Those Darned Kids

A funny thing happened a while back when I was walking come from work. I was walking through a residential street when I heard a *knock knock knock* on one of the doors. I stopped and looked around, confused because I didn't see anyone knocking on any of the doors around me. I heard the knocking again and realized that it was coming from inside the gate. I walked to the gate and saw that it was bolted shut-- from the outside.

You see, Sanaa is a city of walls and gates. Watch coverage on CNN and you will notice that most major Middle Eastern cities (such as Baghdad, or rather what is left of Baghdad) is filled with walls that are interspersed with metal gates. In the morning, the shop keepers come out and unbolt the gates and pull them aside. Imagine that you are in a giant outdoor shopping mall, but with piles of trash sitting around and no helpful signs letting you know where the post office is.

The other strange thing about the gates that are on the houses is that they can be bolted from both the inside and the outside. I noticed this on our kitchen door in our house, and was told that this design was to keep the women in the kitchen when needed. What this means, of course, is that someone could theoretically go around the streets of Sanaa in the dead of night and lock a majority of people (the people who don't have guards outside their houses, that is) inside their houses and there would be no way that they could get out, unless a passing stranger, like myself, heard their cries and unbolted the door.

Which is what I did. A young girl, about twelve, peeked out and thanked me and ran away. It wasn't until I shared the story with my housemates that they pointed out that she was probably locked up for a reason. I hadn't thought of that, but I later decided that I was fine with liberating trapped girls from their houses as a form of protest. Plus, it was a fire hazard.

A few days later I discovered why perhaps these kids should be locked up. Ramadan is over, thank goodness, but during this month it was the custom to set off firecrackers. I had always assumed that the kids were tossing "poppers", those little bits of gunpowder wrapped in paper. I wondered why they always threw them so close to my window all the time. I later learned the hard away that they were not being set off in my proximity, the blasted things are just very, very loud.

I was on my way to work when a kid was lighting firecrackers and one landed about two yards ahead of me. "This is just great," I thought and stopped to wait for it to go off before I continued my walk. Little did I know that the little bastard had just thrown one a few seconds before that was about three inches from my shoe. It went off like a gunshot in my ear, I screamed and it felt like my head exploded. The kid thought that this was really funny and started to laugh (at least I think that's what he was doing since all I could hear was a loud ringing) but he stopped laughing when I dove across the road and started screaming at him, cursing the fact that I didn't know enough Arabic to REALLY give the punk a piece of my mind. A few minutes later some women came to my aid. I told them that I wanted the firecrackers. The kid said that he didn't have anymore. We frisked him and found about 20. The stupid kid really put up a fight when we took them away. I am not sure why he did, I know that he can get more. I was at the store buying a Coke the other day when some kids ran in and bought what I thought was candy-- when I walked out they were lighting a 911 call waiting to happen that flew around the sidewalk shooting off sparks. (Lets not forget that most of the cars around here leak.)

Speaking of cars, I also had a bit of a double take when I was walking home from work (for an area about two blocks long, a lot happens on that road) and two SUV's came bursting around the corner, obviously racing. I jumped and pressed my back against the wall-- one was attempting to pass in on a road that can only be described as one lane. Normally I would have assumed that they were drunk idiots, but people can't drink in this country. (I mean that, alcohol is VERY hard to come by unless you have a lot of money, and even then it's not easy.) As the cars passed I saw that the drivers were two kids, neither looked like they had hit puberty or even could reach the gas pedals.

I shrugged and continued on my way. Just another typical day in Yemen...

Shouf

So after complaining incessantly about the fact that neither of the care packages that I am still waiting to receive (things are slow around Ramadan) one of my housemates suggested that I tramp down to the post office and ask them.

So I put on my balto and headscarf which I have taken to wearing (and the harassment as miraculously disappeared) and started the hike down to the Hadda post office. Ramadan hours: 8-10PM. I got there and was told that I need to take an even longer pilgrimage to the post office down by the old University. My frustration at initially going to the wrong place was trumped by my pride that I actually knew where this place was and I started off again.

