15 Yemen Road, Yemen

I am preparing to move into my new apartment at the end of the month, and with the preparations comes attempts at organization that reveal the differences in cultural logics between a New Yorker and a person from Sana’a.

The first issue to navigate is the timing of the deliveries for the various pieces of furniture that I have purchased. I was initially told to expect the delivery at 11:00, and so arranged for a series of other people to also be at the apartment at 11:00 (including my colleague who will give me the keys, the landlord’s son who will supervise the movers to ensure they don’t break things, my driver, etc). It’s a little worrying that when I asked for confirmation from the store about the delivery time – given the likely domino effect of tardiness – the most concrete reply I was able to get was “Inshallah” (God willing).

The most befuddling thing about trying to arrange for the delivery, however, is the complete inability to give a street address and have it mean anything. And this isn’t a case of “Tammy, there’s a local system that makes sense that you’re not tuned into yet.” I drove around in circles for 30 minutes yesterday with my program assistant, as she tried to drop her daughter off at a friend’s house. And I watched in amazement at the furniture store as three Sana’a natives discussed for about 20 minutes the directions that would enable them to deliver the furniture to my new place, located less than 10 minutes by car from the store. Eventually, maps were drawn.

Part of the problem is that most streets don’t have names. So instead of giving a house number and then a street name, you need to give directions according to landmarks. “Turn left at the Iranian carpet place,” or “We’re nearby the Sheba Hotel.” Once at these main landmarks, whomever is driving will generally call someone at the destination and get step-by-step instructions for how to reach the precise location. Makes you wonder what a GPS system for your car would sound like in Sana’a. In other instances where more prominent streets do have names, some of these have been changed in the past 5 years and nobody knows the new name. And finally, among the few streets that everyone knows, names are either location-based, like Haddah Road (the main road in the neighborhood of Haddah), or unimaginatively descriptive (like “70 Meter Road,” and “45 Meter Road”, streets named for their widths). Or, my personal favorite, Zero Street.

Since the current system doesn't seem functional for anybody, I keep asking myself why the post office or some other governmental authority hasn't named the streets. I can only hope that they will eventually, as more people get further and deeper confused.

Inshallah.

on the rocks

No, it’s not what you think.

These rocks aren't ice cubes in my gin and tonic. They are mountain faces, and pretty high ones at that. I spent the day rock climbing with a very diverse crowd that ranged from others in the UN community, to those working for local NGOs, to a band of Yemeni youths who appear to be part mountain goat, judging from their climbing ability. The climbing is organized by Joshua, a Croatian-American (!) writer from Seattle who has been living in Yemen for a little over three years. He has made an agreement with a local landowner in the mountain village where we climbed – access to the mountain for free climbing lessons for the landowner’s sons. The relationship has given rise to something that is part adventure travel, part eco-tourism, with the goal of providing this mountain community with an income-generation project that also raises awareness of the environment and the very challenging trash problem in the countryside.

So, what’s it like to hang about 50 yards off the ground, gripping onto a sheer rock face with your toes and fingernails? Terrifying at first. My first time up the cliff I got about three-quarters of the way up and was suddenly over come with very inopportune case of vertigo. Joshua is a great coach, though, and calmly talked me through it, pushing me to finish, knowing that I needed to if I were to try again. I still don’t know how I made it past some of the more difficult rocky turns, but I eventually made it all the way up my first time. Apparently, one of the biggest challenges to doing this is to stop thinking too much and “trust your feet.” As with many things, success lies in overcoming the mental challenge, even more than the physical.

Even if I hadn’t managed to scale up to the top, the day spent outdoors with a bunch of people I hadn’t met before still would have been terrific. Work has been pretty intense, and I doubt it will let up before January. When I think of all that I need to do, and all that I need to know in order to be able to do it, I can almost feel a similar panic to being up on the rock face, unsure how to take the next step onto the tiniest of ledges.

I need to keep reminding myself to “trust my feet.”

Scattered thoughts, random photos

Welcome to the weekend!

