Lauren no longer of Arabia...لورين العرب الماضي

Pokie Tarantulas

2011-08-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

The tropics are known for large bugs-hornets, roaches, ants-they all seem to be on some kind of miracle grow hormone. Until now I have forgotten this is also true of spiders. I found this tarantula in my bedroom when staying in Vavuniya. Apparently he's a Sri Lankan ornamental tarantula nicknamed a 'Pokie'.

I have a new found appreciation of sleeping with a mosquito net in the security of knowing I will not wake to find this guy in my bed.

Hopping Gates in Colombo Part Deux

2011-08-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

It was my friend's 35th birthday party in Colombo and I made my way in for the big event...she called it her official entry into the Middle Ages. Kind of dramatic if you ask me.

I was happy to be able to take the train with one of the other expats in Batticaloa. Aside from being my cycling and badminton partner she also lived in Afghanistan the same time as me and we have a ton in common. Not only did she provide some much needed comic relief on the 10 hour overland journey, but also a place to go in the morning. My friend had sent me an SMS to warn me that there was a crowd of emergency aid workers in the process of a bender at our guesthouse.

As much as the idea of walking into a house tired and exhausted to find a crowd of drunken expats sprawled out over the place appealed to me-I instead took my friend up on the offer of an extra bedroom in her Colombo guesthouse. We had the opportunity to go for breakfast at Cinnamon Grand hotel, where I was told by a man from the Seychelles that there's a village inside of the hotel. I don't know if this was true...considering the man was slamming shots of vodka at the time I don't know if it's trustworthy...however, given the size of it this could very well be possible.

In the afternoon I returned to our guesthouse and then spent the day shopping with my friend before heading the posh Galle Face hotel for drinks. It was an absolutely lovely setting. Dim candlelight was spread across tables that sat right on the edge of the water with waves crashing down. Many a gin and tonic was had along with wine for a crowd of about 30. There even appeared to be some random people who somehow joined us and didn't even know my friend, but had somehow made their way to our table. I somehow became surrounded by a group of people who had all previously worked in Afghanistan--all about the same time as me. It seems at the moment I'm surrounded by a load of people with experiences in Afghanistan, Sudan and the DRC-it's an interesting bunch to say the least. I also met a Brit who apparently had been rejected by MI6. Or at least he told me he had been. Most likely it was a pick up line, but I entertained the notion and let him chat me up for a while. Whether true or not, he definitely had some good stories to share about it.

At about 3am I returned to my guesthouse. I had been told that our guard had improved dramatically since the last time I had to climb the 3 meter wall with the help of being put on the shoulders of a stoned tuk tuk driver. Unfortunately I had a bit of an altercation with my tuk tuk driver this time as he tried to charge me a ridiculous amount of money. I suppose it was the drinking and my past experiences fighting with Arab taxi men as I immediately yelled something at him Arabic and he responded by saying nasty in Sinhalese before driving off into the empty street. Sometimes things are best left to be lost in translation.

The next 1.5 hours were spent attempting to yet again try to get in the gate. I called the guard and at first it rang, but then he switched his phone off. Unlike the last time I had to hop the gate, I was alone and in a skirt and heels which resulted in many a man driving by-turning around and driving by again. Apparently I appeared to be a hooker of some sort. Unfortunately for these men I immediately approached them not to tell them how much I charged, but instead to tell them I had been locked out. There were four men who did this-one even called the police, but they never did come. I kept banging on the gate yelling, Hello Mr. Security Guard!" But nothing.

I was being attacked by mosquitos, I was tired, kind of drunk and actually considered taking a nap on the pavement when a truck drove up, then turned around and came back stopping where I was standing. Again, he thought I was a hooker, however this guy proved useful. I explained my situation and asked him if he had a ladder or something I could use to climb the gate. He told me that he did have one in his house. I asked him if he wouldn't mind getting it and he agreed saying he'd return in 10 minutes. I only half believed he would do this and sat down on the sidewalk with a sense of defeat. Just as I was beginning to think that my yelling at the tuk tuk driver was some kind of karmic retribution, the truck driver returned with a proper ladder. He extended it out, helped me climb it then he did the same to help me down on the other side. He then climbed back over the wall and packed up the ladder. I asked him how I could thank him--with the tuk tuk driver I had offered him money, but he had refused. This guy asked me for my phone number and told me to stop by the Bay Leaf restaurant where he worked. And then he drove off.

And once again I'm reminded of the kindness of strangers, even if it means breaking into one's home.

Child Soldiers...the Baby Tigers of Sri Lanka

2011-08-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

Back in 2005 I had a job working with the U.S. Department of State's Office to Monitor and Combat Trafficking in Persons. We create a report mandated by congresss to be submitted annually on efforts made by governments to combat the trafficking in persons. After drugs and weapons the sale of humans is the most profitable. The stories I would hear were hearwrenching and the types of trafficking varied--sex, labor, domestic help. Details of a trafficking victim are hard to take, but the one that I would actually get a sick feeling in my stomach over were the forced recruitment of child soldiers. Children are often kidnapped or forced in some other way into a militant group and exposed to the grossest of atrocities in order to indoctrinate them.

