We are odd

Hell and damnation! Today in class I said the word “memory” appallingly wrong. In fact I said it thus, “if rememory serves…” To make matters worse, I didn’t even catch my mistake. One of my students called me out on it. This is yet another occurrence of a “Hanleyism” coming back to screw me! While certainly the least outlandish of any of the words I could use, as a teacher presented with the task of educating pliable, young minds in the semantics and explications of English, expectorating made-up family lingo is, clearly, inadvisable.

We have our own vernacular, a special Hanley-crafted argot, if you will.
It includes such little gems as-
Funziparty- a really good time.
“I went to the beach yesterday, it was a big funziparty!” (I know for a fact I heard Palms correctly use it in a sentence once.)

Jelly, as in Super-Jelly, or in fact more commonly, Jellyfish- Jealous.
“You’re going on a cruise?! I’m super jelly!” or “I’m completely jellyfish”

Supergigantor- Really big (often used in reference to giant, rogue waves that nearly drown you)
“Did you see that?!? I could have been killed! I have like 90 pounds of sand in my shorts now..”
“yeah! Wow! That was a supergigantor all right!”

Every once in awhile I will say one of these little words in front of a stranger or authority figure, and then realizing it, look around in abject horror waiting for people openly mock me, or stare me down with derision.
These absurd little word amalgams my family and I frequently use, have caused me some trouble in times past, and in fact remain the root-cause of my most horrifyingly embarrassing moment while growing up.
It was at a family Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt and Uncle’s house many, many years ago. I had a cold. Or, as at that time I was certain it was actually called, A schnoooder-cold. My Aunt Maggie came up to me and inquired what was wrong. I solemnly replied, “oh, I have a schnoooder-cold, but I'm sure I’ll be okay in a few days.” “A what?!?! What did you say you have?!” She asked while laughing in my face. And although she clearly meant nothing malicious by it, her laughter quite truly scarred me for years. Needless to say, “schnoooder-cold” is not a word I use openly in my vocabulary repertoire. My sister has a similar story regarding a Toukie-Toukie bird, more commonly, and in fact, correctly known as a Toucan. Damn you Hanleyisms!

For Kip

So I guess this is just what I do now instead of preparing for my classes/grading papers/making lesson plans. Just wasting time on needless activities when I should be doing something important. Huh... sounds a lot like college...

yeah 22

falling stump

A couple of days ago as I was briskly walking along the road near Amideast - the little lane with all the dead animals and bones I previously mentioned here? Remember? I was trapped in the inner-circle of thought, deep in the throes of life contemplation and introspection. Even as my mind was in a faroff place, I still had the wherewithall to circumnavigate an area of the road that is bounded by low-hanging trees. What? Shade in Yemen!? and you are avoiding it? Whatever for?!

Any casual observer will instantly acknowledge that that is an area best avoided. The low lying branches of the trees are the prefered nesting grounds of the locals birds- and with one look at the myriad animal carcai (my best guess on the plural form of the word "carcass"), litter, and abundance of animal droppings covering the roadway below them , it is clear that expelling their noxious waste on unsuspecting passerby is their favored pastime.

Just as I was passing beneath the trees, a bloody chicken foot fell in front of me! I mean.. and then I leapt back in suprise! But then I continued on my merry way. Hmmm... I guess that was a rather anticlimactic ending to this post.

For Palms: Bop Bop!

A Ghost!

The taking of this picture actually proved far more labor-intensive than one would suppose. It involved carefully folding some bits of toilet paper (a precious comodity in a land of squat toilets) into a ghost-like shape. Then with a dexterous, well-timed leap I slap-stuck the ghost onto a stained glass window in my apartment (see below). As an after-thought I precariously balanced on a chair and added eyes and a mouth with a dry-erase whiteboard marker.

Without any form of explanation I am going to leave it up in the apartment and see how long it will take for my roommate to notice. I'm all about life's little pleasures.