Half an hour later I made it. The homeless beggar women outside the office doubled as an information booth and they waved to me to where I needed to go. Not that they knew what I wanted, but I have come to learn that most people here have limited physic abilities. Once inside, I was faced with something that looked like the scene from "It's a Wonderful Life" where the bank is out of cash and people are screaming for their money. Tons of Yemenis were standing in front of the counter waving pieces of paper over their heads and screaming. It was pretty terrifying. I slunk unnoticed along the wall feeling that my attempts to blend in were putting me at a strong disadvantage for once. I stood in a different line which held the appeal that there were only three people in it, and none of them were screaming. The man behind the counter took my PO box number and vanished, giving me a spark of hope which was quickly dashed when he came back ten minutes later smelling of cigarettes and told me the dreaded words "mafeesh." (Nothing.)

Demoralized and depressed, I decided to walk back. It was a nice night and since I had planned to spend the evening playing with the contents of care packages I had nothing to do anyway. I was about three-quarters of the way home when a little brown cat walked up and rubbed against my legs.

I leaned down and pet the little gold and black striped six-month-old cutie, and picked it up. Most of the cats around here are terrified of people and would never allow this, which made me suspect that he belonged to someone else. So normally, I would never have done what I did-- which was to keep walking and take him home-- was it not for something that happened about a month ago.

A month ago I was walking to work when a black and white cat leaped in my path and meowed at me. I pet him and he followed me to work. On the way home, he was back. I started to bring cat food for him and we became good friends. I called him Ninja, and I didn't take him home simply because I assumed that this cat must have an owner. A few days later Ninja didn't show up, and I was worried that something had happened to him. My fears were answered a few days after that when I found Ninja's body dumped unceremoniously in a garbage heap. He had a hole in his stomach-- I don't think that he was hit by a car.

So holding Shouf in a busy and non-residential area, I couldn't help but remember Ninja, covered with flies in a pile of rotting food and old scraps of shoes. To my credit, I did stand there for a few minutes waiting for someone to come running out asking what I was doing with their cat. When this didn't happen I walked home. (I also went back the next day and wandered around looking for someone looking for cat.) Shouf didn't complain once during the walk, sitting in my arms like he'd been born there. In my bedroom, he took a quick sniff around and then curled up in my lap and fell asleep.

He's adorable and just what I really needed right now. Quiet, clean, friendly and affectionate-- he reminds me of Kiki, my Samoan cat who died suddenly in my arms at just one year old. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised by that-- a cat is obviously going to remind me of another cat, plus Kiki was hardly quiet. But I couldn't help but feel that I didn't find Shouf, he found me.

Kim's Ramadan Daydream

"What are you going to do when you get off the plane?" is a common question that expats get when people find out that they are going home after being away for a while. Well, I'm not planning a trip home but Becky and I did decide what we are going to do. This little plan was hatched while trying to walk down Hadda street one night after being whistled at, ripped off and generally gawked at.

First, I am going to find the area in my neighborhood where there is the highest population of Middle Easterners (preferably Yemenis) and I am going to first drive around said neighborhood and every time I see someone who looks like they might be of Middle Eastern decent I am going to lean on the horn, screech to a stop and scream "Marhaban!" ("Welcome!") at them regardless of how long they look like they have lived there. When this gets old, I am going to get out of the car and wander around the town saying "Kaf Haluk?" ("How are you?") and "Habibik!" ("I love you!") to every immigrant and expat I see. If this fails to get their attention then I will just whistle or make strange noises. If I should see something even slightly out of the ordinary (like-- God forbid-- a woman wearing a headscarf) I will come to a dead halt right in front of them, let my mouth drop open and stare at them with wide eyes while saying "Ya' Allah!!" ("My God!"). When I am inevitably arrested for harassment I will tell the cops that I am simply a friendly and curious person and that people shouldn't have been offended at my attempts to reach out to them.

Eventually I might meet someone who gives me the time of day. When they respond to my cries with a "hello" or a "what do you think that you are doing" I will exclaim in loud and condescending tones "My God, your English is wonderful, where on earth did you learn to speak English like that?!?" I will then ask them for their name, their age, where they live, where they work, their marital status and find out what they think of America. When this interrogation is done I will take their arm and give them a tour while saying lots of very condescending and obvious things. "Here's a McDonalds! Have you seen a McDonalds yet? It's a restaurant. You can eat food here. Have you ever tried a hamburger before?"

