Something I wrote a while ago and never posted...

Yemeni Product Names

I can’t really blame the odd English names on Yemen alone. Anyone who has ever travelled in Asia (probably Africa too, but I only know Asia) will have noticed the many ingenious English product names. I assume that the thought process is that English is cool or at least useful for business and so products named in English are cool or at least make good business sense. I do remember one intrepid entrepreneur from our church in Indonesia who purposefully named his sandals “Konichiwa” and made them look Japanese-ish by placing odd looking cartoon characters with large mouths jumping around the plastic packaging. I remember him saying that people thought that Indonesian-made products were inferior to foreign-made ones and so he would make a better profit with his faux-Japanese flipflops. My mom and I recently purchased matching Konichiwa sandals and they still fill us with a spirit of Hello Kitty and Pikachu. So, Pak Karmen’s desire to present his product as “foreign” and therefore “awesome” might be a motivation for the English monikers attached to random goods I find in the supermarket here.

Laundry soap is a product that you might not think needs an English name to sell it. You would be wrong. Here the favored brands are “FasClean,” “White Cat,” and “Wild Cat.” We’ll take “FasClean” to start with. I am guessing that “FasClean” is supposed to suggest to the fluent English speakers buying laundry soap (no one who does not speak English buys laundry soap of course) that this type of soap cleans with lightning speed. You only need leave your clothes soaking in the water a few minutes and –voila- done. Although, I read the Arabic underneath the English to see if it was translated thus in Arabic, but it was merely transliterated so I can’t be positive that I am indeed understanding the meaning correctly. Still, for people like me who frequently forget that they put their clothes in a bucket of water and need to scrub them, squeeze them, and hang them out on the line, “fascleaning” is not as necessary. I would prefer something like “No-Scrub” detergent, along the lines of “no-rub” contact solution that would take some of the effort out of hand-washing my clothes. But honestly, I am not the most diligent of hand-washers. I tend to throw things in a bucket with soap, swish them around, forget about them for a few hours, come back, dump the water on the floor to mop it, squeeze a bit of the excess wetness out, and then sling the clothes over the line to dry. It’s already hot enough here that it doesn’t matter how much I squeeze out, they’re going to dry anyway. And no, I did not forget to include the step where I rinse the soap out of the clothes because I don’t, in fact, do that. I just leave the clothes in long enough for all the soap to dissolve out.

Sadly, neither “White Cat” nor “Wild Cat” are “no-scrub” detergents, but they both do have horrifying pictures of ferocious-looking cats on them. I’m not sure why a cat was chosen for their mascot. Is the idea that if you can get a mangy, flea-bitten cat who rolls in the dirt and eats garbage to look white with this laundry soap then you can clean anything? Or is the idea that this laundry soap cleans with the power of an insane rabid feline more what the manufacturer is going for? Either way, one should never leave the package lying out unattended. If you glance at it in the dark, say, while you’re on the toilet at night, it can look pretty creepy.

Another thing that brings me joy is the Indonesian on my cleaning solution. This product is tri-lingual, catering to Arabic-speaking Indonesians living in gulf countries where they must communicate with the English-speaking Indians doing all the outside work. My cleaning solution boasts in the fact that it contains “SPF.” At first, I was pleased to know that my countertops in my windowless room would all be protected from sun damage, until I read that, in this case, “SPF” means “spot protection formula.” I suppose it is good to protect the spots on my furniture as well. Al muhim: it is easier to read Indonesian than Arabic, and I was able to see that it is possible to use this fancy “SPF” spray in my kitchen, living room, bed room, and/or bathroom for maximum cleanliness. Cleanliness, it may surprise you to know given my sad reputation as a domestic novice, I appreciate greatly. I appreciate it even more after living with many many girls who don’t realize that garbage disposals have never been brought to Yemen and you can’t throw bits of food in a sink and expect them to just disappear. They only do disappear because that weird foreign girl gets tired of having crap in the sink where she brushes her teeth and cleans them. Also, throwing water on the floor doesn’t keep it as clean as keeping a clean floor dry so as not to track mud all over the bathroom. Random dark thoughts I have…

Another Indonesian thing I use consistently is my Ciptadent toothpaste. This toothpaste informs me boldly that it can “menguatkan email gigi.” I guessed from the context that in this case “email” is “enamel” and the toothpaste is strengthening that not the personal electronic address of my teeth, because I must admit that I didn’t know previously the word for “enamel” in Bahasa and sometimes still when I look at it, it makes me think strange thoughts. Still, that toothpaste is amazing as it is contains “multivitamins and microactive foam.” The foam I have noticed, and recently, after purchasing very expensive vitamins at the local pharmacy in an attempt to balance nutrition with the stress that is making my hair fall out, I considered eating the toothpaste in lieu of purchasing more vitamins. It would be cheaper and more efficient, adding that “two-in-one” value to one of my daily activities.

