Some thoughts

There are many reasons why I moved to Yemen, I’m scanning my memory for those very reasons right now...Ummm... oh! Somewhere along the meandering journey of my life, I decided I really liked camels. Camels? I mean come on! How tantalizingly exotic! I like to call them dromedaries, something to do with the number of humps I think(but can never remember to look up). I will use any excuse I can to drop the neat little phrase “recumbent ruminant” in conversation. That combined with my prodigious appetite for hummus and lamb (which as it turns out is Syrian and Lebanese, not Yemeni) – and of course the fact that I still vainly cling to the hope that if I learn Arabic well enough, I can become the next real-life “Alias”- in my mind this life will combine lots of hand to hand combat skills, weaponry know-how, and throwing knives concealed about my person. Someday (whistful sigh..) and so... YEMEN!
Now clearly had I done more than the most cursory of google searches I would have discovered that my little“golden utopia” was merely a figment of my imagination. Had I done some substantive research, not merely “can I wear t-shirts in Yemen + is there hummus” searches, I would have been far better prepared. But in truth there really isn’t a lot of information about Yemen out there. But still, I had my dreams.

I spent hours, whole afternoons, days even, dreaming of Yemen. Dreaming of this unprecedented, unexpected, unbelievable experience I was about to embark on- I was enchanted. Bewitched even. The allure of the unknown has always drawn me, the romance of history, the grandeur of differences, the austere beauty of the desert.
My dreams became my vivid reality, they were my tacit hopes and desires, they imbued my expectations and anticipations. Finally, finally I was moving to the Middle East. I was moving to Yemen- an ethereal, unknown place, my little golden Arabia. I had unsubstantiated visions and expectations of what would happen while I was there. Products of my vivid imagination, of my unspoken yearning for something..something great? More? I’m not even sure.
I pictured an old, rugged wooden cart heavily laden with rolled carpets, copper trade goods, sacks of spices, and large bolts of gilt fabrics, in damask, and the finest Egyptian cotton- an antiquated oil lantern crudely affixed to a pole on the cart- being pulled by a lugubrious, plodding old camel. I pictured a wizened, care worn old man beside the cart- his shuffling gait only mildly slower than the uneven pace of the ancient ruminant in front of him. His thoughts are far, his heart is heavy, his eyes scrunched in thoughtless concentration.
I pictured dark, foggy winding alleys, the aroma exotic but not unpleasing- roast lamb, fine incense, dung, and the intoxicatingly intangible aroma of mystery and intrigue. Eyes watching from darkened windows, heavily curtained doorways leading to shisha dens, and tiny tea shops, the only sound interrupting the cool night air is the occasional braying of a donkey, or the hiss and spat of a lone, stray cat. The wane light coming from the occasional quaint lantern barely augmented by a three quarter moon and the mountains hanging ominously, toweringly, in the far distant haze of a midsummer night. Suddenly a noise rents the silence, the hauntingly beautiful call of the muezzin is heard in the distance- then again, and again as mosque after mosque echo the resounding cadence, an atonal chant allahu akbar, allahu akbar, god is great. The stillness of the predawn morning shattered by the scuffle of sandaled feet- men weary, still bleary eyed and unfocused from their prematurely interrupted sleep- its fajur prayer, and the day has begun. Soon the streets come alive- women and children making their way to school, men adjourning to the shops to drink tea and talk. Shopkeepers and street vendors uncovering their merchandise , preparing for another day in a dusty, whirlwind of activity, hawking their wares, greeting passerby; both old acquaintance, and possible customer. The streets are a jumble, a splendorous mishmash of animals, and refuse, and un-chaperoned children, tired old men, and the unemployed. The woman continue only on their purposeful way- stop at the meat seller for some fresh mutton, on to the spice market for ground cardammon and curry powder. Or they are home doing the washing, cooking, looking after the children, sweeping the floor from the presence of the dust that is forever alighting on every surface- the dust that is disturbed by the sweep, sweep rhythmic motion of the brush, the dust that hangs effervescently in the air, only to settle back on the floor again, another day, another sweeping, always the dust. Some woman are out making house calls- dropping in on a cousin, a sister- in law, an aunt- they remain cloistered in their private enclave- the separate social realm of the woman- in the house, together, rarely seen, never heard, and so they continue on, evermore on their ponderous journey through life.
I imagined reclining on beautiful, embroidered divans- sipping tiny cups of sweet mint tea, eating sugared almonds, dates, and cakes dripping with honey and nuts. I imagine teeming platters of food- rice cooked with cardomman, raisins and spices, plates of roast lamb, mutton and chicken, large flat loaves of bread, meat pies, and cooked vegetables, platters of fresh fruit and honey; an ambrosial array- the lightly perfumed air from the burning charcoal brazier full of incense contributing to the drowsy, contented atmosphere. Everywhere wall hangings, and woven tapestries, and piles of handmade carpets of the richest color, costliest material and most intricate designs.
I see old men, their white hair, trimmed beards and wizened, wistful expression showcasing a certain grandeur achieved from many years spent toiling outdoors under a hot sun. They sit at cafés playing dominoes and backgammon, everywhere little boys sipping cokes from the bottle and squatting beside their fathers- springing up at the slightest glance or command cast their way. Fathers gossiping and boasting, drinking tea, lazily puffing on fragrant water pipes, planning and scheming but content, always content. An itinerant bread seller, hesitating briefly in the shade, just a moments rest, and away again. It’s a simpler life, it’s a picturesque time.

