This is how you bargain in Jordan.

    You look around. You look at anything you like. But you do not touch.

    Because once you touch something, the game begins.

    “Ah,” the vendor said at his stall outside dusty Jerash, the ancient Roman town to the west of Amman, “you are welcome. Have some tea.”

    “Shukran,” I said, one of my few words in Arabic. Thank you. I had brushed a silver and jade necklace with the back of my fingers.

    I had learned by then, my fourth day visiting my friend Leah, an American studying Arabic there, that it was impossibly rude to decline the traditional offer of tea or coffee. I was just happy I was offered tea, which is served with heaping amounts of sugar and is both aromatic and sweet. I’m one of the few Americans who doesn’t drink coffee at home, and Jordanian coffee is dark, bitter and earthy. I can’t help but make faces and I try to down it as quickly as possible. At least when I drink tea, I’m not in danger of gagging.

    Most tourists make only a quick stop in Jordan on Bibical tours, visiting the astonishing, Nabatean city of Petra, carved from rosy sandstone, and the baptism place of Jesus at the Jordan River, before charter-bussing on.

That’s too bad, because Jordan is an interesting, proud country, with ancient churches tiled in intricate mosaics, black basalt dunes, a thriving city life in Amman and silent, rolling stretches of Lawrence of Arabia desert.

Jordan certainly wants tourists, and so under the former King Hussein and the American Queen Noor, possible tourism places were identified and money poured into tourist services. All over Jordan, there are empty tourist centers, with vacant storefronts and clean bathrooms and very few visitors. When visitors come, like me to Jerash, vendors call out, wheedling gently, like you would approach a skittish animal.

    This particular vendor and I exchanged the usual Jordanian pleasantries, which are all very personal and quickly stretch beyond “Where are you from?” to “Why don’t you have any children?” and “Are you Christian?”

    The vendor leaned over his glass counter, pulling beaded necklaces off wall hooks for me to try on, showing them to me in a mirror, conversing the whole time. He had bright, dark eyes and very few teeth. He was Bedouin, he said, and had nine children although he wanted more. At present he had two wives: “a goat wife and a children wife”; that is, one wife to live in town with the children, and one to live in the desert with the goats.

    I thought he was joking, and friends in Amman said that no one had more than one wife anymore, but later, in the Wabi Desert, another Bedouin assured me that some nomads do. It’s a matter of necessity, he said. All Jordanian children over age six are now required to go to school, and so during the week are packed into small adobe villages with the child-rearing wife. On the weekends and holidays, the children come back to the desert to scamper around the rocks and goats while the goat-rearing wife squats near the fire in her long black tent, making tea and bread.

    The vendor twinkled at me. “I could use a third, pretty wife,” he said. “For more children.”

    I laughed and rolled my eyes.

    I had expected to feel uncomfortable in Jordan, which is called the Hashemite Kingdom because King Abdullah is descended from the Prophet Mohammad. Jordan is a secular state the size of Indiana, teetering between secular Iraq, fundamentalist Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Eqypt, and the Israeli-occupied West Bank , but the call to prayer rings out five times a day from the muzzein speakers, the hills are crowded with Palestinian refugee housing and many women wear the hijab. Especially younger university-aged women, who are more fundamentalist than their high-heeled, fashionable mothers.

    But Western women are considered something of a third sex, not quite a woman, not quite a man. We are allowed into womens’ spaces, like Bedouin tents, and mens’ spaces, like cafes. Men respectfully don’t touch women—ever, not even to shake hands-- but will overlook occasional Western women transgressions, like looking men directly in the eye or not covering arms. I wore long sleeves and loose pants and felt just fine.

    After twenty minutes or so of talking, the vendor finally brought over the necklace I had touched first. It was heavy, with smooth green beads and intricate silver ones.

    “This is made in Jordan?” I asked. “Not India?” Many of the crafts sold in Jordan are Indian-made, like the colorful stitched blankets and small wooden camels, and the replica gramophone that I had bought in another shop to take home.

    “Made in Jordan,” he confirmed. He fastened the beads carefully around my neck.

    Then I said the crucial words: “Bi kem?” How much?

    Asking how much means you are ready to commit. It means that as long as the price is fair, you are ready to buy.

    It’s a strange ritual for an American. We’re used to wandering through Wal-Marts and being attracted less by the item itself and more by the price. Oh, we think, ten whatchamacallits for a dollar? I’ll stock up! I might need them someday!

    In Jordan, buying and selling is all about establishing a relationship. It’s a strong hospitality culture that is difficult to understand unless you experience it. Total strangers invite you to dinner after a short conversation and really, truly want you to come. Women sitting next to you on a bus will offer up their email address or cell phone number in case you get lost or need advice. In Jordan, locals feel responsible for visitors and this extends to commerce. Buyer and seller get to know each other, talk about the quality of the goods---even in poor-quality tourist traps—and when something appeals, come to agreement about a price.

    “Twenty,” he said, watching me. Jordanian currency is fixed, so that one Jordanian dinar equals about $1.40. It’s a poor country, but there are few bargains. The economy is supported by Saudi Arabia, the United States, and the slowly growing cement industry. No one wants this tiny, stable point in the Middle East to collapse.

    I shook my head and sighed.  If this price was higher than  I was expecting, I could have smiled, thanked him, and walked away, no hard feelings. But I said, “Ten.”

    “Fifteen,” he countered.

    In other Muslim countries, well-traveled friends tell me---like Morocco—now is the point where walk out and the vendor follows you down the street, grabbing your arm and offering a lower price.

But that’s not how it is in Jordan. They give a number, you offer half, they add a little more to that, and that’s the actual price. Walk away, offer less, and they’ll be offended. You’re friends now. And friends don’t turn away from a fair deal.

    “Yes,” I said, and handed him ten Jordanian dollars.

    He smiled, and then pulled a tiny silver box out of a drawer, decorated with small colored stones. “Gift,” he said. “Stones from Petra.”

    “Shukran,” I said.

    “Next time you are in Jordan,” he said, “Come to my house for dinner.”

    I know he meant it.