This Week (Part 1)

All this week I’ve been thinking, “I should save this story for the blog” or “I need to remember to tell this to my family/friends/Neverthirst people.” I never found time to write about the event before I was hit with another, so I thought I might as well write about the whole week. Besides, this will give interested parties (my mother) a small look into my daily life, which clearly doesn’t stay the same from day to day, but when you finish reading this you will think that you know what it is that I do, even if you will only be half right. For me, every time I think I have figured it out, it changes, so I stopped worrying about it. Still, people will ask, so here you go…

SUNDAY:

There is a village here where we drilled a well for a community that hadn’t finished collecting their Repair Fund. This was due to a small miscommunication between Neverthirst, the drilling team, and our local partners (part of what I’m here to do is minimize those miscommunications—sometimes I do this well, other times…). Currently we have a well in place, but we’ve locked it until the community meets the requirement, otherwise, they won’t have much motivation to meet the requirement. This is important for many reasons, but not important to the flow of the story, so we’ll get back to the point, which is that I wanted to go and talk to the community about the fund again. Our local partner is a pastor who spends several Sundays each month visiting churches in his parish that do not have an ordained pastor to give them communion (the Episcopal church is the dominant one here). Osho is one of those communities, and hearing he was going, I thought I’d tag along and get a chance to speak to everyone in their main meeting place: the church. Lexon anxiously informed me that we’d have to go on foot, as he has no other means of transportation. I assured him that I could keep up. He told me to meet him at his house at 8:30am so that I could have half an hour to rest before we walked another hour to church, which starts between 10:00 and 11:00. I said ok, and planned to arrive at 9:00, not feeling the need to have half an hour’s rest to recover from walking 2ish miles. Turns out, some friends saw me and insisted on taking me to Lexon’s house when I was about half-way there anyway, so I was still early.

So we set out. We walked through the jungle for an hour or so, fording streams and squelching through mud in patches, but not as much as we would have done if there had been more rain this season. We made it in time for church, which was uneventful except for the presence of the foreigner. After church we had our little meeting, which didn’t seem to make much of an impression, and then we headed on to give communion to sick people who couldn’t make it to church. That took even longer, as we walked around various jungle places to get to their homes, but it was definitely a blessing to everyone involved, including me. There were a few hysterical children, terrified of the foreign devil in their midst who ran off screaming to hide. But that’s not unusual for me.

Walking through the jungle, talking on the phone

Holy Communion

MONDAY:

Repent's finger and me on the path

I hopped on the back of the motorcycle and went to visit another delinquent village that hasn’t raised all their funds and another village where the platform was being fitted. I got my legs and feet slashed up driving through grassy fields on what might have been a road once a long time ago. We made it in, said our piece, made it out, but not without leaving plenty of my flesh behind on sticky jungle plants. I made a mental note to buy boots in the market again, but I have ignored that note so many times since then, always to my regret when I’m back in the jungle the next day.

This is where they are getting their drinking water. That's why they need the bore well!

TUESDAY:

The second anniversary of the country of South Sudan!  A joyous day! I happen to live right across from the football field, which is where all the festivities are held. This is great for me because it was impossible for me to miss any moment, and I really didn’t want to miss any moment. In fact, I left early with a young boy who works here but wants to be a general in the SPLA when he grows up (Sudan People’s Liberation Army—their name from the war which is what they still call their army) so we could watch the soldiers parade in. They paraded so well. I do have some militarian experience, thanks to my bro-in-law Capitan Frizzell, and I’m not sure, but I want to say that while American soldiers are likely better armed, I doubt they are better singers.  Of course, I have never heard them sing while marching in a parade on Independence Day. They might do that in some places, and those guys might be good singers. But would they be cheered by a crowd of ululating women? The soldiers were followed by parades of children from all the local schools who arrived at various times and from various places, at variance to the schedule which they were given (so I was told later). Eventually, everyone made it to the field to start the celebrations: a series of speeches from every important person in the near vicinity, each of whom began their speech with “I don’t have a lot to say” and proceeded to speak for hours and hours, ending with “Well, like I said, I don’t have a lot to say, so thanks and HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!” To uproarious cheers from people who were dozing off minutes earlier.  Every time I thought I’d just pop on home for a bit and wait for something exciting to happen, something exciting did happen: one of the schools would preform or a group of Somalis would come up and spontaneously dance around waving the South Sudanese flag and the Somali one (ok, I admit, that nearly made me cry. It was so special to see the people here cheer them on and wish them well and welcome them to their celebrations, knowing that they really do not have much to celebrate in Somalia right now). 