In conclusion, I will continue to enjoy my “Freshly Peanut Butter” and my “London Dairy” ice cream even if they are Yemen products with fake English names because, while they’re not Peter Pan or Eddy’s, they’re not so bad.

More Somaliland Musings

Dundumo

If I were a photographer, I would travel the world make coffee table books. I feel that it is an important market niche. There are many excellent subjects for coffee table books in Greater Somalia. (I refer to Greater Somalia in an attempt to be politically correct for Somalilanders who are hoping for international recognition as a separate country from Somalia and the state of Puntland which is also Somalia and plans to go back to Somalia if Somalia ever gets its act together. I think Somaliland deserves recognition but I will not write about that because it would take too long and require sources and MLA format and lots of stuff I left behind me when I completed my formal education.) Driving around the countryside visiting ADRA worksites gave me a great view of this strangely beautiful country. While I am always fascinated by camels and flocks of goats, I am also interested in muddy unpaved roads and dry riverbeds, but I recognize that buyers of coffee tables books might not share that interest. But who could possibly not share my interest in the subject of what would be my first coffee table book--dundumo (Somali for ant hill)?

Ironically, in spite of my self-stated desire to coffee-table-book dundumo, I didn't get many photos. While it shouldn't nomally be too difficult to take photos of stationary objects, in my case, I was taking all these photos from the back of a speeding car. Occasionally we'd hit a bump, catch some air, and go flying over several deep holes only to slam on the breaks in order to avoid hitting a wandering camel. I imagine it would be bad to hit a Somali symbol of wealth and future someone's future dowry. In Garowe, someone offered 100 camels for me, but I told him that as an imported women, I was naturally going to be more expensive and I wouldn't go for less than 500 (shipping costs are higher with the pirates). He tried to bargain but then realized that in the end, products imported aren't worth as much as you pay for them-they don't last much longer than those that are domestically-produced and it is often difficult to get used to their systems. Also the owner's manuals are written in so many different languages, it's hard to find the one that you want. Anyway, I don't have many pictures yet. I'll have to make a special trip on somebody's dowry camel so I can go slower and take more photos.

These dundumo are massive. They can be more that 2 meters high. Some are tall and slim and look like how I imagine Lot's wife turned out after she became a pillar of salt. Others look more like funky dirt snowmen. Some, fittingly, are reminiscent of sand castles. I like the ones built around trees that remind me of Angkor Watt temples that have been covered by jungle trees and vines although in this case, I'm pretty sure the trees were there before the buildings, unlike the Cambodian ruins. I also appreciate the dundumo that are right beside a tree. They look like they're in a competition to see who can grow taller. Sometimes the trees win, sometimes the ants pull it off.

I also noticed that dundumo are often found in the middle of a farm with the land cultivated around them. They also aren't removed from their places even if they are right beside a house or tent. I was surprised by this at first, wondering why they weren't cleared away. First I thought that maybe the people were afraid of being attacked by large red ants, angry at the destruction of their homes. Then I was more charitable and chalked it up to Somali respect for hard-working creatures who take weeks (months? years? I have no idea...I'll have to find out before I make my book) to build their elaborate hives (hives? nests? Again, stuff I'll need to know before I publish). But later, when I requested a photo beside a particularly massive one, I was told that Somalis are afraid of them because they are "the house of the devil" which I think means that they think that evil spirits live there. It also meant that the security guard who was already mad at me for a short trip to the beach while everyone else was in the bathroom (The foreign girl will be attacked by gangs with knives! Why did you let her go down to the beach? It's not deserted as it looks! In fact there are many evil people lying in wait for her! Now I have to convince the other fatter guard to go down there and watch out for her because at least he kind of likes her.) and mad at me for stopping for another photo-op picking up a tortoise (I need to get home to chew qat because stupid ADRA refused to pay me extra money for my drug of choice!) was even more furious with me for this last stop I politely requested. He was also mad because we stopped before we noticed a large monkey clan hanging around the tree nearby (They will eat up the foreign girl and then who will get in trouble? That's right, me. The guy who didn't get to chew qat). He didn't have to worry about me going over to the monkeys to get them to pose with me. I know monkeys from childhood days in Indo. They are not nice creatures. Sure the babies are cute and fuzzy and it's so clever how they hang on to their mommies, but they bite, steal food, give you rabies, throw stuff at you, and break your things. I don't mess with monkeys. Unless I am throwing stuff at them. Fair's fair.





