The results are in!

The results from my super funziparty poll are in! the winner: HOME! I suspect various family members had a lot to do with that one..
In second place: Istanbul! Which, is far more likely. I'm suprised by only one vote for Tunisia- which was the place I was decidedly leaning towards when I initially posted the poll.
I am entirely discounting the "Other" category which received a whopping 2 votes because I know that one of those votes was by Hookie pulling for Coopersburg, Pennsylvania and the other from Torbs for Minnesota... This was a serious poll!

In other news- I am astounded and apalled that my last THREE posts have been about teaching and my classes. Ugh. Looks like this gal needs to get a life! I shall endeavor henceforth to post about other things. Like.. QAT! and... Goats everywhere! And... water shortages! And... my new good buddy, the security guard!
Shall I do another poll?!

Monkeying around

Recently in class we were talking about daily/habitual activities and chores. One of my students, Ra’afat was giving a little speech about how he helped his parents from a very young age. “...When I am six, everyday I ride my monkey to the well, for getting the water...” He was right in the middle of a speech but I just couldn’t let that one go, “Wait.. WHAT? Hold on.. your MONKEY?! You rode a monkey to the well? To get water? Whatttt. A Monkey? Seriously? Seriously.”
He goes “oh yes teacher, I rode the monkey everyday, every day!”
I go, “uh.. okaaaay. Sure.” And I gave a quizzical look to the rest of the class. They all nodded solemnly and assured me that yes, indeed he did ride a monkey, many of them had as was common in some outlying villages. Ra’afat gave me a little triumphant look as in, see teacher! Everyone is corroborating my story! Sweet, sweet victory! And then he continued on, describing how helpful he was to his family, and how, as he got older he eventually outgrew the monkey and just walked to the well- at this comment I accidently let out a derisive snort, like no shit Ra’afat, unless you were riding Koko the giant gorilla, I suspect you “outgrew your monkey” pretty dang quickly.

Awhile later in a bit of a tourettic outburst (outbursts that are growing more and more frequent as my brain is further addled by such a surfeit of time toiling under the blistering Yemeni sun. Palms, you know what I’m talking about. Mom, think chicken noise) I made an OOH-OOH-AHH-AHH noise and flung my arms about in a little spontaneous monkey dance. They were like “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!” or, more accurately, “OOOH TEACHER! WHAT YOU DOINGK?”
“Ummm… that was a monkey, duh.”
And they go, “that’s a monkey?! Well then what was Ra’afat riding?!”

Later ra’afat told me he had six people check his paper before he gave his speech, and monkey made it to the bitter end. Listen, it's called a donkey.

Crucial pronunciation activity

The other day I played a clip of someone yelling “RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPER! RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPER! RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPER!” over and over again for no discernible reason until my whole class was shouting it as fast as they could at various degrees of success.
Awhile later someone finally asked “why did we do that teacher?"
“Um..Because it was funny? Claro."

touche

Every once in awhile I’ll give my classes a pop quiz, just to keep them on their toes, to ensure that they are studying. They like it because they get extra credit or treats; I like it because it takes time and is virtually effortless on my part. I give the quiz to both classes, with the implicit instructions that the first class not say anything to the second class. Pop quizzes are supposed to POP up and catch you by surprise. Usually the quizzes pertain to some sort of grammar minutiae or spelling nonsense. The other day however, I bombarded them with the “Life and Times of the Hanley Family, Quiz Explosion!” I only included questions that at some point, no matter how fleeting the mentioning might have been, I said in class. My first class sucked, but as always there was a clear winner who happily enjoyed a chocolate bar and some extra cred.
I announced the pop quiz to my second class and their clapping and fist pumping turned to groans of dismay when I wrote the topic on the board (in hindsight I should have noticed the sly glints in their eyes… hmph.)
I went over the answers orally after they all handed in their papers-
Taryn: “Where am I from?”
Class: “Bremerton Washington! In America, Not Obama’s Washington! The state!” They all shouted. Whoa.
Taryn: “What did my parents get shortly before I moved to Yemen?”
Class: “Two cats! Two cats, one black, one white! Puf! Pip!”
I started getting suspicious. They all grinned back at me innocently.
Taryn: “What appliance recently broke in my house?”
Class: “Your washing machine! It broke last night! All your clothes are soaking wet!”
Taryn: “How do you spell my sisters name?”
Class: “K-A-L-L-Y-N! She is older than you by two years, she lives in Portland!”
Taryn: “ALL I ASKED WAS HER NAME! HOW DO YOU KNOW WHERE SHE LIVES? WHO TOLD YOU THERE WAS A POP QUIZ!?”
Before I could even ask the rest of the questions they all started shouting “You went to Lehigh University and played girl baseball. You are afraid from the spiders! Your favorite color is GREEN like the color of Islam! WOOOHOOOOO!!”

My second class, sneaky devils that they are, ALL, and I mean every single one of them, memorized the answers for the super secret pop quiz. Every single person got a hundred percent. They were cracking up at this, the ultimate joke on the teacher. Here I thought I was being funny and silly by quizzing them about the life and times of TK Hanley but really they were getting me good. They started shouting, “Treats and Extra credit for everyone, teacher! Bring cake! No test tomorrow, 100% for everyone! Full marks! We want a party!”

wait... we can both speak English

A couple days ago I was at a store buying some more phone units for my mobile. I was loitering around outside trying to enter the super-de-duper secret pin code, as was another older man of solid European stock. We both glanced up, gave each other a nod and a friendly, “salaam aleikum” “wa aleikum asalaam, kaif halek?” “Be kheir, Hamduliallah( insert generic Arabic greeting/pleasantries here)” and returned our focus to the pressing need of sending text messages. After a second or two we both looked up at the same time, made eye contact and I stammered… “uh.. I mean.. hello. Hi there, how’s it going?”
And he goes, “yeah… I mean hello. Clearly neither of us are Arab. So… hey, what’s up?” and we giggled shyly, smiled, and went on our merry way.

There's just not a lot happening in Aden

Almonds from seed to dish of nuts

Yep. You read that right. Almonds are front page news in Yemen. You should have seen the photo-spread on cashews in last weeks edition!

Pregers?

Instantly what do you think this is a picture of?!



It’s supposed to be a girl with a fever but my goodness it looks like she’s breaking the news to a soon to be father. I first discovered this pic mid lecture and turned beet red and started sweating and giggling in class. I wrote in the margin, “pregnant?” so the next teacher who got my book would get to partake in the fun. Luckily not a single student thought that it was even slightly suspect and all shouted out that the poor girl had a fever. I chose not to elucidate, it would be highly uncomfortable. In fact the other day I was teaching about parts of the body and got all flustered when I realized we were slowly and inexorably heading south and WHAT SHOULD I SAY, BOTTOM OR BUTT?! CAN I JUST IGNORE IT?! NO ONE PREPARED ME FOR THISSSSS!

Hugs and Kittens!

After class the other day I was besieged by girls who wanted me to write them little, personal notes so they could "show their kids some day and never ever forget me!" It was really sweet.



After a few minutes Roua (who I started calling Roo Roo after about 2 seconds on the first day, obvi) came busting back in the room, "Oh, you're welcome teacher. But uhh.. teacher? What does 'Ekksohh-ekksohh' mean..?"
I was all "whatttt are you talking about?"
She goes "yeah, eksoh-ekksohh", and points to the paper.
"OH! X-O-X-O! haha! Silly Roo Roo, that means hugs and kisses!"
"Hugs and Kisses! Teacherrrr!"
"I mean.. not literally!"

Nobody has taken my D-word poll

If you look at the right sidebar partway down the page I've added a poll called "Where should I move next?" but no one has answered it yet! After this Yemen shananigans is over I plan on moving someplace else for a couple months, but how can I be sure unless someone validates the choice I'm already secretly leaning towards?!

keeps me young

In the text book recently there was a picture of the Roman coliseum. I love things like that, it allows me to go off on tangents. We started talking about gladiators (obvi) and I showed them a quick YouTube clip of the movie. After the clip was over and all eyes were back on me I walked to the middle of the room, rubbing my hands together in anticipation and said “okay you (pointing to a student) and you… FIGHT TO THE DEATH!” They looked up at me in shock and then STARTED GETTING TO THEIR FEET! "Okay teacher..."
Hahahahaa. Sometimes I really love this job.

sad and scary?

Usually once a session teachers will show a movie in class (dependent upon proficiency level) as a language fluency exercise, usually a light, funny, often animated movie. During the movie, students answer a series of questions and follow up with a writing assignment/ movie review. It’s a nice diversion from normal class. Anything is better than the inevitability of grammar! Amira is currently teaching several of my former, beloved students. Amira is known as a strict teacher, I am…..not… Daily on break and after class they pour into my classroom, shouting out new things they’ve learned, asking my opinion on various minutiae, complaining about how difficult the last quiz was, causing a general ruckus and so on. I love it. Amira had her movie showing the other day, and as usual, a few of my former students came up to me after class. One of my favorites, Hussein looked downright doleful. I asked how the movie was- expecting animated responses because movie day = fun day. “Oh teacher!” Hussain said, “It was just soo SAD and sooo SCARY.” And then he slumped away. I went to Amira’s room all what the hell kind of sad and scary movie are you showing to Yemeni teenage students!? She goes, "Umm.. Narnia?"

