Cheap Entertainment

Part of traveling in more exotic regions is being able to take whatever comes at you. For me, I just try to find the humor in whatever crazy situation I find myself in. And I am pretty much amused by everything.  I think having to take an umbrella and flashlight to go to the bathroom is fun. Taking a cold bucket bath while looking out over the beautiful green mountains is highly entertaining. Eating a chicken that I watched quietly die at the point of a kukuri does not bother me. Careening around cliffs in an over packed car with 1000ft drops inches away from our tires is hilariously terrifying. I also find it funny that I lean over to the other side slightly to try to balance out the car—it’s the way I play video games, urging little Mario to run faster and faster (Mario is the only video game I care about). Changing into swimming attire behind a tiny bush—fantastic good fun. Going for a run straight up a mountain and deciding that Captain Roy was right—you should never run a good horse uphill.  Then, running intervals up the mountain through thick fog—joyous! Sliding into the top bunk on a train—good times!  Driving through a river, sticking my hand across the border into Bhutan, not managing to kill the ginormous spider in our bedroom, swimming in a river, visiting a temple, eating crazy delicious food—uproarious.

And all of that was just from one trip to Sikkim! Here are some more things in my life that bring me great amusement:

*Being the tallest person in the office (besides Andrew) but still not being able to reach the shelves in our kitchen cabinets.

*I’ve taken to stuffing my bra with tissues and not for the immediately obvious reason. The problem: Indian clothes for women do not have pockets. Not the leggings that I wear under the kurtas (long shirts) and not the saris either. And you never know when you are going to need a tissue. And I get tired of carrying bags with me everywhere I go.  It’s nice to have a good place to carry extra things…

See a place for pockets in this outfit?

*Things my boss says. For example, we were discussing the subject of broadening our national partner base and he was vetoing one suggestion: “Oh, those people won’t work with us. They have AC.”

*Things national partners have said to me: “Amanda, I like you. Your thinking is very authentic.”

*Getting a twisted back from riding hours sidesaddle on a motorcycle to get to a project site. It’s always more fun on a motorcycle, especially if you don’t have to wear a helmet.

*Riding a little wooden boat across the Ganges to get to a project site. Everyone on our boat was standing up and balancing precariously. On the way back it was dark and a thunder storm was coming. Super-fun!

           

*I recently noticed that when I’m driving around in new places, trying to take everything in, I open my eyes extra wide—like I can suck the beauty into my soul through my eyeballs.

*I also really love farm animals. Especially the piggies. Probably because I've spent so much time in countries where they are mythical creatures that don't exist in modern civilized places...

This photo is does not need to be rotated, Marian--Younna took it like this.

Of course, those with me are not always amused by my amusement, and there are things that drive me crazy too—being honked at loudly by passing cars when I am innocently walking down the street and there is plenty of room for them to go around me. Since one particularly loud dance party at a camp for Palestinian orphan children, I have had extra-sensitive eardrums. Being honked at for me is like being smacked in the back of the head—it is actually physically painful. And nearly incessant. I have a special hatred for the extra-high-pitched ones.  But I’m ok with that too—if I go deaf in India, I’m already in with some of the deaf community here and my Bengali sign language is getting better. Imagine how great my sign language communication would be if I actually were deaf? Bus drivers everywhere are wanting to help me find out, it seems…

I could still do this if I were deaf, right?

