Once upon a time, a good friend of mine sent me a package here in Jordan. My teacher brought me the slip during class one day and told me that I’d have to go downtown to the post office to get it, but the catch was that the post office closed at 2:30 pm. Since I have class until 4:00 pm every day, I wasn’t sure exactly how this was going to be possible.
The next day, during my break between classes, I headed out for the adventure. Being wise to the traps that often come from this culture, I asked if I needed anything in particular before leaving. My teacher assured me that I didn’t, so I headed out. After two buses and a serveece, my roommate and I finally made it downtown. We walked into the post office and got in line. After being shuffled back and forth between lines and into various waiting rooms and after having several broken conversations in Arabic, I learned that my good ole’ Tennessee state drivers license wasn’t going to be sufficient for identification. Dejected, we headed home. I’d have to come back tomorrow, passport in hand. In my frustration I paid about 5JD – far too much - to get home. Keep a count on that, we are currently near 7 total.
Next day. Woke up, grabbed my passport, headed to class. At the break, I headed out for the post office, solo this time around. My teacher took me near downtown so that the taxi wouldn’t cost as much. I got in the taxi and started into one of the best Arabic conversations I’ve had since moving here. We talked about what I was doing here, how I liked it, where I was from, what I thought about American politics, etc., etc. I noticed that he didn’t have the meter on – a common scheme here in Jordan – so I asked him about it. He shrugged it off, and I asked him how much then. Patting my leg like an old friend, he told me it was on the house. Now, this particular instance has happened several times since I’ve been living here. You meet a nice cabbie, show him that you speak some Arabic, and, in his natural Jordanian hospitality, he gives you a free ride. This seemed to be one of those times.
There happened to be tons of traffic on this particular afternoon, so it did take some time to get to the post office. When we finally stopped, I started to get out of the cab, and the man stopped me. I just looked at him, and he said, “Ok, money?” I told him that he said it was free, and he looked at me like I was crazy. I then asked him how much. A taxi ride across town costs no more than 3JD, so I was prepared to hear 1, maybe 2. Out of his mouth flowed the following words, “Ashreen dinar.” What does that mean? TWENTY dinar. TWENTY. That’s nearly 30USD for a cab ride that probably lasted 20 minutes. The conversation then went like this – translated for your viewing pleasure:
Kirby: Are you kidding me?
Cabbie: Taxi very expensive, much traffic.
K: Seriously?
C: I swear to God, 20 dinar.
K: There is no way that I’m giving you 20 dinar!
C: Listen, I fear God.
K: I MIGHT give you 2 dinar and that’s far too much.
C: Much traffic, 20 dinar.
It’s much more fun to hear this in Arabic, but then that wouldn’t be any fun to read.
This continued and escalated to both of us yelling at each other in the middle of the street. Alone and not knowing what to do, I couldn’t just run off. We kept bargaining until I got absolutely fed up. At 9 dinar, I wadded up the money and threw it in his face.
After me, two women tried to get in the cab. I refused to let them in and explained to them that this man was a thief. He was screaming at me. Then, he called me back to the car. He said, “Here, take this,” as he handed me back ONE dinar. I smiled at him, took the dinar, wadded it in my hand, and threw it at him. In parting I said, “I hope that one day you find God so that He can forgive you for what you’re doing here.“
After that little rendezvous, I was not looking forward to the post office. I made it in, and after shuffling through more lines and rooms, I finally made it to the customs inspection. This good friend of mine sent me one particular item that was just a tad bit crude but also very funny. The officers, however, didn’t see the humor. Luckily, I had a great story of an American getting ripped off in a taxi to keep them occupied, and this story just happened to save the items in my package. Without a doubt, they felt sorry for me.
So then, I headed home. Let’s just tally up the dinar for good measure.
2 dinar for the first day to the post office.
5 for the way home.
9 dinar for the ripped off taxi.
3 dinar for the package.
2 dinar for the way home.
Grand total: 21 dinar = 30 USD.
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