6/2/09

            I woke up on my own again at 6:30 a.m.

            As I got ready for a long day of meetings someone rang my doorbell.

            I answered the door and was greeted by a hotel employee with a cart of oranges and bananas.

            “Hello sir,” he said, “would you like a fruit?”

            “Uh, no,” I replied.

            I was still only half-awake and thought that I had somehow mistakenly ordered breakfast to my room.

            Two cups of coffee later and I was fully awake.

            I met my group in the lobby and we headed for the Ministry of the Environment.

            On our way to meet the Minister of the Environment, I thought about my options for producing a quality video story.

            Another student in the group had mentioned that the Red Sea was facing problems with losing its water supply as Jordan, Syria and Israel all take water from the Jordan River.

            I knew our last day was a free day at a resort on the Red Sea so I would have the chance to do some filming there if I wanted.

            I was still nervous about trying to get broll of Amman and getting the chance to speak with ordinary citizens and I wanted to come back to the U.S. with the resources to tell at least one good story.

            Doing an environmental story about the Dead Sea seemed like the best option.

            Luckily, His Excellency Khaled Irani, the Minister of the Environment, was the only government official who agreed to be interviewed on camera.

            I asked him some specific questions about the Dead Sea and got some good potential sound bites.

            I figured I could talk to some hotel and tourist shop employees when I got to the Dead Sea and ask them about their feelings towards the Dead Sea drying up.

            The Minister of the Environment had given a fairly decent explanation of the problem and I could explain the rest in my narration and standup.

            After the meeting, our group headed to downtown Amman to walk around the shops and markets.

            We stopped on the way there to have lunch and I experienced eating a falafel for the first time.

            I had asked my roommate, who is from Egypt, once before about what exactly falafel is. He couldn’t really answer the question.

            My observation was that falafel is pita bread filled with chickpeas and peppers. I think there are a few more ingredients but I was hungry and ate my falafel rather than examined it.

            Something in it tasted like a pesto sauce. It was very good.

            The streets of downtown Amman were incredibly crowded and dirty and our guide, Mo, wanted all of us to stay together.

            Once again, I faced problems because I was the only broadcast journalist.

            Mo literally walked us through the streets and barely ever stopped.

            I spent the time stopping to film for seconds at a time and then would run to catch up.

            I certainly wasn’t going to have time to stop and interview anybody.

            I was very frustrated as I tried to get wide, medium and tight shots of the crowded market place.

            Forget trying to film any sequences. I simply did not have the time.

            The central market in Amman is a very crowded and dirty place.

            All sorts of filth and grime line the streets that are packed full of Jordanians who sell everything from live rabbits and birds to shoes and cell remote controls.

            There were many shops that sold fruit, vegetables and spices, which I was able to get some good photos of.

            So I spent the hour alternating between taking photos for myself and trying to film broll for my now almost doomed story.

            When we got back to our bus, I realized my story about Jordan and U.S. efforts for a two-state solution was dead.

            I didn’t have any government interviews on camera, my broll was lacking and I didn’t have any opinions from local Jordanians. I had nothing.

            I was very frustrated.

            How can print journalists say broadcast journalists are lazy people with just pretty faces?

            Everyone else just had to take notes at meetings and maybe snap a few pictures.

            I had to visualize every part of the story that I wanted to tell and this press trip was not affording me that ability.

            Our next meeting was with Dr. Moen Nsour, CEO of the Jordan Investment Board.

            The first thing he said when we started the meeting was that he was not comfortable being filmed.

            I had the camera disassembled before he even finished the sentence.

            I had half-expected this based on my previous luck with interviewing Jordanians in high positions of power.

            He said he felt he could be more candid if I wasn’t filming.

            How come his candid comments could be quoted in print but not shown on a TV?

            But most of what he said was off the record anyway.

            I wondered how the print journalists would even be able to right decent articles when half of their sources talked to them off the record.

            It’s fair to say I wasn’t in the best mood during this part of the trip.

            I started to question the quality of any of the information we were given.

            I knew the media laws were different in Jordan but we had turned into a group of pack journalists who were recording talking point responses from government officials who wouldn’t even go on record.

            Most of the officials even commented that they thought the media often reports stories in a polarized fashion.

            How was delivering a prepared speech and sticking to some main talking points when they were asked questions going to solve this problem?

            Like I said, I didn’t fully understand the media laws or public relations of this constitutional monarchy, but I began to doubt the quality of our reporting.

