Taxi Drivers

I’m told taxi drivers are more talkative to male passengers, but I’ve rarely sat silent during a ride. They ask me where I’m from, and then I ask them the same. The answer is invariably "Palestine," sometimes in reference to areas in the West Bank, sometimes beyond. They’ve come from 1948 on and tend to have family as dispersed as mine – some still in the West Bank, some in Kuwait, some farther afield – Brazil, America, Canada. Few have returned – it’s easier for their families in the West Bank to visit them here than vice versa. They hold Jordanian citizenship but are clear that home is on the other side of the river.

I’ve grown accustomed to discussing Palestine on my taxi rides, and so was surprised today when one of my taxi drivers revealed that he is Bedouin, from the South. I had been at a hotel for a workshop, and as I was leaving, the hotel clerk offered me a taxi for four times the meter price. I declined and stood on the street corner, waiting. The same clerk pointed to a taxi coming out of the parking lot and said – there, a metered one. So I got in, and started chatting. Soon, it became apparent that I was, in fact, in the hotel taxi and there was not, in fact, a meter. The driver said double the meter price so I said stop, I’ll get out. And he said: Fine, one dinar – good? Yes, I responded, one dinar would be good. Half a dinar – good? I laughed, the tension dispelled. We returned to talking of geography and family. He said his father had sixteen children, laughing, that he was busy. I asked if they were all of the same mother. Yes he said, so I laughed that it was his mother that was busy. He has eight children himself (also busy), and loves Amman – the safety of it, the freedom. He had had a good day – two long drives that brought in good money – and he seemed carefree (I suspect he seems that way on slower days as well). Today, he didn’t want to talk about money but of what he loves in life – he listed out his vices. Few people here ask me my religion; he did, but then said it didn’t matter – he loves them all! And when we reached my destination, he refused my dinar and said next time.

I’m still learning the rules and expectations around money here. On a trip to the North yesterday, the taxi driver insisted on paying for lunch and letting us reimburse him later, so that we would get the “Arabe” price. This came up in a conversation with my Iraqi colleagues, who said that the same thing happens to them – the price increase is for foreigners, not just non-Arabs. They advised me to go to Syria with an Arabic speaker, and if that was not possible, the next best option was to avoid buying anything. That was essentially my experience traveling alone in Egypt, a few years ago. I must get my Arabic good enough to bargain.

A block from my house is a row of shops where I’ve become a regular. There’s a local falafel and hummus joint that’s always packed. I go sometimes alone, with a book, and sit. The food is delicious and cheap, and I feel surprisingly comfortable there. The waitor is always the same, and he laughs when I arrive. The guys who work at the small market laugh when I come in as well. I find myself there often, buying a few items at a time. Next door to the market is the DVD store, where they sell copied DVDs for $1.50. I splurged a little while ago and bought a lot, feeling inspired to catch-up a bit, at least on last years movies. I realized I really never will watch a few that the shopkeeper had suggested, so I brought them back. “I haven’t watched them and realized I won’t; can I exchange them?” “Yes, but it doesn’t matter if you’ve seen them or not.” “I just didn’t want you to think I’ve taken advantage.” “That’s not how we work.” Living in Ethiopia taught me just how American my business culture is, and I’m reminded of it here. I’m still learning the Jordanian (Bedouin, Palestinian, Iraqi) business culture.


And then of course, how gender plays into it all. My friends visited this past weekend, and we took a day trip up to the North, driven by a taxi driver I'd met. We stopped for a short hike, in the midst of a forest (such contrast to the deserts of the south). As I negotiated the price with the nature reserve, I would ask a question, and the staff member would direct his reponse to my male friend. My friend quickly changed the scenario by stepping outside, so that the staff member was forced to answer me directly. Later that day, we dropped my friends off to return home before the taxi driver and I set off for the two hour drive back to Amman. I continued to sit in the front, since that’s where I’d sat all day. The driver – a 50-something man with a substantial belly - kept glancing at me and I kept thinking of the stories I’ve heard of taxi drivers groping foreign woman. He asked me if I was ok and pinched my cheek. I decided it was in a fatherly manner. He’s married, but said in his culture he can have another wife. But you don’t, I said. Not yet, he responded, laughing, and proceeded to tell of a Belgian tourist who had thrown herself at him. I was uncomfortable that he felt so comfortable telling me all the details. So I changed the topic to Arabic and we passed a good period with him teaching me new phrases. If I fell silent, he prompted me to speak, and this was how we passed the two hours into Amman.

A post-script: The taxi driver just called me, two days later, to make sure my friends made it back safely.