You know what I say about vacations?

This is a lengthy post, and not for the feint of heart. Though rather long- and this is certainly the condensed version I think it sufficiently describes the entire ordeal.

Search, if you will, into the recesses of your mind. Imagine the worst possible situation for a traveler. When I think about the most horrific travel situation anyone could ever find them self in, I come up with the following criteria:
- It would happen to a young, solitary woman
- Who doesn’t really speak the language
- She would be in a new city in a foreign country
- Lawlessness and corruption would abound, with the constant threat of kidnappings
- She would have no I.D. of any kind
- No passport
- No money or way of getting more money
- No bank cards
- No cell phone or contact information for anyone
- She wouldn’t know anybody in this city
- And she would encounter assholes seemingly hell bent on making her life miserable everywhere she turned

Yep. That happened.
Let’s take a little jaunt back in time, shall we? I’m in Yemen! I have just successfully completed my first session teaching and now I want to explore my new home! My friend Matt had been transferred to Sana’a, Yemen’s capital and I wanted to check it out. Aden and Sana’a has a long-standing relationship of mistrust and heated rivalry- I’m constantly asked which city I like better, Aden or Sana’a, because you cannot love both. Since I only know Aden I have been unable to answer truthfully, now I can instantly, unquestionably answer: ADEN.

Day One-
Day one was magical. Matt and I flew in early in the morning, and managed to find our way to his apartment. We had heard rumors of coffee shops, gym’s (where women were allowed!), and showers with HOT WATER!!! His apartment was sprawling, spacious and tidy, it seemed palatial. The hot water myth proved true. Sana’a is surrounded by mountains and the weather was blessedly cool and refreshing. It all seemed otherworldly in its glory and magnificence. We decided to go exploring and ended up walking for a couple hours, investigating the city. As we were passing the suq al qat, Matt requested we stop. Although not a fan of qat myself (it is pointless and an incredible dredge on society) I was more than happy to oblige. We heard Sana’aee qat is the best, and I find the qat market to be utterly joyful. It’s complete chaos; first the men are pumped to see an American come in, gleeful in their attempts to addict him to the bitter leaves. But then when an American lady comes in! Whoa boy! Its just fun, they are all vying for your attention, happy, loud, shouting any English they know, thrusting their wares at you (many times forcing it directly into your mouth). Everybody is happy at the qat suq. We expertly scrutinized the leaves, shaking our heads gravely when we thought it looked shiny (we had previously, for unclear reasons, concluded that if the leaves were shiny than they must be of inferior stock), or looking aghast at the outrageous prices they named. Five dollars for this giant bundle? What an outrage! With our merchandise securely in hand we started to exit the suq. But now we were hungry. Anxious to try out a new phrase I had learned for just such an occasion, I inquired if anyone could recommend a nearby restaurant, specifically for salta. And this is how we met Muhammad, a taxi driver. He led us to a restaurant, ordered for us, put his number in my phone, and demanded we call him immediately after lunch. Umm… sure, why not? So after a delicious meal- and after getting my picture taken on mobile phones about 90 times (not a lot of American ladies in dingy salta restaurants I guess..) we called Muhammad and he swooped by and picked us up. He spoke not one word of English besides “bye-bye” and was a completely delightful man. Somewhat bewildered but not at all opposed, we went with him to his house where we met his family and had yet another meal. I just love eating with families. There is something so intimate and special about being invited to share a meal in someone’s house- sitting in a circle on the floor all together, eating with your hands- there’s no germs in family! Communicating and learning about each other in any way possible. I really do love it.
After that for reasons that remain unclear, Muhammad took us to the President’s Hospital where we briefly, from the hallway, peered in and waved at his father. The hospital rooms were co-ed which I still think is highly irregular in such a conservative, Islamic society. Next, Muhammad took us up into the mountains where we parked the car at a popular look-out spot. We wiled away the rest of the afternoon- lounging on pillows on the dirt, smoking shisha, chewing qat, talking, and surveying the breathtaking panorama of the city below us. In the evening we parted ways with plans to meet again to visit the rock-palace and visit other people we had met throughout the day. It was a great day. I was kinda in love with Sana’a.

Day Two thru Seven
I slept poorly and awoke with a terrible sore-throat, and the first signs of a ravaging cold. We had plans to meet Murad, the brother of an Adenee friend of mine. He was going to take us to Shibaum, a beautiful city full of ancient skyscrapers and stunning vistas. Upon reaching the first military checkpoint however, we were brutally rebuffed. No way jose, they said. Absolutely no Americans allowed, it was way too dangerous. Damnation! But, okay. We headed back to Sana’a. Murad wanted to stop at his local suq market (a different one from the place we went the previous day) and Matt and I hopped out to take a picture.
