6: The Germans & Jerash
I had spent those first several weeks going to class and networking with anyone who spoke English. I’d hang out in expat-friendly cafes. I sought a couple of opportunities, I networked with anyone who would give me the time of day, but I needed something real. As gratifying as it was to be in Jordan, it didn’t mean anything if I couldn’t translate being social into being employed.
I reached out again to Sarah, asking her to keep her ear to the ground for any rumblings in her vast network for people looking for an ‘aw shucks’ American just trying do his darnedest. Well, shucks, that someone came calling. Sarah headed an NGO which put on an annual culture festival for Jordanians of all walks of life, and put me in contact with Lucy, the organization’s chief financial officer. Lucy was married to the Resident Representative of Konrad Adenauer Stiftung (KAS—pronounced cass), a German political foundation, and he was looking for a native English speaker to write reports, edit publications, assist with event organization, and be an all-around American. The Resident Representative’s name was Dr. Marvin Heinz, and we spoke briefly on the phone before arranging a face-to-face interview the following week.
I went into full job recruitment mode: downloaded and printed several of Dr. Marvin’s published papers and articles articles on the Middle East; read and re-read them; learned about Konrad Adenauer - the first German Chancellor in post-Nazi Germany. Very interesting guy. Learned about the Christian Democratic Union, party of German Chancellor Angela Merkel. Also very interesting. I was ready.
I took a taxi across town to a nondescript building in a residential neighborhood. Jordanian gendarmes stood guard outside several of the buildings as the taxi pulled up to the Konrad Adenauer Stiftung office. Apart from a small placard on the building, there were no discernible features of the property that would suggest it anymore than one of the other residences on the block. I paid the driver, walked up to the door and knocked. A few moments later, a tall, bald dark-skinned Egyptian man answered. I said I was there to see Dr. Marvin.
I entered the foyer of the office, which had a small garden under a skylight that was snaked with a staircase leading to the second floor. A woman came out of an office, and introduced herself as Afaf. She began immediately speaking Arabic to me, so I politely cut her off, saying I didn’t speak Arabic.
“Oh my, I thought you were Jordanian!” she said. “I will take you to Dr. Marvin.”
I followed Afaf up the staircase to the second floor of the building. There stood a 6’2” gray haired, steel-blue eyed German. He outstretched his hand as we exchanged greetings. We went into his office, which littered with books and papers, and sat across from each other at a small conference table. During the interview Dr. Mavin shared his experience studying at the University of Colorado and his appreciation for American culture, despite many Europeans’ disdain for it. I flattered him with my research on KAS and reading of his published papers. Our banter was collegial, and after twenty minutes or so, Dr. Marvin made me an offer I couldn’t refuse — mostly because I had no choice. He wanted me on board for a conference at the end of October and I obliged. The office didn’t have a budget for another employee’s salary, but Dr. Marvin offered me what he called a pittance: 250 Jordanian Dinars (about $350) a month to start. I couldn’t agree more with his assessment—it was a pittance. More importantly, it was a job. Dr. Martin took a chance on a guy whose resume’s highlight was having “a high level of autonomy” at the grocery store. That day in early October 2011 was the linchpin of everything to come.
Since my first assignment for KAS wouldn’t be until late October, I used that time to focus on learning Arabic. I began taking Arabic courses at the French Institute, which was a total waste of time. I won’t go into detail about how awful the instructor was, because it’s so fucking boring you may throw this book into a fire—and I don’t want to lose readership—but let’s just say the class was bad and I unlearned what little Arabic I already knew. All was not lost, however, and I made a few friends who shared my contempt for the class. One was an American girl who was living with a Jordanian host family named Jeannine, the other was trainee at the Embassy of some Northern European Nation. His pseudonym was something typical, like, uh, Sven.
***
The first workshop I attended for KAS was held at the Jerash Municipality Auditorium on October 26, 2011, and attracted officials, experts, and professors from both the public and private sector. I want to walk you through the first report I wrote for the political foundation to give you an idea of my enthusiasm for the job and why it needed to be curbed.
“In light of the recent events in Egypt, Syria, and other Arab states, the need for comprehensive political reform is imperative to the government of Jordan. The Arab world is rife with notions of democracy, and aspirations of self-governance exist more now than ever.” I think I genuinely believed that when I wrote it. I had to be tactful, however, as I was also living in a kingdom, which had a king. A real life king in the year 2011. Like, one that sat on a throne and had a royal court, maybe even had a court fool for entertainment. Censorship laws prevent anyone from criticizing the king, under punishment of imprisonment, so you have to criticize the parliament and other straw-people who have no real power.
“Without pretense,” my report continued, “the need for open discussion on the issues that most affect the citizens of Jordan is paramount for continued stability and political growth. Decentralization of government power is the vehicle through which positive change can be made. The requisite desire for citizens to be active participants in the ventures and development of their communities is unprecedented in the region.” Was it? I had no idea, but I wanted to believe it. I’d been in the region for a month and a half. What could I have possibly known about the “local communities” in Jordan? At least it sounded good. The Arab Spring was all around us. I was in the thick of it. This conference attracted important people doing important things. They gave important speeches and they had important titles: Head of Master Planning Department; Dean of Faculty of Law, Jerash Private University; Dean of Princess Alia College; Chairman of Elections and Development Department; Head of Judiciary Department, Greater Jerash Municipality. And here I was — just some guy. I was eager to be seen with so much importance. I needed a title, too. Chief Executive Intern, I called myself. To everyone else, I was Warren — the American who just moved here and now worked for a German political foundation. “What exactly are you doing here, again?” their facial expressions asked when Dr. Marvin introduced me.
During the conference, the only non-Arab panelist, Mr. English Banker, gave a grim and sobering assessment of Jordan’s financials. The gist of his opening remarks was that while making plans was good, acting on them was better. He had access to the country’s financial records and he lamented the poor implementation of appropriated funds in government offices. He said government agencies continued to draw up ambitious master plans without adequate financial projections. Proverbial sparks were flying – the Master Planner was sitting right next to him. The conference closed and everyone ate lunch with no hard feelings.
The evening after the conference, KAS hosted a catered dinner at the office. I sat next to Mr. English Banker and we talked about life as expatriates, whiskey (a large part of life as an expatriate), and prospective opportunities for the Jordanian economy. Mr. English Banker was unenthusiastic about the viability of the country’s financial future, but he offered to stay as an advisor to the government for six months longer than he planned because he seemed to genuinely care about his work.
After the dinner, I went to a house party for expats and Jordanian socialites – I overheard a conversation between a girl I’d met at a different party weeks before and a British guy I’d just been speaking to. I heard her call me a “bit of a cowboy.” I reveled in her assessment as I imagined myself as a clean shaven Yosemite Sam, firing a pair of six-shooters into the air. Pew, pew, pew.
The time in between my first two conferences was allocated for travel. It had long been prearranged that KAS had a third intern coming from Germany during the month of November, so my desk would be occupied. I got out of town to set fire to the savings that were burning a hole in my pocket.