I suppose this personal history of mine is one reason why seeing this billboard as an anti-trafficking message in one of the rural villages in the east of Sri Lanka struck such a chord for me. It serves as a reminder to what a child is and what they should be. In this case it makes reference to a child that should be carrying a cricket bat instead of the grenade launcher.

I asked a colleague of mine about this poster and she explained the above to me. Until now I've been cautious not to push people into telling me their war stories, but am always listening attentively when they share. This was one of those times. My colleague told me her views of the Tamil Tigers-Liberation Tigers of Tamil Ealam (LTTE).

Yes, they stood up for Tamil (minority ethnicity in Sri Lanka) rights, but they were brutal and they were vicious. They required every person working or living in the LTTE controlled villages of the north and east with a family with more than one child to give one up for the movement. If you failed to do so, they would extort you for all you were worth. In my colleague's case, her father was working in on eof these villages. she had one sister and one brother who had passed away years earlier. The LTTE came after her father demanding either her sister or her join. He staunchly refused and they put him in prison as a result. Her mother went to them, begging for them to release them and they said they would if she either give up a child or pay 150,000 rupees...this from a family that makes 6,000 rupees at the most a month. When she asked how she could pay this, they said easily-give us your house and land and go with your children to live in one of the many IDP camps being run by ICRC and the UN. Eventually the mother got the money from loans and the father was released. He soon after took a job in Saudi Arabia in order to avoid further extortion and protect the family.

Sadly, many of these children 'disappeared' following the violent end to the war in 2009. It has been explained to me that what took place here in the final years of the war was a genocide. To date, there are approximately 300,000 people who vanished from the northern Vanni region without a trace. Among them are more than likely the child soldiers-robbed of their childhood and their lives taken before they even had a chance to live them.

Here is a recent article published by IRIN regarding the missing children:

http://www.irinnews.org/report.aspx?reportid=93381#.TjqtYnYJ_2Y.facebook

FP's 2011 Failed State Index

2011-08-03T12:35:00.000-07:00

I find myself divided over my feelings towards Sri Lanka. People who have traveled to Sri Lanka always say how much they love the island and how nice the people are. It is beautiful and yes, the people are nice for the most part, however, I see a very sinister side to the society that the government goes to great lengths to cover up.

Having been working in the post conflict areas of the east and north I have a different take on all the beauty. Sometimes I think I'm blowing things out of proportion and then I see rankings such as Foreign Policy's Failed State Index.

Sri Lanka has earned the dubious honor of being listed in Foreign Policy's top 30 failed list and shares the same category ranking as sunny destinations including the Rep of Congo, North Korea, Iran and Rwanda. It's #29, coming just after Eritrea and step above Sierra Leone.

http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2011/06/17/2011_failed_states_index_interactive_map_and_rankings

I suppose I'm not the only person who doesn't see the island with the rosy colored glasses that many visitors have the luxury of wearing.

"You must leave the country now."

2011-08-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

The processing for my official work permit and visa began in March. Five months and two visits to the nearby Maldives later and it has been processed. If everyone had gotten every piece of paper signed and chased down the official who puts the official stamp on the form--developing countries love the stamps, bureaucracy would fall to shreds without them--then I would have had my visa a couple months ago. Instead the form that needed the appropriate official's signature on it sat collecting dust on a desk for three weeks until someone realized that my entry visa was about to expire.

Under any other circumstance I would have had to collect my visa in my home country, but considering the US is on the other side of the globe this was not an option. The original plan was to send me to Bangkok as I would have to depart Sri Lanka in order to gain the appropriate entry visa. I've never been to Thailand and would love for the opportunity, but not for a 24 hour visa run. Instead I suggested to look into the Maldives...I had already been there for a previous visa run and I have friends living in the main island of Male, not to mention it's less than an hour's flight from Colombo

The request was sent to the man known as the liaison. Described to me as a hustler who will wear a leather jacket and jeans even if it's 40 degrees (roughtly 100 farenheit) and 100% humid. The liaison said he'd make a few phone calls and notify me of what was to come. A couple hours later I receive a text message stating, "you must leave the country now, check your email". Sounded ominous to say the least.

Checked my email and received instructions that I must depart Sri Lanka as soon as possible so the liaison could work is bureaucratic magic and make my visa magically appear at the High Commission in Male. He then said that I would have to remain in country for 4-5 working days in order for all to be processed. My boss followed up with the message for me to follow the liason's message and get to the Maldives ASAP. All expenses would be covered.

I kept it professional and said that I understood the situation and if I must, then I would depart for the Maldives in the next few days. Inside I was thinking, really? I'm being ordered to go to a tropical paradise for a week??? I chose not to ask questions and fully comply with my orders.