Prudy McPrude, the Mayoress of Prudyville

In many aspects Yemen has turned me into an old lady prude. The other day I ran to a corner store real quick for some provisions, in my haste (MUST. HAVE. CHOCOLATE.) I threw my abaya on over some giant basketball shorts. The abaya covers from my neckline all the way to the ground, ensuring that I was fully covered- seriously if I don't feel like sweeping the floor I can just put an abaya on and walk back and forth around the room, the dragging hem line picks up everything! But on the way back to my apartment a sudden gust of wind blew the abaya up, and whipped it around exposing a few inches of ankle. I was mortified. I'm serious. I was deeply embarrassed and felt like a total walking stereotype of inconsiderate foreigner.
The other day I saw a tourist wearing a tank top and I openly scowled at her. I made eye contact with several Yemenis and we all shook our heads in mutual disgust. I mean of all the indecency!

In other ways it has turned me into a coarse vulgarian- I have made TWO scatological references in the last 3 months AND I actually laughed, LAUGHED when that bat defecated on my head. I hope no further deterioration of my highly refined, superior upbringing ensues.

EARTHQUAKE! 5.6 Magnitude!

"Oh my gosh! Did you feel the earthquake this morning?!"

"No. And neither did you. It was in the middle of the gulf. Grow up. I mean... YEAH I DID! I had to brace myself in the doorway for cover! All my precious vases were shattered! Close call!"

8 month musings

It’s amazing what you become inured to over time- I think that human beings can adapt to almost any situation, I feel like mankind is hanging on by a thread, and that order and total anarchy are divided by the thinnest of lines. But let’s not delve into that right now.

I’m talking about my own personal adaptation to living in a third world country.
Coffee is a perfect example of my plodding journey through circumstantial adaptation.
Coming to Yemen I was a high-brow coffee snob- Starbucks or bust. Not even Dunkin Donuts was good enough- America runs on Dunkin? Not my America. Only through sheer desperation did I make the switch to Nescafe. Over time Nescafe has become my greatest pleasure. I keep a giant bottle of it at my cubby at work and I carry single-cup packs with me wherever I go- I just discovered the special “3-in-1 Extra Strength” blend. It’s like the sweetest ambrosia. I am currently living in a place without any propane for cooking. Getting propane is easy enough, you just wait for the propane guy to come by your house and flag him down. You can tell the propane guy is in your neighborhood by the yelling- instead of just men going down the street yelling for no reason(as happens myriad times throughout the day), the propane guy goes down the street yelling AND banging a stick on a wheel barrow in a discordant cadence. But… that takes more effort than I’m willing to give at this point. And so without even the slightest hesitation, when I made my Nescafe this morning, I made it with some room temperature bottled water I had lying around. Room temperature Nescafe? Completely delish. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Other things that I’m just used to by now-
-never really feeling clean
-my hair falling out. Oh? I never mentioned that before? Because of my prolonged exposure to water with an extremely high saline content, my hair is falling out. I mean, everyone’s is. At least I don’t live in the East, where the water has so much fluoride that your teeth turn brown.
-moderating certain behavior because I’m a woman. Like not shaking mens hands, or wearing short sleeve shirts.
-having no real privacy. I kinda stand out here.
-I’ve also become MUCH more patient. I mean, you have to be.

Ben and I went to one of our favorite spots for some orange juice the other night, sipping away contentedly, enjoying each others company. After a moment of silence he said, “Seriously, just look where we are right now.” I was like umm.. Yemen? “We are sitting on plastic chairs drinking juice in a dirty parking lot.” And it was quite true. We were sitting in a busy, loud, immense parking area full of litter, feral cats, un-chaperoned children, beggars, and refugees. It was quite a realization that this place, this little, dirty juice place was our world now. The next night at dinner, we looked around, “oh hell, we’re in a dirty parking lot again…”

I promise not to talk about camels again for awhile... after this

I finally tried camel's milk! It smelled like dirty bovine urine and tasted like.. well I thought it tasted like regular milk, but all the people i subsequently made try it, said that it tasted pretty funky.
One of my students brought me a giant bottle of it and so I carried it around for much of the day offering it to anyone who caught my eye- including some homeless Somali men I know, even they politly declined the genial beverage. In this way I corroborated the fact that all Yemenis share the baseless belief that a surfeit of camel's milk can in fact, thwart the efficacy of anaesthesia. I need to see some data on that one. I also discovered that drinking camel's milk would make me strong like bull. I deduced this because whenever people asked me what was in the bottle and I said, "haleeb al-jamal" their eyes would light up and they would make the this-is-really-good-stuff nose-flick gesture and then immediately move to the you-will-get-so-strong bicep-flex gesture.

As long as I'm throwing out universal stereotypes, here's another one- All Yemenis, yes ALL love Celion Dion. LOVE her.

The security guard thinks i'm a terrorist

We have a relatively new security guard and it has become pretty clear that she thinks I'm secretly trying to blow up the school. For months and months I've been on excellent terms with the security at our school- when I lived there I used to make them tea or bring them ice cream. And they were always extremely sweet. So every morning when I come to school they give me a sharp salute ( I jokingly saluted the guards once, and now I guess its our thing) and wave me on through the gate. BUT NOW there's a new gal, and she has thrown my entire morning out of orbit. She is both fierce, and scary. She could eat me in a single bite. Every morning she gives me the once over, and takes my bag and gives it a thorough search and then eyes me again- I laugh nervously and eye my freedom just inches away, "yep, still just textbooks and exams to hand back, no bombs today..sorry! That? oh that's just a pencil.. yeah it's a #2, it's no big deal.."

But the other day we had a big break through!

My classes had their oral presentations! Each teacher does the orals a different way. I give my students a minimum of three minutes to talk about whatever they want- as long as it's orignal material, not read from a paper, and not about their favorite football club(the first time I did this, 7 boys did their oral about Manchester United. Booorring.) This is an individual presentation. They can bring props, pictures, powerpoints, costumes, food, whatever they want. I give them ample warning, but no in class time to prepare. I looooove oral day, it's one less day I have to make a lesson plan for. They all get scared and hate it.

My first class absolutely rocked it this session, it was amazing. They all got together on their own time and helped each other prepare and make them interactive. One person would give her oral, and a few of her classmates would do a skit that followed along perfectly. Or one guy did his about the ritual ablutions before the five daily prayers- one student acted as the imam, calling out the prayer, as the other spoke and demonstrated how it was done. One girl taked about Aids- at first I thought she was talking about "Eid" the Islamic holiday after Ramadan.. then I thought she was talking about "aid" and charity organizations... then I decided to stop guessing and listen to what she was saying. She dressed up in a in a doctors lab coat, with a stethoscope and brought in a skeleton and a big skull. Usually my kids suck at the oral- they get scared, or don’t plan or take it seriously, or they really show their level (I teach level 104) but these kids really, really excelled. I was like a proud mama, beaming at all of them.

Two girls got special permission to work together, their topic: Traditional clothes for women. What women? This woman. I didn’t realize I was the prop until it was much to late. They dragged me off to the bathroom and dressed me up in a pink, purple, silver and gold flowing dress. They pinned some of that wilty green plant so frequently seen at weddings in my hair, and gave me a string of jasmine petals to wear around my neck. They taught me a hip-swaying, sashaying little dance. Then we went back to class(which I had left completely unsupervised. woops.) and as they spoke I did my little dance around a tub of burning perfumed incense. It was hysterical. I needed to show my boss, this was just too funny- I ran into the adjacent class, did a quick impromptu tap dance in front of the startled teacher and darted to the office to showcase my traditional Yemeni beauty. It caused a bit of a scene. Students, teachers, staff stormed my classroom to see, crowding around the sides, and hanging in the doorway- there were students from other classes lined up outside, their faces pressed to the window trying to see. I had to pose for about around a million pictures to cries, “oh teacher! So beautiful” and “you look perfect!” – I was wearing a GIANT, loose dress, I had a necklace of yellow flowers, and dead green leaves in my hair, my “loveliness” was much the same as the “rare beauty” I displayed at the Yemeni wedding. Everyone was asking why my class got to have a party on a normal school day. Party? Nahh… this is oral day! But guess who else showed up? The scary lady guard! She came over and got in several pictures with my students and I. And you know what else? She SMILED at me.

GHOULISHLY GOOD TIME?

I forgot about Halloween. D-WORD I keep forgetting about American holidays. I had a piece of Yemeni candy made from Tahini paste- the crucial additive to hummus- which is almost the same thing as going to a bunch of Halloween parties, wearing absurd costumes, trick or treating, and eating those mini candy-corn pumpkins until I lie in the fetal position moaning and writhing. I almost remembered about it, almost. About three days before the big holiday, a bunch of the YES alumni (the students who had previously spent a glorious year in an American high school usually someplace god awful like Mississipi) approached me about helping them plan a Halloween party at Amideast.
Initially I was HIGHLY skeptical- I have previously been approached on numerous occasions for help with similar activities, all wonderful in theory, but in their exuberance they forget one crucial thing: we’re in Yemen. “Taryn! Help us form a co-ed baseball club!” Awesome! Except…. There aren’t any fields or even open spaces…. Baseball doesn’t exist here…. We would have to order equipment from another country…. It would be too dangerous for the girls to play in their abayas and hijabs…. Young boys and girls should NOT be running around together in public… and its effing hot.
As I continue to take pains not to let my rather antisocial, introverted nature become public knowledge, I of course feigned enthusiasm, and gave my hearty assent.
They wanted to make this party at Amideast, and force all the ACCESS students to attend- so we would be forcing an American holiday on about 220 people. Hmmmm.

