Year Abroad

Packhorse on the Underground

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

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

Summer Blues, City Blues

/ Benjamin Barnabas / 1 Comment

There’s no better birthday present in the world than an invoice for nearly two thousand dollars. What a way to start the day. Even off the back of a very generous exchange rate, that’s still a cartload of cash. Of course, what with Student Finance working tirelessly behind the scenes, I suppose it’s easy to forget that I’m putting myself further and further in debt with those £9000 a year tuition fees hovering silently overhead, unseen until they pounce, leech-like, on my first pay cheque. That’s just a bugbear my generation have to face, I guess – not with apathy per se, but with a grudging acceptance that it’s the way things are. So yeah, in short, it was a good start to a twenty-first birthday.

DSC03651

In search of peace of mind, I took a wander out of town for somewhere quiet to sit and think. I initially made for my usual spot beside the river in the Broompark Woods, but as the sun was shining so gloriously and as I hadn’t actually done it before, I set my sights on the hill high over New Brancepeth and made for the top. It took a little while to climb down into the valley and up the other side, and it was quickly apparent that I’d left the Durham bubble far behind me. Everywhere I went I got strange looks from the people I passed; I guess not many students make it this far out of the bubble. Which is a crying shame, because it’s simply b-e-a-utiful. As soon as you’ve put a mile and a half between yourself and the city itself, you’re back in the real north again: fields lined with dry stone walls, rolling, sheep-strewn hills and open sky. Romantic, much. But you already know I’m a sucker for that kind of thing. From the top off the hill overlooking New Brancepeth, about an hour’s walk from Durham itself, you can see for miles in all directions. The cathedral tower, poking out from the valley in which it sits, dwarfs the city even from so far away. But what gets you is the silence. I’ve spent this year living on the fringes of the city, but you can still hear the hum of the A167. Get yourself out onto the hills and it’s another world. Just a couple of pipits, the odd yellowhammer and a single skylark singing their hearts out, with the far-off bleat of a lamb skipping after its mother. Rural idyll. Never mind its status, this is the real reason I applied here. If only I had the time to see more of it. I’d hoped to spend this end of term striking out around the north, but once again the year’s come and gone and I’ve not yet made the move. Fourth year will almost definitely see me finally striking out for Lindisfarne, the Lake District and the Farne Islands.

Durham City in the valley below New Brancepeth

Durham City in the valley below New Brancepeth

I don’t know how I’m going to survive for the next two months. The Arab political situation and the basic laws of the land have left me no choice: if I am to continue to study Arabic, I must go to live in the city. Durham is by far the largest city I’ve ever lived in, which isn’t saying much, because it’s the only city I’ve ever lived in. And its size freaks me out sometimes. In less than two weeks’ time I’ll have to face down my fears and try to adapt to life in Amman, a sprawling metropolis compared to anything I’ve ever known. If I didn’t have a couple of good friends going with me, I know it would break me in days. I hope I can find somewhere to get away from it all, inside the city or outside. If only Amman weren’t so immense… The icing on the cake is the cost of it all. Two months’ study and accommodation in Amman is not exactly cheap. My twisted logic tells me that it’s just insulting to pay so much to have to live in a city, which is bad enough a situation as it is, but that’s obviously not the right way of looking at it. I’m just too much of a country boy for my own good. The sooner I can get out to some tiny, out-of-the-way pueblo in the Extremaduran heartlands, the better. My heart could do with the silence. BB x

Looking north from New Brancepeth

Looking north from New Brancepeth

Always the Bridesmaid, never the Bride

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Way back at the end of the Christmas term, my Arabic teacher sat us down and told us, quite matter-of-factly, that every year one Arabist comes back from their Year Abroad married. We’d all heard the rumour before, but to hear it from the lecturer’s own mouth was quite something. It’s like coming home from secondary school to your parents filling you in on the playground gossip. It just didn’t seem right. But apparently, it is. Arabists, it seems, have a bit of a knack for getting hitched on their year abroad. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Arab men – or at least, those I have met on my travels in Morocco – are very forward about the whole marriage proposal thing, though I would hope that nobody actually takes them seriously… it’s normally just all a part of the bartering game, right? (At least, I hope it is – for Archie’s sake…) Strangely enough, it’s not just the girls who get hitched either. The split is a clean fifty-fifty, which is odd, not because girls get more marriage proposals – Archie can vouch for the contrary – but because the dowry paid to the bride in Arab cultures can be ludicrously excessive. Putting true love into a box in the corner for the time being, it’s a lose-lose situation for the men: hitched, grounded and probably penniless as well. At least the girls can put that dowry towards that nasty student loan debt. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

We drew up sweepstakes as a class a while back, trying to decide who was most likely to get hitched. Surprise surpise, I ended up tying with fellow gappie Rosie for the spot. Ha ha. Very funny. I’ll bet my sickeningly broody reaction to the Elvet Riverside baby last term had something to do with it. The joke’s on them: I’ll be in Jordan for a maximum of four months. Five tops, factoring in moving in and travel around. Hardly enough time to get to know anybody on a friendly basis, let alone well enough to talk wedding plans. How some students came back for Year Four with a wife and child is beyond my understanding, though an idiom involving the word ‘shotgun’ comes to mind. So sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think I’ll be coming home with a glamorous Jordanian bride, folks. It ain’t happening.