Normally I would never leave my bag in the car of a third world country but I think my extreme comfort, and the safety I feel in Aden has made me careless. Plus I think I have an overly optimistic (and often naïve) outlook on the goodness of humanity, and my invincibility therein. To my credit I asked Murad THREE TIMES. “Is my bag okay in the car?”, “Okay but are you sure it’ll be fine, and you’ll lock the car?” “I don’t need to take it with me, all the windows are up? And you will lock the car?” He assured me that the area was perfectly safe, he came here all the time, and everything would be fine. I put my bag out of sight, watched as he locked the car, slung my camera over my shoulder (hallelujah for small miracles) and stalked off after him around the corner. We were gone between 5 and 8 minutes. And when we returned my bag was gone. And then sheer panic set in. Alright let’s contemplate the damage- Among MANY other things, the items in my bag included ALL of my money, all of my bank cards- American ATM and Visa cards, and my Yemeni bank card AND the actual account number(which you need to carry with you in order to withdraw money), my mobile phone and address book which was my only source of contact information for everyone I know in Yemen, a notebook full of important personal information and references, every form of identification I have, and my American PASSPORT! If there is one thing you don’t eff with, it’s your passport while you are abroad.
Immediately we drove to a police station. They wouldn’t let us in because it wasn’t their jurisdiction. We drove to another one, and Murad (blessedly bi-lingual) explained the situation. This sent the police men in a frenzy of activity. Hell yes! I thought, this is nothing like what I’ve heard about third world law enforcement! How very proactive they are being! We figured it was a Somali who took the bag- there were a ton of Somalis hanging around the car when we left- one of their major sources of employment is car washing and they had already started as we were disembarking the vehicle. The only logical explanation is that one of them was holding the door handle slightly ajar as Murad engaged the automatic locks. The police men immediately started rounding up Somali men, stuffing them into the back of a police van, and herding them back to the station. The logic behind these actions being thus; apparently the Somali community in Sana’a is relatively small and interrelated. They thought that if they rounded up enough family members of the thief and started putting the pressure on them, someone would crack and tell me where my bag was. Yemeni police stations are NOT like American ones. The building was huge, ancient, and nearly empty- save for the uniformed men lounging around outside in the shade of some trees. I feel like my good-nature should have prevailed, that maybe I should have had qualms about seeing grown men forcibly beaten with sticks, fists, hunks of metal- I did not. They were a laughing, jeering, contemptible bunch, utterly unconcerned that all hell had just broken out in my life. My only regret at the time was that I, as a woman, was precluded from joining the melee. It would have assuaged my anxious, tortured nerves to just deck somebody in the face. Even Matt was able to get up in their grill shouting in English- they couldn’t understand a word he said, but oh boy did they understand his message loud and clear (especially when he punched a wall for emphasis a broke a knuckle) Eventually we were ushered out of the station- there was nothing left for us to do, we should come back tomorrow. And don’t worry! Of course they’ll find it! Its only a matter of timing- right now is time for the qat-chew, they couldn’t possible work, but tomorrow! Yeah tomorrow for sure they would find my bag, no problem! So effusive were their assurances that I began to gain hope, tomorrow this would all seem like a distant nightmare.
While this was happening, Matt called the American Embassy. After being transferred again and again- clearly an American in distress was not a priority- he finally got to talk to an extraordinarily rude, condescending man. He curtly and patronizingly suggested that I put a personal advertisement in a local Yemeni newspaper simply asking for the thief to give back my passport, then he hung up on Matt. Several times. This was his only advice. I am an American citizen- a young, female, American citizen in an unfamiliar city, who has just had my passport, all my ID, all of my money and bank cards, and my cell phone with my only means of contacting anyone stolen, and the very best thing that my government can do for me is suggest that I put a personal ad in an Arabic newspaper? And no, I shouldn’t come by the embassy, because what can they do for me? And also they are closing soon. YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.
Obviously the police search proved fruitless. We waited for hours and hours in the cavernous hallway for essentially no purpose. In an act of desperation I was able to get a hold of my friend Adnan- he is an extremely influential business man in Aden. In fact the more I get to know him, the more clearly it seems that he is unofficially running this city. Even though he was in Beirut he got right on it, calling a Yemeni friend of his that works at the embassy, explaining my situation and vouching for me as a non-threat. Almost immediately his friend from the embassy, Imad, called me back on Matt’s phone, calmed me down and gave me some solid advice. Basically I needed to get an official copy of the police incident report and then get back to the embassy where they would take care of me no problem. Okay, cool. At the police station with Murad as my translator, we roused some men from their qat stupor and I gave my official report. The proceedings were laboriously translated back and forth- and I gave my statement on a piece crumpled, loose-leaf notebook paper, with a pencil, by the light from a candle stub. Because that’s the kind of low-functioning country I moved to. They asked me an incredible array of absurd and inane questions and then sent me on my way refusing to give me a copy of the report. Rolling blackouts precluded any more progress for the night.