Excruciating

I've had a little morsel of mango stuck between my teeth for the better part of the day and it's slowly obliterating my will to live.
Overshare?

sorry for crushing you onto the ground

Today when I went to boxing I found everyone outside the stadium. We were prevented from going inside due to power outages throughout the city. We decided to play soccer instead just to get some fitness and have a bit of fun. It was five on five aka only a marginal amount of mayhem. Ra’eed blew the whistle to start and we were off. I haven’t played a sport let alone soccer in ages upon ages and I guess sheer exuberance took over- I immediately raced up, intercepted a pass dribbled the ball between two defenders (knocking one to the ground and crushing the other’s foot in the process(Both inadvertent!)), effortlessly beat out the other girls in a footrace, and then crushed the ball past the goalie’s surprised fingertips. All in like thirty seconds. I casually acknowledged the goal, and turned so as to trot back to the other end of the field and resume my position in the back- and that’s when I beheld the carnage and devastation spread before me. Everyone was staring at me, including idle passerby. Girls were sprawled about the field in various positions of shock and disbelief- including my own teammates- one girl still gingerly getting back to her feet. I looked them over in confusion and slowly it dawned on me- girls don’t play sports like that here, in fact, it’s amazing that girls are even playing a sport at all right now. They were entirely flummoxed by my physicality and competitiveness. When they saw that I realized how odd my behavior must have seemed we all just busted up laughing. We spent most of the remaining time playing a lazy, laid-back game with frequent pauses so we could all mimic the way I plowed over that girl several times.

Arabic double-entendre

My second class of the day has decided that they love and adore me. This has manifested itself in that they arrive at class waay early, and they refuse to take breaks. Classes are two hours long with a ten minute break in the middle. I need that ten minute break, I live and die by that ten minute break. But they simply refuse to take it. All they want to do is teach me Arabic, if only just a couple of words a day. They all hover around my desk scribbling away on the whiteboard. How awesome, Arabic lessons! But most of the time it isn’t good Arabic, it’s horrible Adenee slang that might well get my ass kicked one day. Usually the guys teach me something- I practice saying it, repeating it, writing it and I try to use it in a sentence. Emboldened by my quick mastery of the word I will shout it out loud. Then maybe I’ll shout it at one of them. Then I will triumphantly gaze around the room only to catch the eyes of some of the girls furtively shaking their heads, mouthing “don’t use that word, seriously Teacher (Read: you little white girl) don’t you say that word!” because yes, it does mean what they said it means, but... it has a second meaning too, one that would make a sailor blush.

Culture Explosion!

This evening I went to the German/French cultural center to watch a screening of an old Spanish film with English subtitles in an Arabic country.

Taste O' Home!

Craziness next door

The North/South secession rumors are getting serious. We keep hearing about large protests taking place in various towns around the country, people getting fed-up, and increasingly militant government action. The other day the government shut down SIX private newspapers, I guess free-press in Yemen is over. One of the newspapers being shut down is Al-Ayam, which is located RIGHT next to my family. In fact Bilal, the father freelance writes for them from time to time. So yesterday after classes a fellow teacher whom I’m only slightly acquainted with came up to me and asked if I was going anywhere that day. She was very awkward and shady the way she said it. I was like “um… yeah… well now I’m going to lunch, and then probably back to my apartment to grade some tests, and maybe after I’ll…” I was wondering if she really wanted a play-by-play account of my day, or if she was asking because I was missing an important meeting or something. “Well are you going to meet your family tonight?” she asked. Hmm, how odd. I’ve certainly never told her about my family. “There are some problems with the Al-Ayam newspaper, which, as you know, is located right next to your family’s house. Don’t go to Crater today.” Several other teachers gave me similar warnings. Wow, I guess they’ve been checking up on my activities. This isn’t unusual for Yemen though- The government monitors phone calls(remember I had to give a copy of my passport and full fingerprint set to the government before I could get a SIM card) and every night I run a virus scan on my computer and delete dozens of tracking cookies.
So I was essentially forbidden from leaving the Khormaksar region. President Ali Abdullah Saleh had ordered the arrest of the owner of the Al-Ayam newspaper, but he was resisting arrest. Everyone says that the Al-Ayam paper is the best in Yemen because it isn’t censored by the government and actually prints the truth about what’s happening. The government claims that Al-Ayam is inciting separatist action and they wanted it disbanded. What happened was total chaos. Lots of shooting, rioting, even a death. Or three, it’s unclear. The big May 22nd anniversary of the unification is quickly approaching and it will be interesting to see how things play out.

Some more leisure reading as time allows:

Al Jazeera InsideStory

Al Jazeera Middle Easter News: Yemen

BBC News: Yemen

Bumbling around Yemen

Heck yes, Yemen. Heck yes.