Okay, I am not going to do these things of course, but imagining myself doing them is keeping me sane as I walk through the streets of Sanaa.

FIP, Becky

(FIP: Fly in Peace)

Well, my housemate Becky leaving just me and Sonia (which I am very happy about, Sonia). She left last night and we had a tearly evening farewell at the guesthouse gate. About two hours later we got a call from same saying that her flight was cancelled and that she was coming back, which was made even more inconvient by the fact that I was about half finished moving into her room. Anyway, they managed to get her on another flight today and it looks like everything is a go.

My two week break has been a bit of a bust. I had plans to go to Taiz, Kokoban, Marib, Ibb, Shahara and a frew other places but one by one each plan was shot down. The family that was supposed to take me to Taiz had a "family emergency" and the person I was supposed to go to Shahara with ran out fo cash... blah, blah, blah. I am going to try to escape next week but that is a bad time because it's going to be Eid.

Gives me time to catch up in my grading. One of my students, in a paragraph where he was to describe himself, wrote: "I am handsome man. I am black hair and I in gray shirt, brown shoes and black panties."

He meant pants. I hope he meant pants.

Adventures in Teaching

Yesterday I walked into my Level 1 class and asked them, "Okay, what did you learn in your science class yesterday?" (They have chemistry classes as well as English.)

A hand shot up like a rocket and the guy was going "ooo!! ooooo!!!!" I called on him, surprised by his excitement. "Yes?" I said. For good measure I repeated the question. "What did you learn yesterday in Chemistry?"

"3!" he said triumphantly.

Iftar

Is Ramadan over yet? No, the moon is full which means that we have two more weeks. This is my last week of classes, however, and things should get a lot more relaxed when I no longer have to get up at 7:45AM after getting to bed at one in the morning.

Ramadan is the time of Iftar (I am probably not spelling that right), also known as breakfast although it is eaten around 6PM after the sun goes down. It's a tradition to invite people to dinner, and Sonia (my Muslim housemate) has been going out about every night and when I am lucky she brings me with her.

The traditional Iftar meal starts with a quick appetizer of dates and samosas. Generally stuffed with either cheese or meat, these things are to die for. After that, the people all go off and pray after having their hunger for the most part fought off. When they get back, the women will spread a large plastic sheet on the ground and spread food on it. The names of the foods escape me right now, but for those who are interested please check back. I will get someone to photograph the spread of the next meal and write down the names for me. But generally there is this dish consisting of that spongy Ethiopian bread in a yogurt sauce of some sort, and it rocks. A meat dish and a big platter of rice cooked with potatoes and meat. Everyone is given a spoon and told to dig in. There is usally flat bread that gets passed around when the salta (another dish which is actually kind of gross and in my opinion looks a bit like puke) comes out.

After dinner it's desert time, generally a jello thing (called jelly here, like in Samoa, which was a shock when I bought some "mix-it-yourself" jelly that I made and tried to eat off bread) and some cake type thing. And coffee. Needless to say, I have put on quite a bit of weight!! (The nightly Pilates sort of died out.)

After that there is conversation. We've figured out a way around this by having a friend give up an emergency call at around 7:45 telling us that there is a roach in the bathroom, the toilet is overflowing, genies are talking over the world—whatever is needed to get us the hell out of there before we have to meet someone's grandmother, mother-in-law, grandmother-in-law, 2nd cousin and so on. Becky and I were wondering if they do this to each other. The same thing happened to me in Palestine… I mean, could you imagine going to your friends house, having a nice meal, then having them say "Well, let's get in the car, we're going to Grandma's house so that you can meet her?" Keep in mind that this is made worse by the fact that we don't speak the same language.

Iftar is cooked by the women of the house, and they generally eat separately from the men. In many of the dinners that I would be at I wouldn't even see a woman, except for an occasional smiling grandmother who greeted us at the door. When we were introduced to the women, they would come pouring out of the door like a clown car. Becky and I did recently go to an Iftar where we were the guests of the women, and it was a very different experience. It was a special occasion and there were easily 60 women there, and I only saw the men at the beginning of the evening. For me, it was sad to see all the identical black-robed women walk into the room and show such personality after they threw off their scarves.