When Constants Aren't Anymore

There have been few constants in my life, and a lot of that is by my own choice. Wandering the world, moving every year or so, doesn’t create much stability. As my address and phone number changed, sometimes multiple times in a year, I stopped trying to memorize them myself. My family spread around the world, added a couple of boys and then several babies. They all kept giving me more addresses and phone numbers to try to keep up with. I’ve never worried about this too much, though. I know that in life there is really only one true Constant. Still, the few things in my life that I have been able to count on are important to me—small landmarks I can come back to for familiar scenery and comfortable routine. I have been so blessed to have my maternal grandparents provide this for me.  Their big white house on Castle Heights (it is bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived) was my permanent address for more than a decade.  There I had a room to keep stuff in while I travelled or tried not to clutter up my college dorm room. (I think I still have a few old books there—don’t worry, they’re mostly elementary level language books for languages I already speak.) Sometimes I drove their old Cadillac, whatever model it happened to be at the time, over to the grocery store with a list of items scrawled in old-fashioned cursive to pick up for dinner. I have a running route from that house to the park that is still one of my favorites in the whole world.  I liked getting back from my morning run, sitting on the floor in the living room and eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Mama Jewell always knew to buy that for me) while watching the end of the Today Show with the grandparents as they finished their coffee. The volume was always too loud for people without hearing aids, but I toughed it out.  I knew my way around the over-packed freezer to find the ice cream that was not squished in the bottom and covered with sticky crystals.  I can still program in the security code for the alarm system, even in the dark.

As I think of all these constants that are about to be over forever, I can’t get their phone number out of my head.  It is one of the only phone numbers in the world that I have memorized. Six-one-five-four-four-four-five-four-nine-seven…it’s been the same since before I was born, so I have been told. While my grandparents have moved a few times, they have always managed to keep that same number.  One time, before I had a cell phone (I am so OLD!), I was visiting the other grandparents. I was in the airport trying to find my genius but sometimes absent-minded grandfather in the parking lot.  After wandering around a bit, I found a pay phone, dropped in some money and called Mama Jewell, as hers was the only number I knew. Yes, in hindsight, I should have had Grandmom and Grandpop’s phone number written down somewhere. I don’t always prepare for the future, since I know it’s not going to turn out like I expect, so why worry about it?  I didn’t worry in this situation because I knew Mama Jewell would answer the phone and find the number I needed in her little phone number box she keeps on the table by the couch. She did. 

That phone number is still the one connected with my name at the local pharmacy.  I think I’ve used some of the digits as passcodes for padlock combinations and suitcase locks.  It’s still listed as my “home” phone number on various informational forms scattered around the world.   I’m pretty sure the CIA has it listed in their records.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget the number and free up that brain space. Some things go deep and lodge in.  There may be a few more months for me to use that specially stored information, but if all goes according to the Family Plan, I may never see the inside of that house again.  Even if I were to go back now, it wouldn’t be the same.  Buster Daddy’s Alzheimer’s has progressed to a stage where it is no longer safe or feasible for him to stay at home.  The grief that I feel knowing that is deeper than the grief I feel at losing one of my Constants. I knew this day would come eventually, but of course, I try not to plan too much for the future. 

Buster Daddy loves to pose crazy for pictures but Mama Jewell stays classy.

Even saying goodbye before coming to India, I didn’t think about it too much. I was more worried about a certain little boy running to Auntie’s room and wondering why she left him.  Now I’m worried about that same little boy who knows every possible route through town to get to “Mam Ju and Bud Daddy’s house” and will not pass Castle Heights Avenue without insisting on visiting them.  My mom reminded me t hat he has shown remarkable resilience in getting over my absence, an amazing feat of course (it’s very hard to get over me). While it will be hard for him to understand why he can’t go to their house anymore, it’s harder for me understanding what I’m missing and knowing that it’s over forever. 

Even if I could go back, I can never get back to the place I remember—that’s something every TCK learns from a young age. So I’m going to hold on to those special memories, those memories that you go back to because they make you painfully happy. Those are the memories you share with others, knowing that they’ll listen, sometimes with genuine interest, but never really comprehend.  Still, it’s fun to remember out loud sometimes.  I’ve already showed photographs to friends here in India.  Now I’m writing this and crying and smiling and jumping every time an extra-loud firework from a nearby wedding goes off under my window (I have been in too many warzones), and grieving, but with grieving with hope: I know the one big Constant is going to come through in the end because He never changes.

“Comfort, comfort, my people, says your God….The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever.” Is. 40: 1a, 8.

Thanks for these photos, Nora!

