Another Day in the Life

A extremely patriarchal society has its disadvantages, but I kinda like the thing that says that it's better for two 10-ish boys to walk me to my taxi at 7:15 PM than for me to walk myself. What's not to like about being escorted down the street by kids near Michael P.'s age . . . and about having them tell the taxi driver where I want to go and negotiate the price for me? I tried to picture Michael P. doing that as I picked my way down the littered street.

Well, okay, having boys figure things out with the taxi driver doesn't look quite so good when he drives me across town to the other Abu Bakr mosque, then tells me that I should pay him three times the cost of the original trip to retrace his steps. I can tell it was an honest mistake, and it was mine because I let the boys take over, so I tell him I'll pay him two times the cost of the original trip. I apologize about six times, thanking goodness that I learned how to say "sorry" a couple of weeks ago. It's rather useful. He softens a bit at my profuse apologies.

Then he tells me that he needs to meet a friend. Ninety-nine percent of this conversation is in Arabic, mind you, so I'm never 100% sure that I'm understanding correctly. I'm in a comprehension fog with a few buoys of familiar words scattered here and there to guide me. (This must be how John and Htoo Eh felt most of their year at Fairwood; I'm so much more sympathetic now.) I tell him that's fine, but ask him if he wants me to get another taxi. He doesn't, so we go riding off together into the darkness. It takes longer than I think to find the friend and load boxes of electronics into the trunk. I toy with the idea that the boxes contain worse things than electronics, then dismiss it. They don't seem like bomb-packers, as if I know what bomb-packers look like. What kind of weird place am I in? I'm thinking. I'm riding around with two complete strangers, and I'm not worried, because I can understand enough of their conversation to know that it's innocuous, and I made him go out of his way before he made me go out of mine. This would never happen in, say, New York City. This never would have happened, say, four months ago.

They are impressed that I've visited their hometown south of here and like it. They like that I'm studying Arabic and don't mind that it's classical. They advise me to specify which Abu Bakr mosque I want next time. (I don't point the finger at the boys.) They want to know if I'm German (I've gotten that and Russian lately), and I give my standard answer--"[my state], near to Canada." (Most then say, "Oh, Canada," even though I clearly did not say that. Except for the sharp tack who responded, "Oh, that means America." Uh huh.) The driver never asks me my name, never stares at me in the rearview mirror, which means he's respectful. His friend asks me if I want to stop and get juice, then tells me (I think) that he will buy me local food sometime. This is not so appropriate, but we are nearing home, so I brush it off.

Of course I don't have them stop in front of my house. We stop in front of my favorite ducan because I need food to eat for breakfast. The driver gives me his number, since he "knows" where I live now and can transport me in the future, taking so long to write it out that I'm afraid he's writing a love note with it. I'm relieved later when I peek at it and realize that he's written the numbers in Arabic and in English, which must have been painfully slow for him. No love note. He never asked for my number, which makes me think I might actually call him sometime. At least he's forgiven me for telling him the wrong place to go. I pay him more than I should have and hope it's okay.