There are times in my life where I sit back and say I don't deserve what I have. This was one of them. For the past week I have been in the gorgeous South Asian island nation soaking up rays, wakeboarding, kayaking, scuba diving with sea turtles and reef sharks, stargazing, karaoking and enjoying the azure blue waters of the Indian ocean while at the same time spending time with some amazing friends. I even had the added bonus of my friend's mom who was visiting her from Lebanon, which involved amazing Lebanese food prepared with ingredients she had brought with her from Beirut along with my favorite past time of nargileh (hookah). I told her that I had been dreaming of fatoush salad daily in Sri Lanka and eh made it special the day after I arrived.

The Maldives is an odd country. Following the 2004 tsunami it has become extremely conservate and Muslim...more and more women are veiling and shops close during prayer times. The conservative island is the main island of Male is where 150,000 of the entire 300,000 Maldivian population live. It makes for some close quarters and near death experiences in narrow alleyways where men with slicked back hair and sunglasses drive like kamikaze fighter pilots. Alcohol is strictly forbidden in Male, but is not on the multiple islands surrounding it-owned by various resorts. Most tourists get off the plane and get picked up by a representative from the resort they reserved at and are jetted away by speed boat never seeing Male or knowing it's conservative nature.

I was happy to depart the Maldives on the first day of Ramadan-the holy month of Islam that involves fasting from sun up to sun down--from what I could see nearly every shop was shut. Most definitely the restaurants were. I met a really ignorant colleague of my friend who was a disgruntled teacher working in Male. He kept making comments of Ramadan and then went as far as to say that babies die from being forced to fast. This is just ridiculous and more importantly not true. After clarifying for him that children are not required to fast until at least the age of 7 (or somewhere around there) and that there are load of exceptions so as not to harm yourself he seemed to not condemn the practice of fasting as much as he initially had been.

On the flight home I sat next to a woman in an abeya dress (black choir coat you see women in the Gulf wearing) who I discovered could not speak English when I asked her to move so I could get to the window seat. I could tell she was not Arab but heard her say to the flight attendant that she had come from Dubai when he was handing out landing cards. As we approached Colombo she tapped me on the shoulder and handed me her landing card and passport, giving me a worried look. I was confused at first until I realized that she was trying to explain to me that she was illiterate and did not know how to fill out the form. I glanced at her passport and realized that she was Sri Lankan and more than likely was returning home after having worked in the Gulf. Knowing she did not speak English I gave a stab at her knowing Arabic and sure enough she did. She asked if I was Egyptian and I explained no, actually I was from the US. She gave me a surprised look and then asked why I spoke like an Egyptian. It made me smile....to date I still have the accent because of first learning to speak in Cairo.

I helped her fill out the card and I then asked her where she was coming from. She told me Riyadh, Saudi Arabia where she had worked as a domestic servant for the past two years I've heard horror stories and witnessed firsthand the treatment of foreign workers in the Gulf and asked her how her life had been in Saudi. At first she bulked at saying anything, but then she started detailing what she had been through. She repeatedly told me the men in the house were bad and kept making motion of cutting her hands and head regarding the life in Riyadh. I did not ask for the details of either but assumed she was referring to the notorious sexual assaults that take place against domestic help and the beheadings and hand choppings that take place as a form of punishment. In the city of Jeddah-the most liberal of all cities-there is a place nicknamed, Chop-Chop Square. It perfectly describes the public chopping of people's limbs along with executions. After asking her if she was happy to go home she broke into a smile said wholehartedly 'na'am.'-yes. After landing we exchanged phone numbers and parted ways.

Upon arrival in Colombo I was finally able to be stamped in without fear or thoughts of deportation from the 'it's absolutely forbidden to work in Sri Lanka without permission of the controller' sign that hangs above the customs desk at the international airport. It appears the liason will not be instructing me to depart the country anytime in the near future

Weddings and sarees

2011-07-28T03:17:00.000-07:00

A colleague of mine was getting married-the invitation read that the wedding would take place from approximately 8:47-11:42 on a Sunday morning. Apparently Sri Lankans visit some type of religous fortune tellers to learn when to please the Gods and special events can sometimes take place at the oddest of hours. My favorite story was of the head of an NGO having to give an argument as to why an opening ceremony of a school was best not to take place at 2am, but rather during the day. Her staff was not pleased by her not following religous orders.

I was unable to attend the wedding event, but was able to attend the reception that took place the following Sunday. I was told I should go and I must wear saree-sometimes written sari.

The saree is the 3 meter piece of fabric that you always see Indian women wrapped up in. The experience taught me there is much involved with the saree wrapping process. First, you have to find out what the occassion is for-in my case the main question was whether it was for a Hindu or Christian wedding or reception?

Then you go to a fabric store, choose the fabric you want. Then you spend at least a half hour haggling over the price-even more if you're a foreigner.