So I got my photo, escaped a loud lecture from the guard by feigning ignorance of the Somali language, which is mostly true but I did recognize several new words I'd recently learned (badeed-sea, deen-tortoise, daanyeer-monkey, cun- eat, dundumo-you know this word already if you've been paying attention), and sat demurely in the car for the rest of the journey planning out various titles for my coffee table book, hoping that my qat-deprived guard wouldn't start shooting at our car, trying to get us to go faster. Here are some of the titles I came up with.

My first creative choice: Ant-hills of the Somali Desert. It seems pretty straightforward, but I did struggle with the Somali part (see side note above about Somaliland, Puntland, etc). Genius will come through at the end though, of course.

Then I thought, if I were catering to a more academic group (of course academics make up a huge percentage of coffee table book consumers), I would go for something like: The Architectural Masterpieces of Somali Desert Denizens, subtitled: How Evolution Helped Ants Adapt to Harsh Surroundings that Would Ultimately be Caused by Manmade Climate Change so That When Humans Destroy Themselves and Ants Take Over the World They Will All Have Nice Places to Live.

Naturally, my very popular book would spawn a series for children which I would entitle: Ants are People Too and They Feel Sad When People or Camels Kick Over Their Houses and Usually They Eat People Who Upset Them. I think this could make a very pleasing pop-up book as well.

Sadly, photography is not one of my skills. While I do believe that those super-fancy cameras are a huge part of why many aspiring photographers actually take good pictures, A) I am too poor and too cheap even if I weren't poor to buy one and B) I congratulate myself on taking pictures when my thumb isn't making an appearance in the left corner of the screen, the object I'm trying to shoot is near the middle of the photo, and a casual observer won't find him or herself feeling symptoms of vertigo when looking the picture. Alas, I shall leave my idea to others who agree that coffee and ant houses go together and he or she can reap the rewards, financial and otherwise, thereof. All I ask is that a small donation be made to the charity I happen to be working with at the time made out to "Amanda Stillman's salary" as a way of thanking me for my awesome idea.

Somaliland Musings (one of a few more to come)

Various stories out of chronological order will be added pending my access to computers. Here's the first one:

Las Geel

Not satisfied with their own Lascaux cave paintings, some French archaeologists came to Somaliland a few years ago to check out some ancient cows on rocks they heard rumors about exisiting in Las Geel (pompously translated "The dromedaries' watering hole" by whoever wrote the poster in the guard house/museum). They immediately recognized the awesomeness of these pictures (cows and men, men and cows, cows and calves, and some cow pornography) and stayed to study them. Now the area has become Somaliland's primary tourist destination, which is to say that when we drove off the paved-ish road through the desert for about twenty minutes, we finally found a tiny house with a couple of guides hanging out who were almost as surprised to see us as we were to see them. We then embarked on a lovely hike made awkward by stupid long dresses up the rocky hill/mountain to get to the first paintings marked off by barbed wire which was already broken down. We climbed around to get a better look.

The paintings were colorful and primitive looking, and I tried to get more information from the guide-a charming older gentleman with a wooden cane that he used for hiking and pointing out important details on the paintings. He didn't speak English so we communicated through broken Somali, a bit of Arabic, and some hand gestures. Interestingly, for your future reference, the Somali hand sign for knife is similar to the gesture other people use for "I'm going to kill you." I can see how this could potentially cause problems for future tourists who might misunderstand him.

Since I was small, I always loved ruins, the older the better, even going through a brief "I'm going to be an archeaologist when I grow up" phase. I like to walk on ancient under-water roads and climb up old crumbly staircases, and I generally ignore signs telling me not to go beyond a certain point or not to touch certain objects. Naturally, I touched one of the paintings to see how the paint felt and was immediately gasped at and ordered never to do that again. Not because I might mess up the paintings (I didn't touch it enough to do take of any of the paint and I didn't scratch at it and I didn't write "Amanda was here 2011" either) but because they were unsure what the people used for paint and how that might affect my health and/or state of pureness. I thought that was a good call by the French, letting that rumor spread because I think that many people share my same desire to ignore "don't touch" signs, but if you make people afraid to touch something, they are more likely to leave it alone. Personally, I think all museums should be like the Egyptian museum where you can shake hands with a statue of Ra or tweak the nose of a sphinx. You can pretty much do anything except try on Queen Nefertiti's jewelry, which I think would be an awesome exhibit even though it would probably only last a few hours until all of the Queen's old treasures had found new owners. Anyway, I of course touched another painting, and I am happy to report that as yet none of my fingers have turned black and fallen off.