Special thanks to my wonderful family for their unity and unselfish love for Buster Daddy and Mama Jewell, especially Aunt Chrissa who is an amazing daughter, sister, mother, wife, grandmother, aunt, great-aunt. I have been constantly impressed by her untiring devotion to her parents, her ability to see the humor in tough situations, and the fact that she did not let the hurtful things said or done to her by “Big Al,” as she calls Alzheimer’s, to shake her love for her father.  And she has done all of this without putting the guilt trip on her siblings who live far away to come help. Aunt Chrissa, your sacrifices and hard work have not gone unnoticed by anyone in our family (But if you think there is someone who hasn’t noticed, just mention his or her name to me and I will set them straight…). Thank you so much for your wonderful example to all of us.

Namaste India

I haven’t updated the blog in a while, and it’s not because my life is boring in the US, but because when I’m there, I can usually share my funny life stories immediately with the people around me. That urge being satisfied, keeps me from needing a release of pent-up amusement here.  Blame the sisters, that’s what I do.

So India…unlike China or the Middle East, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t find India fascinating. Initially I thought China was boring because the pictures in history books for the “China Unit” were always of boring things like pottery or water color paintings. When I got there and saw the swords and amazing architecture, I was won over. Also, their language is pretty cool. The Middle East seemed too oppressive to me as a child, and, frankly, it is, but they also have a cool language, fascinating architecture, and an impressive selection of weaponry…so you really can’t lose (unless you get your head cut off by a terrorist on youtube, but some of us try to defy stereotypes). But back to India…

Favorite tree!

India was the land of the Indus Valley civilization, a multitude of languages with a wide variety of beautiful scripts, the Ramayana, curry, Riki Tiki Tavi and the Jungle Book, mouthwatering bread, beautiful colorful clothing. But the thought of visiting India as a tourist was really overwhelming. As a tourist, you have to see everything…or at least the “main things.” And I didn’t see how it would be possible to see everything AND learn the language.  Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t care if I learn every language in the world. OK, to be honest, I’d want to learn the language of whatever country I happen to be living in, but there are only a few countries that I would want to visit because I really want to learn the (or, in the case of India, one of the) language spoken there.  I remember sitting in a restaurant in Indonesia when Uncle Don told me that if I learned Hindi, Chinese, and Arabic along with Bahasa, which I already spoke, that I could speak to the majority of people in Asia. And at the time, Asia was really the only place that existed for me. Since then, I’ve broadened my horizons a bit and ventured to Africa, Europe and elsewhere, but Asia was the first place I chose to be my home. And it always holds a special feeling for me.

Driving around this last week, I’ve felt very much at home—the red mimosa trees and the black and white stripes painted unnecessarily on the sidewalks, Walls Ice Cream advertisements in the shops, blue strapped flipflops, crazy traffic driving on the left side of the road, pollution, smoke, incessant car horns, hot green chili peppers…I kind of love it all.  I know that eventually the car horns will become unbearable because, while I can handle noxious fumes and near death taxi rides, ever since I sat next to a speaker at that Palestinian orphans’ camp which gave me a constant ringing in my ear for the next month and a half, my ears have been especially sensitive to loud piercing noises. But really, something about life here feels comfortable in its familiarity.

With Shomili

This week has been very full. I spent a day and a half in the office, convinced the Boss somehow to let me go on a field visit by myself for two days, came back for one day in the office, spent Saturday exploring with Diane, Sunday to church and then to meetings which lasted until a couple of hours ago. Our meetings were mostly very long with lots of important information but too much sitting, too much AC, and not enough black tea. I think my favorite moment was this morning when we were ordering breakfast. The meetings were held in a really fancy meeting room which one of our board members hooked us up with. Impressed with the gourmet food we’d been eating, Diane thought she’d ask if  they had French toast. “No,” said the waiter, “We have Indian toast.” She ended up going with my choice: a masala omelet with extra green chilis. It was mumtaztik.