Proficiency inefficiency! (I literally only wrote this title because it rhymes. I'm not even sure if it makes sense)

After break students kept coming up to me and inquiring how my vacation was. It was immediately apparent the proficiency level of the student based upon how they reacted to my reply.

Upper level student-
Student: "Oh teacher! How was Sana'a? You like it?"
Me: "it was awful! I was robbed!"
Student: "that's so terrible!" etc etc..

Lower level student-
Student: "Oh teacher! How was Sana'a? You like it?
Me: "it was awful! I was robbed!"
Student: "oh yes teacher(they replied solemnly) the prices are much higher in Sana'a. But other than that it was still good?"

BZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz

Ugh. Tomorrow they are making me do a spelling B in class. How awful. Why would I want to do that. I have been putting it off all week, but with the end of the unit nigh, I cannot escape it any longer. I hate spelling b’s they are annoying and pointless. I already give them spelling tests- which don’t openly single someone out in front of the whole class. Also I think they are unfair in word order. Some words are just plain difficult, but the guy before me only had to spell “cookie.” My classes are going to hate it and be loud and obnoxious. Especially because I taught them the words "riot" and "protest" last class because I was cranky that the power kept going out.
I think all my spelling B angst stems from when I was in fifth grade, Mrs. Root’s class at King’s West. I got the word “Champion” to spell. Easy enough, and I knew how to spell it. In the heat of the moment however instead of spelling it C-H-A-M… I combined the first two letters and said “CHAY- A-M-P-I-O-N. “Chay” being my verbal combo of the letters C and H. Mortifying at the time. Clearly it wasn’t enough that I had a bowl cut and MONSTRO, thick glasses, now I was the girl who made up letters. Luckily I was inexplicably popular enough to skate by that little incident without any overt social consequences.

Some simple bank transactions

Banking in Yemen is wildly chaotic. I go to the Arab bank which only has one branch in Aden. The reason that Amideast chose this bank as opposed to the National Bank of Yemen, or the CAC bank-both of which have dozens of branches in Aden- is unclear. To begin with the Arab Bank is only open on weekdays from 9:00 AM until 12:00 PM. I just so happen to have classes from 8:15 – 12:30. Which clearly makes banking difficult. When we opened our accounts we had to sign a dozen pieces of paper which, clearly, remained untranslated. Perhaps I signed away 30% of my paycheck to Somali refugees, I’m just not sure. Also when we signed the papers the signatures had to match exactly. They made Catherine sign her name over and over again until she could replicate it exactly. The more times they made her do it (while watching her like a hawk) the more nervous she got and her subsequent signature became highly erratic. We were like seriously? She’s sitting right here. You are literally watching her sign all the papers, you can SEE HER DO IT. How is this tricky or confusing in any way?!? As we signed paper after paper the banker just casually flung them into a pile on his chaotic, paper-strewn desk, and then, later, stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag. Umm..Cool.
Eventually, some weeks later I was informed that I could go back to the bank and pick up an ATM card- these cards seemingly only work for Arab Bank ATM’s, the search for which has proven fruitless. I presented myself at the bank and pantomimed the ATM card motion and they gestured me over to another banker. I signed some more papers and then he upended a grocery sack full of ATM cards on his desk. There were literally hundreds of cards strewn about his desk and he literally grabbed handfuls of cards at a time, inspecting each one for my name. All around the bank were stacks of papers, open binders, and bags full of money and cards. Arab Bank: Purveyors of total monetary chaos from 1984. Glad to see all of my finances are in such capable hands.

The Arab Bank has a branch in Sana’a. I went there after my robbery fiasco to try and put a hold on my account. I went there in the vain hope that-without any ID or banking documents they would somehow, inexplicably, allow me to access my account and put a hold on it. I went to a banker and told him what happened- with the aide of a bilingual guy. I asked if I could please temporarily suspend all activity on my account, that I am unable to provide documentation of who I am, but I don’t particularly want the thief to be able to withdraw all my finances. He was like, oh okay sure. He had me spell out my name and then come behind his desk and look at the account on the computer. “Is this you?” he asked while pointing to the screen. Luckily it was. But seriously? They let me waltz right on into a branch of the bank I’d never been to before, say my name, and then point to a computer screen FULL OF PEOPLE’S PERSONAL ACCOUNTS and point out which one was mine. On the screen were names, socials, account numbers, balances, the whole bit. What if it wasn’t mine? Or why did they unhesitatingly believe me when I pointed out which account was mine? What a shoddy operation. But at the time I really appreciated it. On a piece of blank paper they had me write a letter to the bank manager of the Aden branch, asking for my account to be suspended. That was all.
AND THEN THEY ASKED ME IF I WANTED ANY MONEY. So without any ID or bank cards, not even a copy of my passport, you are going to allow me to walk in, withdraw money AND shut down a personal bank account? YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS. Oh but they were.
When I returned to the Aden branch I wrote out on a piece of paper that I was back in Aden and wanted to resume access to my account. And it was done. Voila, third world banking!