Mum’s opinion was that the whole subject was childish and foolish. It’s a time to branch out and set off down new roads, for widening horizons – not laying down roots. Never mind the fact we’re supposed to be mastering the language. The stress of an Arabic wedding, hypothetical though it may be, if simply not on the cards. Not that she’d mind in the slightest if I came home with a brown-eyed, dark-haired Spanish girl on my arm (‘Think of the grandchildren!’). Not that I’d mind either. Brown eyes, curly, dark hair, and a killer accent. I’m in heaven (maybe now you too can see why they put me at the top of the list…). There’s something intensely captivating about brown eyes, don’t you think? Or maybe that’s just my angst about my ice-blue eyes talking. I’m getting better at it, but it’ll still be a while before I’m happy with having blue eyes. It’s a curse for travelling around the Mediterranean, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s as clear a sign that ‘I’m a Brit’ as a sandwich board. When my eyes finally give up on me – long may that day be in coming – I might go for brown contacts. Though in the best of all possible worlds, I’ll have gotten over my self-consciousness for good by then.

In three weeks’ time I’ll be in Amman. Humbling thought. Presumably still in a hostel, searching for accommodation. Reasons to be a girl studying Arabic include: having the luxury of a homestay organised for you. Though I can see the practical reasons for it, it leaves guys like me and Andrew in the lurch when it comes to finding a worthwhile place to stay. We’ll just have to see when we get there, I guess. Isn’t that the most exciting way? BB x

Fingers Crossed

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Pillars in the Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada, Spain (2011)

Pillars in the Court of Lions, Alhambra, Granada, Spain (2011)

Today is D-Day. Destination Day, that is. In a matter of hours (hopefully) I’ll have a province, one from either Andalucía, Extremadura or Cantabria, three equally stark, inspiring and beautiful regions of the Iberian peninsula. The BC asks you to specify which one you’d prefer and I wasted no time in putting Andalucía right at the top of the list, but I ranked ‘environment’, another of their categories, higher up the list, so it’s still anyone’s guess where I’m headed. In light of that, I’ll see if I can’t lay down my reasons for choosing each one. When I applied for university, I just went straight for Durham – twice – and filled the other four spaces with names I plucked out of the air. Not this time.

Cantabria

I’ve been to Cantabria twice: once on a school trip, and the second as the landing stage of my solo adventure across Spain back in ’13. Spain’s north coast is unquestionably beautiful, in a manner so very far-removed from the magic of the south. The north smacks more of Ireland, only a wilder, more impressive Ireland, where the people speak Spanish. Oh, and there are still a few bears left in the mountains – not that you’d be likely to see them. The jagged spine of the Picos de Europa rivals the Alps in magnificence – especially Picu Urriellu – in sunshine or in rain. Though speaking from experience, Cantabrian rain is not something to be trifled with. When it rains, it doesn’t just pour, it buckets it down in Biblical fashion. One of my most enduring memories of Cantabria is of sitting under the shelter of a covered well wearing several layers of plastic bags, feeling soaked to the skin and utterly miserable. But it was also a warm and friendly place and the food – especially the quesada pasiega but also the region’s black pudding, morcilla – was to-die-for. That and I feel like pulling out early because of the flood warnings has left the area ‘unfinished’ in my books. I’ll be going back someday, for sure.

Extremadura

Extremadura, alongside Galicia, La Rioja and Valencia, is one of the few regions I haven’t yet had the pleasure to visit. Perhaps that’s because it’s so far off the beaten track for most excursions that you’d be better off based somewhere like Andalucía to have a wide range within driving distance. But there’s no two ways about it: Extremadura is a hidden gem. Often overlooked in favour of its southern neighbour, it’s a vast stretch of rolling steppe, craggy river valleys and endless cork oak forests flooded with flowers in the spring. It’s about as rustic as you can get it, if you know where to go. Of course, it’s also about as unforgiving as the plains of La Mancha in high summer, and it has a reputation – Cortes and Pizarro were born here – but if you can look past that, you’ll understand why I’m almost hoping that my gamble with valuing environment over region will have the BC place me here. I’ve criss-crossed most of Andalucía already. Extremadura is still vast, unexplored and full of adventure.

Andalucía

Three people have told me now that if I should apply to Andalucía via the BC, I should be careful not to wind up in Cadiz, because of the miserable weather, the isolation and the impenetrable accent. Trouble is, I can’t help my heart. I grew up in Cadiz. The accent I can vouch for – it’s Bwindi-level impenetrable – but as far as isolation and miserable weather is concerned, that’s not the Andalucía I know and love. Far from it. If you’ll forgive me an almighty head-over-heels moment, Andalucía is and always has been the greatest love of my life. Granada and its Moorish echoes to the east. Cordoba’s flowerpot streets and the magnificence of the Gran Mezquita to the north. The godforsaken terrain of El Torcal and the Sierra de Grazalema to the south. And last but not least, the sweeping marshlands of Doñana to the west. Not to mention the enduring horse culture, flamenco, the vulture-filled blue skies and, of course, the dark-eyed beauty of the people. Andalucía has everything. Honestly, if it weren’t for Andalucía, I might have been braver and gone for a BC post in South America. But the way I see it, turning down a chance to spend another eight months in my old homeland would be one of the greatest mistakes I could make. That’s why Andalucía tops the list.

But we’ll see how things pan out, shall we? I’d better head on down to Elvet Riverside to pick up that last Arabic essay. Slightly dreading the results, since it was another late night work, my third this year, and my first genuine all-nighter. And three is, and always has been, a dangerous number. I’ll get back to you later! BB x

Looking Ahead

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

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…