Somalis celebrate with South Sudan

After the celebration, I was courteously invited to the Commissioner’s grand party for VIPs only. We had food and listened to a billion more speeches, while I thought about Indonesia and the beautiful way that they celebrate Independence Day—playing games outside, eating crazy snacks, and taking turns trying to climb to the top of a greasy bamboo pole to get the prizes at the top.  Seriously, why are they the only people who know how to celebrate nation-hood? After the “celebration,” I went back and joined in the real fun—communal dancing. Various groups of people danced near the drummers who were playing the beats they liked the best or who came from their particular tribe, and danced the appropriate dance. I had fun until too many drunk guys started noticing the one remaining foreigner, and then I slipped away home to rest and recover from the fun.

Singing soldiers

WEDNESDAY

Most people were still resting and recovering from the fun, so I used the day to catch up on email and charge my computer up the hill at the fancy foreigners’ compound where they have electricity and internet. When I came back I practiced driving the motorcycle around the yard, and discovered that it is way heavier than I thought it would be. It also took me a while to find the catch between the clutch and the break, which reminded me of my driving lessons as a teenager in Indonesia. My dad had the brilliant idea to drop me off at a driving school in Indonesia where the instructor always told me to “main koepling” (the Dutch/Indonesian word for ‘clutch’), and I amused myself by watching other “experienced” drivers stop dead in the middle of the road to stare in the window of the latihan car (student car) at the foreign kid. After I drove around a while, I realized that my hands were cramping. Squeezing the brake felt like using one of those grip-strengthening things that my cousin used for golf or baseball or croquet or something and always left lying around my grandparents’ house. The reason for this might be that when I asked Repent about changing gears, he solemnly informed me that you always squeeze the brake when switching gears. I said, “You mean the clutch” and pointed to it. He said, “No, the brake” and pointed to it. This may also explain our slightly jerky rides. It also impressed on me the importance of becoming jungle-motorcycle-riding-ready for our future safety.

Rainbow!

The chicken that laid eggs in our kitchen

   

Leaving Yemen

Having finally bought my ticket for the States, or rather, having finally had my sister and power of attorney buy my ticket on my behalf, this whole “leaving Yemen” thing suddenly became more real. Spending lots of money will often have that effect on me. I’ve been sad all week as people have come to me and insisted I stay and regaled me with stories about how they haven’t been sleeping or eating since they found out I was leaving or how they went home and cried for hours thinking about it. Walking through the camp several times this week I even felt tears pricking behind my eyes, although I think that might have been because the hot steamy wind was blowing chunks of sand into them, but I will count it as a sign of my humanity and compassion. So I was going to write about all the things that I am going to miss when I leave Yemen, and then I thought about the things that I won’t miss. And then I realized that even though there are things that I will be glad to leave behind, I will kind of miss them because they made great stories, helped people to feel sorry for me (I’m counting on that translating into lots of nice things that will be done for me when I get back to the States, Joanna), and eventually (as was the case during one horrible terrible camping trip I was dragged to in Syria) I will be able to find these little hardships kind of amusing. So I’m just going to make a list of the things that I won’t have anymore when I am no longer a resident in a country on the brink of civil war, the majority of whose population lives on less than $2 a day (that last bit of the sentence is courtesy of every single article ever written about Yemen in the last six months). Here goes:

· Being Amina Nuur Jaamac- the Somali name that Mosman (Mohamed Osman) and I came up with. Everywhere I walk in the camp, there’s always someone who knows that name and they yell, “Amina, Amina!” after me. A few know Amanda, but they usually forget it and call me Amina anyway. Most also know the “Nuur Jaamac” which in Somali culture at the names of my Father (Nuur) and my Grandfather (Jaamac). I hope they like their new names. I actually chose those names because in my mind they sound more feminine and I like them. Nuur is a girl’s name in Arabic, but a man’s name in Somali. Also I didn’t want to join the crowd of “Mohamed’s” as I think there are too many of them. Although I do find it convenient in a way because whenever someone asks if I know him (and I know that I should know him, but I can’t remember his name), I say, “Yeah, you’re Mohamed, right?” And half the time I am right and they are amazed! Incidentally, I came up with Mosman’s name, but he didn’t appreciate it much and resents the fact that others now call him that as well. I knew it was catchy!

·Sandstorms

· Fasoulieh (spicy beans) and khubz tawa (large, soft, flat naan-like bread)

· Rocks

· Living in the Women’s Section and talking to boys through the wall at night when I’m not wearing ‘outside clothing.’

· Flamingoes in the Gulf of Aden

· Crazy Khadra—she really is crazy. I like her because she scares the crap out of Filip who has actually run for cover a few times when he’s seen her coming. She is thin and black and chews qat perpetually. Occasionally a violent stone-thrower, she is also sometimes very affectionate. Apparently her son is very smart and doing well in Aden, but I’ve never met him. I wonder what happened to her to make her crazy, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.

· Swarms of moths. I really think that God should have thrown this plague in for the Egyptians. Moths are seriously annoying and when you kill them they squish disgustingly.

· Being attacked by children who want to hug me, kiss my hand, and/or get candy for me. Just so you know, they hug me even when I don’t have candy! Love these cute African babies…like the Yemeni ones too, I just don’t see them that much.

· Being screamed at by children who have never seen a white person and find my odd skin color terrifying.

· Convincing a couple of those children to love me anyway (to see my true colors shining through, of course) by shear perseverance involving candy and learning the word for “high five” in Somali.

· Livestock-goats, donkeys, especially camels wandering around. I like to see goats who have climbed to the top of the shrubby little desert trees and camels with crows perched on their heads.

· UNDSS text messages telling me that “gunfire has been heard in Ma’alla district. Please avoid the area” or “Demonstration in Crater near al-Ahli Bank and road blocks in Tawahi. Please use alternate routes” and of course “Celebratory gunshots being fired in honor of the president’s speech. Stay inside away from windows.”

· Wearing a burqa to sneak out of the camp and avoid potential kidnappers.

· Going to church with a lovely Pakistani family, a couple of Ethiopians, a Filipino, a Canadian, and a Brit—the beautiful diversity of the family of God!

· Checking the car for bombs before we start it. Pretending to be joking about having someone check the car for bombs before we start it so that we can check anyway. This is a recent development since a British captain (not my British captain though, Thank God) was killed by a bomb in his car last week. It has made things more exciting for us. It seems this incident is not connected to him being a foreigner, but rather to the work he was doing. Still, you never really know in Yemen.

· Swarms of mosquitoes in the girls’ bathroom that make it sound like a helicopter is in the room with you while you’re sitting on the toilet. An awkward feeling.

· My Adeni AC which occasionally, usually in the middle of the night, bursts into a squeaky sound much like the violin music used in horror films to signal the entrance of the ax murderer or the impending doom of a secondary character. My body has been trained to respond with trepidation to this sound and I find myself awaking in a panic looking for the creepy little girl with scary eyes who should be standing over me with a knife. Still, I’m really grateful for the 22-hour electricity we have in Aden.

· Having a sauna for a bathroom.

· Having naturally heated hot water coming from my faucet that is hot enough to make tea at certain hours of the day.