After this, you take the fabric to a tailor-usually located on the second floor of where you bought the fabric or, in my case, across the street. You wait amongst strewn pieces of fabric and men working on sewing machines while the boss negotiates styles and cuts with women having saree tops and shelvar kamis custom made for them. There's no fan or air conditioning and everyone is covered in sweat...there's an actual truth behind the name 'sweat shop'.

Finally the tailor comes up to you and rapidly takes multiple measurements of your body...writes it all down in a torn and massive book that somehow is able to distinguish between the customers. He tells you to come back tomorrow at 4pm.

You return at 4pm and are told to wait. 'My brother is bringing it from his shop-15 minutes only, have a seat.' And so you wait 15 minutes. Then another 15 After about an hour you ask the boss man where the top is. 'It's coming, only 10 minutes.' At this point you get irritated and want to punch someone or kick the sewing machines. Finally a bag shows up with my saree top and they still have to sew on some pieces. By 6pm I am able to leave.

Then comes the day I had to wear it all. My female coworkers came to my home to help me. After putting on the little saree top that is more like a bra than a shirt, I have put on the underskirt that has a strong string to hold the 3 meters of fabric for the saree. My coworkers had me stand while wrapping and pinning me to create the designs of the sarees I've seen so many other women wearing. At first I felt like it would become unraveled or fall off of me at any given moment-but eventually I got used to it. More than likely will never wear it again, but was happy for this experience.

Arrival of the bride and groom

The wedding itself involved driving to the home of my colleagues parents. At least 100 of us gathered for the occassion, which was a lunch celebrating the welcoming of the newly wed couple. We sat in plastic chairs under tarps with the massive UNHCR logo on them. Upon arrival the sister of the colleague put a white and red marking on my forehead--same went for everyone. I know it was for some type of blessing, but not entirely sure which one.

We sat and were then fed lunch...lots of rice and curries. No forks or spoons. You eat with your hands here. I must admit I absolutely hate doing it. I turn into a mess everytime as I don't have the skill at balling up the rice and popping it into my mouth like the locals do. People are usually clearing their plates and I'm still playing with my rice wishing I had a spoon...I've gotten used to it now and am slowly but surely mastering it. It just feels odd, but I suppose that goes with learning any new culture.

After finishing everyone had an opportunity to have a professional photograph taken with the bride and groom. You were taken into a room and you lined up and had several photos taken together. This one is my favorite just in the fact that the little girl has a hysterical smile on her face.

Jellyfish attack in Arugam Bay

2011-07-19T10:08:00.000-07:00

I've been wanting to go to Arugam Bay since arriving in Sri Lanka and reading about it my my Rough Guide travel guide. According to Rough Guide it takes 5 hours to travel from Batticaloa. This apparently holds true unless you have someone who offers to drive you-then it takes 2, depending on how fast you go.

One of the German expats here rented a van for eight of us, including my friend from Beirut. We were told 8am we would leave. I've grown accustomed to being culturally sensitive to concepts of time and have become extremely lax with meeting up with people due to my past in Latin America and the Middle East. In these places 8am means more like 8:45-or 9 depending if you also want breakfast. Then it could be around 10. Not so for the Germans. At 8:06 I received a phone call asking why I was not at the meetup spot. When I said we were waiting on a tuk tuk, he got a bit short and said he would come to us-better than waiting. When the van arrived there was silence inside and I was introduced to the concept of German time.

The drive down was gorgeous. Lime green rice paddy fields stretched on for miles on either side of the road. They use cow skulls for scarecrows here and there were several spread out in the fields. In one town there were these odd looking bubble houses that are best described as Hobbit houses depicted in Lord of the Rings, but of course much larger. It was explained to me that these homes are engineered to withstand great amounts of water pressure should another tsunami or flood strike the region.

Whether it be the German's culture or just the fact that he really wanted a cheeseburger I'm not sure, but the mood lightened upon reaching our destination. Arugam Bay is a sleepy surfer town on Sri Lanka's east coast. Cheap accommodation is abundant and there are loads of strung out surfer types walking around with long boards-or just strung out. Tamils own most of the businesses right on the beach. In post-tsunami Sri Lanka a rule has been established that all housing must lie 100 meters in from the coast and all of these places are currently in violation. On the other side of the main road-opposite the beach side accommodation-a string of businesses are popping up owned by Sinhalese. Yet again another reminder of the ethnic divisions that exist. Many places have cushions you can lie on and read--or as we did play lots of UNO games and drink Lion Beer.