"the Ass"

Thank goodness for middle names
Bahahahahahah! It's because of things like this that I don't think I'm mature enough to be a teacher. Keep in mind that "Al" in Arabic means "the"

Delicious endorphins

FINALYY! I found physical activity! BOXING! Of all the horrible things to do, I’m a boxer now. Since well before I moved here, I’ve been asking for some sort of physical activity. At first I was told no problem. Of course there are gyms and exercise for women, easy! But when I inquired further I was invariably met with a dead end. So when people would say “Sure! No problem, you can exercise!” I would say “where? No but seriously? Where? I’ll pay you to take me right now, to actually show me,” but all of it proved fruitless. Finally my friend Khalil came through for me. He found a man in the town of Sheikh Ulthman who teaches boxing for girls only, and was willing to let me join. This was incredibly fantastic news because my mood directly correlates to how recently I’ve eaten, and how much I get to play during the day.
So Khalil came by to take me to meet the coach (Ra’eed), and to try my hand at boxing (Mulakema). There were only four other girls besides me, all around 18 years old. Interestingly, although they wore t-shirts they still wore long pants and kept their hair covered.
In a stunning turn of events that is outrageous for Yemen, they are allowing Khalil to train with me and the YEMENI GIRLS. WHAT?!? It’s awesome! The girls don’t speak any English at all- and are having difficulty grasping the fact that I can’t comprehend a dang word that they are rapidly saying to me.
The first day Khalil didn’t know he could work out so he was ill prepared-wearing jeans and a button up shirt. The room is small and stiflingly hot, and let me tell you, boxing is sweaty business! so as we were working out, in a move that I found unbelievably forward- and completely delightful because of that- the girls told Khalil(who is a very good looking fella) that he should take his shirt off. No No! Not like that! Because he’s so sweaty and shouldn’t get his good shirt dirty! But they had sly glints in their eyes that betrayed their ulterior motive. Haha, fantastic! I appreciate EXERCISING, girls with a slightly devilish personality that aren’t wearing a burka, and finally having a release for my pent up energy and stress! It’s Heavenly.
What makes it all the sweeter? I’m good at it. Ra’eed has been training the girls for over a year, but because I come from an athletic background I’m rapidly catching up.( I can just imagine my LUSB girls scoffing while they read this, just because I hate running doesn’t mean I’m not athletic!!) My first two days were equal to their first six months.
I just started but I will be going three nights a week, and loving every minute of it. Its just so nice to get some endorphins pumping again, I literally haven’t had an ounce of physical activity in the two and a half months I’ve been here (I really mean in the last six months because I was a big lazy-bones in Wash as well..) Maybe in a few weeks I will feel emboldened enough to teach them how to icky battle, but where’s Torbs when I need her!
I went for a jog for the first time in months a few nights ago. I was extremely furtive, I went after dark, I wore long pants, and I went in the area around Amideast- large private gated compounds out of the public eye. I lasted maybe 12 minutes- My Yemen 15(think Freshmen 15) combined with suffocating heat and humidity proved nearly insurmountable odds. The next night I went to dinner with Ben at our friend Nour’s house in Mansoora. After dinner, Nour comment “oh Taryn! I saw you running last night!” And I was all “WHAT?! HOW?” I went under cover of darkness, on out of sight lanes, a twenty minute drive from Nour’s house, and I was super stealth about it. He said he was just walking along and heard someone running (a rare occurrence in Yemen) so he stopped to investigate and saw a white girl run by. Clearly it could only be me.

I'm back!