            After sitting through Dr. Nsour’s meeting and taking notes that I knew I probably would never use, we left to go meet with the Jordan River Foundation.

            Contrary to its name, the Jordan River Foundation actually works to improve the lives of abused women and children and has nothing to do with a river.

            His Majesty’s wife, Queen Rania, created this foundation that has programs throughout the country.

            We visited the Queen Rania Family and Child Center.

            I filmed everything as we got a tour of the building.

            Although it wasn’t a particular interest of mine, this visit was a stand-alone story and I actually had the chance to get some broll.

            So I kept my camera rolling for the entire visit in the hopes of having enough good video and sound bytes to piece together a short package about the center.

            But filming some of the mothers at the center was an issue so I had to be very careful to not show any faces of the women who did not want to be on camera.

            I focused most of my shots on their hands as they made puppets for the children at the center.

            The children were at school during the time of our visit so I didn’t have to worry about any issues with them

             This was the first time I was able to shoot sequences and get enough broll to actually produce a story.

            So if nothing else, I would have a story about the Queen Rania Family and Child Center.

            We had two hours of free time before our evening meeting so I decided to try to catch a taxi and return to downtown Amman on my own.

            I flagged down a cab and quickly realized getting back to the central market would be harder than I thought.

            Although I had heard that most Jordanians speak English, my taxi driver was one of the few who didn’t.

            Only knowing a few words of Arabic, I did a horrible job of trying to explain where I wanted to go.

            “Shopping,” I said, “Downtown, food, markets.”

            “Shopping!” the taxi driver said and then continued a full sentence in Arabic, which I did not understand.

            “Yes,” I said. Having agreed that I did say “shopping.”

            It was clear that we had hit a language barrier.

            Thankfully, that was the only thing we hit as my driver bobbed and weaved through Amman rush hour traffic.

            I had a decent grasp of my orientation between the hotel and downtown Amman and it seemed that we weren’t going in the right direction.

            I tried to ask the guy where we were headed but he just smiled and spoke to me in Arabic.

            The only English he knew, it seemed, was how to tell me how much my taxi ride was.

            I arrived at the Mecca Mall, which was like any mall in the U.S. but you can smoke indoors and everything is even more expensive.

            So after strolling past a Footlocker and a cell phone kiosk, I went back outside and decided to try my luck with a different taxi.

            I hopped in another taxi only to find myself in the same situation but with a different driver.

            But this new guy was determined to help me and even asked some locals on a street corner and a police officer if they could translate my English for him.

            I suppose it was my fault that I could not explain clearly where I wanted to go.

            I described the area to the police officer, who seemed fairly confident that he knew what I was talking about, and we headed to, “down Amman.”

            But after driving for a little while more, I wasn’t recognizing the area.

            That’s when I realized my camera had pictures of the market from when I was there earlier in the day.

            I pulled up a photo of a mosque in the heart of downtown and showed the driver.

            He nodded and said something to me in Arabic and starting making motions with his hands like he was taking pictures.

            Traffic was heavy and I was running out of time before I had to meet up with my group at 7 p.m. back at the hotel.

            I asked my driver how much more time it would take before we got there.

            “Time?” I said pointing to my watch, “how much?”

            “Uh, uh, ten and five,” he said slightly embarrassed, “sorry, my English not so good.”

            He kept pointing out different areas as we slowly moved through traffic and made his camera gesture with his hands.

            Finally, we arrived at a mosque that looked similar to the one in my photo but the one he took me to was bigger and had a beautiful blue dome on the top.

            “Five minutes,” he said, as he opened my car door.

            “Does this guy think I want him to drive me around to take pictures?” I thought.

            My quest for the market had failed.

            I took pictures of the mosque and asked my driver to take me back to the hotel.

            He seemed to understand but kept talking to me in Arabic.

            He stopped once more to let me take photos of the mosque from a different angle and showed me a church that was right across the street.

            “Mr. Jesus,” he said, crossing his two index fingers.

            “Yep,” I replied, hoping that I would somehow make it home.

            On the drive back to the hotel, my driver asked me if I smoked Marlboros.

            “No,” I said, “Do you smoke?”

“No, no,” he said, “I like swimming. I like walking around.”

            Perhaps I was really bad at giving directions because this taxi driver knew a decent amount of English.

            “Do you like Barack Obama?” I asked.