The next day we went back to the station to check on proceedings. Nothing further had been done. After giving me many assurances that they were doing everything they could (as they were calling it a day at 11 in the morning) they tried to blow us off.
After several imprudent references to money changing hands, we were ushered back into the station. Obviously the man who had taken my previous statement was nowhere to be found, the statement itself was long gone, the power was out so I couldn’t give another one, and no one was high-ranking or motivated enough to care. So we waited some more. Finally I was able to tell my story yet again, but this time to a man on a computer! They printed it out, there were many official looking stamps, and scrawled signatures. But they refused to give me a copy. For absolutely no reason. I explained my situation over and over- how I can’t get in my embassy without a passport, my passport was stolen so I need to prove that I don’t have it, that I’m not just trying to get into the embassy for no reason, how I can’t get a new passport without a police incident report, how I’m not from Sana’a and needed to get back to my town, etc. They remained unmoved. There were many more references to money and finally after quite literally begging them, they graciously allowed me to go to another police station and humbly request a copy there. A soldier hopped in the car with us as the official bearer of the police report and we drove through the slums and dregs of humanity to another decrepit, dank station. Again we were brutally, needlessly rebuffed. Back in the car we beseeched the man- asking him to look the other way, let us make just a photocopy, offering him money- I even had Imad, the Yemeni man from the embassy talk to the soldier on the phone, explain to him how important it was that I get a copy and inquiring what the hold-up was. At no point was I given an actual reason why I couldn’t have it. Over and over again I explained to anyone who would listen- EVERYTHING was stolen, I don’t live here and I need to get back to my job, I don’t have any money or ID, and no way of getting it. I need that report, you have to give me that report. Never have I felt so utterly hopeless, so frustrated and so close to total despair. Apparently it proved too much for the soldier to handle and he literally hopped out of the car at a stop sign and we never saw him again.
At a total loss about what to do next, we decided to go to the embassy- maybe the guy on the phone earlier was just an asshole and the embassy would be the blessed refuge that I so desperately sought. I had Amideast email me a copy of my passport and make me a new ID card- not a passport but an official ID card from a well known, respected international AMERICAN NGO, hopefully that would suffice. I had Imad let security know I was coming and that, literally, is the only reason they let me in. They didn’t care that I’m obviously American. They remained unconcerned about my plight. They hardly glanced at my meager credentials. Had not a Yemeni man that I’ve still never met not put his reputation on the line to vouch for me, I would still be sitting outside the compound gate. They refused to let Matt in. Matt, an American, with a valid American passport, seeking asylum from his embassy was turned away at the gate. They offered no explanation for this, they simply refused to let him onto American soil. He waited outside the gate the whole time I was there. Finally I got through the check points and I was going in- what a blessed relief to soon be in the kind, capable hands of fellow Americans. The American Embassy: a haven of safety and security- a miraculous refuge from the last horrible few days dealing with corrupt officials, jeering detainees, overwhelming incompetence, and innumerable hours of waiting and uncertainty, transferred phone calls, and the incessant shuffling back-and-forth between stations… but I was safe now, they would help me in my time of need.
Previous to this experience I had entertained the notion of working for an embassy abroad. In fact one of the major reasons I came to Yemen was to acquire invaluable experience abroad and language proficiency. I have even gone so far as to purchase the State Dept Foreign Service Officer preparation packet and register for the examination. I had idealistic notions of the embassy being a sanctuary for waylaid travelers. It would be clean and cool. Everyone would be kind and understand the incredible plight you had just gone through. They would go out of their way to assist you and make things easier throughout this stressful ordeal.