Gesh2 lBa7r

I went to Sana’a this week. People always try to get me to go there to “ghayr al-jau” or “change the atmosphere.” The Country Director has offered to pay for my plane ticket and put me in any hotel I want for a night or two. The general consensus is that Sana’a is awesome and everyone should want to stay in a fancy hotel there. But I disagree. For one thing, coming to Aden is “ghayr-ing the jau” for me. More importantly, Sana’a does not have a beach, and most importantly, Captain Roy does not live there. Today I went for a 3 hour hike up and around the rocky mountains of Shamsan, never losing sight of the perfectly beautiful blue water down below. We ended the hike down on the beach, went for a quick in the not-too-cold-not-too-hot-just-perfect Gulf of Aden. Just as we were preparing to climb up out of the wadi to head back to the car, one of the Captain’s friends showed up in his little boat, and boated us around to the other side of the hill from which we could easily saunter up to the car. Then the Captain showed us around his office, which looks out over the port. We admired the lights of the boats anchored around and remembered the USS Cole which the Captain heard explode and went to help. Then I came home to make cookies for the guys in the office, managing to burn every single one of the 3 batches I made…how is that even possible? Shouldn’t the odds be in my favor for at least one batch? But anyway, we can all agree that it was an epic day, full of adventure and now a blog and anti-terrorism TV commercials…yes, it’s true. In American you have (had?) “this is your brain on drugs” commercials, in the Middle East we have commercials reminding kids that it’s not “cool” to be a terrorist, and being a terrorist might make some people cry.

Does this blog post have a point? Not yet…maybe I’ll get there…maybe it’s letting you get a glimpse of the things that go on in my mind…keep reading at your own risk.

I should take this time to explain the title. Upon arriving back in Aden on Thursday night, a most impressive feat, actually, since they bought my ticket for Friday night against my express wishes and I had to go to the airport with Khaled and hope there was an empty seat on the flight. There wasn’t, but fortunately, there is a lot of unrest in Sana’a (you may have heard something about it) and the main roads are all closed, making traffic ridiculous and some people where late so I managed to make it on the flight. I pulled the poor foreign girl and tried (unsuccessfully of course) to cry. It only worked because some people didn’t follow the “be at the airport at least one hour before domestic flights” rule. Al muhim: Success! No thanks to Miriam who thought I was joking when I informed her that I wanted to be back in Aden by Thursday night in case of unrest in Sana’a on Friday, leading to evacuation, which I only want to do from Aden in a boat with the Captain. So I am very thankful for Khaled, who knew ahead of time that he didn’t want to spend extra time with those dahabashi’s in Sana’a (dahabashi is roughly the equivalent of “damn Yankee”) and he also didn’t trust ADRA Yemen dahabashi’s to buy his ticket. He had his already and he never lost hope that I would make it on the plane, chuckling gleefully that I was keeping another carpet-bagger off the plane to the paradise of the south.

When we landed in Aden, I was so happy to be home in the warm wet air with the smell of the sea mixed with jasmine bushes somehow growing in the dirty parking lot of the airport. I mentioned to Khaled that I love the smell of the ocean. That is when I learned the lovely phrase that is the title of this blog: gesh2 Lba7r. The direct translation of this phrase is “burp of the sea.” Apparently, this is the Arabic way of saying “the smell of the sea.” People with the lovely and refined Levantine accent would pronounce this word “jesh2” but I’m not sure if those kind of refined peoples would use this lovely expression. Well, no one every accused me of being lovely and/or refined so “burp of the sea” it is. And I love the sea and all its regurgitated smells.

Here are the high points of my time in Sana’a:

1. Two hot showers. Wow. I had forgotten why showering was fun. Showering here is a necessity, but there is no joy in it. Showering in the Sheraton was “from the nose.” A Yemeni expression meaning “awesome.” Apparently, Yemeni noses produce awesomeness.
2. Meeting the people from ADRA Somalia and planning my trip there. End of the month inshalla! Somalia waxaan ku tagayaa!
3.  Not dying of boredom during the millions of powerpoint presentations I was forced to sit through. I had planned my funeral and it was going to be mumtaztik, but I know that my mom and one or two other people would have been really disappointed if I don’t make it to at least age 30. Besides, dying of powerpoint presentations is almost like dying in Fun City. There are more creative ways to go, especially here in Yemen.
4. The highlight of the meetings for me was the security presentation by Chris Gibbs. At first, I was disappointed that it was not Simon Butt. Since the beginning of the Qat Revolution, I have been getting a plethora of security related emails. I never read them if I have to open an attachment, and I never read them unless I see that they were written by Simon Butt. Simon is the head of the UN Department of Safety and Security in Yemen. These security guys are usually really tough looking former military guys who are just trying to make the world a better place using their skills which may or may not have been developed on dangerous undercover evil government missions for which they are now trying to atone. Simon, I’m sure, was driven to this life by his unfortunate last name, which made him become extra bad-ass to protect himself from bullies who prey on people with unfortunate last names. Somehow, and this is unusual for security-type people, he also developed a sense of humor. In his emails he once mocked the international media for showing a “very horrifying potentially violent demonstration” which was actually so insignificant as to have been broken up by one policeman with a stick. Another time he caustically informed the UN that when they see that people are throwing rocks, even if they have not been informed of a riot happening in that particular area, not to drive through the line of fire. In such a situation, a broken windscreen is only natural. I sensed that he almost added “it’s your own fault, morons.”

