Monday, August 31, 2009

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!

Monday, August 24, 2009

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!

Sunday, August 23, 2009

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.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

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 ItalicHajj. 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.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

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.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

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.

tehehee

D-WORD

HELL AND DAMNATION!
My boss just told me to go ahead and renew my apartment lease- further indicating that I’m not going to transfer anytime soon. Alright, alright.

A blender is the quintessential cooking apparatus here in Yemen. An incredible amount of Yemeni dishes involve the blender( juice, chutney, sauces, vegetable mush, etc) and I have been coveting one for quite some time, the caveat being that they are EXPENSIVE. Even by American standards they are pricey. Plus I’ve been trying to eschew my little tendency of acquiring an astounding array of needless possessions. I have been hesitant to buy a bunch of stuff because I want to remain mobile, I don’t want to get too sedentary and ensconced in Adenee life so that I won’t get transferred. I have one singular pot in my kitchen…But now that I’ll be here for sure for another couple of -months at least, I decided to buck up and get myself a glorious prize. Really it came down to the fact that I was super dehydrated while in a store that sold blenders. Blenders made me think of fresh juices and smoothies and milkshakes, the resulting images in my mind pushing me into a buying frenzy.

But first let me say this- fruit juice stalls here are AMAZING, super unhygienic, patronized by dirty men, but delicious. They make the juice right in front of you- sometimes with additives from a recycled soda bottle filled with murky and mysterious contents- but they use the whole piece of fruit. I’ve seen it over again, they’ll fling an entire orange - rind and all into the blender, add a little sugar, a little water, strain it and voila! Sweet, sweet nectar. Seemingly uncomplicated, right? Well let me tell you, it’s not. I followed that exact procedure and wound up with a chunky, bitter, mush the consistency of oatmeal. It tasted acidic and harsh, I gagged and spit it up. Okay fine, I will continue to buy my orange juice. I dumped it out, the rind pieces clogging my drain. Next I decided to make a strawberry banana smoothie. Nice! I found some frozen strawberries at the market and was super pumped to have them. The smoothie came out frothy and deliciously pink looking- there’s something about pink foods that really make me want to eat them. If you saw a giant pink-frosted cookie and a giant blue frosted cookie, wouldn’t you go for the pink one every time? I took the blender off of the base with a dexterous twisting motion and lifted the pitcher. Great except that I somehow managed to remove only the shell of the pitcher (I don’t even know how I did that!) the base falling away dousing my floor and body in the sticky goodness. Okay blender, strike two. I’m currently on a blender time-out, which really is the only thing keeping me from drop-kicking it across the room.


*ADDENDUM*

I almost forgot the best –or worst- part! In an incredible design flaw that’s perpetuated throughout the whole apartment, the kitchen doesn’t have any electrical outlets. There is one in my bedroom conveniently located behind a big, built-in wooden vanity and one in the living room halfway up the wall. To further complicate matters the cord for my fancy-pants new blender isn’t long enough to reach the floor so the whole time I’m trying to make a delicious beverage I’m standing in the middle of the LIVING room, holding the machine in my arms, just blending some fruit. Absurd.

maybe you had to be there

Today I walked in on a conversation between a Muslim woman and a couple non-Muslims. I’m pretty sure they were talking about meaningful and rewarding deaths- something about suffering in death as a means of wiping away your sins before meeting Allah.. I’m not really sure because I breezed in at what was clearly the middle of the convo and only heard “Yeah drowning would be a great death, it would be so wonderful, and fire? Burning to death? Forget about it!

Meat, cheese, beer, and then more meat please

I had the most shocking realization today- I’m practically a vegetarian. No, not even that, I’ve essentially, and quite inadvertently become a vegan! My favorite foods are: Meat, cheese, fried meat and cheese, beer. This was not a pleasant realization. There’s a paucity of meat here; I expected to be feasting on lamb and kabobs galore here, but they don’t really have much lamb going on. I met and surmounted that little disappointment. “Meat” in Yemen means mystery, greasy goat. Actually it’s completely delicious but unbelievably expensive. I only had it once because it’s outrageously overpriced and also because goats eat GARBAGE, ALL MANNER OF ROTTEN MATTER, AND EVEN FECES. Goats are nasty. There aren’t any grazing lands around here so the goats just roam free around town and “graze” on trash and bottles and newspaper, the invariable giant mounds of litter, and whatever happens to be lying on the ground next to them. Gross. Initially I ate a lot of chicken (and longed for a rare steak) but now I cook at home most of the time and just make whatever I can from the ingredients I can get at the local shop near work. There is NO cheese here except kraft-wannabe-singles and unrefrigerated cream-cheese squares, I don’t drink milk (because my mother shamed me once when I tried to drink some as a child..) and the eggs are sold in crates out on the sidewalk. In the sun. In the well over 100 degree, miday, Yemeni sun. Can’t that kill you?!?! Why don’t they refrigerate their dairy products?!