There's a reason why surfers flock there in that the waves are amazingly big and strong. I was confused by the culture on the beach in that the locals all seemed to cover up, but there were still tourists with bikinis...reminded me of the Middle East in some ways. The waves were fun to bob around in and I really did want to try my hand at a surf lesson, but alas I suppose I'm still apprehensive due to my wave accident back in 2009 that involved my being swept up in a monster wave and thrown down on a sand bar leaving me with a Class 5 separated shoulder. It occurred on remote Socotra Island-part of Yemen, but closer to Somalia. I was in pain and without proper medical treatment for approximately a week's time. Two surgeries later my left shoulder is nearly as good as it was before, though I'm left with a gnarly scar. I'm still tossing around the idea of getting a tattoo to cover it-perhaps a wave of some sort symbolizing the incident.This accident was also the reason my shoulder is weakened and I was not able to climb the gate I describe in my 'hopping gates in Colombo' post.

I did manage to swim in the waters and encountered the one downside of the place...jelly fish. Lots of them. In Batticaloa we have jellyfish, but they're white and slimy and don't sting. In Arugam Bay they're purple and sting like what I imagine the fires of Hell to be. I should have known as luck would have it that I would get stung by one...what I did not anticipate is that I would get stung in four different places all simultaneous of each other. I must have swam right into a school of them and I could actually feel the tentacle wrap around my wrists and ankles like a whips. My reaction was to run like a Kenyan marathoner to the restaurant we were staying and ask for vinegar. When you get stung you're supposed to put anything acidic on it to neutralize the venom and I wanted it pronto.

So there I was, hopping and down in pain covered in sand and my hair looking reminiscent of Medusa. Apparently the surfers get stung a lot there because they all didn't seem too concerned with my pain. I was told to go rinse off at this little shack next to the restaurant before getting doused with vinegar. I quickly hopped over to the shack and a Sri Lankan surfer who had been watching the whole incident closely from the sidelines walked over to me and told me calmly that the best thing to do was to pee on my stings. I've heard of this and people always joke about it, so I laughed-until I realized that this was actually an offer of help. He stood there, eyebrows raised waiting for what my decision would be...as if I were going to hold out my wrists and say, oh yes please-fire away. I politely thanked him for his generous offer, but said I much preferred the vinegar. He just shrugged his shoulders as if to tell my, 'you're loss' and sauntered way.

Back at the restaurant the waiter I screamed at for vinegar was waiting with a bottle of red vinegar and lemons to rinse off the stings. I told him a beer would also be needed ASAP. As I sat pouring vingegar and lime juice all over my legs and arms the same surfer who had offered to pee on me returned. He looked disapprovingly at my beer telling me I should be smoking a joint instead. Again I declined his offer and this time he shook his head in disapproval and left-I did not see him again after that.

45 minutes and a liter of beer later the pain was subdued and was again able to enjoy the chilled out atmosphere that Arugam Bay has to offer. I met up later with the Batti crowd for relaxed conversation and dinner. It was a great crowd to spend the weekend with-two Germans, two Brits, a person from France and Holland along with my Canadian friend visiting from Beirut. I believe it will be these memories and not the pain of the jellyfish that I'll remember most.

A visitor from Beirut

2011-07-12T21:32:00.000-07:00

For Hala, my friend connecting everyone from Burma.

Last summer I lived in Beirut while working for the UN Relief and Works Agency. A friend of mine named Hala, who I refer to as the tumbleweed due to her permanent status as an intrepid world traveler, introduced me to her friend Ramona living in Hamra in Beirut. I've known Hala since living in Cairo and she was the one visitor who came to Yemen to see me while I lived there. For the past year she has been living in Burma studying Buddhism and meditation. When she's not silent, she updates her Facebook and it was during one of these times that she put me in contact with Ramona.

Roommates at Barometre in Beirut

I was looking for advice for places to live and Ramona brought up the idea of my staying in her guestroom...which I gladly accepted. Later that summer Ramona traveled home to Canada and another friend of Hala's came to stay with me in her absence...Jess, a Kiwi and expatriate living in Cappadocia, Turkey. She was and is a travel guide author and was updating the Footprints guide for Lebanon...just learned that she's been offered to be an author for Lonely Planet's updated Egypt guide. We always joked about the fact that Hala brought us all together, yet we knew her from her time in different parts of the world...hence the name the tumbleweed. Jess owns a cavehouse in Cappadocia and we are hoping that a reunion will take place there in a few year's time.
One of the many things I love about expats is their ability to pick up and move without much planning...especially if their friends are working or living in a place they've been wanting to visit. A perfect example of this is my recent trip to the Maldives, where my friend from my time working in Afghanistan is working.

This was the case with my taking a contract in Sri Lanka...Ramona was finishing up her two year contract teaching in Beirut and was planning to travel to India. She's been to Sri Lanka before and decided to come once more. I was beyond excited in that I remember when leaving Beirut I had told Ramona I looked forward to repaying the hospitality that she had shown me in during my time in Lebanon. She told me I'd have to leave the Middle East for that to happen because her days were numbered there. Therefore, my short contract in South Asia was perfect for her.