Soon we started talking logistics- not only is this holiday HIGHLY haram, but there isn't the slightest bit of Halloween decoration for thousands of miles in any decoration. Do you think Saudia Arabia celebrates Halloween? The Kingdom is our closest neighbor.
I came up with QUITE a list of possible G-Rated Halloween party activities culled from the vast wealth of knowledge I gained at King’s West’s yearly “Harvest Festival.”
-shredding up cotton balls in lieu of spider webs
-scary music
-black garbage bags covering the walls to make it dark
-paper ghosts hanging from the ceilings
-scavenger hunt around the school
-food and drinks- I wanted to freeze a latex glove full of red food coloring, and then float it in the punch bowl. I also wanted to spike the punch but I didn’t make that suggestion out loud.
-That gross/scary food guessing contest- peeled grapes are eyes, cold spaghetti are the guts!
-make carmel apples and popcorn and bob for apples (sorry girls, no burkas in the communal bobbing water) When I suggested this they said, “Oh? What’s bopping for apples?” There is no “p” in the Arabic language, they simply substitute it for the letter “b” and Yemenis confuse the hell out of the two. Puttering their pread, or going to the clup or peach.
-I asked all my students where I could find a pumpkin and they were like, why at the fruit stall across Shabbat of course! But then we reached the mutual conclusion that I was talking about a pumpkin and they, in fact, were talking about a watermelon. So okay, why not? Let’s have a watermelon carving contest.
-trick or treating around the classrooms
-costumes competition- I figured this would be the first party in the history of Halloween parties whereby the teenage girls weren’t going to dress up as sex kittesn and naughty school girls.
-raffle
-haunted house in a classroom.
-a cake walk! (A.Kuske and I OWNED the cake walk at Family Fun Night at King's West)
I made about one-million suggestions and then was like “okay! Good luck!” but eventually the ULTRA-HARAMNESS of Halloween in Yemen proved an insurmountable obstacle and the whole thing was canceled. And so three days later, Halloween, just another day under the fiery Yemeni sun.

Attention Mom, Dad, and Kallyn- If this post reminds you of another young girl of our acquaintance, a young girl who also had trouble remembering the difference between two letters- this is neither the time nor the place!

More on camels

In other Camel news-
Cultural note** Yemeni’s are convinced, CONVINCED that if you accidently ingest camel’s milk before major surgery, the secret, antidotal qualities in the milk will render the anesthesia completely ineffective. Because didn’t you know, camel’s milk thwarts science.

whispered sweet nothings

A former friend/ wannabe suitor came back into my life recently and sent me this earnest little message:
“Please tell me your INGREDIENTS because I mixed
100 kg of sugar with 80 kg of chocolate, and 60 kg of honey, but I still can’t make a person as sweet as you.”

I laughed out loud in glee when I first read it. This is now my ultimate favorite pick up line. I desperately wanted to show someone this glorious little gem of a message- which was intended to be taken seriously- and waited in a high state of excitement for Ben to finish his classes. After he read it, Ben rolled his eyes and quipped, “Does that mean he thinks you weigh 240 kilos?”


Side Note** I do NOT weigh 240 kilos

vial of vile. That doesn't even make sense.

Today I was at Lulu Hypermarket- which I sometimes publicly refer to as “Club Lu’s” because I’m that cool, when I came upon a highly perplexing new product- Camel Oil! Dear god what could that even be? It was a tiny little vial in the toiletries section- I only know camels to be large, ungainly, brutish sort of creatures of a highly aromatic nature- I cannot even begin to fathom what sort of medicinal, salubrious, or titivating purpose OIL FROM CAMELS could possibly have. I know I for one would not wish to have that on or around my face.

In my mind I picture camel hooves and humps being pressed like olives.

panicky for at least 20 seconds

The other day I was bumbling along on my way home- on a route I’ve taken at least 432 times- I was lost in contemplative musings aka rummaging around in my bag for that last wayward cookie when I looked up and found to my complete and utter shock that I was in totally uncharted terrain, terra incognita if you will. Lost! It made me instantly panic and I whirled about in my high state of bewilderment- the problem? I wasn’t lost at all, there was just a new street vendor fruit stall. It totally threw my world out of orbit. That’s all. I found my way back home, so you don’t need to worry. Wow, that was a really good story.

ricocheting poop splash

This is easily the most vulgar title that has ever graced the pages of this blog. It had to be done.

Last night Ben and I decided to go to a film screening at the German center- this was indeed an exciting occurence because the last time they showed a film (at the French center) was about 5 months ago.
The film was "Das Boot" about a German U-boat during the war. Before I knew that that was the name of the film we would be presently watching, Ben made a comment about "something, something, das Boot" I go, "Oh, Das boot? You mean like those big boot-shaped beer glasses? yeah, there's a bar in Seattle that has those!"
Not one of my brightest moments.

it turned out to be an almost 4 hour ordeal- Ben and I were the only ones there except for the one German guy and the two people that run the French center. It was awkward. I felt like we couldn't leave, plus I liked it, I wanted to see how the film ended!
*SPOILER ALERT*
the Germans lose the war.

But here is the kicker...
We were watching the film outside on a big projector- happily enjoying fresh squeezed orange juice, and munching on some shwarma with a fan blowing on our backs. it was straight up posh for Yemen. About a half hour into the film, all these bats started flocking above us. Ben and I watched them interestedly almost as much as we watched the film - making Ace Ventura jokes, the bats were darting and swooping overhead, making a surprising amount of racket.
And then...
one pooped on my FOREHEAD.
no but seriously. A BAT POOPED on my FOREHEAD.
There was such force behind the expellation of guano that it RICOCHETED ONTO BEN'S SHIRT.
What a nice moment for us to share together.

It's because Yemen isn't a real place in the world

so I was organizing my wardrobe earlier and trying to get rid of a bunch of stuff that I don't need and certainly cannot ever wear in Yemen. As I was going through my stuff I made a small pile of things that I wanted to send home- much too beloved or nice to leave in Yemen, but inappropriate for the culture or weather here.
I went to FedEx with the idea of sending these few items home- along with some nice Yemeni treats for my family-coffee, pistachios, dates, and the like. Plus I wanted to give Kallyn a bedazzled Yemeni shirt to cherish for ever and ever.
I selected the smallest box- holds 8 kilos or less, and indicated that I couldn't care less when it gets to America. It can take 4 months for all I care- I just want it to not be in Yemen any longer, and promise to arrive in Bremerton some day.
That successfully communicated, I inquired as to the price...
$611. 85!!!!!
I was all... "umm.. excuse me.. what did you say? That was in American dollars..?"
I even checked it online at FedEx.com. FedEx International shipping cost from Yemen to the Hanley Hacienda- SIX HUNDRED dollars and eighty-five cents. whoa nelly.
Needless to say, I did not send it. For that price I can FLY home and hand deliver the contents... and about 7 weeks earlier too.

Inexplicably Thrilling

I have a new student...

HIS NAME IS SADDAM HUSSEIN.

this is not a drill.

I discovered this on the first day of classes while I was doing roll call.

"Muhammad Hisham...?"

"Here"

"Hamdi Ali....?"

"Here"

"Naseem....?"

"Here"

"Saddam Huss...WHAT?! OMG! REALLY? SADDAM HUSSEIN? IS THERE REALLY SOMEONE IN HERE NAMED SADDAM HUSSEIN!?!?!"

"Here"

It was not professional. It was not subtle.

I also have a student named "Abeer" which I like because, well, beer. Duh. I call on her a lot.

This is my happy place

Hanley Fam Vacay Explosion + Matt

I just got back from vacation and oh baby was it glorious! First I flew to Sana’a to collect Matt and to depart from an airport that was larger than just one singular gate. I visited my beloved and delicious American coffee shop and got to spend some time with my former roommate Catherine. A good start to the trip!
Matt and I flew out to Egypt (where we had a 7 million hour layover in a beautiful, but unfinished new terminal with a paucity of seats) and then on to Athens! We bummed around Athens for a full day and then took the overnight ferry to Heraklion, on the East side of the island of Crete.

Chania, Greece. Turned out to not be the sea port we were so arduously looking for.

Over and over we would exhaustingly navigate- almost solely on public transportation- our way to some sort of laudable historical site only to find we were way too early (damn you ferries! Why can’t you dock sometime after daybreak!?) or that it was obscenely expensive. We were like, we did all the work to come to your d-word country, can’t you showcase your wonders at a slightly reduced cost? How about those Euros, huh? They sure add up quickly.
We also opted for the “lets-see-where-the-wind-blows-us/ we-hate-being-tied-down” vacation plan…which, clearly was no plan at all. Which clearly came back to haunt us.

I want to eat you. But in fermented liquid form.

At one point as matt and I were trudging along on a drizzly, pre-dawn morning after another sleepless night on public transportation with the dregs-of-humanity
(side note: clearly people from other countries do not have the same hygiene and personal aroma standards that Americans, or at least, I have)
looking for anything that was open, and anything that could clue us in to where we were, I turned to Matt and asked in all seriousness: “Umm… do we.. like vacations?” To which he solemnly replied, “Uh.. I think so…”

Poppa and Matt

After laboriously making our way to western Crete, to the lovely port city of Chania, we planned to look around a bit and then head on to Santorini, and maybe Hydra depending on time. But when the hotel manager asked us how many nights we would be staying in Chania we both instantly and without consulting each other said, “two!” opting to spend the remainder of our time in Crete.

Cute. Sweet pose, Kallyn.

Greece was fantastic and we spent most of our time (when we finally realized we were missing out on our entire vacation by constantly trying to do too much, trying to get to various places) eating delicious, fresh foods, knocking back carafes of delicious local wine, and soaking in as much sun as possible (D it all to H I got all riled up and forgot that I’m on a type of malaria medicine that makes me hypersensitive to the sun and I got a pretty wicked sun burn… ) but it was soooo relaxing at the beach. And they had coronas! Also the cabana boy.. no no, really, the cabana boy at the beach might just be my future husband- he had scruff AND green eyes. Instantly smitten.


