Night And Day In Old Sana’a

A few days ago I wasn’t good for anything.

A nice gentle case of food poisoning put me down hard, and frankly, I didn’t want to open my eyes, much less get out of bed.

Then yesterday . . . let me paint the picture, since I forgot my camera:

In the Old City of Sana’a, behind a long wall, sits the garden of Eden. It’s not overly cared-for, which lends the garden a wild look. Tendrils and shoots have gone where they will. The wall of sugar cane growing in front of one rock-and-daub wall surprised me. Built into the garden is a few covered archways, dirt-covered stone pathways underneath, the sun glancing through flower-covered vines that wrap up and over the path. Off the path, almost randomly placed, is a white picnic table surrounded similar chairs. I am seated there, as is a handful of other Yemenis and expats. We’re laughing and joking as the lord of the manor, a stately and kind Yemeni man, pours us glasses of his homemade wine.  Several small boys scurry to the table with plates of food. There’s more laughter, a hum of traffic outside. I sit back in my chair, and look up through the low branches and leaves of the tree, flowing back and forth to the breeze, winking the sunlight.

Time from death by bacteria sandwich to happy, sun-dappled lunching: two days.

Welcome to Yemen.

Portrait From a Sickbed

Abed, and that's about all I have to say about the last three miserable days. I had about a cupful of rice today. That was nice.

In Limbo, In a New Shirt, Writing a Letter

Dear kind reader:

I bought two new shirts today, one polo and one t-shirt. I had to — the few shirts  I brought are either wearing out or float around me like a cloud. I’m losing weight, in case you didn’t get my point.

Anyway, today was the heralded day for clothes shopping. Besides general necessity, I had a reason. Thanks to the intercession of someone from an embassy here, I suddenly had a social life last night, and it was due to continue tonight. Also, I was planning to travel to Kawkaban tomorrow.

Plans, you are a fickle mistress.

I ate a shawarma sandwich off the street today, purchased from a guy along al-Zubairi. Now Mom and the CDC, I know what you’re thinking. But I’ve eaten plenty of food from street vendors without paying any sort of physical price.

Today, as he assembled the sandwich I idly looked at the ingredients and thought, “I wonder if this will be the sandwich of doom.”

I am a prophet.

After some miserable time spent next door in the bathroom, I’m now recovering on a bed, wearing one of my new shirts, trying to rehydrate with water.  Still ill, I called off the social event.

Now I find that after initially approving the trip to Kawkaban, The Yemen government in its wisdom has withdrawn permission. Attempts to regain such permission continue, but right now travel plans are uncertain. I can speculate, but I’m not fully sure why the government changed its mind.

Also uncertain: my general physical well-being.

In limbo, wearing a new shirt, from my bed, as the power flickers in and out,

I remain,

respectfully yours,

-Jeremy

Sana’a In a Blackout, A Portrait

The lights go out across my part of Sana'a. In the distance, electricity glows. Next door, a generator fires up, and a light comes on upstairs.

Kawkaban, the Travel Briefing

Kawkaban (Source: http://www.travelswithsheila.com)

Al-Mahwit province in Yemen, location of Kawkaban. (Source: Wikipedia)

I’m off again, this weekend heading with a few others to the mountain stronghold of Kawkaban, in al-Mahwit governorate, an hour’s drive (111km, 69 miles) northwest from Sana’a.

Yes, Kawkaban (pronounced COKE-uh-ban) sounds like either a breakfast cereal or a beach club in Cuba.

That aside, it’s reportedly an amazing place to see and a great spot to spend some time communing with the views of the surrounding area.

Kawkaban is the mountain fortress above the town of Shibam, not to be confused with the town with a similar name in the Hadhramout region in eastern Yemen.

Kawkaban means ‘two stars’, a name gained from the distant past when there was supposedly two fortresses on the mountain that shone like stars above the town, according to my Bradt travel guide about Yemen. There’s no archaeological proof of these fortresses, but it makes for a good story.

Yet Kawkaban is the real deal. It is an ancient Himyarite city (think roughly 100 BC-500 AD), and served as a stronghold of the Zaidi Muslim imam leaders of Yemen. It’s the only Yemen location named in The Thousand and One Nights, the classic of Arab folk literature (Thanks to commenter Sayed Bakri, who worthily points out the story is about the most historic of all farts).

