Of patois and potsherds

What is it in the human psyche that prompts us, when presented with the opportunity to learn a new language, to learn the cusswords first?

                We have a rather international dig crew, composed of Canadians, at least one American, one Saudi, a Danish textile specialist, and a group of Austrians. One of my fellow Canadians asked his Austrian co-excavator how to curse out the very large rocks in German; this has spread, and now folks on the tell chat in English, give dig directions in mixed English and Arabic, and swear in German.

                The amount of potsherds we find and the number that come home are vastly disparate. We spend our days with our eyes full of sand and our trowels in the earth, collecting fragments of pottery in carefully marked pails. We bring them back, scrub them meticulously with toothbrushes and nailbrushes, scrape them with scalpels and sharpened spoons, and lay them out in baskets to dry. Of the 80 or more that might be in a pail, sometimes a mere handful of them are kept, usually diagnostics (rims, bases, painted pieces, ceramic tech) and pieces that mend with them. The rest are driven back to the site and tossed heartlessly onto the discard pile, reduced once again to trash.

                Today’s photos:

Sunrise from the tell

Fedoriarty at the dig site. The wall behind me is part of what was likely a shrine room, where travellers could make offerings to their deities on the way through. That, then, is holy ground I’m standing on.

                One of the Austrians has a hat almost identical to mine. Much of his dig clothing is very similar as well, down to the red bandana. Before the dig is over, there will be a picture taken of him and I standing together. If he’s okay with it, I’ll share it here.

                This weekend, we’re going out into the deep desert to see the desert castles. There will be pictures. There will also be sweat. Fortunately, one is easier to post than the other.

Understanding Wordsworth

"This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning." -- William Wordsworth, Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

5:30 a.m.

                Madaba, as far as can be seen from my hotel window, is absolutely motionless in the early morning. The sun rises behind the rolling desert hills; its light, still soft for now, bathes the blocky buildings in a rosy glow. They become a collage of rectangles, broken here and there by a dome or an ancient archway, windows black against pale masonry. Tiny birds flit among the gutters and rooftops, their song the only sound. The heat of the day has not yet set in, and a cool breeze dances among the narrow leaves of the ubiquitous olive trees. It is a scene taken out of time, essentially unchanged for more than 1400 years.

                At home, there would be joggers out, cars on the road, people walking their dogs. Here, there is none of that. In the morning in Madaba, city of ancient churches, those who are awake are alone with themselves and the silent beauty of the sunrise.