Anyway, Simon couldn’t make it to our meeting. I guess he’s too busy being awesome. So he sent a slightly-less awesome stand-in by the name of Chris Gibbs. Chris was very rugged and tough looking. He took us through the Impact/Likelihood matrix which he uses to predict the future. I don’t really remember all he was saying because I was busy admiring his accent. It was mostly classic British, but not your stereotypical “prim-and-proper-sit-up-straighter” British accent. Somehow his aforementioned badassness showed up in his accent. I did find the way he pronounced the name of a local tribe distracting. The Houthis have this rebellious streak going on and they like to stir up trouble when possible, and so they came up in some of our discussions. The way Chris pronounced their name sounded sort of like “the Hooters.” It was just hard for me when he would mentioned that certain sheikhs had “gone over to the Hooters” or that “the President was driving many people to the Hooters.” At any rate, he didn’t use powerpoint. He wasn’t one of those security people that falls back on technology to save him. He doesn’t diffuse bombs with a robot, he rips it to pieces with his bare hands before it explodes. He had to leave our meeting really fast after his session. I’m pretty sure there was a bomb somewhere that needed him. That or he was afraid he would have to sit through the next powerpoint presentation….I escaped it by taking an extra long bathroom break, because not everyone can be called on to diffuse bombs with their bare hands.

So there you have it, people. It’s been a while since this blog has been updated, so I made this one especially long. You’re welcome.

The Qat Revolution

In light of the reported impending violence in Yemen, I think it’s time to share a little of my experiences regarding the upcoming end of Ali Abdullah Salah’s reign in Yemen. First, most of the concern for Yemen’s security comes from the West, especially the media and bored NGO security advisers who are all secretly hoping something will happen so that their jobs will get more exciting. Sadly, they aren’t really paying attention to crucial aspects o Yemeni culture, such as prime qat-chewing hours (evening and late afternoon) and a general lack of unity amongst the Yemeni people themselves, most of whom cannot agree on whether or not Ali AS is a good guy, a bad guy, or better than any other alternative or if the South will/should rise again. But the media and security experts everywhere are correct that if anything happened it would be bad. Yemenis wear their Kalashnikovs slung around their shoulders like gangster rappers wear large ostentatious gold necklaces. Just like the average citizen of the 21^st century grabs his cell phone before heading out the door, a Yemeni man picks up his gun or his knife in case of emergency. So if any one or two groups did manage to stir up some emotion that could last more than 24 hours without a qat break, there is a high possibility that Yemeni protests would make Egyptian protests look like they had been organized by Gandhi and Mother Theresa come back from their respective graves.

In light of this information, NGOs in Yemen are prepared to evacuate their personnel as necessary. Consequently, I have been forced to come back to Aden every weekend instead of staying in the camp where I want to visit some refugees and watch my friend’s goat have its baby. If something were to happen here, I would be safer in the camp because the riots would happen in the city, but I would be far away from the airport and that would not be ideal. So I obligingly came back to Aden at the emphatic request of my boss and sat in my apartment to enjoy unlimited internet and a clear view of the street where riots are supposed to happen. Last night I got a call from Khaled warning me to stay in the house because guns were going to be fired. I was fine with that because I was already scandalously attired in my tiny shorts and that would be inappropriate for attending a riot. I ended up going to bed early, a luxury I enjoy in Aden, but I heard shots and car horns a while later so I went to my window to see all the fun. Besides, I have never been adept at sleeping with lots of loud noises all around me.

I was a little disappointed in the view, I must admit…probably the same feelings that the media and NGO security advisers are feeling. There were maybe 10 cars driving around in a circle, honking their honks and yelling. There were some shots being fired, but all in all, it was more like a Lebanese wedding than a riot. Furthermore, everyone else on the street was completely unconcerned by the “chaos”. The stores were still open and kids were riding their bikes outside. The qat-chewers hanging out beside the road in their skirts and turbans continued their conversation which I’m sure went something like this (speaking around the bulge of qat in their cheeks, of course):

“Nice night for a riot.”

