Top 10 Jordanian things

9•Know a mechanic
There’s something about the car industry in Jordan that greets the word “dealership” with the same dread as a vampire being asked to sample a bulb of roasted garlic. Whether it’s avoiding an insurance claim, repairing a scuffed bumper or replacing an alloy wheel, even considering taking your car back to the dealership is akin to admitting you light your oven with a rolled up 50JD-note. Of course, there is a reason for this, says Mirza Hatq, editor of NOX’s sister publication Torque.

“The difference in price for parts and service between a dealership and a private garage is huge,” he says. “If your car is worth less than, say, 20,000JDs, it simply isn’t worth taking back to a dealer. Finding yourself a specialist for your model in Bayader is something every car owner should do!”

One NOX contributor experienced this first hand. Doing a proper job on his Citroen, the dealership wanted 9,600JDs – before tax – for repairing a car that cost him 12,000 when he bought it second hand. In fact, so big was the bill that a Faouri employee actually offered to buy it from him, knowing that he could get it fixed himself for around 4,000JDs. Which he eventually did.
 

7•Address people with the right title
NOX had the devil’s own trouble actually putting this section together, such were the differences of opinion and complexities involved. But there will come a time in every Jordanian man’s life when he is introduced to someone with… a title. Or, at least, the expectation of being addressed with one. And in a society where the average male ego is the size of a distinctly un-average Abdoun villa, getting it wrong can cause offence from here to Aqaba. 

While an MP is, for instance, “Sa’adeh”, a minister should be addressed “Ma’aly”. The Prime Minister, meanwhile, is “Dawly”, and then you have that extremely awkward role of high-ranking official who isn’t actually head of his department ­– this will require use of “Atoufeh”. Confused yet? “As-Siyadeh” should be used for a sherif and you use “Samaahet Qadi al-Quddah” for a high-ranking sheikh. “Sumou al-Emir” is for princes. The King, of course, is addressed as “Sidi”. And we do recommend that you keep them up your sleeve if you’re ever invited to a function at the Raghadan Palace or something.
 

5•Know the doorman at Flow
It’s Thursday night. It’s 11.25. You’ve had a few cheeky drinks at home and received a text from that cute girl from the marketing department that says she’s “having a crazy time at Flow!” (You can insert the “lol” yourself, can’t you). The only thing stopping you, a single male, from getting through the door and enjoying an evening of perfume-soaked fun is the guy in a black suit, black shirt, black earpiece and, of course, carrying a black clipboard. And there are roughly 183 guys on the stairs in front of him thinking exactly the same thing – although you hope not about the same girl. 

Every Jordanian male needs to get to this guy by name and, if possible, preferred cigar type and, if you’re really desperate, bank account number. He could ruin your night and, by extension, your life. So, even if he says “no” under any circumstances, release the verbal dexterity that only seven Vodka Red Bulls can inspire. A friendly doorman is for life, not just for one shot at a salesgirl with loose morals.

Oh, and for future reference, his name is Xxxxxx.
 

3•The rituals of Mensaf
While it’s hardly unfair for most foreigners to claim that mensaf, with that powerful jameed poured on everything, is an acquired taste, the description is redundant when you’re dealing with people who swallow it practically from birth.

The lamb dish is both a symbol of generosity and the one truly Jordanian contribution to global cuisine, and as such there are a number of rules dictating its consumption. As the host, for instance, you’re not supposed to touch the merest grain of rice until everyone in the room has had a plate – indeed, it is not unusual for the host to not eat anything at all. Secondly, you’re supposed to eat with just your fingertips, not your whole hand as is the modern trend. Thirdly, once you’re done eating, leaving a small uneaten dollop on your plate to show you’ve eaten enough, you say “daima” to the host to express your hope he lives long and enjoys such bounty. 

“Of course, don’t make the common mistake of saying ‘daima’ at a funeral,” says Tarek, a Jordanian from a leading family who eats mensaf on a weekly basis. “You get so used to saying it after the meal that it becomes a force of habit. But probably the last thing your host wants to hear at the funeral is the expression that such times will go on for ever!”
 

1•Someone in the Parliament
While it’s highly likely that the typical Jordanian wouldn’t know the Minister of Public Works if he came round to their house and started digging up their garden, everyone will know an MP. Because in this democracy, your average member of parliament isn’t an elected representative of the people, voted in to best articulate the will of his electorate. No, sir. An MP is someone who solicits your vote in order to a) get things done for himself and his family in the form of contracts, favours and the peddling of petty influence (why else would he take time off his usual job? The good of the country?) and b) reward the people who voted for him.

In this wasta-fuelled environment, therefore, knowing your MP can mean knowing how to get things done. NOX reader Manar recalls her neighbour, dogged by speeding cars on the long stretch of road outside his house, suddenly welcoming two speed bumps strategically sited 100 metres either side of his garage after calling his local MP. And then there’s the story of a one-time NOX contributor whose threatened expulsion from university was overturned after a nice bit of parliamentarian wasta.

For a full version of this article, see NOX43.