Kawkaban has never been conquered, having withstood assaults from a number of attackers, including the Ottomans. It unfortunately was unable to withstand the aerial assault of the Republican soldiers in the 1960s, and it hasn’t served as a fortress since.

In more recent history, the trip to al-Mahwit should be safe. I’m getting the travel permit as we speak.  I’ll be traveling with my boss, some other NGO people, and at least one person from an embassy here.

On Friday or Saturday I’ll tell you about the adventure.

Hello, Familiar Stranger!

I get looks. I’ve seen them.

It’s not that unusual a thing. I’m white, Western, and larger than the average Yemeni man . . . or “so fat,” as some Yemenis have put it, not realizing that “fat” is often a pejorative in English particularly if you put “so” in front of it.

I know I stick out, but I try to do it as little as possible. Some things (see above) can’t be helped, but I try to move on the street the way people do here. It’s not a fast pace, but it’s steady, always seeking the path of least resistance with very little exception made for laws, right of way, or personal space. Vehicles add a whole new dimension to this, and navigating the streets here means keeping your head a swivel for vehicles that follow roughly the same rules (see above) that people do. It take a bit of adjustment, but I think I’ve got it down.

Then I see him.

A cap like this. Midwesterners, you know what I mean. (Source: cricketworld.com

Let’s call him Sam. He looked like a 50-something farmer from back home — polyester pants, cotton collared shirt pulled tight against his belly, a tie hanging from his neck and twisting in the wind, a green ball cap with an agricultural company logo on it. He was clutching a cheap leather satchel and was accompanied by a short, lean Yemeni guy, maybe 25 years old.

He was walking sideways in the street when I saw him. He was trying to avoid getting run into by a water tanker truck that decided to turn around in the middle of the block. What surprised me was how utterly obvious he was, just glaringly obvious. I spotted him from a block away, and I wasn’t the only one.

I looked around and noticed most of the Yemenis either walking or sitting on steps in front of businesses were watching this guy, and not just because he was crab-walking away from a tanker truck. Their stares lingered on as he trudged up the street afterward.

Then the self-consciousness hit. Do I look like that? Does everyone stare at me like that? I try to wear fairly unassuming Western clothes and I try to walk like a Yemeni. It’s funny how much I had convinced myself I fit right in.

But yeah, I stick out, and they stare.

I would too.

Huge Explosion Rocks Sana’a, Kills People. Also, My Bed Breaks.

Saba Net State-Run News (now with awesome photos of President Saleh alongside every article) -- YOUR TRUSTED NEWS SOURCE

A “huge explosion” rocked Sana’a last night, killing four and injuring two, according to Yemen’s state media. I was not among the killed or injured, if you were worried.

Actually, the news of this explosion won’t hit western media if it doesn’t appear to be terrorism related. Right now it’s anyone’s guess. Apparently the explosion — due to blasting caps used for blowing up rocks — occurred on the second floor of a three-story house and largely destroyed the house. After civil defense people cleared the scene, they removed 500 blasting caps from the house.

I would like to say I remember what I was doing the moment the explosion occurred, but I don’t. Explosions aren’t uncommon in Sana’a, so either I ignored it or it happened while I was taking a nap.

. . . during which my bed broke. Yes,  it’s a ludicrous juxtaposition to nestle people’s deaths and my broken bed. But hey, the bed matters to me. I sleep on it.

You know that type of dream where you’re falling, and then you wake up? Well, I really fell and woke up when I hit the floor. “Good lord!” I hooted, extricating myself from the sunken mattress, and then stepping back to see the mess of bed, blanket and bed-frame. Oh, the shame.

Loyal readers might remember this also happened during my first week in Yemen. It was embarrassing then, and it was embarrassing now, even after I’ve lost a dozen or two pounds.

Turns out, it’s not me, it’s the bed.

“Oh, that happened again? I’m really starting to hate these beds,” said the director of AIYS, my home.

Apparently he had a similar mishap after getting zapped while trying to fix malfunctioning Christmas lights. In disgust he plopped on the bed and it promptly broke beneath him.

“Just leave your door open and we’ll have Amal look at it tomorrow, ” he said.

I’m at work now, sitting on a sturdy chair.

At least I’ll come back to a building with all of its people and floors.

Things I love in Yemen #1: Awesome Weddings

Gold, Swords, and MTN Gift Bags. All part of a complete corporate-sponsored Yemeni group wedding. Question, who's the kid in that group of men? Child marriage goes for men, as well?