“Not bad, not bad.”

“Just those 10 cars making that loud honking noise? Impressive. Wonder where the driver got his qat?”

“You know how qat gives you so much alertness and energy? I am feeling good right now. I could sit here all night chewing-- that’s how alert and full of energy I am.”

“Yeah. Me too. Yemen is the greatest country in the world.”

As you can see from that authentic Yemeni conversation (translated and paraphrased by yours truly), the denizens of this country are doing fine. Just in case of a post-Friday-prayer riot at the big mosque across the street from my house, the government kindly provided several police cars filled with heavily armed soldiers and two camouflaged trucks with antiaircraft guns and snow plows (just in case!) that could barely be seen thanks to their clever paint job.

So all you people safe in snowy America (or somewhere else not as awesome as Yemen), don’t worry for me. I’m protected on many many levels. And I’m about to go running in the mountains and swimming in the sea so you see, Yemen IS the greatest country in the world. If any of you get tired of snow, come visit. Yemen will show you a good time.

Last Day in Kharaz

I really shouldn’t be writing about my last day in Kharaz when I’ve been back here for two weeks now, but I am constantly reminded of that last eventful day whenever I run into someone I haven’t seen since then. So to recap: before my lovely green, rainy, perfect Indonesian holiday with my parents and old friends, I was hurriedly finishing up projects so that I wouldn’t have to do too much once I got to Indo. That was a good idea because I mostly did nothing except enjoy myself thoroughly while I was there. But let’s rewind to that last Kharaz day…

I had a long list of things to do that day, and I was wishing for Hermione’s time-turner to help me be in more than one place at the same time. Home Gardening project (now to be referred to as HG) deadlines were flashing before my eyes, and I was trying to make sure that my guys knew what to do to finish up the year and meet the UNHCR impossible goals (they did, by the way, because they are mumtaztik). I was also trying to make sure that the nutrition training I had planned was happening and that people were attending the training and being served their expected complimentary beverages. I also had to receive a few loan payments and write receipts, as well as finish gluing photos on certificates to give out during the ceremony I had planned for later that morning. Keep in mind that everything had to be finished before 1:00 which was the designated time for the convoy to leave if we wanted to have a security escort, which we did because the last time an ADRA car left without a security escort they were hijacked and the car was taken.

Everything was going smoothly until the last bit of the ceremony when I was giving out certificates to the vocational training students. They were also promised toolkits that they could use in their future jobs, but in spite of the fact that I emailed, texted, google-chatted with, and called the person in charge of procuring those things an impressive number of times over the past few weeks, he still hadn’t even bought them. So I decided to hold the party and give out the certificates with the promise of the toolkits soon. Unfortunately, that was a bad idea, and when I began to hand out certificates without the toolkits, a riot broke out in the party room. The students refused to accept the certificates without the tookits. So I was angry with Anwer for not following through with his side of the work which I cannot do from Kharaz, and I understood the frustration of the students because they should have gotten their toolkits and certificates a month earlier. But I was also annoyed with the students who did nothing to receive all the vocational training that ADRA provided for them, and yet they were demanding that we provide them these things as if we were violating their sacred human rights by not providing the toolkits. Anyway, that’s human nature, I guess, and ADRA’s not in it for the thank you, and this isn’t really my project either so I wasn’t expecting thanks anyway. But I was tired and that made me less excited about taking the blame for other people’s mistakes.

So after the party that turned into a riot, I hopped in the car and drove around to finish up some HG business. On the way back to the compound, my former boss, whom I love and miss, got in the car with us. He and Filip, who took his position, sat in the back, and I sat in the front by myself as befits a lady. But I was turned around in a very unlady-like fashion so as be able to passionately relate my tale of party-woes to Mohamed Osman. I was fairly animated, and I happened to be speaking in Arabic because I’d already told Filip the story in English, and I didn’t think he’d want to hear it again (he doesn’t speak Arabic). Unfortunately, the driver also found my story interesting, and he made the mistake of turning to watch me tell the story with all my dramatic flair and in so doing ran into a pole.

To be honest, it is not really easy to get into an accident in Kharaz. There are less than 10 cars that actually exist in this area and while there are no paved roads, only tracks in the dust and rocks, everything is mostly flat and driving over rocks makes it difficult and uncomfortable to drive very fast. The biggest danger is the children, but kids here are still afraid of cars, unlike those in Aden who make games of throwing rubber balls under the wheels of nearby vehicles, hoping that they won’t get squished. Knowing this, I was not wearing my seatbelt, and the next thing I knew, there was a loud crash and I was in the floor of the car.