· Running with Osman, the driver for CSSW who talks like he’s got a wad of qat in his mouth even when he doesn’t. Most of the time I have no idea what he’s saying, but I am so good at pretending. We have had many great conversations, most of which have likely been on completely different topics. We usually run around in circles for about 3 minutes (me holding up my abaya so I don’t trip on the skirt) and then he goes off to do his 7arakat (literal translation=moves) which include some intense stretching and high kicks while I put in my music and keep walking around and around the compound like an insane hamster.

· UNDSS security emails from Simon Butt. I am going to miss that guy.

· Swarms of flies that attack me while I’m trying to shower.

· Showering and then finding myself dripping with sweat two minutes later.

· Showering with no electricity so I have to grope around to find my shampoo.

· Hanging out with Oromos on the weekend, drinking strong coffee, eating wonderful spicy Ethiopian food, smoking sheesha, and playing with cute kids.

· Running, hiking, exploring the rocky Adeni mountains with the Captain.

· Swimming in the sea with the Captain.

· Learning random seaman’s facts from the captain-how to tell when the sun will go down by measuring with my hand and how to tell how far it is to the horizon on a clear day and how to count between the wave cycles.

· Eating “spicy goat” with the captain.

· Practicing driving a standard car with the captain.

· Finding unexploded mortars in the mountains with the Captain and carefully walking away.

· Doing anything at all with probably the coolest 70 year old man in the world. What is cooler than a British sea captain living in Yemen, climbing and swimming during his free time, and generally being awesome?

· OK, I’m really going to miss the Captain.

· Kafa dying my hair with henna.

· Speaking Arabic as fast as I can with Nusaiba because that’s how she talks…

· Practicing Somali.

· Flirting outrageously with the Yemeni security escorts and check point personnel. They taught me how to shoot a Kalashnikov but I didn’t actually pull the trigger because I didn’t want to kill any of the nearby camels and/or people. They love me. Always be charming to people with guns.

· Wearing the same clothes two days in a row because everyone else does.

· My home gardening team. Man, I love those guys so much! Abdulqadir, Jihad, Jeylani, Osman, Mandela, Abdirizak, Yusuf, and even crazy Isaq—ok, maybe especially crazy Isaq. There is something about being patted on the head by a seven foot tall skinny Somali man in a sarong that I find charming.

· Pulling off an event I’ve planned even when I have to improvise to fill in gaps left by the Aden team not procuring the stuff that I requested decades previously.

· Hearing heart-breaking stories that make me love these people more than I ever thought I could.

· Shada, Abdishukur, and Shayma-my favorite kids that I have actually dreamed of adopting if their mother didn’t get better.

· Washing my clothes by hand. Not rinsing them. Hanging them up on the line.

· Washing my clothes in the washing machine in Aden which I often leads to floods when the water overflows because I forget to turn off the stupid hose.

· Being able to love the poor, the oppressed, the down-trodden. Being able to proclaim the Good News of the Gospel of Peace to a people who have seen violence all their lives and show them where to find freedom for the captives.

I’m going to miss this place! There’s a lot I’m looking forward to in my future—seeing family, loving nephews, niece and the Unborn, the next adventure… But knowing that I have a future to look forward to while others do not is what makes leaving here one of the hardest things I’ve done in a while. Never before have I felt so much like I’m abandoning people I love when the wanderlust catches me again. Many caring friends, more than just my mom even, have been reminding me that I’m not the savior of these people. While I know that’s true, I hate that I am another person they’ve learned to love who they must say goodbye to, possibly forever. I hate that I’m leaving during the most miserably hot time of year when the situation in their ‘refuge’ country is uncertain. I don’t know what’s going to happen to these people I care about. I know I was supposed to come here, and I’ve done my best in a difficult place. As usual, I came to give, work, help, love and I’m leaving with so many memories wonderful blessings, special friends, exciting stories, and enlarged CV. I’m also leaving behind another piece of my heart in another precious country, and again, wondering why I do this to myself and when I won’t have any more pieces left to leave behind…but I love it and doubt I’ll stop anytime soon. Of course that means that I’ll continue to sporadically update this blog with sappy paragraphs like this one and longer stories of random things that amuse me.

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.