A dubbab, just looking for passengers . . . (via Flickr user fscottgraham)
Nothing happened today.
At least that’s what I tell myself. But I have learned something about living somewhere new and interesting: After a while, even otherwise interesting things seem boring.
A researcher I know here made an interesting observation: Some people stay for a day in Yemen and end up writing a book. Some stay for a week and write an article. Others stay longer, and write nothing.
I have been in Yemen for a month and a half. It’s my half-way point. By his reckoning, I should write nothing. So, let me tell you about my normal daily travels, none of which seems exceptional to me. It’s easy to quickly grow jaded, and then blind.
Here’s the jaded summary: I go to work, then go to Arabic tutoring, and return home.
Here, for your amusement, are the details:
I walk down my alley to the street and say good morning to the wizened old man who sits on that alley corner every morning. I believe he’s a grandfather who lives in one of the houses near me in the alley. Usually he sits quietly and watches the people traffic. Other times friends sit nearby and talk with him, or argue over the newspaper.
I stroll west on Jamal Street, past the painters holding their long paint rollers and waiting for someone to come by and hire them, then cut toward al-Zubaira Street, past the falafel stand, past the fish market, to the corner with the sweet shop and a policeman who never seems to do much other than talk to passers-by and occasionally wave his hand at traffic.
I’m just up the road from the Republican Hospital, a convenient rallying point for taxis and the beat-up, overfilled mini-mini-minivan-style buses (called a “dubbab” here) that zoom all around the city.
I jump aboard a dubbab headed for Asser, the part of the city where I work. The dubbab trips are cheap. The equivalent of 18 cents gets me to the corner where I hop out, pay the driver and walk four blocks to work. I stop at a small shop along the way, and buy a drink or snack for during the day. I bought a small Snickers bar there once, and now the boy who is usually manning the counter has a small Snickers bar ready on the counter the moment I poke my head through the shop’s door. It’s so nice of him, I’ve been eating more Snickers than I ever have before.
I work. Later that day I say goodbye to my coworkers (nearly all female), walk back to al-Zubairi Street, and hop aboard another dubab that drives to 60 Meter Road, a major road that gets its name from its 60 meter width. I jump off and board another dubab, carefully avoiding the open space next to the veiled woman and instead squashing myself between two men in a back row. The dubbab cruises up 60 Meter Road, swerves into a frontage road after a few minutes, and pick up a few more passengers that flag it down. A few minutes later I shout at the driver to pull over and walk a block to my school for Arabic lessons.
After my brain is turned to mush, I walk back down the frontage road, past a few small juice shops, a welding shop, and a car mechanic, to a bridge over 60 Meter Road, which is not exactly pedestrian-friendly.
One this side of the bridge sit a few busy restaurants and outdoor seating, as well as a number of vendors crouched down on the sidewalk selling packets of nuts and other small food items. Beggar camp on the stairs and the bridge itself hosts more vendors selling perfume, passport covers, and miswak sticks , which when whittled a bit serve as Prophet Mohammed-approved tooth-cleaning devices.
The other side of the bridge descends into the entrance of a dusty street and a bustling vegetable market. Here sellers squat by green plastic bags filled with kilos of green peppers or onions. Another man sells bags of apples out of the back of a pickup truck. Another man, with a similar setup, is selling small tomatoes.
The corner also serves as an impromptu taxi, motorcycle taxi and minibus stop. I hop on a minibus here, ride to al-Zubairi Street, take it as far as I want — usually somewhere around the Republican Hospital — and walk toward home.
I take the eastern path this time, cutting through a gravel parking lot that often serves as a soccer field for local kids when cars are few. I walk down a street busy with dubabs and taxis, cut through a honk-heavy three-way intersection and wind my way either through a narrow alley crowded with playing children or through a vegetable market, or souk, back to my street and my alley. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll first stop by Ali’s little stand (will it have shade today from a sun umbrella?) and pick up some fresh-made french fries with pepper powder and hot sauce on them.
Just another day, there and back again.
Despatches | {Wyoming} 