Elderly ladies offering wisdom at community meeting

I am loving the green chilis here. I learned how to say ‘green chili’ in Bengali, Hindi, and Nepali. I wasn’t planning to learn Nepali when I came here, but I think it’s going to be inevitable since that is the lingua franca of our office. Fortunately, it is very similar to Hindi, so if I learn Hindi first, then maybe I can understand what the boys are saying about us. Bengali is definitely going to be useful, not only in Calcutta, but also in the field. When I was on our field visit, the English level of our partners is at a level where occasionally I got the answers to the questions I asked, but sometimes we had conversations like this:

Me: So how long were the visitors with you?

Arindam: We will arrive in 2 hour.

Using a Neverthirst pump

Or me: How much time in a day did the woman spend fetching water before Neverthirst installed the hand pump?

Dmaity: She is very happy because now the water is near her home. She say it taste like fridge water.

I can even have mutually unintelligible conversations at home in the office:

Me: So the Kolkata Knight Riders won the cricket match? What was the score?

Ashish: 190 balls out of 100 balls over 3 wickets…(Or something like that. In this case, I don’t think the language was the communication issue. I don’t know that I’ll go back to the states fluent in cricket lingo. If Lagaan couldn’t do it with singing and dancing, I don’t know that Ashish will be able to teach me no matter how passionate about it he is.)

So I’m happy to be here, looking forward to learning more and having more adventures, and excited to learn as many languages as possible. 

Woman washing clothes and dishes in dirty water

I feel like I have so many more stories, but I don’t have time to write the book yet.

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.

Jurassic Park 3

Last July Benji and I somehow convinced his wife-my sister to watch Jurassic Park 3 with us. This masterpiece of cinematography is probably familiar to most of you due to the multiple awards it has won and its great critical acclaim. Joanna, afraid of dinosaurs in spite of the fact that they don’t exist anymore (some people argue that they never existed) was not easy to persuade. I guess we must have led her to believe that there was some swashbuckling romantic action or maybe she just didn’t have the energy to argue with us after chasing her son around all day. Anyway, I’d already seen JP3 on a train in China, and its main draw for me was the idea of wandering around in an abandoned museum-ish thing (modern ruins if you will), and, of course, dinosaurs whose existence I continue to believe in faithfully. So I wanted to watch it again for those reasons and also because I like to convince other people to watch dumb movies, something that Marian and Josh can attest to.

So why am I bringing up Jurassic Park 3? Because of the stellar acting? To revel in my powers of coercing others to do things they don’t yet know that they don’t want to do? To convince you that dinosaurs exist? In fact, it is none of these things, but my actual logic may be hard for you to grasp. Today I finally traveled back to Kharaz after much begging, pouting, and generally making a nuisance of myself in order to convince people to let me go. The trip from to and from Kharaz always reminds me of JP3. First, there is a large abandoned (well, technically never completed) hotel resort area that we pass by on our way out. The part that we can see is a large pink wall that stretches on for miles. This wall is the exact shade of pink that is most often the background for a Hello Kitty face. It is surrounded by dead palm trees in varying stages of decay. The door is wide and welcoming, but blocked by a pile of sand. I don’t know what is behind the wall. I know it was built by a foreign businessman (some say Emirati, others say Japanese) who dreamt of providing rich Gulfies with their own all-inclusive resort. All inclusive which is including an amusement park (see my blog entry about Fun City), a golf course, a 5-star hotel, and the beach. Apparently he built the wall and ran out of money. I guess that pink paint is expensive. Some people say there is the beginning of a hotel deep inside the compound, and I like to think of it existing, infested by wandering camels and evil crows. Camels I find to be reminiscent of dinosaurs, the brontosaurus kind of dinosaur that eats grass and has a long neck. You know, the kind made famous in the plethora of Land Before Time movies which were created to drive babysitters crazy. Later the Barney market developed-- another attempt to further discredit dinosaurs and torture childcare workers. But Barney is a mutant psycho T-rex who lures in his prey with a façade of family-friendly kindness. At least he is not a Teletubby, the most terrifying of all creatures conjured up for childhood entertainment.