Last week Ramona arrived at 4am in Batticaloa after a 12 hour train ride from Colombo. Coming with her were gifts of figs, olives, Younis espresso and bottles of Lebanese wine. Cafe Younis is a coffee shop in Beirut's Hamra neighborhood and I used to frequent it...the coffee is delicious. They also pride themselves in that they remained open for the full duration of Lebanon's Civil War. I think I may have had overkill as I drank three shots of it after having detoxed on crappy Nescafe, but it was so worth it.

A visa run to the Maldives

2011-06-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

The visa run is a term synonomous with working abroad. Depending on what country you are visiting, there is always a time limit to the visa. Sometimes you can pay a mild fee to have it extended-sometime an exurbient amount depending on your nationality and how long you want to extend it for.   Whatever the case, you can always have the option of doing a 'visa run'. A short holiday to a nearby country so that you can re-enter on a new visa without the hassle of the paperwork.

I am now approaching month 4 of waiting for the appropriate visa to be stamped in my passport. It's not a personal matter-or even a national one-it's a matter of what mood the official is in that day and if he feels like getting fifty more signatures and rubber stamp marks before making it official.

After receiving word that I have to wait yet another 3 weeks and my visa was set to expire after 30 days upon entry, it became necessary to either file for an extension or do a visa run. Given the time it takes for any bureacratic matter it was decided to send me to the nearest country. The fact that the Maldives are the nearest country and that my colleague and friend from when I worked in Afghanistan made it the most unexpected and pleasant visa run to date.

I don't know if it was my lack of sleep, extensive writing or poor planning, but I made every traveler mistake aside from leaving my passport at home. I packed in such a rush that I left virtually everything that would be useful...I only realized this after my 12 hour overnight train from Batticaloa to Colombo. In Colombo I tried to use my credit card, only to learn I had brought an expired one with me...my others were locked in my closet at home. Same was true for my underwear, bathing suit, laptop power chord and sunscreen.   My poor planning actually shocked me-usually I'm good at packing on the fly.

It wasn't such a big issue until reaching the airport-which by the way took a ridiculous amount of time. I had called for a taxi because I knew it would take an hour to get to the airport. Instead, a tuk tuk driver shows up and not that this has anything to do with it, but he was albino. I've never actually spoken to an albino before. His tuk tuk broke down four times on the way to the airport and once he actually broke down in the middle of traffic. He had to get out, pull the tuk tuk through the traffic lanes and then do repairs on the side of the road. While waiting on the third break down a herd of cattle walked on either side of us, Michael Jackson's Thriller was playing and the albino driver was pulling a chord trying to start the tuk tuk like a lawnmower...and oddly this all seemed normal to me.

An hour later arrived at the airport. Had given myself a two hour cushion not realizing I was now actually approaching the cut off time for check in. Albino driver did not have change, I was angry and made him feel bad. I just can't help it when I'm tired.

Go to the Emirates check in counter. Give my passport and itinerary.  The clerk looks at it, types in my name, then gives the screen a funny look. 'Do you have the credit card you used to purchase this flight?' Any other time I would say yes, but I had only the expired card with me. After I told him I didn't, his manager came over and explained I needed to show the card. Then I became a bit angry. I asked why-they said it was stated in the instructions when I bought the ticket-which by the way I have yet to find.  Then they stared at me blinking. I told them that I was up to a Silver status with the airline so why was I having this issue. They said it happens everywhere...I assured them this was not the case.

So the solution was I had to carry all my things and follow a man like a criminal to the third floor office in order to log on to the computer and show my credit card account online for verification purposes. The Internet was beyond slow and he just stood over me watching. After nearly 15 minutes the screen finally loaded and I was able to get my boarding pass. On the way out I asked him what the deal was with the flights and he told me there was a ton of fraud in the area. Usually men from India buy tickets with fraudulent credit cards and then try to bribe their way onto the flights. I stared blankly at him and told him I wasn't Indian and I was a frequent flier, so I really didn't appreciate the treatment. He told me that the same thing would happen in the Maldives. For the record, it did not.

And on to the Maldives I went. It's a tiny set of islands-the smallest country in Asia. Sea leves are rising and threaten the future of the country. The coasts are already shrinking and looking at the main island of Male looks like a series of buildings sitting on top of water-they quite literally are. It's predicted the country will eventually be underwater...yet they still continue to build on the island.

Following the 2004 tsunami the country has experienced a radical wave of conservative Islam and nearly all the women are now wearing hijaab.  On the landing card I had to complete was a list of forbidden items...numbers 3-7 include the prohibition of anything contradicting Islam, idols for worship, pork and/pork products and dogs...all directly related to Islam, though it's not an Islamic state. My theory is that the Saudis have a hand in doing some behind the scenes funding.

I spent three days on the islands and they are gorgeous. Did not get to do diving as I had planned-mainly due to my lack of credit- but did do some snorkelling and saw more marine life than I have ever seen in my life...including a series of black tip reef sharks. At one point a shard was swimming towards me and a freaked out and crashed my leg into some coral...I still have a funky rash a result. Apparently the sharks don't go after humans, but they sure do make you believe they will.