Yemeni Staple Foods: tomatoes, onion, chili peppers. I’d say 90% of Yemeni cuisine largely consists of these main ingredients and of course, carbs. Other main food items include cucumbers, parsley, potatoes, bread, rice, ships (French fries), and beans. Lottttts of bread, rice, and beans. For every meal. Bet you didn’t know that beans cooked with onion, tomatoes, curry powder and chili is breakfast food! I recently had the joyous moment of discovering a vegetable clearly in the zucchini family, super exciting!
I have my favorite fruit/vegetable seller. He has a little stall across from the school, and I am fiercely loyal to him. Yesterday when I came by he was sitting up on the roof of a big van sifting through some big cardboard boxes. Upon seeing me he reached into a box and grabbed an unfamiliar and oddly proportioned piece of fruit. It kind of looked like a porcupine (like needles! Is needles still alive?!) with blunt spikes. He tossed it down to me and I eyed it dubiously. When opened it was filled with a mushy, white substance and looked extremely rotten. He motioned for me to eat some of it and I was all listen… I’ve been sick a lot lately.. I’m good on the rotten fruit, thanks though. He was insistent, and I acquiesced (damn you peer-pressure!) it had a sweet almost milky flavor but had these huge, hidden seeds in it and I almost lost a tooth. I broke it up into a few pieces and shared it with some of the kids crowded around me. We really had a moment there.
I saw some of them for sale at the big market in crater today and they had the most absurd English translation for them, something like “creamy, white, filled apple” I was just cracking up by myself in the produce section.

And speaking of cracked teeth, this is practically the longest I’ve ever gone without cracking or chipping a tooth because I don’t have Dave “LDB” Bender CRUSHING grounders at me from and extremely close range when a) my back is turned b) I don’t have my glove on or c) I’m just not bothering to pay attention to practice

So I’m getting pretty adept and creative cooking with vegetables. I’ve got some great recipes to use if I ever, clearly because of situation not by choice, have to practically become a vegan again.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

SHROUD

I wear abaya (enveloping black cloak. Minus the hijab and burka) when I go out around my house and when I go to boxing. All my girls from boxing certainly appreciated it and its nice not to put a million covering articles of clothing back on after I’ve been sweating so profusely. The other day I went out with just a sports bra and a pair of boxers on under my abaya. It was a bold move. It was particularly bold given my propensity to trip on the dragging hems of my abaya and tear open all the buttons, most frequently upon entering or exiting a bus. As I was walking down the stairs last night (and in fact, numerous other nights) I slipped on the end of it and plummeted down many stairs until finally settling, crumpled and chagrined upon the lower landing- simultaneously wounding both my pride and my posterior in the process.

The other day my girl Sherin was perched up on the edge of the diwan in the squatting position. She is tall and extremely skinny. When she started gesticulating wildly her resemblance to a great winged bat was truly astounding. It’s super creepy at twilight as all the women roam about on their way home, like ethereal specters, faceless and floating in the night sky.

My, what a little flight of fancy that was!

Such dorks


That's right. Both of our eyes are closed. Thus once again successfully commemorating another glorious moment in our friendship.

A lost art

I recently procured a map of Aden. What?? A MAP!? Of ADEN!?! As in Aden, YEMEN?! This is an extremely rare kind of a thing, let me tell you. Maps of Aden simply do not exist, hence this little gem. There is a big, outdated, arial map that a few shops have on their walls but that’s about it. Even google earth hasn’t bothered to come to this neck of the words. In the ten-minute break during class (which I sometimes stretch to 15, hah! Take that!) an intern called me out of the office to meet with a student. It was my former and beloved student Rawa. Her husband, an architect/engineer is mapping Aden and she wanted me to have a copy of the first addition. I gasped out loud, and stamped my foot in excitement- at first everyone thought I was upset about something but when I fist-pumped in jubilation everyone’s concerns were assuaged.
Side note:
I think people love me here because I’ve inherited my mother’s delightful propensity to wildly overreact when I’m excited or alarmed. Example: on a camping trip with my mother, father, and friend Sara. We are slowly driving through a campground in companionable silence-
Mom: (gives out an incredibly loud gasp) “OH MY GOD!”
Sara: (voice raised in alarm) “WHAT’S WRONG?! ARE YOU OKAY!?!”
Taryn: (appropriately concerned) “What is it? A BEAR?!!!?”
Mom: Look at that great pile of firewood! We can make a campfire with that later!”

