Talking to a Taxi

I spoke to a taxi the other day, we had a long conversation. It was the first taxi I had ever spoken to, so naturally I had many questions. Where are you from? I asked. Where do you live?

These questions are difficult to answer, the taxi responded. But if you’d like, I can show you.

The door swung open in front of me with the groan of rusty hinges. Patches of yellow paint peeked out from under a thick layer of Ammani dust.

Hop in.

I slid into the backseat and tried to buckle my seatbelt, but to no avail. Both the belt and the buckle were missing.

I removed them a long time ago. The taxi sighed. There’s no use.

We began to drive, beginning at first circle. I didn’t ask where we were going. I had a feeling that it would be a long journey. I was nervous, but for some reason I trusted the taxi. It rattled past the tatreez covered windows of a souvenir shop, past “Flamingo outlet,” and past Al-Quds Falafel, punctuated by a portrait of the King.

I’ve driven these streets for 30 years, he began. I know every street of this city. I’ve seen its sunrises and I’ve seen its sunsets. I’ve heard every Adhan from every mosque tumble down each hill, dividing and sanctifying its days. I’ve heard its music blast from rooftops in Weibdeh. I’ve smelled the trash burning and the falafel frying and the Turkish coffee brewing. I’ve smelled its potent oud. I’ve felt its July sun burn my roof and its February cold pierce my windshield. I’ve touched its hard pavement and its soft sand. I’ve felt its judgement and I’ve felt its grace.

And I bear the scars of it.

This was true. His fender hung on by a thread, his headlight cracked down the middle in the shape of a lightning bolt. The window behind the driver’s seat did not close fully. The crank had broken years ago. In the winter he covered the open space with a red prayer mat. Inside, the seats were a sponge that drank a pack of Winstons a day.

We turned at the end of the street, away from Jabal Amman and towards Jabal Hussein.

All of this is new, the taxi told me of Rainbow Street. I started over here, in Jabal Hussein. I remember when I was young. I quite liked the first man who bought me, Ahmed. We had a lot of fun together. He grew up here in the refugee camp.

I hadn’t realized we’d crossed into a refugee camp. It looked like just another neighborhood street, its apartment buildings generations-old, built with the reluctance of exile, its walls with the assurance of transience. As if a thinner roof, a weaker foundation, would promise a faster return to Palestine.

Ahmed’s parents fled from Akka during the Nakba, he continued. They were sure they would see Palestine again. Umm Ahmed wore the key to their home around her neck to bed and then to her grave. Ahmed never claimed Jordan. He asked riders where they were from just so he could tell them that he was from Palestine.

I stayed with Ahmed for 15 years until he got sick. Then he sold me to his cousin who hung this picture of Saddam Hussein on the dashboard. That’s when I started driving around Jabal Amman. I learned a little English and little French and a little German from blonde girls with Keffiyehs wrapped around their bare shoulders. I eavesdropped on their conversations about weekend plans to rave in Wadi Rum. I lingered outside of the bars that started popping up around Paris circle. I watched clouds of smoke dance around whispers and fingers wrap around wine glasses and eyes lock into eyes. Girls and boys sat next to each other in my backseat, their pinkies touching in the space they left between them.

None of this used to be here, the taxi said. I remember this city before its expats, its 6 JD lattes, and its Khaliji-malls.

We drove for a while before he spoke again.

How can I belong to Amman? He asked me. It barely belongs to itself.