Nearly all the workers in the Maldives are Sri Lankan...I began distinguishing the Maldivian men from the Sri Lankans based on their long wavy beach hair or afros, which there were many. Maldivian men also take pride in using copious amunts of hair gel and wear designer sunglasses, so very Lebanese of them.

When speaking with the Sri Lankans I would tell them that I am working in Batticaloa and everyone had the same reaction. Their eyes got wide and they would repeat as if I were joking...'Batticaloa? Are you playing with Tigers?' Referring to the Tamil Tigers no longer in the area. One man got very emotional and thanked me for working in the area. He condemned the Sri Lankan government and the discrimination against the Tamils that has gone on too long. He really looked shaken. It's sad but refreshing to learn that a country has a divide between what their government does and what the citizens believe. Sadly, their voices are usually never heard.

Learning Tamil

2011-06-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

If there is one recommendation I can give to anyone planning to live abroad (aside from being patient) it would be to learn the local language. The benefits that come from taking the time to learn the language are countless. I'm not talking about mastering the language and then writing a thesis on the correct grammatical usage. What I'm referring to is learning what I refer to as 'traveler talk'...how to buy things, asking directions, describing yourself...the basics. Nothing is more frustrating when you are surrounded by ten people all with the same confused look on their face while you try to explain slowly what you need. And no, repeating the same phrase louder does not work. I've seen that method used by many a foreigner-only perpetuates the image of being rude.

Locals appreciate you taking the time to learn it-they know it's difficult. By speaking to someone in their language it shows that you're not the typical tourist-or expat for that matter. I knew a British expat in Cairo boasting that he has managed not to learn one word of Egyptian Arabic in the 15 years he lived there. Knowing a few phrases and familiarizing yourself with the pattern of speech eases the anxiety of thinking people are talking about you. It gives you independence and a sense of accomplishement.   It also opens lines of communication that allow you see a part of the culture along with understand it.

The biggest perk is most likely that you begin receiving the 'local price'. Nearly every developing country mildly, or more often blatantly, charges foreigners a higher price based on the fact that they know you had to throw down a lot of money to even get there...so the idea is that paying an extra dollar for your meal isn't such big deal. Depending on how long you live in a place will indicate how lenient you are to this institutionalized inflation for foreigners. After a year in Cairo I was cutthroat with the cab drivers to the point where, when my mother visited me there, she actually told me she would disown me if I continued to argue with people over $2 USD.

Last night I got my first price as a local when I ended my Tamil lesson and received a massive discount in my tuk tuk ride home. Apparently my yelling random phrases from my notebook seemed to strike a chord with the driver. He even gave me his number should I ever want a driver in the future. This is another recommendation I have for language learners-practice with the taxi drivers. My Arabic professor at the American Univeristy in Cairo encouraged me to do this and it was the best bit of advice she gave in that it is how I gained fluency in Arabic. The drivers were bored out of their minds and appreciated the fact that a white girl would sit in the back of the cab saying things like, 'the book is red'. My methodolgy was to throw everything against the wall and saw what stuck.   Eventually those sentences began to make sense and I built confidence.

I am lucky to have found a teacher within a week of arriving, thanks to my amazing boss who also began studying. My teacher's name is Ragis and she is a retired Tamil and English language teacher. She is proud of the fact that she used to teach American diplomats at the U.S. Embassy in Colombo.   Her teaching style is old school in that she expects you to come to the class prepared and drills you. The lessons are to be an hour, but she often goes for an hour and half, still only charging 500 rupees regardless. This is the equivalent to about $6.

So I'm learning Tamil now. It marks my sixth language for which I've formally studied. Tamil is a Dravidian language originating from Sanskrit and one of the 22 languages spoken in India and is an official langauge in Sri Lanka and Singapore. All of the signs in Sri Lanka are marked in three languages all with different characters for their alphabets-English, Sinhalese and Tamil.

When I was in Colombo, a Sinhalese part of the island, I went to a bookshop trying to find a Tamil phrase book. Despite multiple books for Sinhalese, not one book was offered for Tamil at any of the three bookshiops I visited. I didn't find it all that surprising, but did believe it showed the feelings toward the Tamil speakers...I mean it is an official language spoken here. Even in Afghanistan you could find Pashtu books, albeit difficult, in Kabul where most speak Dari.

As I mentioned above, learning a language can teach you a lot about a culture. It can also highlight the indirect discrimination towards those that speak it, which is the case here.

Dahab vs. Batti Diving

2011-06-18T03:58:00.000-07:00


Blue Hole Dive Site-Dahab

I first began Scuba diving back in 2006 when I was living in Egypt. I would try and escape the craziness of my base in Cairo and would head towards what has now become my favorite place in the world-Dahab. The nearest city to Dahab is Sharm el Sheikh, where Ex-President Hosni Mubarak's residence is and where he's been hiding out since getting the boot this past spring. I really do not like Sharm-it's a jaded over-the-top beach resort city that does not represent Egypt. You're better off speaking Italian or Russian because that is who the Sharm tourist market caters to.

