Returning To My Rural Roots

The beautiful Harr family barn, my roots, stock full of fresh straw bales.
FYI: I painted the cupelos on top a shining coat of silver last summer, a great memory with Dad. 

Over the last several years I have had many opportunities to travel, experience cultures drastically different from my own, behold a plethora of diverse landscapes and meet scores of people.  Throughout my traveling and living abroad I have begun to identify more and more with my rural, farm bred roots. Regardless of where it is I travel to or live in, I find myself most comfortable when I am in wide open spaces, and a far cry from the hubbub of cities. It is in these settings that I have spent the majority of my life dwelling in, and recently I have had many experiences that have affirmed this; even more recently I have become actively became aware of this. Perhaps my recent awareness is due to me being far enough removed from my Dakota farm roots to be able to make this observation, or maybe it is just me becoming more comfortable with myself in general. This particular blog post is the first of a small series that will highlight some of the travel/living experiences I have had in recent times that show my natural draw to rural areas. I start with my current country of residence: Jordan…….

The gorgeous Jordan Valley.

From the very first week I arrived in Jordan nearly two years ago, I have consistently spent a great deal of my time outdoors, specifically in areas far from major thoroughfares and surrounded by farmland. One of these such areas is a wadi that is a mere twenty minutes hike from my apartment. This wadi has served as a quick escape for me from the hustle and bustle of the freeway that runs between it and my apartment. It is also in this wadi that I met my friend Ibrahim. At first glance Ibrahim looks like most of the sheep/goatherders one sees throughout Jordan, but after getting to know him I realized he has quite a story behind his keffiyeh, as do most all people. There have been numerous instances when hiking in this wadi that I have heard “Yousef! Yousef!”, and after scanning the surroundings have seen Ibrahim beckoning me over for a chat.

Ibrahim and I during one of our chats. Unfortunately it has
been quite a while since I have seen him.

Through visiting with Ibrahim, I have gotten to know quite a bit about him, including that he was an officer in the Jordanian Air Force and worked for several years at the Jordanian Embassy in Madrid, Spain. Because of his time spent in Spain, Ibrahim initially tried communicating with me in Spanish. I obviously told him I do not speak much Spanish; therefore, we communicate in Arabic, which is great practice for me. Ibrahim has told me about his brother who lives in Ohio and works as an engineer. I have also learned that he owns a small supermarket near the beginning of this wadi that I had frequented several times. Just as Ibrahim has shared personal information with me, I too have shared things about myself, including my rural roots and that my father also has sheep on his farm. 

My wonderful parents and I at the Farm.

An interesting side note about when I have spent time with Ibrahim is that I often find myself being reminded of my own dad. Not only does Ibrahim look somewhat like my father, albeit an Arab version, he is nearly the same age and has similar work. Making this connection with Ibrahim, like so many other personal connections I have made in Jordan and elsewhere in the world, has allowed me to more honestly relate to and feel connected to people in general. As soon as there is a story behind what was previously another random face, it becomes harder to simply pass by someone, anyone, and not wonder who the person is behind that face and what hopes, dreams and experiences have been lived or thought. Additionally, these kinds of experiences help me realize how myself and my own family members might be perceived by total strangers looking in from the outside. As I have met and interacted with rural folk in various parts of the world, I am now better able to understand how city dwellers can think it strange that people choose to live in such remote and small places. Ultimately these experiences have helped me feel more proud of my rural roots and take pride in where I sprouted from.

Shabab or some young boys I met while hiking in the
countryside in Jordan. Real friendly kids. 

It is not just when I am in areas completely removed from civilization that I find myself drawn. I also feel more innately comfortable in villages and other small towns. Again to use Jordan as an example, I spend a considerable amount of time walking through villages on the outskirts of Amman and find people in these areas, as I find of rural folk in general, often more amiable, open and unassuming than are people in larger urban areas. I am not proposing the axiom that ‘people in rural areas are more friendly and kind than people in urban areas,’  but from my own experience I have found the former group to be more likely to speak truthfully and without hidden motives than the latter. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule, but I have had far more experiences that support my belief than refute it. (I will add more to this in my upcoming post(s) about my travels in Morocco and Egypt.

I would like to close this particular post by commenting on how smells can easily take me back to my family’s farm on the Dakota prairie. Quite often when I spend time hiking or exploring countryside, whether it is in Jordan, Sri Lanka or the States, I find smells to be very personal, as they have the ability to evoke strong memories associated with different scents. One example of this happened today, not even four hours ago from the time that I write this, while I was making my way up a wadi at the end of an afternoon hike. As I was trudging up this last stretch on my way home, I was greeted with the familiar smell of rotting flesh. Although I do not necessarily enjoy this smell a lot, I cannot help but be taken back to my farm and the countless experiences I have had catching a whiff of some dear departed creature(s). Each time I happen to take in this smell, I am specifically reminded of the ‘dead lamb’ pile that we have each winter/early spring while my dad is lambing, which invariably involves the early exit of life by at least a small portion of the new crop of sheep. In the instance today it happened to be a dead goat and two dead dogs that greeted me with their aroma, but experience teaches one quickly that all animals (humans included) end up smelling about the same after lying dead al fresco, especially under a hot sun.

The beautiful landscape to behold just on the periphery of Amman. 

Other smells that I find myself transported by include: the smell of manure, which takes me back to fall and spring days, specifically spring days right after the thaw has begun and the smell of once frozen manure emanates off the ground like a gratuitous layer of perfume trailing a tony woman; the scent of wet grain, which reminds me of summertime rains on the prairie; the aroma of flowers in bloom, which, regardless of their kind or type, always make me think of my mom’s lilac bushes on the farm in the early part of spring; and lastly the smell of sweat, which despite commonly being considered undesirable, reminds me of long days spent working outdoors and being around farmers such as my dad and my uncles after a day’s work (this is a compliment, believe it or not!).

There is much more I could write about why I enjoy rural areas, but this much will suffice for now. In my next post I plan to describe some of my wanderings in the world’s countryside from my last year of travel. I will especially focus on Egypt, Sri Lanka and Morocoo.