Mohamed Osman ran to my door and started trying to pull me out of the car which I didn’t really want since I was still trying to catch my breath. I knew I wasn’t seriously injured, but people kept gasping at me and trying to drag me to the hospital. Then I realized I had blood dripping down my face, which makes sense as I am pretty sure my head bumped into the windshield a little bit.

I allowed myself to be escorted to the hospital, and I was sent in another car that happened to come our way at that point from the compound, and I was followed by the large crowd that had gathered nearby, including Ishaaq, my tallest and craziest HG assistant. In the crowded clinic, I was rushed past women carrying sick babies as if I had something really serious. As I expected, the doctor glanced at me, wiped off the blood, and said, “You’re ok. I’d give you a bandage, but we just ran out.” And that was that.

Later, another NGO gave me some band-aids from their first aid kit, and the nutritionist who had finished giving her training that day, cleverly fashioned one into something that could go over the bridge of my nose. She insisted on spraying my cuts with her version of an anti-septic: knock-off “Docle & Gabbanna” perfume which left a lingering sickly smell about my face for the rest of the day. Plus, once the bandages were on I looked like I’d been in a serious accident. People came from near and far to gaze at me and offer condolences. My entire HG team showed up in my office as Ishaaq had spread the news. It was interesting to have 8 big farmers filling up our little office, hovering over me to make sure I was ok.

Al-muhim, I survived, and I even made it back to Aden that day in spite of the fact that we had to go in a slightly broken-down vehicle that puttered out a couple of times on the road and even blew out a tire later on. Fortunately, the security car stayed with us to help out.

That’s the story…and it is also the last thing everyone remembers about my time here. Since I’ve been back, people have been checking me for scars and exclaiming over the fact that I came back, not being scared away because of the horrors of my car accident. But they can’t get rid of me that easily! Maybe Anwer will push me to the brink though…he STILL hasn’t gotten me all the stuff I need for the toolkits.

Kharaz Security

Security is a big deal in Kharaz reportedly. I am constantly warned of danger and chastised for leaving the compound alone. The biggest worry is that I will be kidnapped by local Yemenis who will use me as a bargaining chip in their feud with the government. In other places in the past this has proved effective, but until recently it was not a threat that local Yemeni tribes were using against the NGOs in this area. For example, once a car with two foreigners in it was hijacked, but the foreigners were allowed to go free, walking the rest of the way to the camp. Since that time, it has been mandatory for all NGO cars going to and from Kharaz to be escorted by Yemeni soldiers/policemen in their armed cars. This is inconvenient for all people who like to follow a schedule and minimize pointless waiting time. Yemeni policemen are not overly concerned with promptness.

In my four short months in Yemen, we’ve already been evacuated from the camp two times due to threats from local villagers. The first time, an angry villager, expecting to be paid for work he never did, roused a bunch of his tribesmen and started stalking the camp with their rusty weaponry, looking for NGO cars to hijack and yelling that he would kick out all of the NGOs. We were gone for a month. Last week we were evacuated suddenly after a fax (no, not a carrier pigeon, but a fax) was sent to the UNHCR office in Aden warning of an impending attack on the NGO compound. This time we were gone for a day. That is life here in Kharaz…frustrating when there is work to be done in the camp and we can’t get to it, but exciting because you never know where you’re going to end up.

A couple of weeks ago, on the weekend, I dutifully checked with the guards about leaving the compound. I don’t often do this, but there had been some threats recently, and my coworker with a mommy complex made me swear to check before I left. Abu Jamal, a jovial Yemeni guard with a long pointy white beard, a large rounded gut, always clad in traditional Yemeni garb, greeted me at the gate and assured me that my five-minute walk to the Women’s Center in plain view of the compound would be perfectly safe. He laughed at the worries of Nusaiba and others, but offered to escort me if I wanted. I declined. Ten minutes later, I was in the Women’s Center, and I hear a knock on the door. It’s Abu Jamal and he is yelling at me to come on get out now! I grabbed all my stuff and went to find out what happened. He whisked me into the ambulance which he had somehow commandeered, squeezing us both into the passenger seat and we zoomed back to the compound. During our very short ride, he informed me that a truck full of Yemeni men with weapons had come by the compound just after I left, swearing to kidnap the first red person they saw. Never having heard of myself being referred to as a “red person,” I checked to make sure they were talking about me. “Oh yes,” I was informed by the driver of the car who was himself ironically covered with henna mud in the process of dying his hair, beard and face an orangey-red in the fashion of some Yemenis, “Foreigners like you are red.” I’m not sure if the armed men actually saw me and thus made their threat, but I was told by my boss that this is the first time Yemenis in this area had actually threatened kidnapping of a foreigner even though this was a common practice in other parts of the country. He was concerned and I was kept under lock and key for the rest of the weekend. I was mostly amused by how the story grew. That night I got a phone call from Aden asking me if I had been hurt by my would-kidnappers, and for the next week people kept coming to me to make sure I was all right. Somehow the story grew to me being almost kidnapped or beaten up or chased by evil Yemeni villagers. Fortunately, it all blew over quickly and I was only escorted to work in the camp one time—by a scrawny unarmed soldier boy who probably would have run away as fast as his little legs could carry him if anything had really happened. But with him, I was safer than on my own, I guess.

