large town/city’ option. A bit of fishing around other BC assistants’ blogs has thrown up the same story time and time again, so it’s obviously nothing new. Every year over two-thirds of applicants choose to be sent to the cities and every year the BC sends out a desperate plea, asking everyone involved to consider a less urban post. The way the email was written made the ‘rural’ option sound even more of a dangerous move. If well over two thirds of the applicants asked to be put in cities, how many were left over for the small town option, let alone rural?

Amongst the reasons the BC gave for leaving the cities was the total immersion thing. Oh, don’t worry, BC – I’m game for that. Just how severe that immersion is remains to be seen. In all my blog-trawling I’ve only found one post about a rural BC assistant and her main issue was the total lack of people her own age in her post. That’s a very real risk and I accept it. But Spain is Spain and I’m not throwing myself into the mix to spend a year in pubs and clubs. Look at Durham; I mean, if it’s nightlife you’re after, you wouldn’t apply here… There’s so much more to Spain than the nightlife. Just you wait and see. Only, don’t wait on my account. I still haven’t finished waiting.

Apologies for the slightly bitter first post. I was a touch disappointed, that’s all. I’ll let you know when I hear anything further…