Souq al-Jumaa

Friday is here and with it comes the beginning of my weekend. I awoke early to begin my adventures. Setting out from Junia Circle (named by the landmark of the pharmacy located on the corner), we took a taxi to Abdali. The taxi wended its way through a construction zone down a road I doubted actually existed; I was skeptical until we came to our destination, Souq al-Jumaa (Friday Market).

In front of us stretched a city block of tents: a city covered in orange tarps and pushed toward the sky on structures like metal bed-frames. The rain from the night before sagged in the hollows of the tarps and dripped inconveniently on the goods and shoppers. Sunlight filtered through the cracks between the tarps, creating an orange shaded cathedral inside. The goods were piled haphazard on tables or hung neatly on hangers according to the whimsy of the proprietors. These men stood around their tables, singing the song of Souq al-Jumaa: “Lira, lira, lira. Lira wa nos. Shebaab, shebaab, yalla, shebaab. Lira, lira, lira. Lira wa nos.” They called to the marketers, hawking their wares and prices.

I searched for a nice lightweight shirt or two, but found none. Instead, I saw more velour yoga pants and velour jump suits than were ever seen in the closets of fashionable nursing home residents. The shirts were all either too old or too heavey; I was surprised, however, that all the clothing was Western. I have yet to find a store where all the conservative Muslim ladies buy their clothing.

Pushing my way around the clothes and people, I found two nice scarves. I stood around a moment, looking for whom to pay. I had seen an older lady sitting earlier but could not find here. Finally, I noticed a younger boy staring at me as he went through the scarves. I assumed he was guarding his scarves against an American thief. Approaching him, I asked (in Arabic), “How much?” He said something and held up his fingers. I think it was 5JD. Tisking,, I told him no, 2 JD. 2 JD. He said 4. “No, no. 2.” He said 4. I said, “Three for both.” I think he still said 4, but I handed him 3. He got a bag for me and I walked away with my scarves.

I then managed to lose the girls who had come with me as I pushed my way through the growing crowd. Wandering about, I found the produce section, located in the open air next to the busy street. Walking along the raised sidewalk, I saw the largest and plumpest dates I have ever seen; disappointed that I had spent my smaller bills (a 20JD bill would not go over well here), I diverted my attention. Before me in narrow rows were better produce than you can find in any US store. There were heads of lettuce and cabbage nearly the size of beachballs, oranges larger than softballs, and taught and polished eggplants flaunting their rich color in the shining sun.

Eventually finding my friends, we began walking around the neighborhood. Stopping at a small “supermarket” for a drink, we walked slowly passed two large churches and the main mosque in Amman. It was Friday, nearly noon time, and the men were streaming towards the mosque for Friday prayers. There was also a crowd gathering at the (I think) Greek Orthodox church just across the street. I wanted to go attend seervices, but didn’t know how to get into the compound or what to do once I did get in; besides, the other girls didn’t want to go to an Arabic service. They did, however, want to walk into the mosque. The main mosque in Amman for Friday prayers. The main mosque in Amman on Friday prayers where, I pointed out, there could be a protest because of the situation in Egypt and three American girls walking into said mosque at said time would not be an example of intelligence. No worries; we didn’t, of course, go any closer than the sidewalk where we sat on a bench and read my giant map.

Now that the map had done us absolutely no good, we set out walking once again. We walked along the deserted sidewalk, past the barren land and half completed building projects intended to create the new Abdali downtown shopping and business complex. Coming to the end of the street we passed a fresh fish shop and faced the construction zone. I assured them that our taxi had come through a construction zone, so there must be a way out. Heading down the narrow path, we eventually found ourselves on the main road. We walked quite some distance, past the taxis that honked at us, incredulous that we would walk when we could have their service. Crossing the six lanes of traffic successfully, we laughed when we saw two Americans hesitating on the median. “White people!” we said. “I wonder if we know them?”

It turns out, one of us did know them. After talking for a moment and getting directions, they went their way and we went ours. Finally heeding the call of the taxi, we got a driver who did not know one of the most famous places in all Amman: Hashem’s. Doing our best, we directed him to first circle, where we found ourselves on Rainbow Street. I bought us all giant ice cream cones for 1JD each. I cannot speak for the other flavors, but the strawberry, lemon, and blueberry cheesecake were amazing.