A backpackers vacay is a lot of waiting, a lot of work, and I gotta say traveling on a budget is clearly not the most relaxing way to travel. Obviously I’m still waiting for my sugar-daddy to whisk me away on a life of leisure..
Matt and I were both pretty pumped to get to Turkey where we knew that my family was waiting to coddle and pamper us, with hotels, plans and everything else sorted out and our only job would to be to sip some brews, and blindly acquiesce to their plans. Hamduliallah!

Turkish Round Up

Upon arriving in Istanbul we got trapped in the interminable customs line next to an older American couple from the South- I haven’t heard a Southern drawl in months and months and I found it both distinctive and absurd- after treating us to a thorough account of their vacation plans the two of them then proceeded to have a vociferous, inane conversation about mindless minutiae including many, many little factoids that should have come up in any of the myriad conversations that two people married and vacationing together should have already had previous to arrival at their destination- like the fact that neither of them had ever been to Turkey before. After we finally escaped them, Matt and I both turned to each other all, “Do they even know each other?!” A couple days later while we were at a café enjoying some fresh squeezed juice, we saw them coming up the sidewalk. It was long since past the time they should have left on their cruise, and she was leaning on him heavily with quite an exaggerated limp going on. We did not hail them, or inquire as to what happened, and so it shall remain a mystery forevermore.

We found our way via metro to the Sultanhamet (historical) district of Istanbul and were perambulating about without clear direction in an effort to find my fam, about to give up and find an internet café in the hopes that further directions would be forthcoming when around the corner came poppa! And a few blocks further down! Mom, and Kallyn! They marched us right up to the apartment, took us to the rooftop terrace where we were rewarded with a stunning vista of the city, and immediately put a cold, delicious beers in our hands! Hamduliallah, I’m home!

Kallyn had a senior moment when she started raving about the delicious edamame she was eating. Matt and I were looking around in bewilderment for a bowl of edamame- while my parents were just nodding their assent, yeah, good edamame! Finally we realized she was talking about the little green nuggets in her chocolate bar- ummmm, pistachios Kallyn, not edamame. Clearly, clearly those are pistachios.
A word we all quickly learned was “tuvalet” which means “toilet” in Turkish. It’s a completely fun word to say and was foremost in our minds, and dancing off the tip of our tongues for several days until Kallyn quipped, “maybe we should all stop chanting and shouting ‘tuvalet tuvalet tuvalllllllet!’ because really at this point we’re just a bunch of tourists publicly shouting ‘toilet toilet toilllllllet!’ everywhere we go." Point taken.

Mother also gave the excellent advice which we quickly learned to heed, “never, NEVER pass up a good tuvalet.” Sound advice in a land of squat tuvalets.

They tried to sell us this when I was browsing the suq with my dad... not at all awkward

Outside the spice bazaar we found a coffee shop that sells freshly ground Turkish coffee- it was super exciting for me because it is the exact brand of coffee I used to by from a specialty Turkish butcher shop in Bethlehem and here I was getting some directly from the source. Not gonna lie, it was kinda thrilling for me. And it's damn delicious too.
We also found a shop that sold pretty much only MEAT and CHEESE. It was a mecca of savory delights and my palate was weeping tears of joy- Matt and I gorged on a delicious meal of cured, prosciutto-like meats, cheese, and crusty bread, with various side delights of deep-fried meat, and an abundance of vegetables hollowed out and stuffed with cheese. Heaven in my mouth.

Cheese. That's all. Just Glorious, Decadent Cheese.

Heaven? No... just a MEAT EXPLOSION

Istanbul is stunningly beautiful. I’m kinda in love with it. Maybe I liked Istanbul better than Greece because I was actually sedentary for several days and got to enjoy it- whereas in Greece I felt like we were constantly on the move. But Istanbul had the bustling yet historical feel of New York (a city I love), with Middle Eastern influences and charm, and the ever present, and hauntingly beautiful call of muezzin- something that even after 5 times a day, for seven months straight, I still love.

The things that I appreciated so much on vacation were the simplest of things- trees and plants and parks, coffee shops, normal weather, short sleeved shirts. For awhile I’ve been thinking that I’m being super picky and needy and high maintenance about Yemen, and perhaps a bit whiny too. But no. I’m not. I’m just requiring what is natural and necessary- coffee, company, and comfort.
All in all it was a fantastic, never-to-be-forgotten vacay, the highlight of which was most certainly getting to spend some time with my family.

view from our beloved rooftop terrace

view from the Galotta Bridge (there is no way I spelled that right)

The other day..

Exactly six months ago, armed with only a giant suitcase full of poor decisions and the spirit of adventure, I embarked forth to Yemen. SIX MONTHS AGO! Yowza, that’s a long dang time. Half the time I feel like life is just draaaaaging on by taking it’s sweet damn time- other days I feel like it’s gone by in the blink of an eye. But six months. In Yemen. That’s pretty legit. I had the startling realization earlier that I can no longer casually reference something that happened “the other day” and still be talking about America. For Hanley girls, “the other day” can be something that occurred up to, but not more than, six months ago. This is slightly confusing for new acquaintances, but people catch on rather quickly. So for one last time- The other day while papa was mashing “essentials” into my overstuffed suitcases, Mom and I watched some episodes of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, patted some kittens on the head, and enjoyed a delicious brew. The other day I also had a large, green salad- who would have known that just days later, lettuce would become a rare commodity- smelled the fresh, heavenly scent of rain, purposefully wore long-sleeves, drove a car, threw a football, had a hot shower, did my laundry in an actual machine, and had a latte.
As of tomorrow, the other day I- discovered that your ears can sweat, stepped on a severed chicken foot, ate an entire meal of meat, rice, and beans with only my hands, learned the hard way not to shake men’s hands, and found out that toilet paper is a precious commodity. Yemen. Yeah man.

Spicin' things up! I hope

Nafisa: Taryn, I would like you to go roll around in that fetid pool of fish guts over there. Can you do that for me?
Taryn: Uh…sure Nafisa.. I’ve got plans this afternoon, but I can do it later tonight maybe.
Nafisa: No, actually I was hoping you could do it now. Do it right now.
Taryn: Sure, yeah, no problem. I’ll go do it right now? Sounds good, I’ll go do that right now. Exactly how long would you like me to roll about in that putrid mess? Okay, I’m going now. Thanks Nafisa!

I don’t know how she does it, but that innocuous-looking, grandmotherly, old Yemeni woman has got me wrapped around her little finger! She will frequently come sleuth me out in the teacher’s room, and as she is barreling down on me, I make eye contact with Amira who makes a “S” shape on her forehead and mouths the word “sucker!” at me. Everyone knows I'm completely incapable of denying this woman a damn thing.
Because of my inexplicable inability to say no to this woman I have done a million, mostly spur-of-the moment activities such as
- gave 3.5 hour lecture and discussion on President Obama’s address to the Muslim world in Cairo and the social, political, and cultural ramifications of such a speech- I, the facilitator, was also the only non-Muslim present. A bit daunting.
- Helped plan and supervise many student community/cultural events- beach clean-up, visits to local refugee camps, historical ship viewing and presentations, etc
- Consulting, supervising, and advising on the final projects of the Yemeni scholarship students.
-delivered a many hour, many day lecture-series on such interesting topics as- civic participation and volunteerism in present day America, America: a history in brief, and a timeline of American social change. I was all, listen.. I’m only 23.. wasn’t really around for all this social change/ couldn't care less either way
-allowed local teachers/wannabe teachers to job shadow me, and review my classes
-more minutiae, add tedium ad nauseum

So the other day Nafisa informed me that some new teachers are coming at the end of September (nice!), and asked me to write one of them an email talking about Yemen, living here, teaching here, life here, etc. I’ve had to do this a few times for various other teachers and it was no problem. After I sent an email I got rather anxious about it- did I just send an informative, albeit perhaps viewed as condescending email to an older career-teacher, someone with far, far more experience than I? Or was this a good email, the type I wish someone had bothered to send me before I packed up my life and moved a million miles away from everything that was familiar. Hmmmm… I decided to Google the teachers name, maybe, just maybe I could deduce who this gal was- another old-lady teacher? A possible kindred spirit? In the very least it would assuage any absurd anxiety I was feeling.
I knew her name, and where she was from- AND THIS IS WHAT I DISCOVERED!!
http://www.trinitynews.ie/articles.php?tn=1&issue=8&id=492
Oh my god! Could this be her?! I still have no idea her age or anything personal, this probably isn’t her. BUT WHAT IF IT IS!?! This is exactly the type of person that Yemen needs. WILD.

Pure Glory

The most glorious vacay that I have ever had the priviledge to partake of is commencing shortly. A few hours after final exams, I'm flying to Sana'a to meet Matt. EXTREMELY early the next morning we are flying to GREECE! That's right! Greek Island hopping vacay! I'm beside myself with excitement. I tried to learn a few words in Greek but whoa nelly that's a crazy looking language, I instantly gave up.

We are getting into Athens around noon on the 10th of September, bumming around for a bit, and taking the night ferry to Crete. From there we will go to Santorini, and then maybe Mikinos or Hydra. We aren't really sure yet, the world is our oyster!
I am planning on:
-Not wearing long, enveloping garmets in 100+ degree weather
-drinking carafe, after carafe, after carafe of delicous, local wine and then washing that down with some ouzo
-eating exorbitant amounts of lamb and cheese
-wearing a bathing suit, not a burka to go swimming
-quelling my archaeological fever whilst prowling among the ruins
-running and dancing and leaping and showing off my forearms and ankles just for the hell of it
-shaking men's hands when I meet them
-taking many HOT showers
-acting like a 23 year old, carefree American gal on vacay

It get's much much better. After many glorious days, Matt and I are heading to Istanbul, Turkey and meeting up with MY FAMILY!! Woo-hoo! Amazing! I can't even fathom how this happened, but papa and I had the EXACT same two weeks of vacation time. So poppa, mom, my sister, Matt and I are all going to bum around Istanbul for a few days and then roam the coast of Turkey; eating nice meals, enjoying our superior comany, taking lots of breaks for refreshments and fun, and just relaxing. I just can't wait. This gloroius vacay couldn't be happening at a better time- i've been getting pretty antsy/angsty lately and this is just what the doctor ordered. Can't wait to see the fam! Greece AND Turkey? Does it get any better than that?!

