Ba'moneh, B'vakashah - 4 Cab Rides in Jerusalem

December 25, 2008 - A cold and overcast Thursday morning in Tel Aviv, I gathered my things and prepared for a day trip to Jerusalem. I was in Israel for two weeks, mostly visiting coastal towns I never had the opportunity to experience before – Tel Aviv, Akko, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Eilat. But where should a Jew living in the Diaspora be on Christmas day?

Jerusalem, of course.

I ignored my host’s advice and wore my black rain jacket and not my purple wool winter jacket. After all, I’m from New York, it’s not that cold. I doddled off to Dizengoff, waited for the #5 bus, paid my NIS 5.30 and spaced out until we reached the techana mercazit – central bus station. Just my luck, once I made it through security and up to the Egged floor, a bus to Yerushalayim was loading. I paid, and sat in an empty seat. The kid next to me stared at me for a good 45 seconds until an older kid came and told me I was in his seat. At least I think that’s what he said – my Hebrew is below par. He then proceeded to yell at the younger kid and chastise him for not telling me I was in a taken seat. This part was not so hard to understand.

I made my way to the back of the bus, where my true seat was found.

We arrived at the techana mercazit in Jerusalem and again waded through security. My first planned stop was Emek Refaim. And I had no idea how to get there. I’d just ask someone. It was about 50 degrees and raining in Jerusalem.

After grabbing coffee at Aroma, a bad habit I picked up early in my trip, I spotted a group of American yeshiva kids, most likely on their year before college. I figured this was a safe bet for directions. When I asked which bus to “Emek,” I got several different suggestions. In my impatience, I nodded, thanked them, and headed for the cabs outside the bus station.

Cab #1 – Techana Mercazit to Emek Refaim, Red-headed Israeli Cab Driver

“Ani nosa’at l’emek refaim. Cama zeh?”

I asked him how much it would be to Emek Refaim. He muttered something, shrugged his shoulders and hit the meter in the cab.

Whoa. Ba’moneh, it is.

I was shocked that one of my first attempts to negotiate a cab fare in Israel was a non-dramatic monologue by the driver himself that I didn’t even understand. The week before this, I visited in Jerusalem and was told by some friends that I should always ask for the meter after asking the “flat” fare. It was a fun game to be played. First pretend that you are not willing to take their first offer, counter it with the option that will earn them less money. If they’re honest and do not take the route that is slow and will drive up the meter, they will negotiate.

Uneventfully, we arrived at Emek Refaim and I got off and paid the meter amount.

Cab #2 – Emek Refaim to the Israel Museum, Israeli Cab Driver from Iraq

Standing under an umbrella shielding myself from rain drops and a few rays of sun (go figure the two at the same time), I hailed a cab.“Cama zeh l’muzeon yisrael?”

“esrim”

I took it.

Man I suck at negotiating. I had no idea how far I was going and 20 sounded ok as I quickly calculated it was only $5. Once the typical cab conversation ensued and I butchered the Hebrew language, I got a piece of his life story. In English. “Ah, you’re from New York. Two of my children live in America. I tried to visit them but the Americans wouldn’t let me in because I am Iraqi.

Even though I am Jewish, they would not let me have a tourist visa because it says on my passport that I was born in Iraq.”

Wow. I couldn’t believe this. The man went on to tell me how he has been in Israel for 58 years, and of course is an Israeli citizen. He’s been to Spain – no problem there. But America, nope.

We arrived at our destination, I paid my 20 shek and off I went.

Cab #3 – Israel Museum to Machaneh Yehudah, Arab Cab Driver #1

It was about 3:40 PM or 15:40, if you wish, by the time I finished up at the museum. It was definitely below 40 degrees and still raining. It was a biting cold and stark difference from the Eilat temperatures I had left the day before. I walked a bit under the umbrella and spotted the row of cabs.

Within 20 feet, a cabbie hopped out of another cab filled with cabbies and greeted me warmly.

He asked me where I was going, in English, as the word tourist was naively “stamped” in red on my forehead. I knew I was in for it.

“L’machaneh yehudah.”

I really wanted to prove I could negotiate and wanted them to take me seriously. “Cama zeh?” I asked.

He told me 60 shekels, of course answering my Hebrew with English. OK, absurd. Here we go! Let’s negotiate!

“Ba’moneh, b’vakashah.”

“This is the price! It is raining!”

Oh, f-bomb, I thought. I wasn’t yet in the cab and thought about grabbing another, but it was flipping cold and honestly his other cabbie friends wouldn’t give me a better fare. I shut my mouth and off we went. I knew once we were at my destination, I could try to bring it down. The typical conversation ensued – I am from New York, visiting friends. I was super ticked off and was giving him nasty responses to his questions:

“Bad weather today. Is it like this in New York?”

“This is nothing! It’s snowing in New York.”

He shut up. He asked me where in the market I wanted. I told him as close to the entrance as he could get. I played dumb and asked again how much the fare was.

60.

“That’s ridiculous! I’m not paying you 60 shekels.”

“That is the price I gave you.”

“I just went almost the same distance from Emek Refaim before and it was 20.”

Knowing now that he wasn’t negotiating, I unclasped my wallet and began to pull out a 100 shekel bill to cover the amount.

“I hope you feel better about yourself knowing you are cheating tourists. I asked for the meter.” I asserted.

“If I went on the meter as you asked, I would have gone through traffic and it still would have cost you 60 shekels. The life is hard for me. This is the price.”

I was taken aback. The life is hard? What? This has nothing to do with me. “Yes,” I answered.

“The life may be hard, but that doesn’t justify you cheating a tourist. I hope this stays on your conscience!”

I gave him the 100 shekels and he nobly said,

“Here. I give you 50 back.”

I slammed the door.

Cab #4 – Unknown torn-up J’lem Street to Techana Mercazit, Arab Cab Driver #2

No more rain, but it was damn cold. And damn windy. The sun had set hours ago and my purse was full of persimmons, dates, rugelach and other random purchases from Machaneh Yehudah. Buses were passing me, but I lacked the energy to try to find out which one would take me to the bus station where I would wait for Talya to take the bus together back to Tel Aviv.

I hailed a cab. I asked the price and he gave me a number. I didn’t like it and lacking the desire to argue, I asked for the meter. Miraculously, it was granted to me.

All of this transpired in Hebrew somehow. The same cab conversation I had had the entire day – from New York, on vacation, visiting friends, staying in Tel Aviv. I was having de ja vu and just wanted to be done with the cabs already. He started naming the buildings we passed – the Knesset and other governmental buildings. I asked why the Knesset was lit up in blue. What is for Hanukkah? He said no and gave another reason and blabbered on in Hebrew. I have no idea what he said.

By this point, he realized I spoke English and the conversation continued in English.

“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”

“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”

“But you are young. How old are you?”My favorite question! A game I like to play, this time.

“How old do you think I am?” I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.

“Eh… 17, 18.”

“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”

He guessed 20. And then I informed him that I am 24.

“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”

We arrived at the bus station and I paid what was on the meter and thanked him for ending my day of cabs on a high note.

Later on I met Talya and we got on the bus back to Tel Aviv, followed by the #5 sheirut to Dizengoff. I was never more happy to be on public transportation.