I ride in a taxi nearly every day, and sometimes several times each day. Because I do this so often, it's always tempting to get in, announce my destination, and then turn my head towards the window, forgetting about the driver on my left and letting my mind melt away into the blur of white buildings on my right. Sometimes you just feel like zoning out. However, some time ago I made it my goal to engage all my drivers. I decided I would at least greet them and ask them how they were doing; if they wanted, they could then continue talking to me. If not, I would leave them alone. Inevitably, this is our conversation.
"Hello. How are you?
"Praise be to God... And how are you?"
"Good. Praise be to God."
Sometimes, this is it, and the driver just drives, and I start staring out the window. More often than not, though, he reciprocates.
"You speak Arabic?"
"A little. I try."
"You try? No, you speak very well." (Or, if he's given to extreme hyperbole: "You try? No, you speak better than me!")
"Thank you." This is said simultaneously with a sheepish grin, because I really don't speak that well.
Of course by this point the driver's interest is usually quite piqued.
"Where are you from?"
"I'm from America." (Or, if I'm feeling playful: "Where do you think I'm from?" At which point, the driver guesses Germany, Sweden, France, England, Australia, Russia, Switzerland, but almost never America. This means, I guess, that I don't "look" American; sometimes, this is just as well. And yes, I have a few times actually made them run through a litany of countries like that.)
"Ah, America... Texas?" (Or, instead of this simple guess of home state, a statement or expression of wistful envy. You can read about this in a previous post here.)
"No, Minnesota." This answer is followed by an immediate expression of great confusion on the driver's face or a rapid shaking of his head--as if he was knocking the cobwebs out--calling for some clarification.
"It's in the north, on the border with Canada."
"Oh, on the border with Canada."
And then, unavoidably, something it seems everyone I've ever met in Jordan can say.
"My brother/sister/father/mother/cousin/aunt/uncle lives in Texas/California/Chicago/Florida/New York."
"Oh. Have you visited?"
"No. I want to, but getting a visa is very difficult." Occasionally, they tell me they applied for a visa, paid their nonrefundable application fee, and were denied. Sometimes I do hear they have visited.
"Yes. It's very difficult these days." Post September 11, that is.
At this point usually the ride is over. But I always want to know if they are of Palestinian or Jordanian origin, because--either way--I want to hear their story. So, if I have time, I begin a new query.
"Are you Palestinian?" This is the best alternative I can think of to "where are you from," since they are, of course, from Jordan, and most likely they're Palestinian anyway. The usual answer is:
"Yes. I am Palestinian. But I am Jordanian. I have Jordanian citizenship." Always this explanatory note is added, as if attesting to their citizenship status. I do know Palestinians feel defensive about their citizenship from time to time around non-Palestinian Jordanians.
"Oh I know. But were you born here?"
"Yes. I was born here."
"Where is your family from?"
"They are from Jerusalem/Hebron/Jaffa/Haifa/Tulkaram/Ramallah/." (Or any number of small villages near those places.)
"Oh. Have you visited there?"
"No. I can't. It's not allowed." (I don't know exactly what the policy is, but I've heard over and over from drivers that they're not allowed by the Israelis to enter the West Bank. It might have something to do with being men of a certain age.)
"Oh."
And with that, the ride is definitely over. Sometimes they ask me how long I've been in Jordan, where I work, or how I like Jordan. Sometimes other topics come up. Yesterday a driver asked me if I liked Clinton, Bush or Obama, a topic that was, of course, much more popular a year or so ago. However, the preceding represents a standard conversation I have with taxi drivers on an almost daily basis. It's a conversation that, despite its repetitiveness, never gets old, because although the words may be the same, the people uttering them aren't.