That was all. Inciting the whole family into frenzied panic. Because of firewood.

But I digress…
So this map lays out Aden; Khormaksar (where I work), Muallah (where I live), Crater (where my family is), Sheikh Ulthman (where I box) and Tawahid. I raced into the office and showed as many people as I could- people were remarkable unfazed. In class I spread the map on the floor and made all my students hover around and find their houses and various landmarks.
This is spectacular. This is cartography in action! Cartography is a lost art! I took personality/career tests online so I could find some semblance of direction in my life and all of them said “journalist” or “explorer” well… just about everything has been discovered already, I was born far too late in human history to be an intrepid explorer voyaging out toward terra incognita, but this! Cartography! This I can do. And because of archaeology I know how to survey. It’s a first addition map so it’s riddled with errors but I want to offer my services as “English Linguistic Editor” to the project. CARTOGRAPHY. How cool is that?

"The Green Province" and surrounding countryside




A couple of weekends ago we went to Ibb and it was heavenly. It was just stunningly beautiful and it refreshed me and soothed my soul. Now THAT’s what I thought I was moving to. Beautiful, and unique, and green. Rapturous!
Ben, Jared (A Tacoma, Washington fella currently on a three-month internship for Amideast in Sana’a. Small world, right?) and I got a tasria (necessary police statement of travel permission. Necessary for Americans at least) and then hopped on a bus toward Ibb. Ibb is located north of Aden approximately four hours. Immediately upon exiting the greater Aden area, the scenery started to change. First stunning dune covered deserts, then breathtaking expanses of nothing, broken only infrequently by a small smattering of shacks and beautifully up kept mosques. As we got further and further North the color changed to beautiful, healthy, vibrant green. I’m an Irish AND Pacific Northwestern gal, I NEED green in my life. I missed a lot of the breathtaking scenery initially because I spent much of the trip grading papers. I was under strict time constraints to get all my final exams, writings, and session-wide grades done- a feat that has never taken less than 10 hours to complete- and needed to utilize the bus time.
The elevation steadily increased as we progressed and soon we were making hairpin turns on mountain switchback roads with abrupt cliff faces rising on one side of the road and sheer drop-offs on the other.
Ibb was a fantastic little city. When I initially imagined moving to Yemen, Ibb is exactly the sort of place I thought I would be going; beautiful, unique, lots of culture and history, zero tourists, and good food.





Shortly after we arrived we decided to go up the mountain to a hotel with a café and unparalleled views of the stunning vistas arrayed before us. Right as we were reaching the hotel, and with literally no forewarning, the heavens opened up and we found ourselves in the midst of a torrential downpour. It was POURING rain, the likes of which I’ve only ever seen during the rainy season in central America. Then it started HAILING and lightning and thunder! The ten foot scurry from taxi to café left us beyond drenched, and there we sat, sopping wet and grinning like idiots to be in the presence of rain again. The smell of it, oh how I miss the fresh, earthy smell of rain! We spent a relaxing night and then headed back to Aden in the morning- a whirlwind trip but well, well worth it.

Parts of Ibb reminded me of Pennsylvania because of all the corn fields inappropriately growing in between office buildings and parking lots.

