The neighbourhood mailman with his little cart strolled all the way to the Middle East: today the international edition of my favourite Dutch newspaper started its weekly delivery to my office. Pure beauty wrapped and name tagged in plastic. This edition of the NRC is made specifically for Dutch expatriates to keep them up to date on the most news worthy events of the past week.

Click on the thumbnail for the whole picture.

I’ve lived in this town for that certain amount of time that enables you to see the patterns and trends of daily life. In Amman, a colourful city of two and a half million souls, I have been coming across particular individuals almost daily over the last few months. So now, a first overview of those particulars! I think there will be a part two to this sometime in the near future.

The Taxi Driver
He’s about 55 years old, Palestinian like everybody else, and talks in a high pitched voice. Is a very righteous man with strong ethical principles, but says ‘fuck’ a lot. A LOT. He does things for me. For example, he brought two bags with herbs for in my tea to my apartment. I once mentioned I liked mint. Very generous, right? The guard of my apartment building tried to scam me to get 5 JD for delivering it to me. The taxi driver called him ‘a fuck’ for that. He wants to drive me places, like Al Quds (Jerusalem). He has two sons and two daughters. Eldest daughter is 27. Random facts you get from being driven to your work once a week. He usually waits for me outside my building on Thursdays. He usually raises his hands up in the universal ‘What is this!?’ symbol, when I walk up the road at 5 to 9 – almost too late for work. He lives somewhere up Airport Road, I’m not sure where but it’s a long way away. I love this man.

The Newspaper Salesman
General ugly 7afartal (street thug) of some 45 years old. Stands at a major intersection near 6th Circle and Abdoun/Sweifiyeh every morning. He has a bunch of kids that, sadly, all look like him except without a huge beard. I’m sure they can and will sport one in a few years. He bosses the kids around a lot. He sells all kinds of newspapers and uses the traffic lights to manage his sales: red light means action, green means getting more newspapers. Whenever he sees me in a taxi, he says ‘Jordan Times?’.

The Safeway Employee
Manages the folks behind the cash registers, but often finds himself in the thick of it. He’s about 23 I think. Apparently he loves Germans and he thinks I’m one, because I happened to be able to speak German with him when he said that he had had German classes. He doesn’t know I don’t like Germans. Nonetheless, to keep up appearances, I put my principles aside each time I meet him and exchange some words in German. Just to make the guy happy, you know. I think I get good karma for this.

The Blue Fig Floor Manager
A dude I like to shake hands with, because he can get stuff done. On a busy day, you could get some preferential treatment in getting a table. He’s a pretty massive guy, definitely 1.95m and not skinny. He speaks with a heavy ‘urban’ American accent to me: sup man, long time no see, washappenin? That kind of stuff. I think he once told me he lived in Dallas, Texas for years. There are other Blue Fig people too. All the waiters know me and know I’m Dutch, because of their Holland Week in May and me subsequently wearing an orange tie. Also, the general manager says hi to me ever since I got into a verbal exchange with him when he refused to play my cd with Dutch songs during Holland Week. I think he doesn’t really like me but shakes my hand nonetheless. I don’t really like him but shake his hand nonetheless.

The Gypsy
Although everybody pretty much dislikes gypsies for their strange behavior, I sort of like the Jordanian gypsies. I come across them now and then, when I walk home from Safeway or Cozmo. The ones I meet are always women (I’m actually not sure if they are always the same ones or not) and dressed in amazing clothes. Bright orange, bright purple. Long fluttery dresses with flowery patterns. Sandals of course. And the hair, amazing. Always braided and long, really long. Overall, they look kind of scruffy, windswept but definitely swashbuckling. Never exchanged a word with them though. I don’t dare to because I think they might put a curse on me or something. I mean, there must be a reason they’re gypsies and no one really gets involved with them. But of course they do get my stamp of approval, just for their superb looks and great sense of 2007 gypsy fashion.