That image was utterly crushed in the cavalier disregard they had for my well being and the discourteous almost disdainful manner in which I was treated. I waited there for HOURS. No one would talk or even look at me. It was dingy and crowded and extremely reminiscent of the DMV. When I came in, the room was teeming with people, and slowly, oh so slowly as the hours progressed people left one by one. Finally I was all alone. Still I waited. Every once in awhile someone would poke their head in, see me, duck quickly, and rush away, as though I were too much trouble to be bothered with. Eventually, avoiding eye-contact, they started cleaning up their stalls, lowering the blinds and turning out the lights. Up to this point I had been polite to a fault, but eventually I simply had had enough. I went up to one of the stalls and started slamming on the bullet-proof glass, vociferously demanding, that someone, anyone at all give me the common courtesy of simply talking to me. Eventually a man came up and brusquely inquired what I wanted. It was the man on the phone who rudely suggested I take out a personal ad and then hung up on us. As if I had personally affronted him, he eyed me with loathing, almost as though he had a personal stake in seeing me suffer. When I realized it was him I started yelling, “Oh hell no. I am not talking to this motherfucker. Get me somebody else to talk to. I don’t care if I have to talk to a goddamn janitor, but I’m refuse to deal with this man.” Eventually when this caused enough of a commotion that we could no longer be ignored, another man came over to me. This man, albeit with a much nicer bedside manner, also proved utterly worthless and eventually sent me on my way “to go out and hopefully find my stolen items.” So after hours and hours with nothing to show for it- still no money, ID, banks cards, or any actual progress made- I made my way out of the complex and found Matt. Just one look at him anxiously pacing back and forth outside the compound waiting for me and I burst into tears. After I explained to him through choking sobs the reprehensible way I was treated, Matt FLIPPED OUT. It was awesome. He started yelling at the guards, demanding we get someone out here to talk to us, causing a commotion. Eventually we caused such a scene- a young, American girl sobbing, an American man storming around, yelling- that they called the Embassy head of security on us. But you know what? He was American! He was the first American I had seen, the first person who looked me in the eyes and acknowledged how terrible my situation was, the first person to treat me with a modicum of dignity and kindness. He told me that he knew Imad, then he gave me his business card, cell phone number, and made an appointment for me the next morning. I was just so grateful that he was even acknowledging my existence. The next morning Matt and I breezed through security, we got called up to a stall right away. They had a travel request written for me, I could go back to Aden! And a ton of paperwork for me to fill out. I also had to pay a $100 processing fee- which was troubling because ALL MY MONEY WAS STOLEN. They had no recourse for me, no way of getting money, either I paid it right then, or I was screwed. Soo… thanks for the wired-money transfer poppa! They informed me that I could get a new passport but for my residency visa, work permits, obtaining the police incident report (which I need for an exit visa) I would have to figure out on my own. It was made abundantly clear to me that they couldn’t care less about my situation- the only reason they were even helping me out was because of the strings some Yemeni men were pulling for me. My government truly, inexplicably didn’t give a shit about what happened to me. And besides allowing me to return to Aden, I’m on my own.
To appease all fronts I currently have a personal ad in the Al-Thowra newspaper politely requesting my passport back. I have many letters and signed requests asking the police to give me a copy of the incident report(they told me that they might give me a copy in a month or so), we have requested my state governor to try and expedite the situation. It is unclear if and when I’ll get a new passport. All in all it seems that it will be at least two months before any real progress is made. Until then I cannot travel outside of the city of Aden. I cannot go on my trip to Egypt in June. If there is a state of Emergency or a familial crisis I cannot leave the country. I have no passport, no residency or business visas, no work permit- am I now an illegal alien?
The police report I can understand. I don’t expect a foreign government to jump through hoops for me. What I do expect is for my OWN government to treat me with common courtesy and civility.
The fact that they yelled at me for no reason, made me break down sobbing, and it took us becoming a security threat before an American would even talk to us is utterly inexcusable. What is the point of an embassy if not to aide and abet waylaid travelers and to assist us in our greatest time of need? I cannot help but wonder what I would have done without Matt there. He was an undeniable life-saver. Or what if I hadn’t been able to contact my friend and use his connections to get me in the embassy, and then back to Aden? For all the embassy knew I was a single, young, American girl, without money, a place to stay, bank cards, a cell phone, or any form of ID, who knew not a soul in the city. Had I not been able to use my company’s internet to get my dad to send money, or find a copy of my passport, or use Matt’s phone to get a hold of Adnan, I would be sleeping on the dirty streets of Sana’a right now. They knew that, they simply didn’t care. The cavalier disregard my government had for my safety and well being is truly astounding.
This last week or so has been nothing short of a trial and a tribulation. I was caught in the full-blown ravages of a cold(in fact a strange Yemeni man bought me some much needed tissues and cold medicine) and without any sort of carrying apparatus I looked pure street-bum, shadily carrying my remaining possessions- lots of wadded up tissues, cold meds, chapstick, and an extreme array of crumpled papers around in a plastic garbage sack.
As a final blow all flights to Aden were enigmatically and seemingly indefinitely canceled and it took forever to get out of that godforsaken city.