I'm all grown up now

Today, the smartest kid in my class tried to say "peanuts" but clearly said "penis". I just said uh-huh, yeah peanuts, that's great Yazeed! and with a great surge of maturity, moved right along. This is a big step forward toward being a real-life adult.

job

Over one weekend Amideast put windows in all the classroom doors- ostensibly so that you wouldn’t inadvertently walk into the wrong classroom, but really so the boss can check up on us, make sure we are behaving ourselves, meeting Amideast’s exacting standards of professionalism- not sitting on top of the desk (oops), not teaching them Spanish (oops), not doodling pictures on the whiteboard (oops), not throwing your pen at a student to get his attention (oops), not locking a student out when he went to use the restroom (oops), not telling personal anecdotes instead of teaching phrasal verbs(oops)… and so on.
I find these windows extraordinarily distracting- the window is right up front by my whiteboard, and I’m constantly distracted by previous students dancing, and making faces at me, and just clowning while I’m trying to be a consummate professional. It does have the unanticipated bonus of making me appear extremely popular though.

Amira or, as our boss continues to incorrectly call her, Amiri

I never ever talk about Amira except for maybe my initial post- She’s the lady of an ambiguous age, with the super mysterious past culminating in converting to Islam (or rather, “reverting” to Islam. Islam is the “natural” state of human existence, so you don’t convert to Islam, you revert back to the way things should be..) and moving from Jersey ( shout out to The Squan!) with her FIVE teenage sons. I find her completely intriguing. She is smart and hysterical and I’m enjoying her immensely. She’s also consistently late- a trait I meet with fierce gazes, audible sighs of exasperation, and flashing pen to the attendance sheet with my students, but which I find oddly endearing with her- she comes in in a great frenzy, burka whipping about, waving her gigantic hands in the air (seriously though, think Seinfeld, the lady with man-hands episode), flinging papers about and causing quite a stir. She has not been forthcoming about her story, ergo I have not inquired.

I never saw too much of her, she lives all the way in Sheikh and clearly has her hands full with five boys to look after. Also I have always taught early mornings, she in the evenings. But now with Ramadan hitting mid-session, none of the teachers wanted mornings – just imagine, teacher and teenage/whiny students, listless and unmotivated, ravaged by dehydration and hypoglycemia, endeavoring to retain our spirits and keep our thoughts on Allah-and grammar… sounds like pure misery, and yes, it kinda is. So she was able to request mornings and I continued to be stuck with them. Mornings are, shall we say, difficult for me. I pretty much look and feel like hell. I have a wild mane of hair, I wear a sleepy mask- so the first light of the morning is a shock to my system, and before I put my contacts in I’m blind as a d-word bat wearing my huge, coke-bottle glasses. In an extremely uncharitable moment, my beloved college roommates gave me the sobriquet, “mole-face” as I emerge from my little cocoon squinting, and stumbling into the light of day [see fig. 1]

Pre-Ramadan, because of my recent addition of a French press AND Starbucks coffee Amira, Ansam- another Yemeni teacher, and I made plans to meet in the teacher's room in the morning before class- I to make fresh brewed coffee, Amira to bring some homemade banana muffins. I awoke in the morning in my usual fog, groaning because it was even earlier than usual but I instantly perked up at the thought of an actual bakery-like item. When I got to Amideast, no Amira. Okay, that’s fine, I thought, I’ll just enjoy a delicious, life-giving cup by myself. Time continued its inevitable ascent and still no Amira. The brief window we had for our breakfast date involved me genteelly sipping coffee, staring across the expanse of the conference table at Ansam, both of us staring at the clock, back at each other and then giggling uncomfortably for absolutely no reason. Where the hell were our muffins?!

Amira is known as a strict teacher I am…not.
So during breaks I’ll go into her class and talk for a few minutes- it’s hysterical because we just feed off each other. It’s awesome to have a fast-talking American and we get each other all riled up talking about cultural absurdities/outrages, social and sartorial faux pas, making fun of our students (no we don't!), and our fervent desires to hold “social cues and awareness” classes for all of Yemen. The students look on with open-mouthed awe because we are talking soo fast, using slang and expressions, and just cracking up. It’s all just highly unprofessional. This is a side of their reserved, middle-agedish (?) teacher that they don’t really get to see, and they just love it.
The other day I gave her the name and number of my realtor so she could move closer to Amideast. After giving it the once over she cavalierly, albeit inadvertently (or so she claims!) cast it to the floor with out another glance. I took this as the incredible personal affront it so clearly was and used the proceeding moments to cast vociferous aspersions on her character and castigate her for her blatant perfidy and disregard for our glorious friendship.
Amira: Okay yes, yes, I realize this was a total betrayal but first, may I just inquire, when exactly did we form this “glorious friendship” I guess I’m not sure about the timeline.
Taryn: Oh? Well clearly we first embarked on this journey called friendship about six months ago we found ourselves sitting on a bench in a derelict medical clinic getting government mandated HIV tests. We looked around, saw the array of dirty bandages, and bloody swabs strewn about the room, made eye contact, and the rest is history.
Amira: Ahhh yes, that was a pretty great moment for us, you’re right. But glorious…?
Taryn: I know! Then we had about five months of occasional office sightings, one teachers meeting when you quibbled with Kors about spelling lists for an hour and threatened to ruin our friendship forever , but then there was that time when you stood me up for pre-classes mini breakfast THREE days in a row…
Amira: and that was when our glorious friendship started…?
Taryn: well duh.

[fig. 1] Heyy you big pretty!

A Heist!

Banking in Yemen is pure absurdity. Along with most things in Yemen that should be fiercely regulated and standardized and just clearly aren’t, going to the bank is like stepping into a culvert of chaos. Open five days a week from 9-12 only? Isn’t every single person that has the monetary resources to use a bank in the first place, WORKING AT THAT TIME?
When you first walk up there are Kalashnikov bearing guards barring the door way- but don’t be alarmed! They aren’t even facing you, they are sitting down, they are chewing qat. Then you step across the threshold and all order goes to die. There aren’t lines, there aren’t stanchions with ropes or any semblance of demarcation. Everyone just forms a throng around the open windows, usually between five and ten people crushed together. And the bank teller helps everyone at once. He’ll take all the bank cards, do part of one transaction, switch to the next guy, make that dude over there sign some papers.. I find it completely ridiculous. I’ve been screwed time and again with my timidity towards forcibly asserting my queue position. There are many instances of cutsies where I just tap my foot and sigh audibly. Take that!
If you need to talk to anyone besides a teller the procedure is much the same- chaos. Each desk has two chairs in front of it, no, not facing the desk. For reasons unclear the chairs are facing each other. So if you have questions or an issue you go up and sit in one of the chairs to talk to the banker, and awkwardly swivel your torso/crain your neck around. The next person in “line” just comes up and sits in the other chair waiting to talk to the banker too. So you have two separate people, with separate issues, sitting FACING EACH OTHER, openly eavesdropping- in some cases actively participating in the transaction- but only one person is actually being helped. It’s super professional.

And it’s all just an incredible production. Just doing a simple balance inquiry involves passports, stamps, many flourishing signatures- from all counterparts, initialing this and that.. exhausting! I’ve been here almost six months and I STILL don’t have an ATM card. Okay Arab Bank, I’ll take the fall initially when all my stuff got stolen but that was four months ago- I have an active, functioning bank account, I withdraw money, I have direct deposit, why is it so seemingly impossible to get a debit card for this account?!? I described the chaos previously here. For whatever reason, at the Arab Bank (the preeminent bank in Yemen) everything takes six weeks. So I had them cancel the account/card that got stolen in Sana’a. They said I could get another card in six weeks- keep in mind my only available time to go to the bank is on Thursday mornings, a time when, more often than not, I’m doing extracurricular projects for Amideast all the way across Aden- which forces budgeting and financial awareness and saavy previously unknown to me. So many a week later I go back. Nope they don’t have it. Then they gave me a card without a passcode so it didn’t work… Finally, FINALLY last week they had it for me! They went through the whole ritual of dumping out a garbage sack full of ATM cards and pawing through them to find mine… classy.. So as she handed me my card, Mariam (who I now know quite well because of my previous banking fiasco and the incomprehensible amount of time and paperwork routine banking requires) looked worried and told me to go ask Abdullah if my card works. First of all, who on earth is Abdullah (the bank manager!) and how, if this is a new card, will he know if it works before I even try it. And more importantly why the hell wouldn’t it work?
So I sleuth out his office and explain the situation to him- please check if this ATM card works, I’m not sure why, Mariam asked me to ask you- which only took about twenty minutes. I was there for ages and ages and people kept coming in, looking at the computer, at me, shuffling in and out some more. Abdullah kept asking me when exactly I got that card. TWENTY SECONDS AGO! I literally walked ten feet across the lobby and sat down in your office. He asked me to go to the ATM machine- the only Arab Bank ATM machine in Aden conveniently located AT the Arab Bank- and try withdrawing a couple hundred dollars. This made me hesitate- I don’t like having cash on hand, when I have cash, I spend cash. For some reason physical money becomes FREE MONEY! With no consequences if I spend it all, no budget needed, time for treats and prizes! So living in a cash only society with limited banking options is difficult for me. Not wishing to be problematic, I acquiesced and tried out my card. The ATM instantly ate it. HELL AND DAMNATION, THAT TOOK FOUR MONTHS TO GET!
I went back in, Abdullah looked worried, he shuffled in and out of the office some more, I sat back down with a thinly veiled veneer of exasperation. We're just blowing through nap time, buddy.
This is what happened- somehow, in a mind-boggling maneuver, the Arab Bank managed to make me an ATM card attached to my original bank account. The defunct, entirely separate account that I canceled BACK IN APRIL. I don’t even understand how that can happen. There. Right there. That was the exact moment when I lost patience.