Anyway, tonight some of our housemates made dinner and we had our own Iftar. Tim and Derrick (a new housemate) were cooking and we girls sent them into the kitchen while we lounged around and watched TV in our Bizarro version of Yemen. It was nice until I was told that I would be the one to wash the dishes.

Do We Feel Safe Yet?

The other day I was heading to work in the Gas Company with my driver, Abdul. In addition to the two of us, the car held a payload about ten boxes of textbooks that were needed for the next class. We got to the gates of the Gas Company (uh, remember as you read this tale that there have been about three attacks on Gas-related industries here in Yemen in the past few weeks) and Abdul honks for the guard to let us in.

The guard came out and had a word with Abdul. I didn't recognize the guard, but that's not saying much as there are a ton of them and they all look alike in their matching guard uniforms. Abdul and the guard had a short argument and the guard eventually waved us in.

I will admit that it was in Arabic and that I didn't know a word that he was saying. Abdul is a sweet man, and he's worked at MALI for years, but he doesn't really know very much about the in and outs of what I am doing. He knew that we were delivering textbooks for MALI and the name of the director of said institute. But in reality, Abdul doesn't really know anything that you couldn't find off the Internet in about five minutes (from my blog alone, in fact.)

So once inside the gates, we quickly unload ten unmarked and very heavy boxes to various floors in the building. The guard even helped us. On the way out, he finally got around to asking me my name. Turns out that he was new and didn't know who I was. I gave my name to him and he went to the office to write it down. He didn’t ask to see any ID, including my "official" gas company ID card. (I put "official" in quotes because after waiting a month for the card I got sick of signing in every morning and swiped a card from a former employee and simply scotch taped—not glued—my name and picture over the old name and photo.) By the time he got to his office, Abdul and I were happily out of the compound and bouncing away down the road as he took me to a different entrance.

It wasn't until afterwards that I realized that ANYTHING could have been in those boxes.

US Foreign Relations Fucks Up Again...

Today was my last weekday off, so I took the opportunity to head to my embassy. I went for a few reasons… the first was simply to see it and see if it looked anything like the one in "Rules of Engagement" and the other reason is that I had two passports—my Peace Corps passport and my regular passport. I had to use the Peace Corps passport to get into Yemen because the other one has an Israeli stamp on it, and it was only good for three months after my service finished, and I didn't want to be with a visa in an expired passport.

So I walked to Hadda Street and hailed a cab. He said he wanted 600 hundred rials, I stood firm at 400. After I started to walk away he relented and I got in feeling smug. But the bastard got his own back. We got to the embassy; he pointed it out and kicked me out of his cab. I nervously walked up to the heavily fortified entrance holding up my passport. The guards told me that I had to go around. "Around" consisted of about a ten minute walk on a busy highway with no sidewalk and nearly every taxi or bus that saw me screeching to a halt and honking in hopes of getting a western fare. You see, this is why I hate taxi drivers.

I finally got to the place and they waved me in. I had to walk halfway back to where I had started and entered a line with a bunch of bored looking Yemenis. After waiting for about ten minutes, I realized that it wasn't a line, rather just a place to wait for something that wasn't going to happen. I asked the guard if I could just go in and he waved me to the door.

In the door, I handed in all my junk to a Yemenese woman wearing a matching headscarf and bullet-proof vest and was ushered through a metal detector to conciliate services. The embassy really looked like what you would expect. Big, modern, lots of guards and a big wall all around it. I went to the conciliate office and waited for about a half hour (for some crazy reason I had neglected to bring a book) and then someone came to help me. I had to shout my problems through a glass wall about a half foot thick. "I have two passports," I told them. "This one is my Peace Corps Passport, it has my visa", I opened and held it up, showing the visa, "but it is only good for another month. And this is my other passport, but it has this," and I showed him the Israeli stamp. He nodded and I slipped both passports under the window. He told me that he would have to speak with his boss about it.

More waiting. The power flashed off and the generator kicked in. Finally, I was called back. He told me that since my Peace Corps contract was cancelled, he had gone ahead and cancelled the Peace Corps passport. He gave me back my Peace Corps passport and I looked at it in horror. He had punched a few holes in the cover and put a big "cancelled" stamp in it. "What about my visa?" I asked.

"You will have to transfer it to your second passport", he said, giving said passport back.
"Are they going to put a visa in it, with this?" I asked, holding up the stamp.

