“I live in Swefieh, next to the church, two blocks from Fifth Circle.”
“Abdoun, near Abdoun Circle, behind the photo shop Al-Hadi.”
“Seventh Circle, Mecca Mall, one block from the park.”
“Near the Australian Embassy, five olive trees down.”
“Near the Great Mosque, under the seventh star from the moon.”
It is never out of the question to hear instructions like these in a place where addresses are not in style yet. The traveler here can use a map but will find it utterly useless after a while. The map has street names, it’s only that you rarely find them. One must ask what that does for taxi drivers.
Answer: a piece of cake.
One such driver, Omar, who recently took me home from the Embassy said the lack of street names and numbers makes his job easier. A simple ‘yimen’ (right) or ‘ashmal’ (left) from the helpful passenger will get him where he needs to go far more quickly. Plus, the passenger will be more than happy to be dropped off right at his doorstep without random guessing by the driver.
Jolly good, I said. But what if you have an out-of-towner or a tourist?
I stop and ask for directions, Omar shrugs.
You’re kidding, I tell him. What if he gets out and gets into the next cab?
Then that driver will stop and ask for directions, Omar laughs. The passengers here are at our mercy. It’s better to trust us.
Do passengers ever cuss at you for not knowing the direction?
Out-of-towners and foreigners, yes, Omar nods. This is Amman, they say. A capital and a very big city. We are supposed to know every crack in the sidewalk, every trash bin and where each stray cat has taken a dump. A British passenger once threw his chewing gum in my face. He was really disgusted. He later apologized and tipped me quite well. But people from Amman are very friendly and help us any way they can.
I test him. Now if I gave you an address with a number, would you be able to find it?
Absolutely not. If you gave me the number of the King’s Palace, I wouldn’t know it.
After a series of ‘ashmals’ and ‘yimins’, Omar finally drops me off in front of my house. He tries to con a dinar out of me (the price is half a dinar), stating the rise in the gas prices, which have actually remained quite consistent here in Jordan. I give him a quarter tip anyway for the talk.
Looking around my neighborhood, it is undeniable that the times are a changing. Rarely will you see a house that doesn’t display a number on it, digits large enough to see from a safe distance. I am told that this is the new law. If you walk out toward the blue mosque a few blocks away, there are actually - gasp, gasp!- street signs, with real letters! And not just in Arabic, mind you. Our foreign friends, infidels though they may be, might not want to depend on Allah to find the way for them, after all. Better to direct them and help them achieve with signs what the moon has failed to do.
This still becomes an enigma for the pizza delivery boy at times. He can only go by experience, even though start-up businesses will kiss the city for these new implementations. The new driver under the old system will dart and dodge and weave until he finds that the place he is looking for is actually in front of the sand lot and not behind the supermarket. Now he will look at the numbers (assuming he knows what western numbers look like) and comfortably cruise to his destination. Works for everyone.
Heck, maybe even the taxi drivers will learn about addresses. I will not have to tell him about olive trees and neighborhoods and what color the house is and how many telephone lines lead up to my house and what not.
Even I have to admit I will miss the occasional ‘ashmal’ and ‘yimen’, though.
“Abdoun, near Abdoun Circle, behind the photo shop Al-Hadi.”
“Seventh Circle, Mecca Mall, one block from the park.”
“Near the Australian Embassy, five olive trees down.”
“Near the Great Mosque, under the seventh star from the moon.”
It is never out of the question to hear instructions like these in a place where addresses are not in style yet. The traveler here can use a map but will find it utterly useless after a while. The map has street names, it’s only that you rarely find them. One must ask what that does for taxi drivers.
Answer: a piece of cake.
One such driver, Omar, who recently took me home from the Embassy said the lack of street names and numbers makes his job easier. A simple ‘yimen’ (right) or ‘ashmal’ (left) from the helpful passenger will get him where he needs to go far more quickly. Plus, the passenger will be more than happy to be dropped off right at his doorstep without random guessing by the driver.
Jolly good, I said. But what if you have an out-of-towner or a tourist?
I stop and ask for directions, Omar shrugs.
You’re kidding, I tell him. What if he gets out and gets into the next cab?
Then that driver will stop and ask for directions, Omar laughs. The passengers here are at our mercy. It’s better to trust us.
Do passengers ever cuss at you for not knowing the direction?
Out-of-towners and foreigners, yes, Omar nods. This is Amman, they say. A capital and a very big city. We are supposed to know every crack in the sidewalk, every trash bin and where each stray cat has taken a dump. A British passenger once threw his chewing gum in my face. He was really disgusted. He later apologized and tipped me quite well. But people from Amman are very friendly and help us any way they can.
I test him. Now if I gave you an address with a number, would you be able to find it?
Absolutely not. If you gave me the number of the King’s Palace, I wouldn’t know it.
After a series of ‘ashmals’ and ‘yimins’, Omar finally drops me off in front of my house. He tries to con a dinar out of me (the price is half a dinar), stating the rise in the gas prices, which have actually remained quite consistent here in Jordan. I give him a quarter tip anyway for the talk.
Looking around my neighborhood, it is undeniable that the times are a changing. Rarely will you see a house that doesn’t display a number on it, digits large enough to see from a safe distance. I am told that this is the new law. If you walk out toward the blue mosque a few blocks away, there are actually - gasp, gasp!- street signs, with real letters! And not just in Arabic, mind you. Our foreign friends, infidels though they may be, might not want to depend on Allah to find the way for them, after all. Better to direct them and help them achieve with signs what the moon has failed to do.
This still becomes an enigma for the pizza delivery boy at times. He can only go by experience, even though start-up businesses will kiss the city for these new implementations. The new driver under the old system will dart and dodge and weave until he finds that the place he is looking for is actually in front of the sand lot and not behind the supermarket. Now he will look at the numbers (assuming he knows what western numbers look like) and comfortably cruise to his destination. Works for everyone.
Heck, maybe even the taxi drivers will learn about addresses. I will not have to tell him about olive trees and neighborhoods and what color the house is and how many telephone lines lead up to my house and what not.
Even I have to admit I will miss the occasional ‘ashmal’ and ‘yimen’, though.
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