I know what you're thinking:
"Conor came into contact with hyenas in Jordan, consequently learned the word for
hyena in Arabic, and potentially had to count them, but probably didn't because his title suggests a sort-of-clever-but-mostly-obnoxious pun not inspired by truth but stemming from wordplay for wordplay's sake, the kind of thing for which Conor is infamous. What's more, this blog post will probably recount the tale of how he came into contact with hyenas and maybe had to stand by while his hosts fired rifles at them. But, Conor will probably have no pictures of the hyenas or the shooting-at thereof because it was probably one of those times when it's best not to be the guy trying to whip out a camera, especially in front of the shepherd whose marble-mouthed Arabic is effectively unintelligible, but whose kind heart speaks a language common to all humanity. Conor will ask me to take his word that it's the truth, and I will, because I'm Conor's family/friend/life partner, and I trust in the unusual nature of his life trajectory and his propensity to tell a good story while sticking mostly to the truth."
You're right.
You're spot on.
Here goes...
So, at this point, I've procrastinated this blog post for so long now that I'm not even sure when this adventure happened. It was at least a week ago. Probably more. Sometimes I curse my horrid memory. But, mostly I forget why I want to curse it and don't bother. Anyway, by now, I'm far more settled in here (though by no means "settled in here") in the village and am even observing classes at my local school in preparation to begin teaching the week after next. But, I'll get to all that stuff in a later post. You want to hear about the hyenas.
At least a week ago, but decidedly--no definitely--more, my landlord, Abu Bakir (his real first name is Omar, but as Bakir is the first name of his first son, he goes by Abu Bakir in the Arabic tradition of paternal nomenclature), invited me to spend a night with him and some of his family "in the wild," as he said in his limited English. Something about his choice of words, his slightly comical accent in English, or maybe the fact that I would otherwise sit at home alone in my room and lament my decision to live alone in Jordan for two years, inspired me to join him for what would turn out to be an adventure I would never forget. (In theory. Consistent with my limited memory, it's already such a stretch for me to chronicle this story no, so far from when it took place, that the odds don't look good for me to remember this beyond March without the textual proof. And so I write!)
The night began with me grabbing a sleeping bag and a backpack full of supplies and cramming myself into an overstuffed pickup truck with my landlord and a bunch of his brother-in-laws and cousins (some of whom share both titles...welcome to Jordan and marrying your uncle's daughter). As we drove off towards the desert-like area where my landlord keeps his sheep, the guys in the front of the truck were blasting some old Bedouin music. A man was playing an instrument called the
rababa, which, if you can imagine, is a sort of upright guitar with only one string that's played with something like a violin bow. Scratch that. It's nothing like an upright guitar. It's more like...hmmm...as a kid, I used to try to make guitars out of shoeboxes, toilet paper tubes, tacks, and rubber bands. It's more like one of those with just one string...if I played it upright with a stick. It sounds pretty similar. This, coupled with a shrill voice whining out Arabic that's indistinguishable from the noise a baby makes when it means "I shat myself, but I'm incapable of speech so I'm involuntarily crying until someone makes the poop disappear from the blasted sack that keeps it strapped in close proximity to my genitals" makes for an altogether ridiculous sound. All that said, it's slightly intoxicating.
With this Bedouin love song as the soundtrack to my experience, I bounced along in the back of the pickup truck as it dodged potholes in the dark on our way to the
halal, the "farm" where the sheep are kept. One of the guys in the front seat turned back to me with a grin, which I know to mean, "I'm about to practice my English, but likely the pronunciation or word choice will confuse you. Even so, I want you to smile and pretend that you understand. Otherwise I will become upset with you for not understanding me. It will be your fault. Make the right choice." Luckily, in this instance, I understood both the pronunciation and the choice of words...well, sort of. My grinning Jordanian counterpart, mid-pothole-bounce, looked around as if to indicate that his words to follow would describe the whole experience and said, "American cowboy." I thought to myself sarcastically, "Yes, Mohammad. I feel
just like an American cowboy." I said to him, "Yes, Mohammad. American cowboy."
I should fastforward a bit. We rode in the truck for some time, bouncing along, until we descended down a winding path to the area where the sheep are and where my landlord's shepherd lives. We gathered wood, built a big fire, and planned for a night of sleeping outside. My landlord and his brother cooked
Mansaf, the Jordanian national dish made of rice,
jameed (a kind of yogurty sauce), and chicken, on the fire. We ate it in the traditional way by using our hands, making little balls out of the rice and chicken using the
jammed as a glue, and popping the
Mansaf balls into our mouths.
I should fastforward a lot because I'm honestly quite tired from writing this post and, as you know, there are no pictures to go with it, so I don't want to lose you, you know, as future blog readers by writing an obnoxiously long post that will make you never want to read my stuff again. But, I supposed I should at least get to the hyenas. (fastforward sound effects)
The Mansaf was delicious.
We drank tea with milk fresh from sheep utter.
We talked and laughed by the fire and watched the stars.
We fell asleep.
The shepherd descended into the herd of sheep and slept within their ranks. Awesome.
I awoke to men frantically whipping out rifles and screaming
duba'a, which is Arabic for "hyena."
The rest of the night was essentially sleepless, as every hour or so one of the guys would frantically wake everyone up to go on a hyena hunt to keep the sheep safe.
As it turned out, we only heard the hyena laughter and saw their eyes light up in the distance.
No contact with them.
And, thankfully, no killing, either by the hyenas or the guys.
The end. Hah.