The Yemeni wedding can be a glorious affair.

I’m told I haven’t lived until I’ve attended one. Sadly, I have yet to be born.

Yet I did get caught in a traffic jam because of one, and I have walked past a few. They’re always well-lit with strings of old-fashioned light bulbs (not those ugly flourescent ones with the harsh white light) casting yellow light over the finely dressed crowds. Oh yes, I’ve also heard the gunshots; the shot ricochet off the buildings and my ear drums.

But this particular wedding caught my eye: MTN, the massive telephone/mobile phone provider, is conducting its fourth annual group wedding for employees who intend to tie the knot.

This is particularly meaningful in Yemen, since weddings can be very, very expensive.  It appears MTN will provide all the trappings — the big room, swag-stuffed gift bags, money for the new couples, and one amazing atmosphere.

Anyone want to go with me to crash a Yemeni group wedding?

Where I Live: The American Institute of Yemeni Studies

I have been in Yemen for two months. Nearly every night I lay my head down on a pillow at the American Institute of Yemeni Studies, a delightful home for scholars and others doing work in Yemen.

It’s a small but beautiful place, never housing more than a handful of very interesting people at any given time, with what is likely the most extensive library about Yemen.

Through my blog you’ve seen many things about Yemen. I realized it’s time you actually saw where I lived.

Here’s the 50 cent tour.

Outside AIYS, looking toward the front door from the front gate. The guards stay in the shelter in the photo's lower left.

The central living room in the residence section, the upstairs of AIYS, featuring bookshelves against the wall, plenty of seating, and a television. All the other rooms on this floor (kitchen, bedrooms) are spokes to the hub of the living room.

The spacious kitchen with every amenity (except a microwave -- what do you think this is? The Hilton?).

The dining room. It's not huge, but it's really quite comfortable. It's not uncommon to find me here with a bowl of something, a bottle of water, and something to read.

Plenty of elbow room in the bathroom. You can't see it, but there's a shower to the left in this photo. There's no shower curtain, but it's really not that big of a deal. Water on the floor? That's why there's a long-handled squeegee.

The bedroom, where the (writing, reading, sleeping) magic happens. I actually have two beds in this room, and I usually sleep on the larger one (not seen) on the left. My desk is in the lower right.

Guilt, and a Sure Sign Yemen Doesn’t Get Many Tourists

Walking into the souk near the Bab al-Yemen gate, Old City of Sana'a

His face was familiar. That was the problem.

“But . . . ”

When he started with that, I knew I was in trouble. My face was familiar, too.

“But . . . . you said you were from Norway,” he said.

He looked confused, a little put out. This was the guy who accosted me as I walked into the Old City of Sana’a two weeks ago. Minding my usual security rules (random stranger, stranger approached me, public, unfamiliar area), I told him I was Norwegian. He prattled on about how great a country Norway was, and how many of his friends wanted to go there.

Right, sure, I thought then. Most Yemenis I’ve met have difficulty identifying Norway at all,  and the fortunate few finally deduce it is in the vicinity of Europe. He finally left me alone after I kept acting disinterested and said I didn’t want to check out the gallery or the shop he was recommending.

That was the last I’ll see of him, I thought. He does this to every Westerner that wanders in here. He’ll have forgotten about me within the hour.

Not so.

One week later, we were both back in the souk, looking at each other.

“Um, yeah,” I replied, stalling for time as I tried to figure out what to say to him. My shock at his recognition blended into the warm shame of my lying guilt. “I did say that.”

I was back in the Old City with some Yemeni friends, back to do some shopping, back to snap up some souvenirs and let my friends do the heavy lifting of the negotiations. They’re good friends that way. But then this random guy hanging around a shop we were in asked where I was from, and I told him what I usually do: “America.”

Five minutes later, my old friend appeared. Miffed.

“Why did you . . ” He stopped at thought for a second.

“It doesn’t matter, no problem,” he said with a shrug.

I never liked saying Norway, I thought, furiously. I’ve only said it to five or six people in my time here, I rationalized. It’s the safe thing to do, right? He’ll understand.

“I tell a lot of people I’m from Norway,” I said, now trying to somehow earn his trust. It was bizarre, I realized , but I really did want him to trust me. But what could I say?

“My family comes from Norway,” I tacked on, desperately.

He looked away, and then walked out of the shop.