In case I’ve neglected to mention this in the past the largest monetary increment in Yemeni currency is 1,000 Riyals, the equivalent of $5.00. A cash-based culture- and I mean everything, cars, house down payments, hospital stays, college tuition, is paid in cash and the largest bill is $5.00? Absurdity ensues. People make transactions with BRICKS of cash, at the banks, stacks as tall as a person, garbage bags full.
One day I had the chance to observe the bank when I was waiting for a bus. An “Armored Truck” (Read: derelict, old van) pulled up just FULL of money. Some men got out and grabbed large sacks of money and went into the bank- they did not close up the van, they did not lock it, they did not station anyone outside of the van to watch over it. They repeated the process several times, refilling the vault with money. Is that not crazy?!?
So the big news the other day? The Arab Bank got ROBBED! Big men with guns, word on the street is that it was an inside job. 100 Million Riyals! Well that’s just nice. I wonder why the napping guards weren’t able to stop them in time?

jackass

Yemen has two types of tea- both served boiling lava hot and sugary-sweet in tiny little cups. The local favorite is called "shay haleeb" which is tea with milk. It's quite nice, but milk is one of two foods that I purposefully avoid (the other being canned tuna. The smell makes me nausey) so I prefer to order the other kind. The other type, "shay ahmar," or red tea, is served with fresh cardammon and mint and is completely delicious. Shay haleeb is the Adenee favorite so if you want red tea you must specify.
Now here's where it gets mildly tricky. In formal Arabic, the word "red" is "ahmar" but in the local Adenee dialect it is "himar" another word that is extremely similar, hard to remember, and(apparently) impossible for a non-native speaker to differentiate is the word "hamar".
So the other day I ordered a tasty glass of red tea, only instead of saying "shay ahmar" I accidently said "shay hamar" more commonly known as a tall glass of DONKEY tea. Woopsie!

Ramadan + morning classes = tricky

Ramadan day 2....
I'm sitting in class eyeballing my students with a cool, calculated look of appraisal- they are taking a quiz so it's okay that I'm typing this.
Is it difficult to stay up until 3 am because culture and society mandates it and then get up and teach early in the morning? Well let me tell you. It is.
And let me also say this,
Teaching a class when you are hungry, tired, and thirsty and your students are sleepy and listless is NOT ideal.

I'm not over it yet

I came home today and checked up on my mead. I haven't peeked at it in a few days because as I said before, I'm trying to forget about it so when it's finally ready it will be both a suprise and a delight. But the d-word balloon popped! Oxygen has been devastating the fermentation processes for who knows how long! It's all ruined! I'm pissed.

Boom.

I finally came up with a name for my apartment. Previously I have had the great fortune to live in “The Trem 39”, “Club 425”, “615 The Lakehouse”, and most recently in Wisco, “Club Abyss” (formerly/briefly known as “O’Hanleys Pub and Grub”). Not particularly clever, but certainly fitting because it's so boiling lava hot, I shall henceforth refer to my apartment as “The Boiler Room”

Welcome to the Boiler Room, enjoy your bowel movement!

AWKWARD

In other news- I just sent a text message to a friend saying “Ramadan Kareem!” which essentially means happy Ramadan. But my T9 automatic-word feature in my phone turned it into “Ramadan Lardo!” that was a bit of an awkward one to explain..

Ramadan kareem!

The holy month of Ramadan started early this morning. Even if I wasn’t in the Islamic loop- umm, hellooo, did you read my last post? Obvi I AM in the loop- I would definitely be able to tell that something was up. I walked outside early this morning and was met with an eerie silence. Aden was dead. Getting a bus or even a taxi to work this morning seemed highly improbable and as the minutes inevitably ticked on I started to get desperate- a few teachers and, of course, many students were wickedly late this morning because of the paucity of transportation options. During Ramadan (the holy month of fasting), Islamic countries turn nocturnal- fasting is from sunrise until sunset, ergo things come alive at night. I’ve heard that it is really difficult to fast for Ramadan in non-Islamic countries because the world just carries on the same. Here, as in all Islamic countries there is a total shift to night living. Nothing is open until evening, the streets are dead, the shops are closed, the people are at home. Sleeping. Amideast is now open until Midnight. My Arabic class went from 5pm to starting at 11pm, which is super-de-duper past my bedtime. A few things remain open like normal, hospitals for one. Another are my English classes. It’s going to be hard having to stay up all night for my myriad obligations-which now take place in the middle of the night aka boxing at 2am- yet still be functioning for my morning classes.
So this morning when all seemed lost, a bus driver I know, Amin, happened by. I had only met Amin once previously many months ago but he remembered me, and I, astoundingly, remembered him as well. He took me all the way to Amideast- refusing to pick up any other passenger- I saw two people out on the usually overcrowded, bustling main streets- all the while jabbering excitedly in Arabic. I got a free ride, I had a nice covo and got to practice my Arabic, I made it to class on time- what an excellent start to Ramadan.
Many an hour later as I was leaving work I stuck my finger out to an approaching bus (expertly pointing my finger behind me to indicate the region I wished to head towards) and it was Amin again! He may have been waiting for me because the coincidence of seeing him twice in one day seems too great, but I don’t think so.
Once again he took me all the way home, refused to let me pay, and didn’t pick up another passenger. We discovered that we have many things in common- we are both 23, we both live in Muallah, we both think sahawic is simply delicious, and we are both married. My husband is of course, still away on business though…

In a couple of hours I will go to an iftar at my family’s house. This is the ritualistic breaking of the fast after magrib prayer- and subsequent gorging ourselves with food. It is traditional to eat a date when breaking the fast so I’m going to wander off in a bit and try and find some delicious, nicely packaged dates to give them. People go crazy during iftar. If I had somehow inexplicably still been unaware that Ramadan was coming up, a trip to see the devastated shelves of the super market would have clued me in. Teeming throngs of woman buying jello, custard cream, and sambosa wrappers literally by the shopping cart load is a clear indication that something is going down. They really love their jello here by the way.. All year I keep hearing about delicious, fried, and traditional dishes that only make their appearance during Ramadan- Yemeni cooking is delicious but extremely redundant, I’m pumped to get some delicious variety in my life.

Two-Minute Islam

A brief summary of Islam, namely the five pillars, just because I've haven't done this yet.

Let me preface this by saying I am not an expert, nor am I actually Muslim. However I have been living in an Islamic country for almost six months and I FEEL like a damn expert though.

Islam has five pillars that are a veritable guideline for daily living- let me give a brief synopsis of them:
The first pillar, or Shadaha, is a seemingly simple mantra - recognizing that there is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger. End of story. Before the rest of the pillars can hold any personal or religious significance, one must first embrace the Shadaha as sacrosanct.

The four remaining ritualistic pillars are very clear and specific- with particular actions and procedures for each one. The second pillar of Islam is the practice of Salat, or the five daily prayers. Praying five times a day is obligatory for Muslims and has specific times in which they take place. Prayers are said at fajr(dawn) around 3 or four am, Dhuhr(noon), ‘Asr(mid-afternoon), maghrib(sunset) usually about 6:30, and isha’(early night). These prayers can be said alone or in the company of others. Praying in a congregation is apparently very beneficial because it can provide a strong sense of community and of shared faith and equality in Allah’s eyes. I visited the mosque awhile back and witnessed maghrib prayer( I was up high and out of sight of course). I watched as men swarmed into the huge mosque, they all mushed in next to each other. There was a TON of space but every newcomer would worm his way in right next to other people. They were all practically standing on top of each other, it seemed kinda ridiculous. Later when I asked about it, I was told that you pray as you would go into battle; shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot as a solid force- as in this case, a solid force of worship.
Communal prayer helps promote a spiritual union with fellow believers, but individual prayer can be just as important and beneficial, individual prayer is ones alone time with Allah- it helps solidify your relationship with Him.
Islamic prayer is highly ritualistic, nearly every aspect of it is specified. The act of praying itself is very specific- prayers consist of Qur’anic verses stated in Arabic (the language of the revelation of the Qur’an to the Prophet Muhammad). Posture and bodily movements are also highly important- there is a set movement to prayers with specific postures- standing, bowing, sitting, kneeling, and prostrating oneself before Allah. Previous to praying you must also remove your shoes and be certain you are facing the holy city of Mecca. In addition there is a mandatory separation of men and women during prayer and specific washings and ablutions (three times in each spot- elbows, ears, feet, hands, and something else..) that must be done before prayers can commence.
Mosques are built with the main prayer room already facing Mecca. Every office, bank, school, airport, etc. has special prayer rooms and signs pointing the way to the holy city. I remember on the flight here there was a specific channel on the television with the sole purpose of pointing the way toward Mecca, the arrow kept moving and refreshing every time the plane dipped or turned. And even when we were on the beach during the noon and mid-afternoon prayers, the Muhammads quibbled over which way to face, and performed the ritual ablutions with sand. The five daily prayers are so important because through them one maintains a direct, personal, daily link with Allah.