"No," he admitted. "I guess you'll need a new passport." He got me an application and demanded $67 bucks. Fortunately I had planned for this and handed over the money. He then asked for two identical passport pictures. I had not planned for this, and felt like a real idiot since I had two spares in my desk at home.

"But what about my visa?" I asked.

"You'll have to put it in the new passport. You'll get it in a week."

"But since my current passport is cancelled, isn't my visa cancelled as well?"

The man blinked a few times, obviously not having thought that far. "Well, yes, theoretically," he stammered. "But if anyone gives you any problems, just call us and we'll sort it out." I thought about when I got arrested in Israel and the only support that the embassy gave me was a stack of outdated Cosmopolitans and a call to my mom. Needless to say, I didn't feel much better.

Anyway, I asked where there was a picture place and they told me that there was one to the left. "But you'll need to take a taxi, it's too far, you'll never make it."

"How far?"

"About half a kilometer." I wondered what would happen if I was arrested more then half a kilometer away from the embassy. I set out on foot and ten minutes later I found the place. I asked (in Arabic) for some passport pictures. I said that I needed them NOW, in ten minutes, and was the place digital? They nodded. First they tried to sell me ten. I talked them down to four. They told me it was 250 rials, and I paid the bill and they gave me a receipt.

"Where do we take the pictures?" I asked. The man shrugged and pointed at the lights. "No power", he said. I remembered that it had gone out an hour ago.

I bought some melting ice cream and sat outside to sulk and wait for the lights to come back and wonder if it would bankrupt the bloody embassy to provide themselves with a simple digital camera and printer along with their fancy useless generator.

When the lights came back on (I was lucky, it only took about fifteen minutes) they ushered me into a room and sat me down to photograph me. The guy snapped my picture and I looked at the camera suspiciously. "Digital?" I asked. He nodded as he pulled the lever to advance the film. I went back out and asked when my pictures would be ready. I was told to come back in about three hours.

"No, I need them now," I said. I was offered two hours and the very Yemeni "it's okay."
Another 250 rials on the table and they were able to wrestle up an actual digital camera and their photographer begrudgingly took my photo again. It looked terrible—I swear that he messed it up on purpose. At that point I didn't care. I ran them back to the embassy and hopefully I will never have to step on that particular patch of American soil again.

So here I am, in the Middle East illegally. Again. This morning I was legal and a trip to the US embassy changed all that. Thanks, guys.

They Hate Us, You Know

I was walking down the street a few days ago with a friend when some young boys hung their heads out the car window and whistled at us. I ignored this but my friend sighed and told me "They hate us, you know." She went on to say that Yemen was the most intolerant place she's ever lived. I didn't agree with her at first, but now I'm not so sure.

It was a pretty shocking thing for her to say, especially since I was more or less under the impression that I was a welcome visitor to this country. But talking to her made me realize a few things... namely that the horn honking and the "hey baby"'s mean something a little different here.

After living in Samoa for so long I more or less got used to the unwanted attention and stares. However, something that hadn't occurred to me was that in Yemen, unlike Samoa, it isn't really cool to sleep with as many westerners as humanly possible, and it certainly isn't cool to brag about it. Rather, it is Shame, and most things sexual-- from sleeping with someone to hooting at someone on the street-- isn't really something that any man-- even a teenaged one-- would be proud of. In Samoa you called out to palagis to impress your friends. Here, no one is going to be impressed. No, the whistling and the cat calling has a different meaning here.

After I saw it that way, things started to look different. The stares are starting to look a little more hostile and a little less curious. The anti-American sentiments that I hear seems a little more pointed and I find myself feeling like an idiot-- did I really think that I could just stroll into this country and everyone would like me? Did I really think that just because I have certain views and actions people would treat me differently? You can't get into Yemen if you have a Israeli stamp in your passport-- even if you were working in Palestine-- and neither the government nor the people have a problem with this. It's politics, just like anywhere else. We are judged by our appearance here just like anywhere else. Am I such an "Ugly American" that I didn't forsee that?

Anyway, don't get me wrong. I have a lot of friends here although it's hard to be friends with the woman (who can't leave the house and who you can't hang out with) and it's harder to be friends with the men who people will assume you are sleeping with, thereby bringing shame to their family.