So back to the journey which connects to the dinosaur theme by virtue of the fact that the car that we were driving could possibly be carbon-dated back to the Jurassic period, offering more proof that dinosaurs and humans coexisted. I would offer to try to discover its origins, but as far as I know it remains broken down by the side of the road where we left it. I’ll definitely look for it on my way back to Aden later.

Because recently the villagers decided that shooting at NGO cars and/or hijacking them is a fun way to get free transportation, ADRA has decided not to drive our cars into the camp for the time being. Because I whined and moaned, they agreed to hire one of the refugee cars that drives refugees from their summer homes in the urban slums of Basateen to their refugee homes where they can collect free rations and live in a tent. I’m usually not allowed in these cars because they are not “official” and I would be stopped at police checkpoints, but some papers were drawn up and I was approved for travel. The power of a good temper-tantrum. Abdullah, a coworker whose awkwardness has driven many a foreign female to extreme lengths, was to choose “a good car” for our journey which also included one other Yemeni of Indonesian descent (cool, huh?!) colleague named Khaled Jawi (Khaled the Java person). Sadly, Abdullah made that fatal mistake common to man and immortalized in many a cliché: he picked the one with the best paint job. In this case, judging the book by its cover brought us to a sputtering standstill a few miles past the pink wall, maybe half an hour into our journey. While the men worked to fix the car, Abdullah and I wandered down to the beach. When we came back, he was pressed into service as a car pusher, and my services were refused. I jogged alongside shouting encouragement instead. A convenient handle on the side of the car should have helped Abdullah guess that this car was meant for pushing. But in spite of the enthusiastic efforts of the men and a nearby friendly car, the engine refused to be coaxed into working. Much pushing and hacking at the inside of the engine went on for quite some time. I went to the beach again and sat down to work on my ankle and wrist tans. They will be golden-bronze in no time.

An hour and a half later, we gave up and Khaled and I crammed into the friendly refugee car built to hold a maximum of 10 people which was now holding almost twice that, plus baggage that couldn’t be tied to the roof of the car. Abdullah, as punishment for choosing a bad car, was designated as the person who was to stay and watch the stuff until the rescue car arrived. They wouldn’t let me stay even though I didn’t want to cram in the car with a bunch of people who had already been forced to wait for us and now were going to be forced to squish in their seats (which they paid for) next to a couple of foreigners (Khaled is a Jawi after all). As my foot developed a cramp and sweat dripped down my back and sand flew in my face and crunched in my teeth, I hoped that we would not clip one of the many large sand piles that were creeping into the road and tip over. I didn’t really want to die in a refugee car on the way back to Kharaz—not while there’s still a chance I might get to evacuate Yemen by boat.

Anyway, I’m back. I might go to Sana’a this weekend to get more pages in my passport as I’m a bit worried about having only one page left, and what if I have a long layover somewhere on my way back to the US and I can’t leave the airport because I don’t have enough pages in my passport? But I might stay here if it looks like I can’t get back next week. With the uncertain situation in the country, and the lack of diesel for our cars, transportation is becoming a bit difficult. That’s why I’m voting for the UNHCR to purchase a helicopter for the use of their personnel and the IPs (Implementing Partners of which ADRA is one). All of their overpaid workers could donate a tiny percentage of their salaries and we could buy it right away. Then, if we did evacuate, we could just fly over to the nearest boat and head to Djibouti. And since Jurassic Park 3 is not a movie based on real events (Joanna), there is only the smallest of chances that we will get knocked out of the sky by a flock of pterodactyls.

Me preparing to hitchhike, but at this point it just looks like I'm giving the 'thumbs up' to the driver--"Good job staying on the road, Mr!" I did amuse myself by waving enthusiastically at all passing vehicles. I'm sure that they enjoyed having a crazy foreigner divert them from the monotony of blue sea, brown sand, camels, and shrubs.

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.