Can’t you see it? Can’t you imagine? It is clear, vivid, vibrant in my head.
This is what I pictured. This is what I see in my mind, this is what I was hoping to find- I’ve caught glimpses- brief windows into a past life, another time. Children trotting three to a donkey, giggling away their youth. Old women huddled by a well, filling buckets, talking, sharing the sameness of their lives, carrying huge bundles of grains and rice on top of their heads, heading towards, heading from, the market. I’ve seen it in the outlying countryside, I’ve seen flashes of it in old Sana’a. I continued to cling to that vision, still tried to find it. Tried to make Aden, my life there charming, tried to morph it into the ancient utopia of my dreams.

I’ve read too many books focused on early 1900’s Cairo, or the old city of Kabul. I had romanticized, and dreamed, and polished, and augmented, and skewed my view- into an otherworldly place. Formed in my mind from years of reading novels and history books, poems and memoirs- romanticizing the land that so intrigued me. My visages were of the ancient, the primordial, the immortal.
I came with a slew of expectations, of goals, an agenda, both realistic, and less than so. A plan to find myself, solidify my career goals, learn a language, become something more, something greater than I had been thus far. And now I find myself, almost a full year later, still searching.

Yemen is a rather lost county. Plagued with problems, perpetually on the cusp of civil war. Aden in particular has taken the worst of the middle east- the stifling social customs, the burka, the oppressive laws, and stingy, corrupt business practices and meshed it with the worst of middle America, communist Russia, and China- shoddy, derelict old buildings, rampant pollution and homelessness, cheap, plastic, mass market consumer goods, cell phones, and facebook.

It was hard for me to abide in this halfway house between tradition and modernity. Eschew it all and embrace the coming times, the technology, the social relations, the freedom and democracy- or return to a simpler, traditional time. By refusing to choose, Aden is failing them both. Internet but not consistent running water? Cell phones and SMS but no country-wide policy standardization, corrupt government, inadequate electricity, high unemployment, unreliable postal service, and no stipulation on pollution and waste material. But we do have a pizza hut and escalators in the mall.

My time in Yemen was not wonderful, my time in Yemen was not terrible. Somewhat like Yemen’s precarious balance between tradition and modernity, so too was my experience a tenuous equidistant existence- exciting and enriching and unique but oh so lonely, beneficial but plagued with boredom and anxious uncertainty.

At times it was very easy to fall into crippling self-doubt. Why the hell am I in Yemen? I often felt like I was vainly clinging to belief that I was doing, experiencing something worthwhile. That I was accomplishing something, not merely surviving, expending an extended expanse of my life in one place- that this whole thing was somehow meaningful. Because what was the point? I’ve never suffered delusions of wanting to be a career teacher. I felt like I wasn’t changing anything, I wasn’t helping anyone, I wasn’t accomplishing the goals I embarked on, what was the purpose? I’m not someone who intrinsically needs a purpose for every action, but I do need a direction, a plan- however farfetched, absurd, improbable- I need a goal in order to enjoy the journey.
I can say that I did it. That I made a choice, that I stuck with it, that I honored my commitment, did my best, left with my integrity. But for me, that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and thus at times, sparked a general unhappiness, a malaise, a lingering, pesky, persistent doubt about my rational not for coming, but for staying.

Now of course, that damnable hindsight, I’m back in the states... And I miss it. Not Yemen per se, but the experience, the people. I really was doing something different, something more. It was just hard to see it sometimes. Hard to appreciate it through the sweltering heat, and rolling blackouts, and dirtiness. And really, I did some amazing things. And I’ll never be the same person I was when I left so many long months ago, and, I think, that’s okay too. Would I do it again? Absolutely.

Now that I'm back anxiety consumes me. Life has no clear path, no easy answer- and for no one is that more blatantly true, than for the faltering first steps of a recent graduate with a social sciences major(damn you anthropology!) Once again sleep, that evanescent temptress, remains elusive. The nighttime hours are the longest- my mind a whirlwind of cogitations, ruminations, speculations, contemplations. I ponder, I reflect, I remember. Sleep comes slowly- a thousand and one thoughts filter through my mind. The clock emits a faint glow as it slowly, inexorably counts down the minutes, hours until dawn and another day. It’s the future that scares me the most. It’s on the future that I dwell- it gapes before me, a dark abyss of the unknown. So many possibilities- or worse yet, so few possibilities. Its so unclear, the uncertainty is at times paralyzing. I need a plan. What’s next? I just don't know. One thing's for sure though, I sure hope it will involve throwing knives!