            “Eh,” he replied, “he maybe good, he maybe not good, I don’t know.”

            “What about Bush?” I asked.

            “Ah, Bush,” he said making his hand like a gun and waving it like a cowboy, “crazy, crazy.”

             I cracked up. I couldn’t help myself.

            My driver laughed too after seeing that I liked his response.

            “Bush not so good,” he said, “Obama could be good, we’ll see.”

            “What about Clinton?” I asked.

            “Clinton good,” he said nodding.

            “Hilary?” I asked.

            “Eh, Hilary good,” he said less enthusiastically, “but, uh, Clinton. I don’t know name.”

            That’s when he brought his hand to his mouth and seemed to make a cigar smoking motion.

            Again, I cracked up.

            “What’s his name?” he asked.

            “Bill,” I replied.

            “Bill!” he said,  “Bill Clinton very good, Reagan good, Carter very good.”

            I was impressed that he knew all of our former presidents.

            “Bush one and two, not so good,” he said while making the gun motion with his hand again.

“W,” he said with a chuckle.

            “Yeah,” I said laughing, “Do you know the word ‘worst?’” I asked him.

            “Worst?” he repeated.

            “It means ‘most bad,’” I told him, “it starts with a ‘W.’ ‘W,’ for worst, most bad,” I said.

            I shaped my hands to make the letter “W” and didn’t even realize that I had made the same gun shape with my hands that my driver had been making.

            “Ah, yes,” he said, “most bad.”

            This whole interaction made me forget about my troubled journalism stories and my failed attempt at finding downtown Amman.

            I didn’t get it on camera but I was able to have a great conversation with an ordinary Jordanian citizen.

            When we arrived at my hotel, I paid my driver and shook his hand.

            “Salaam,” he said.

            “Salaam,” I replied.

            As I headed into the hotel he drove passed and yelled, “Salaam a lakem!” and we waved goodbye.

            That taxi ride may have been the best part of this trip.

            That night before dinner, we visited the film house of the Royal Film Commission.

            This foundation is similar to public libraries in the U.S. but allows any Jordanian to check out camera equipment and use edit stations at the film house.

            There are even free courses available from everything from lighting, to editing and script writing.

            I remember wishing there was something like this in the U.S.

            They have 16 state-of-the-art digital video cameras and six Avid and Final Cut editing suites.

            I was jealous.

            The purpose of the Royal Film Commission, said Mohannad Bakri, the Capacity Building Manager, is to empower Jordanians to make films and documentaries about any topic they wish.

            The building has a breathtaking outdoor theater that overlooks downtown Amman where they screen films every week.

            I could only imagine how amazing it would be to sit outside on a warm night and watch a film that was projected against the dark night with the lights of downtown Amman glimmer in the distance. It would be incredible.

            After touring the building, we headed to the Wild Jordan Nature Conservancy and Café.

            Wild Jordan, the nature conservancy, was created by the Minister of the Environment and partially funded by the U.S.

            We ate dinner on the roof of the building, which was situated on the top of a hill that led down to the central market.

            The view was remarkable.

            Fireworks exploded in the distance, which we were told were from local Jordanian students celebrating their high school graduations.

            I sat next to Bakri and we talked about our mutual interest in film and documentaries.

            He told me that the film house had a private studio with a personal apartment that filmmakers from around the world are invited to stay and work in.

            The luxurious working space is free to use if the filmmaker agrees to teach a few workshops for the Royal Film Commission.

            I told him that I would gladly teach some editing workshops with Avid or Final Cut and he said that I was welcome back anytime and gave me his card.

            “Did I really just find a free place to stay in Jordan?”  I thought.

            Dinner that night was good but nothing authentic to the region.

            I had a steak with potatoes and vegetables and the most delicious cheesecake for dessert.

            It was a long dinner because of all the great conversation that was going on.

            We talked about everything from the Islamic rule on adoption, to President Obama’s interaction with the press, to how people in the southern states in the U.S. somehow deep fry coke.

            Needless to say, things had gotten much better from the afternoon. It was a lovely evening.

            All of the food was good but the view from the rooftop and the company was what had made this dinner so special.

            We returned to the hotel for our final night in Amman.

            We had one meeting in the morning, which was actually going to be at our hotel, before we headed to Mount Nebo and Petra.

            Most of our meetings were done and the trip was going to become more fun and touristy at this point.