Our driver to Amman was a madman.
He was a driver’s ed video of what not to do on the road, the guide for how to not act behind the wheel.
First off, he only had a passing interest in the act of driving. What he was interested in, however, was changing CDs, texting on his cell phone, leaning across seats to chat with his friends. He held a notebook on top of the steering wheel and used a blunt pencil to scrawl very important notes. He often turned around in a yoga twist, his face looking toward the back of the bus.
The road itself was treated like an unsatisfactory lover. He gave it the occasional glance, scowled with his fat, furry lip, then turned away once again.
Though the highway consisted of sheer drop-offs and blind curves, this driver was too good to stay on one side of the road. His method involved a straight line, no twists or turns necessary.
When the fog settled so low that it shrouded potholes, lanes, even other vehicles, our driver gave it all the finger. He plugged ahead at full force, never even bothering to tap the brakes. I fumbled through my bag in search of Valium.
My friend Rosie said in Arabic, “Are you the grim reaper?” The question slowed him down for a good 90 seconds, then the moment of sanity passed.
When we arrived to Amman, pulling to a stop in the gritty outskirts of town, I would have kissed the ground. That is, if the driver wasn’t already handing my bags to a cabbie.
“This my friend,” he said, yanking his thumb toward the portly man.
Here we go again.