why my last post was such a downer

My last post was rather negative because I was just pissed at Yemen for a hot minute there. It’s because earlier this morning I was thrown into a wholly unaccountable rage over a trifling manner. On the bus this morning on the way to work (very early) the driver had the gall to stop and fill up the tank with gas. Now I strictly estimate and regiment my time in the morning, every minute is accounted for, wasted time equals time I could have been sleeping. Clearly this guy was not in a rush, he nonchalantly pulled the bus up to the tank, then he effed around pulling it forward and back and wending his way around the various pumps, ostensibly sleuthing out the best one. Fill your damn bus up on your own time buddy, seriously get it together. I seriously contemplated bailing on the bus and trying to flag down another as it roared past. I sighed loudly, puffed out my checks and pursed my lips in annoyance, jiggled my leg, made little impatient noises and made a big show out of checking my watch a few times. There were a couple of large dump-like trucks waiting ahead of us and only one attendant in sight. He was very clearly preoccupied in other matters, he was in fact, engaged in a SHOUTING match with one of the other drivers. It culminated excitingly by the attendant ripping the STILL FLOWING gas nozzle out of the truck port and ramming into the gas tank of our bus- the gas tank that was mere inches from my protruding leg (jiggling in annoyance) out the door of the bus. I was trying to keep my cool both metaphorically (temper) and physically (endeavoring to catch a breeze from out of the sweltering tin box of a bus. When possible I try not to show up for work uncommonly doused in a flood of perspiration and frizzy hair). A small wad of crumpled bills was exchanged and then after literally thirty seconds we pulled away. Thirty seconds worth of gas? Yeah, that was worthwhile. Asshole.
We had almost arrived and were progressing at a frantic speed WHEN THE DOOR OF THE BUS FELL OFF. This is not a joke, this is not a drill. And everyone was super unperturbed by it. We dragged it along in a disharmonious cacophony of scraping metal on pavement until eventually the bus pulled over, two men got out, hauled the door up, slammed it back in place, and that was that.
No biggie. When I got to school someone had neglected to make my copies for my first class, and then I couldn’t get the damnable printer to work. I was proceeding up to my classroom just seething in quiet rage and discontent (over-reacting, granted) when I saw someone lightly trip up the stairwell. Hah! That was all it took, everything was well in the world once more.

5 months in Aden = 4.5 months too long in Aden

Yesterday was my five-month anniversary in good ‘ol yems, making it practically the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. I’m getting antsy. I’m in a new stage- One which is not nearly as exciting- it has become very real that I’m here for a long time. I figured about a month in or so I’d have a break down, some nice culture shock, some deep homesickness. But its been five and I haven’t broken down so much as become weary. Weary of the weather, the location, the job- there’s really just not a lot going on here. And by “not a lot” I actually mean nothing at all. There are no sports, no bars, no coffee shops, no cinemas, no parks, no social hang outs, no stadiums, no amusement parks, no clubs, no gyms, no libraries, no place for young people, its socially stifling. Shisha and qat are the main activities. How healthy, nicotine and narcotics. Once again, well done Yemen. The problem for me is location. Aden is a total waste of a town. The economic capital of Yemen, and the center of action in the South, Aden’s unique history gives it quite a singular spot in Yemen. Formerly a communist holding, and then occupied for years and years by the British, Aden is now a past-its-prime port town meshing the worst of the Middle east with the worst of middle America. It’s a poor, volatile, dissenting city with a truly terrible climate. Also, there is no native culture or architecture or tradition, the towns are overrun with an influx of cheap, Chinese goods, and western imitation products. Sanitation and garbage disposal is sorely lacking, there is an extreme refugee problem, and recycling and resource conservation is an utterly foreign concept. Which is not surprising I guess in a place that uses more than 70% of its yearly water resources on the cultivation of qat.
Now that all sounds rather harsh- it’s not Yemen that’s the problem (though certainly riddled with imperfections) it’s this town that I have issue with. I distinctly remember towards the end of my first week here realizing with a sinking feeling that I had, in three days, just done and seen every single activity that Aden had to offer.
I find the people here to be completely fantastic- I love my colleagues ( I prefer to call them colleagues as opposed to coworkers, I just think it sounds so much more professional!) my boss, my students, my friends. Everyone is warm and welcoming and encouraging and the sense of hospitality and generosity found here is unparalleled. But this isn’t enough to make up for the complete and total lack of an outlet for my pent up energy and suppressed personality.
In order to mesh with social norms I dress, talk, and act in a different manner than my personality reflects- which is an exhausting charade to uphold. I find myself spending more and more time in my apartment enjoying my solitude and air conditioning and getting exactly nothing out of being here in Yemen. I could maintain the exact same routine in any town back home. I’m very much hoping for a transfer soon- in the next month or two- I’ve bummed around other parts of Yemen, stunningly beautiful which is a necessary component to my overall quality of life and feelings of well being.