Zaid to the rescue on the road to Amman

Having missed the last bus to the Jordanian capital, this week’s winner, is grateful for a lift in a weather-beaten Kia

What do you do when you are stranded in Ajloun after the last bus has gone? You find Zaid and his makeshift bus service.

He caressed his misbaha (Islamic prayer beads) between his thumb and forefinger as he drove, tenderly wrapping them around his fingers. Occasionally, I’d catch his glance in the rear-view mirror; his mouth beaming in a warm smile as he uttered his tasbih for evening prayer.

The emerald beads twinkled in his green eyes as he looked at me momentarily before zipping back to the road ahead. His bead-swathed hand thrust the gearstick, lurching the weather-battered Kia around another sinuous bend.

There were no seat belts but I definitely wasn’t going anywhere, safely wedged in between Youssef, a phone salesman from Amman, and Tom, an Aussie backpacker staying in the same hostel as me back in Jordan’s capital. Over in the passenger seat was Omar, Zaid’s distant cousin, and in between them, perched precariously behind the gearstick, was Ahmad. We were all aboard the Zaid express. An hour earlier, Ajloun had been abuzz with residents preparing for their Iftar, the evening meal after sunset during Ramadan. Skinned goats dangled lifelessly outside butchers’ shops, the metallic, bloody smell of butchered meat promising the end of another day’s fasting.

Families spilled from the thronging streets, past the market vendors and into the mosque. Ajloun Castle became a darkened silhouette as the sun sank below the hills. There I was, somewhere among the chaos, coming to the abrupt realisation that I had just missed the last bus to Amman. Then I saw Zaid and his car.

Mid-journey, with Zaid caressing his beads, the car screeched to a halt on the roadside in a small village. A fluorescent orange hue flooded the hills. Omar shook Zaid’s hand, slapped him affectionately on the back and leapt out of the car. Before Omar vanished, another man hopped into the front seat. He and Zaid shared a friendly exchange of Arabic and we zoomed off towards Amman again.

Zaid continued to roll his beads between his fingers before flinging his arm to the right, pointing to the hills. “That way, West Bank and Israel.” He turned his whole body to face me in the back, forgetting that he was driving. “Over there, Syria.” Thankfully, he turned back to the wheel, jerked the car into gear again (much to Ahmad’s discomfort) and returned to uttering his prayers.

We stopped in one final village near Amman, where Youssef left us. The last slither of daylight melted away with the call to prayer drifting from a nearby mosque, signalling a formal end to the day’s fasting.

We eventually reached the trafficchoked streets of Amman. I climbed out of Zaid’s car and passed him some dinars through the window to say shukraan. He smiled, still rolling his prayer beads between his fingers. Another man hopped into my space in the car and, as quick as that, Zaid had disappeared into the city traffic.

Josh Johns,

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