More recently another threat to my security was from a crazy Somali refugee who decided to follow me and my microfinance assistant, Abdifatah, around in our work. He kept trying to offer us cigarettes, and we refused. Abdi tried to get him to leave, but he refused. He kept trying to walk closer and closer to me, and finally Abdi gave me his phone to carry, pushed up his sleeves and said: “I’m going to fight him.” I laughed at him (he’s kind of a tough guy), and we kept walking and Crazy Guy didn’t try anything else until we got back to our office. Then, I am guessing, he said something that made Abdi mad, maybe something about Al Shabab as he claims to be on their side and Abdi hates Al Shabab enough that even a crazy guy might push him over the edge on that point. Abdi went into the office and got a fold-up metal chair and starts to threaten to hit the guy with it. I’m thinking this is going to turn into something TV worthy and considering changing into my bikini and high heels, but I got distracted because at that moment the oldest car in the world carrying the oldest living man in Yemen put-putted up to my office and died. I noticed that it was carrying some much-needed supplies for my gardening project so I started poking around in the back of the truck while Methuselah undid the padlock on the hood of the car to start his own poking around the engine, trying to make it stop smoking. I was making sure everything was there, keeping an eye on Abdi and Crazy who was picking up rocks to throw at Abdi (there is never a shortage of large rocks here in Kharaz). Another man ran to get the armed security men I told you about before. An armed soldier (they will come armed if they’re going to fight a refugee) showed up and told Crazy to leave. But Crazy, in the true sense of “crazy,” says the equivalent of “Bring on your gun! I’ve got a rock!” At that point my boss shows up trying to get me to go to a wedding which I know I can’t make it to since I now have to deal with Crazy, have a meeting with a potential loan client and his guarantor, and unload and register everything in the Oldest Truck in the World. While my boss, not a very big man at all, is talking to me, Crazy comes up to him and starts waving his finger in Mohamed Osman’s face and yelling stuff at him. Mohamed replied calmly, and Abdi got out the chair again. I was told later that Crazy was warning Mohamed not to talk to me. I’m not sure if he was trying to protect me or warning Mohamed away from the infidel foreigner with uncovered hair. Crazy then put his flipflops on his hands and started doing push-ups to show his toughness. At this point, the owner of the Oldest Truck who had been busily working away under the corroded rusty hood, oblivious to the mayhem around him, had managed to get the truck to gasp out a few more miles, and I got in the truck to go with him to unload everything. As I was very slowly driving (rolling) away I saw four armed soldiers come and forcefully escort Crazy, ranting and raving, away to our little Kharaz jail.

In reality, I think my biggest danger here is the wild dogs. I was out early one morning and a couple a dogs were sniffing around. They barked, but I ignored them until one came up and nipped at me. Fortunately for me not wanting to have to go get rabies shots, he only caught the hem of my long black dress. I grabbed a convenient rock (of which I told you previously there are plenty) and chucked it at him and he ran away. Ever since then, I always load up on rocks to throw at attacking dogs just in case. I’ve been attacked a couple of times since then, but the rocks work. I have never wanted to throw rocks at dogs before, but these dogs have mauled people before in the camp. The maintenance people tried to kill them, but compassionate refugees kept some in their houses and they were never able to eradicate them all. It did help me understand some of the fear that people have for dogs now. But I still don’t get why some of the girls I live with in the compound are deathly afraid of the tiny new born kittens living in our yard. “Are you afraid of the big cats?” I asked them. “No. Just the little ones. They are so creepy,” they informed me.

So you see between my weapon of choice (rocks) and Abdi’s weapon of choice (the chair) and security’s weapon of choice (the Kalashnikov), I don’t see how THIS red person is going to be kidnapped any time soon. But if I am, don’t worry, their demands will be promptly faxed to the UNHCR, and I’m sure I’ll be released soon.