One of my students, Aziz, took some of my friends to Old Yemen to see Ramadan at night. I didn't go because I was tired and I assumed (correctly, as it turns out) that night at Babel Yemen would be like any other night. Anyway, Aziz and my friends (all western girls) went into a shared taxi and their way to the gate. A woman sat next to Aziz and according to him (admittedly Aziz can exaggerate sometimes) the women started questioning him about the girls. He asked him if he was sleeping with them. When he said that no, they are my teachers, she said that he should stay away from us, that we do bad things and that we come from evil places. Not entirely inaccurate, I will concede. Still, how much is said behind my back when there isn't someone who can translate the conversation for me later?

PS: Who the hell is Anne Nicole Smith and why won't the news shut up about her?

Under the Veil

The other day we were playing "class expert" and an interesting problem came up. For all you aspiring English teachers out there, this is a great activity which has never let me down. It gets the students to speak and requires zero prep work. You have all the students write down a problem or a question, preferably one that uses the current grammar points. You then pick a student to sit at the front of the class and the rest of the kids fire questions at them. Meanwhile, you are standing at the board writing down the grammar mistakes and getting volunteers to fix them. It's a great activity and I have never seen anyone NOT get into it.

Anyway, we were doing this in one of my more advanced classes and one of the girls brought up her problem. Fatima (not her real name) told us that she didn't want to wear her veil anymore but that her family was making her. Fatima wasn't talking about the headscarf (which no woman would ever consider going without) but rather the veil that covered the bottom half of her face. Many women here go without that veil, and I asked her why she wasn't one of these. She told me that her husband's family (her husband works abroad and is trying to get her a visa) is the one that doesn't want her to go without. Although she lives with her mother's family and her sisters don't wear the veil she is still expected to wear it.

I have been here for four months only, but I really starting to suspect that I would never understand this whole shame thing that they have got going on. All of the people in my class knew Fatima really well and I suggested that she not wear the veil in class, even going to far to suggest that she use me as an example. She told me that with the veil she had problems breathing, but that didn't matter. Were she to take the veil off it would bring Shame to her family. Honor, shame, honor, shame, I just don't get it.

She told me that this was a real problem. I noticed that some of the phones that the students bring to MALI were taken at the door, and when I asked for the reason I was told that they were camera phones. The students aren't allowed to bring cameras because they might try to take a picture of the few girls that are brave enough to remove their veil while they are attending classes. Fatima had tried to remove her veil once (please remember that we are not talking about the headscarf here) and she told me that there were a lot of people that tried to take her picture. Plus, it got back to her husbands family and she was shamed. The entire time that she is telling me this I am staring at her wondering what the big deal is. So someone has a picture of her? Who cares? This is a part of society that I am just not able to understand.

We had another discussion in another class then started as a discussion on different types of exercise (I DO yoga, I GO jogging...) and turned into a debate concerning how much freedom a woman should have to walk on the street. I won't go into the debate, but the final decision of the class was that a woman should be able to walk down the street with a brother or a husband without people assuming that she was having an affair. As for whether a woman should be able to walk down the street whenever she damn well chooses wearing whatever she wants, forget it. Another class had a discussion about a woman's right to work. The final consensus in that class was that a woman should be able to work as much as she wants provided that her work doesn't interfere with her household duties. I suggested that if work did interfere with her household duties then maybe her husband should step up. Why would a man want to wash dishes? I was asked.

Ramadan is the worse for women. The women I know all work. This means that they have to get up to teach for their 4-6 hours, and then go home and spend about 3-4 hours making a Ramadan dinner for their families. They have to do this every day WHILE they are fasting. One of the teachers that I work with was describing her schedule to me-- teach at 10, go home at 2, cook until 6, then do Ramadan family stuff and clean the house until around 3, (she can't sleep because her family doesn't sleep) then make Ramadan breakfast and catch two hours of sleep before working again. When do you sleep, I asked her. During the two hours, she pointed out, as if she was talking to a dull child. When I pointed out that two hours of sleep wasn't enough she shrugged and said that she can sleep during her day off. The men, on the other hand, work only about half as much. Myself, I work for 6 hours a day and I barely have a minute to myself, and I don't have to cook for anyone. It's pretty appalling, if you ask me.