Zakat, the giving of alms is the third pillar of Islam. Zakat is an act of required charity to those less fortunate and also an act of self-purification through the sharing of ones affluence with others. Zakat is calculated on an individual bases- everyone is responsible to uphold the ritual of alms giving themselves. I’m consistently besieged and beseeched by Somali beggars for money. I often give but I find my self growing ever resentful of it for myriad reasons- but let’s save that rant for another day, shall we? But while roaming around, some Muslim people have commented things like, “ya know, they shouldn’t be asking you for money, you have no need to give. They should be asking Muslims for money- we have to give, Allah decrees it. If we haven’t fulfilled our Zakat yet, then we will give. Huh.

The fourth pillar of Islam is the practice of Sawm, or fasting during the month of Ramadan aka RIGHT NOW. The holy month of Ramadan is a highly significant time in the Muslim calendar- much more than merely a time of fasting, the holy month of Ramadan is a period of increased spiritual awareness and devotion to God.
Ramadan takes place on the ninth month of the lunar calendar and throughout this month Muslims show their faith through the denial of food and drink, sexual relations, smoking, and QAT from dawn until dusk. In addition the Ramadan fast is also a time of total spiritual and physical abstinence from impure thoughts, harmful deeds, lust, anger, envy, etc. It is to be a time of physical, mental, and emotional purification. All who are able should fast at this time, with a few specific exceptions- children before the age of puberty, pregnant women, the elderly, travelers, and people ill or infirm are exempt from the fast. The fasting during the month of Ramadan is not supposed to be a burden or merely obligatory. Ramadan is to be a joyous time where can demonstrate their thankfulness and praise of Allah through the physical denial of worldly pleasures, self-sacrifice and total commitment to Him. It is thought that through physical denial, one can learn patience, strength and total reliance on Allah for comfort and peace in daily life.

The fifth and last pillar of Islam is the pilgrimage, or Hajj to Mecca( different than Umra, which can take place at any time of the year) The pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia is mandatory for every Muslim both male and female. The only exception is if someone is physically or financially unable to make the journey. Hajj is an extremely unique time- on this occasion Muslims from all across the world meet in one spot in order to worship Allah. During this time all pilgrims regardless of class or social standing wear a special white garment; this is designed to eschew all social classifications and allow everyone to stand equally before God in the ultimate form of devotion. Hajj is observed over a specific number of days and there are certain steps and rituals that must be performed including the circling of the Ka’bah and praying together at Arafat. Completing the pilgrimage is perhaps the hardest of the pillars to accomplish- in terms of physical sacrifice it is certainly the most “costly” but to Muslims it is also the most rewarding. Completely the pilgrimage to Mecca is a life altering experience. The pilgrimage of is the ultimate show of faith and devotion to God. Hajj is a logistical nightmare. And it has certainly become more commercialized over the years with companies devoted to Hajj accommodations, trip planning, etc.. I’ve watched documentaries and heard stories from people who have gone on Hajj. I’ve heard many accounts of people being trampled or crushed in the teeming throngs of millions and millions of people all trying to perambulate around the Ka’bah or throw stones, or recreate the trek between the mountains. Every year people die from dehydration and exposure and exhaustion. Wild.
Obviously Mecca is a place where only Muslims can go. This place is so revered and holy, that even Caucasian Muslims have to jump through hoops to get permission to go- a friend explained that she had to get a letter from her American Imam, and have official documents professing her faith notarized, and make a special appeal to the government of Saudi Arabia. It’s all very otherworldly to me.

So that's the basics of Islam in a nutshell, well the pillars at least. Obviously it's far, far more complicated than that. This doesn't even begin to cover the beliefs or history of Islam. There are a million rules, and rituals, and sayings... I honestly think it would take years of studying for an outsider to make heads or tails of this religion.

I have a new hobby

MEAD. I recently decided that I am going to start home brewing! Small, tasty batches for my own pleasure, that is. Yaaaaaaar! I feel like mead is an apocraphal beverage, everytime I say “mead” I think of the Vikings. Or Harry Potter. Mead is actually a sweet, ambrosial nectar made from honey. Yemen has a surfeit of honey. We also have yeast and fruit, ergo, Mead. Obviously I wish I could brew some tasty beer but a)we don’t have and cannot get the ingredients, and b) I just have no idea how to brew beer.
I cannot believe it has taken me this long to discover home brewing as a hobby. I can’t believe the girls and I didn’t dabble in this in college. We certainly made giant batches of liquor infusions and of course the patented “glow under black light Rave-a-colada!” that received much acclaim in our basement and whose high potency but smooth finish always made it an instant crowd favorite.

I have always done my utmost to support local. I love independent, and micro-breweries-
Best O’ the East- Yuengling, Lions’ Head.
Best O’ the West- Widmer Brothers
Best O’ the Middle- New Glarus Spotted Cow, Lakefront, Leinenkugal’s summer shandie
And obviously there will always be a place in my heart for Sam Adam’s summer lager, Dos XXX’s special lager, Corona’s with lime, PBR tallboys (thinking of you, Vince), Natty light ( Oh college…) Stella Artois, and Smithwick’s Irish Ale. It's been over five months since I've had a frosty cold one. I’m literally drooling right now.
I’m gonna go ahead and say that the LUSB and I were pretty instrumental in Lions Head attaining the acclaim and popularity it holds with Lehigh co-eds today. The little brewery out of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania is a master of it’s craft perfectly attaining the two most important factors of a beloved college beer- cheap AND delicious. $12.95 for a case of bottles, with hundreds of little puzzles printed on the inside of the caps- puzzles that go from mildly perplexing to deucedly difficult as the night progresses.
Even frequenting the North American independent brewery capital of Portland, Oregon and living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the thought of home brewing never occurred to me. I just can’t believe it. It hit me a few nights ago, it was an epoch moment in my life. I live in Yemen, alcohol is haram, that’s okay, I don’t need it...OH MY GOD. BUT I COULD TRY MAKING IT THOUGH!

I made a relatively simple concoction flavored with honey, oranges, golden raisins, and some cinnamon sticks for a little spice. I think it is going to be DELICIOUS. There were of course, a few problems-
- It wasn’t quite sterile. I opened my big jug of purified Saudi water (Saudi beverages are the BEST) and the cap just fell to pieces in my hand… bah… okay so maybe not perfectly sterilized
- I obviously don’t have any airlocks so I went old-school with a balloon and a needle for air holes. I guess I never really appreciated the superior quality and craftsmanship of American balloons until 7 in a row popped on me- all the while the precious gasses from the fermentation process were leaking out and cursed oxygen was getting in. Eventually I got one fastened and then left my house for awhile. When I came back I found the balloon lying in a little pool of yeasty-honey water all the way across the room. It had SHOT off of the jug in what had to be a pretty epic explosion. Lots of clean-up on that one.
It did however have the unforeseen benefit of making my whole apartment smell like the beer-soaked party room of frat house for little bit. Ahhh, memories!
Hopefully these things don’t prove too detrimental to the overall taste worthiness of my brew.

Other factors that could prove problematic-
I don’t have a racking implement for the final stages.. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Also I’m supposed to store it in a dry area with a regulated temperature. Well that’s just not going to happen. My apartment is just boiling lava hot and I keep my bedroom excessively air conditioned- but only when I’m home. So temperature regulation? Not so much.
It will take at least two months to finish fermenting and clear. I’m so dang excited! I put it away in my closet and I’m going to try to forget about it so that one day in a couple months my little event reminder will go off in my phone and remind me that I my SWEET, SWEET AMBROSIA IS READY TO IMBIBE!

Ages ago I decided that my old-lady-with-money hobbies are going to be golf and sailing. I think sailing around a harbor at sunset with friends and a nice bottle of wine will be just the thing to move me gracefully into my golden years. And golf? It first garnered my attention in High School in a class with six other people called “Life-time Sports” which we cleverly referred to as “L-Time Speezy”. Yeah, we were pretty cool. We never actually played golf (we spent 60% of the time playing one of the 5 versions of dodge ball that I made up, 30% going bowling, and 10% lifting weights) but we at least acknowledged that it was a life-time sport and would be good to try some day. Growing-Up-Hanley was all about lifetime sports and we had epic family battles of such little gems as croquet (the uneven terrain and sloping lawn invariably leading to many balls lost on the beach), shuffle board- the retirement home variety, not the bar kind, Kallyn Ball(volley-ball like game with a giant inflatable, and remarkably morphed ball so it would never actually go where you hit it, thus the high level of concentration and skill required), and our particular favorite, badminton. Badminton was THE BEST. Every year we would have to buy a new set because at the end of summer the year before would just cavalierly fling it into the boat shed or leave it out in the rain. We lost dozens of shuttlecocks every year in the wildly overgrown, extremely thorny hedge bordering our lawn with the neighbors (we like our privacy!).
Gaming strategy was contingent upon which side of the net you were on- one side was up against a consistently fierce wind so you had to crush the birdie with all your might to barely pass the net, the other side had the breeze in its favor so anything more than the lightest of taps sent the birdie sailing out of bounds into the hedge or neighbor’s lawn. Each family member had their own patented strategy- Poppa would nail the ball 100 miles up in the air where it would hang, seemingly forever, in the breeze and you would just wait for it moving back and forth and all around trying to set yourself up for when the birdie finally, finally came back into range (much like the bow-and-arrow scene in the movie Garden State) and at the last possible second it would change direction again forcing you to make a spastic lunge for it.
Mother liked to hit the birdie to the opposite side of the court from where you were. She would just nail the birdie back and forth, back and forth tacking you along, wearing you down. You would spend the whole time racing across the court, barely reaching the birdie, and then have to turn and sprint to the other side barely reaching it in time again. Over and over again until exhausted, you would prematurely start running to the opposite side of the court in anticipation and she would delicately spike the birdie directly where you had just been. Demoralizing.
And Kallyn’s strategy was to force you to make the mistake. No matter where you hit it, she wouldn’t try to force it by you, or spike it in your face. She played defensive badminton. Exceedingly patient she would just lightly hit the birdie back at you, over and over again, no tricks. Eventually (and invariably) you would grown overconfident and try and slam one by her, or put it in a far corner- but instead nailing it into the net or out of bounds.
No matter how many new and/or expensive racquets we bought, it always seemed that at least 98% had shoddy and uneven strings. So right in the middle of battle during a hotly contested volley someone would whack the birdie with all their might and then.... not seeing anything look around in a panicked frenzy eventually discovering the birdie stuck in the middle of their racquet. Patience was expended, nerves where stretched to breaking, rage was thinly veiled.