It’s Thursday, which is like Saturday in Sana’a. Confused? Apparently, so were the guys who designed this sign for a very popular Yemeni restaurant in Sana’a. Hospitablness Salon seems to be a more likely name for a massage parlor that is just about to be shut down for prostitution. Instead, it’s a pretty great but simple restaurant that serves delicious food that you scoop up with enormous flat bread that they spread on the table in front of you. Cutlery optional. At the end of the meal, they bring sliced, tiny bananas that you dip in the local honey, a product for which Yemen is fairly famous. The flavor of the honey is intense: a little acidic and slightly smoky. It’s really good, but may take a little getting used to if you’re putting it in your tea or cooking with it.

The other food item that Yemen is famous for is its coffee. Ever since arriving, however, I have been served Nescafe; just one example among many of how ideas about modernity and status obliterate common sense notions of quality. So it was with tremendous anticipation that I brewed my first pot of true Yemeni coffee this morning. I bought the coffee at a local shop two nights ago and dug out of the shipping boxes my French press and “T” mug that Mom gave me as a stocking stuffer for Christmas last year. Minutes later, as I sat in the sun and opened up photos of Ian and Christian’s Halloween that Chip and Ivona sent earlier this week, I sipped my first drops of the local brew. And it was…horrendous! It may be the worst coffee I have ever tasted (yes, even worse than the chicory-infused brown chalk you get at Bosnian hotels!). I’m confident that it was merely the wrong brand, so stay tuned as I try to work my way through the various options.

Since we’re on the topic of food, I’m attaching a photo from my birthday dinner with several friends/colleagues. We went to the best pizzeria in town and had a really nice time. Not sure if you can tell from the photos, but Blerta – a friend and team member from my former position – tried to get the restaurant to do an antipasti plate. Despite her best efforts, it was only marginally successful… and I think the restaurant staff is still twittering about the crazy European woman who wanted only olives, cheese and artichokes on a plate.

I have also been meaning to send a photo of my office. It’s pretty big, and, as you can see, very very blue. It now look more “lived in”, since I have managed to put up

some photos of my family and hang a couple of hand-written cards my nephews gave me just before leaving. Ian’s card reads:

“Dear Ciocia Tammy – I hope you have a good time in Yemen. I will miss you and I love you. I would go with you, but I have school.”

No matter how irritated or rushed colleagues who walk into my office are, this makes them smile every time. And how great is that?

desert rose

Last night I dreamed it was raining in Sana’a. Big, heavy, round drops of rain that came in sideways through an open window. And until I remembered this dream on my way back to my apartment tonight, I hadn’t realized just how much I miss rain and changes in weather more generally. Every day since arriving in Sana’a the weather has been clear and in the upper 70s or low 80s in the day, dropping down to the 50s and now increasingly the 40s at night. It’s nearly perfect weather. And it's driving me a little crazy. Perfection becomes boring after a while. Perhaps, perversely, we only come to appreciate and savor perfection or beauty or peace when we are deprived of it. Or maybe there is beauty and perfection in rain that I never appreciated before and am only realizing now in its absence.

I suspect most people are expecting me to comment on the recent events that have once again connected Yemen and the United States (and London and Dubai) in troubling ways. This might be hard to believe if you are sitting in New York (or Cittanova!) but honestly, not a lot has changed in Sana’a. There were increased police checkpoints stopping people in cars yesterday, but for the most part those were gone by today. People at work are mainly concerned about whether the embargo of shipments in and out of Yemen will affect our ability to deliver humanitarian relief (since you can’t deliver supplies that you don’t have). I keep thinking of the great guys at UPS up on 116th Street in Harlem who were so wonderful to work with when I was shipping my things to Sana’a…impressively, my boxes arrived in 4 days. They didn’t bat an eye when I handed them the Yemeni address, since that part of Harlem is home to a growing Yemeni community of shopkeepers who regularly send much-needed remittances and goods home via UPS. I wonder how the families they left behind in Aden, Sana’a and Saada will cope with their double loss of an absent male head of household AND no remittances. In a country where a large percentage of the population lives on less than $2 a day, most cannot adjust to shocks like this, and so get pushed into relying more and more on the kind of humanitarian support that organizations like mine struggle to give as our supplies dwindle.

That’s what the current crisis looks like from here.