Somehow, for my family and friends, my frequent blogging has become synonymous with a healthy frame of mind, and overall safety and well being. Well… not so much. I’m just busy. And preoccupied. And bored.
So I’m just busy all the time. It’s kinda wild because I don’t have a lot to show for it, but I feel like I’m running around this place like a crazy person. Maybe it’s because nothing happens quickly here. A simple trip to the bank that should take 20 minutes will end up taking an hour and a half- the bus will get stopped and searched, the bank is inexplicably not letting customers in yet, okay now we can go in, but there is a mad throng of people vying for service and not even a semblance of order or a queue. Next the power will fail, followed by a loss of the paperwork they need. And then on the way back the car driver will make some detours on the route until you finally, finally get back and rush off to the next place you are supposed to be. A lot of the time I truly feel like I’m the only person in a hurry in Yemen. Besides teaching, I have started helping out with the YES(Youth Exchange and Studying) program here in Aden. The Yes program, sponsored by the State Department provides scholarships for a year of academic study in America for eligible students with a demonstrated outstanding academic record and English proficiency.
The other day I was informed (not asked!) that I would now be heading up their final projects by myself… I’m not even fully cognizant of what they’re doing…
I was also asked to come up with some new programs that I can start implementing at Amideast. They want to make it more of a cultural center as opposed to a purely academic institute. Due to government restrictions, lack of funding, location restrictions, gender inequality, social limitations, etc, I’m finding this task rather difficult. Thus far I’ve come up with a book club, a culture-appreciation society- whereby every month we study a new country/culture and at the end of the month talk about it, watch a movie, and eat some cuisine from the region.. I’m not sure, it’s a work in progress. I also wanted to start a blog and have a pen pal-like exchange with American students. We could have teachers act as the monitors and have students from both America and Yemen post comments, pictures, videos, writing, etc. Have an open exchange of life and ideas between students of the same age living in vastly different cultures. And obviously I’m still trying to figure out a way to start some sports programs for women. Anyone have any realistic ideas? I’d love to hear them if you do.

In addition I have been looking for an apartment. My friends are being extremely helpful in this endeavor- finding me places and arranging so that I can view them. I’m not picky but I do have some minimum standards; standards of which are not..quite..being met. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to make up excuses why a place doesn’t work, or what I don’t quite like about it. This is going to be my FIRST big-girl, by myself apartment. And I have a vision. This vision includes a balcony and my plant. I cannot let go of this dream quite yet.

Hmm... perhaps I spoke too soon...

Fears of Yemen Turning Into Another Afghanistan

I can personally attest to much of this-
-Lawlessness and corruption
-Random security check-points
-Extreme separatist North/South sentiment
-Rumblings and rumors of war

it's all a little surreal.

Well, I guess it's not all bad..

The one shining speck of silver lining is this- previous to visiting Sana’a, I was jealous. I wanted to be transferred somewhere, not because I was tired of Aden, but simply to try something new and exciting. Aden is the second largest city in Yemen but still has a small-town feel. After only one month, I couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone I knew. Foreigners are so rare that our friendships are highly coveted and people are almost aggressively hospitable- flattering, but at times exhausting as I’m trying to keep up and not offend anyone. Now that I’ve been away- to a horrifyingly chaotic and terrible place- I am so relieved to be back in Aden. Sure the temp is 120 degrees and only going to get worse, but the people are magnificent. Here I have a safety-net of caring and competent people. I have already made ties to my community and forged a life for myself here. Now I can appreciate Aden for what it is and thoroughly enjoy my time here without wondering what if.

When it rains it pours... well not really in Yemen because it never effing rains here

As I was standing on the sidewalk a bit ago a bus came up behind me. I was thoroughly engrossed in trying to read a text message in Arabic and must have awkwardly had my shoulders hunched in a way that made my shoulder blades jut out. I cannot quite fathom how this happened but I swear to you when the bus came up behind me the side mirror somehow entangled itself under my shoulder blade and propelled me forward many feet. I now understand how someone can get dragged along by a car to their untimely death. It was so unexpected, so thoroughly shocking that I didn’t even move to free myself, I just let it hook and pull me along the roadway. Luckily a man ran forward and dragged me off of it. It was unreal. And when I finally boarded I was, clearly, extremely preoccupied. All of a sudden something swiped into my eye and ripped out my contact lens! I looked around in bewilderment, it was the bejeweled end of the woman in front of me’s headscarf. Please lady, please get your burka under control.
Yemen has turned on me, it’s pretty clear.

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.