One summer in college a couple of the girls and I got into golf a bit and frequented the driving range- it was a thrilling three days. Palms and I LOVED it because we were instantly good and could crush the ball and then sit back and admire our handiwork/prowess, high-fiving, fist pumping and gloating over our instant skill. Mendy was…. Not quite as naturally gifted shall we say. She spent most of the time whiffing, spiking the ball about three feet in front of her, hitting the ever impressive “golf grounder”, swearing, and working up a powerful rage that only McGrady’s happy hour could assuage. Palms and I even invested in matching golf gloves- golf gloves on the range but at night known as “T and P’s Drinkin’ Gloves!” because, ya know, golf is sweaty work, and we developed a pretty powerful thirst.
And I feel like sailing is a natural progression- I come from a sea farin’ family and as a child masterfully commanded my little six foot row boat, only capsizing and requiring a passing yacht to rescue me one singular time. As children, on family vacays Kallyn and I were routinely drilled on the maritime alphabet and I’m proud to say we can BOTH still dutifully recite the whole thing on command- A skill that comes up in conversation FAR more frequently than one would ever imagine.
What do I want to do with my life? Where do I want to live? How will I make a living? What does the future have in store for me? I just have no idea. I sure do have my hobbies figured out though!

In other news

can we just stop for a moment and acknowledge that the Eagles picked up Michael Vick? He's been out of the game for three years and I guess didn't even make the trip to Lehigh to participate in training camp- which is probably a good thing because I know a bunch of people at the Lehigh athletics department wanted to brutally assault him after the news of his dog-fighting ring came out. I just don't quite know how I feel about him joining my team. Also the second game of pre-season is against my other fav NFL team, the colts! Eagles versus Colts?! I've been anxiously awaiting this game- my two fellas facing off, McNabb v. P. Manning, for ages and ages. I can't believe that a) I'm missing it because I'm in Yemen and b) I'm going to miss the ENTIRE season because... I'm in Yemen.
Life without football = hardly any life at all
-no NFL sundays with wingies, beers and kipper and kitten
-no monday night football watching my boys play
-no playoffs, no superbowl, no superbowl PARTY...
I've been preparing myself for this day, but it still hit hard. Fall and football season is by faaaar my favorite time of year. I'm despairing over the fact that I won't get to feel the air change and rejoice in the crispness of fall coming, see the leaves change color, see the cloud of my breath as the coolness comes, start to wear jackets and scarves again, smell the rain, cuddle up with roommates, kittens, or a good book, have a cup of hot apple cider and bake cookies.. I guess maybe I'm just despairing over the fact that this is my first fall without being at school or living with friends. This has been a year of extreme change and although it's been wonderful I still grow pretty nostalgic on the regular and miss my girls, miss the crazy, absurd, WONDERFUL life we all had together.
One of my all time favorite memories-
we had a superbowl party at my house(club 425, ahh! good times!) My roommates and I made an epic Mexican Fiesta/taco night feast. We had also made our all time fav funfetti cake, and had buckets of cold beers and mixed adult delicousness. Most of the softball and basketball team was crowded into our living room, gorging on food, downing frosty cold ones, and watching football. We were all just enjoying each others company when one of the girls looked around and said
" look at this? A room FULL of girls, drinking beer and watching football, and no guy made us do this, ya know, we're pretty lucky." I miss that.

my life is a mess

okay maybe not my life so much, but certainly my apartment. It all stems from the fact that for the first time ever I don't have and OCDish, neat-freak roommate (at various stages: JSmags, Marv, Michelle) or in the very least my mother, or someone with whom I am sharing communal living spaces with. I live in Yemen so clearly I don't have a male suitor whom might come acalling, I'm not trying to impress anyone here. And because of this my inner hobo has reared it's ugly head. I was opening a piece of gum last night and I just casually flung the wrapper onto the floor. WHAT. Get it together Taryn. I need to hang up my clothes, I need to put away the dishes, I need to take out the garbage. I hate doing the dishes and taking out the trash. Taking out the trash is exceedingly complicated because there's just no place to put it. There aren't any bins. My landlord has told me about 13 different things to do with it. Thus far everytime I've taken it out and put it in a new place I've been lightly admonished by my elderly corner homeless man. He's very nice about it though. I dread taking out the trash now, and put it off for far too long. I love fresh air and tend to accidently leave the window open- I live in a dusty wind-tunnel so that proves problematic as well. I need my poppa to come over and do one of his famous(infamous) whirlwind cleaning/organizing extravaganazas whereby he throws away 90% of your possesions but by god, you are ORGANIZED.

Do you have my care package? Please?

I got a care package the other day and it was truly one of the great moments in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited about something.
I had anxiously been awaiting it for some time- there was a kid in one of my classes, Khaled Ali, who showed up one day wearing a NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS SUPERBOWL HAT. I was all, get the hell out of my room right now mister, you’re in the heart of EAGLES TERRITORY! He just had no idea what I was talking about, didn’t know where New England was, and had never heard of a patriot, but I knew. And it was killing me. I decided to have my mother send me my favorite Philly Eagles cap so I could rub it in his face and demonstrate my superior American football and Philadelphia Eagles knowledge ( I have washed Donovan McNabbs sweaty jock strap.) and hopefully publicly shaming him in the process. So I kept anxiously asking Sahar and Gehan and Nuhad and anyone at all who works in the office of Amideast but clearly is far too important to concern themselves with anything so trivial as getting the mail, if my care package had come yet. Nuhad is the accountant but for some reason I have chosen her as my go-to gal for all manner of questions I have. She has proven extremely helpful: ascertaining for me why all the chairs from our apartment went missing one day (they were taken away to get reupholstered), where to get extra whiteboard markers (ask one of the reception interns to open the supplies cupboard and get one for you), what do men do with their qat wad when it’s time for the call to prayer (they spit it out in a cup and then eat it again after prayers) and such.
I explained to them my insufferable situation (Khaled Ali’s hat openly taunting me in class) and what my eagerly anticipated care package would contain. Clearly this was a predicament. They taught me a few crucial phrases in Arabic so I could successfully go to the Post Office in Khormaksar, inquire about my package and ascertain its delivery status. I went every few days and it was chaos. Much like the banks, the government, the police…. It’s clear that nothing is coordinated here, nothing is synchronized and standardized. No wonder the “ how-long-will-this-letter-from-washington-to yemen” trial run took two months to get to me.
They just let me come into the back holding area where I pawed through boxes looking for something that originated in America. There weren’t any records except for a GIANT (seriously, it took up an entire table, the fella needed two hands to turn a page), ratty, hand-written old book that had illegible shorthand notations covering its pages. We took a nice twenty-minute interlude looking through the pages of that hefty tome in case they mysteriously held the key to where my care package was.
Every time I walked past the office Sahar and Nuhad asked me if I got my package yet, I would shake my head dolefully, we would commiserate silently for a moment and then optimistically they’d say, “no problem, insha’allah you will get it tomorrow!”
Finally I came to the Post Office one day and they triumphantly held up a slip of paper and told me to go the Post Office in Crater center. This too was a hand-written paper and it had in Arabic the word “Amika” on it. Bah… do they mean “America?” The piece of paper also had the name of a woman written on it. It was not my name, nor was it a name I had ever heard previously. Clearly this was worth investigating. Along the way I picked up Ben and we went to the Crater Post Office. I handed a man the paper and he went and rummaged in the back for awhile, grumbling and literally scratching his head in consternation. Eventually he came back to the window with two packages! One for the mystery lady and one for me! I had no id on me but I told him my name is Taryn, the label on that package says “Taryn” (he had to take my word on that one because he didn’t speak English) and that also I would like to take that other package as well. Ben had his Oregon driver’s license which he showed the man thus successfully proving that he's an oregon citizen... and the man unquestioningly gave us the packages. I popped my head into the office and held up the battered box for the ladies to see, we jumped up and down in excitement it and clapped our hands for joy. It was completely silly.

Package Contents:
- One French Press Coffee Maker! Alhamduliallah!
- Both Seattle’s Best AND Starbucks coffee
- Some gummy bears- really though? How often do you eat gummy bears? But let me tell you I enjoyed the hell out of those gummy bears
- A gooey completely melted sac of chocolate that really looked like a gooey sac of.. well…it was gross looking.
- MY EAGLES HAT! And other miscellaneous but equally delightful items.
The best thing was a little packet of pictures my mother had enclosed. This was clearly from an old disposable camera that I had left lying around. It had some pics of my parents and I camping along Washington’s astoundingly beautiful rivers, the kittens, my beautiful home and my parents posing with the kittens, and a couple of pics from my trip to DC with the girls right before I moved to Yemen. It was so very nice, it made me a little weepy.

So yeah! Finally got my care package – I got it at 1:15 on the very last day of my classes. Alas my classes, and my acquaintanceship with Khaled Ali, ended at 12:30. Foiled again! Damn you Tom Brady, damn you.