Dahab is different-it's a sleepy bedouin town on Sinai. Its name is Arabic for gold and it describes the color of the rolling hills of the Sinai Peninsula that crash into turquoise waters of the Sea of Aqaba...from the shores of Dahab you can see the red sands of Saudi Arabia. Two hours drive away is Mt Sinai where you can hike to the top to where Moses supposedly received the ten commandments. Dahab is notorious for people going for weekend and then staying for a month. That happened to me twice. In those times I would dive in the mornings and then experience the 'chill factor' of the place which consists of laying around, being lazy, drinking Sakaras and smoking sheesha (Egyptian for narghila and hookah for all of my friends in the States).

Saudi Arabia in the distance

I was warned when I was certified for diving in Egypt that I would be spoiled for the rest of my life due to the amazing dive conditions in the Red Sea. The water is crystal clear, the reefs are full of marine life and schools of fish are everywhere. It's like the cast of the Little Mermaid dancing around every time you dive.

So I wasn't entirely surprised that the diving in Sri Lanka is not up to par with Dahab...nowhere else I've been ever has. I went with a Canadian woman working with an NGO that de-mines areas of conflict. She too, had been to Dahab in the past when she was working in Oman. Our dive master was an ex-sailor named Fernandez who has been diving since 1983. He was probably the most professional dive master I've been with in that he actually verified our certifications--you can seriously walk into dive locations around the world and pretend you're certified without anyone questioning it. Dahab is one of these places that don't really care. This is no good because people can and have die as a result of not knowing what to do.

The boat used for diving did not represent the same caliber as the instructor. It was a little, rickety boat that can fit four people at most. We had to gear up, prop ourselves up on the side and then do a back flip off while making sure we didn't bang our head off the side of the boat. We stayed down for nearly an hour. When we surfaced there appeared to be a storm out at sea with five foot waves making us bob around. We were supposed to do another dive to a ship wreck, but the wave were too rough. Instead we went back to the dive center and do the ship wreck tomorrow. The ride back had us going up with each wave and then crashing down sharply. It's a good thing none of us got seasick.

And then I was introduced to the docking methods used by Sri Lankans. Instead of slowly approaching shore and tying the boat to something-the captain kicked up the motor to full gear and went full throttle onto the beach...seriously we hit ground and after a huge bump were on land. We stayed for lunch and Fernandez asked my friend about the demining situation in Sri Lanka. It seems everyone keeps comparing the mines here to the situation in Cambodia. It is predicted that it will take another 20 years before Cambodia is free of mines. In Sri Lanka it remains unknown.

Fernandez then shared with us some stories from war times and was saying how much happier he is now that it's over. It also became apparent that he is not Tamil, but Sinhalese. Until 2009, if he tried to run his dive shop the LTTE-Tamil Tigers-would harass him and demand money for him to run the business. He described them as 'pistol gangs' that would shoot anyone who didn't pay up. Despite being Sinhalese, he said he didn't like the label of terrorist being put on the Tigers. He said as a result the Sinhalese government always looks at the Tamils with a suspicious eye.

We finished up lunch and then some of his staff drove us across the lagoon to show us where we were to meet them for our dive tomorrow. The landmark we chose was a bent palm tree. My friend and I decided if we ever open a bar then that is going to be the name of it.

grieving is a process

2011-06-15T23:53:00.000-07:00

Back in 1999 there was a hit song by Baz Luhrman that came out called, 'wear sunscreen'. It's actually not so much a song but a speech with background music. The speech is written for a graudating class of seniors in the US. Every sentence is piece of advice he has learned from his experience at life with the only scientifically proven fact being that you should wear sunscreen-which I do daily...not so much because of the song but just because it's common knowledge.

I remember many of the lines including the one that says that you should know that, 'worrying is about as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in our lives are the ones that blind side you on some idle Tuesday.' And true enough, on an idle Tuesday I received news that my Aunt Trudy passed away.

There's no one set way to deal with a loss of loved one-especially when you're abroad for it. Even more so when it's someone you really cared for and it kills you to know your family is back home hurting, too. It's times such as these when the importance of your family becomes blazingly clear. Not that I ever take them for granted, but in the end its your support system that gets you through it all and are the people that are there for you when all the dust settles. My father's family is large and of Italian descent and I know it sounds cliche but family was and still is everything. As much as I've traveled through the years I have to say that I could not do it without knowing of their support.

I've been overseas before when shocking news such as this and I think the worst thing about it is that you can't do anything. You're helpless and you don't want to burden others with what you're going through. I usually go into a state of denial until I return home and it hits me that I will never see that person again. It's true regardless-if you're gone you're gone whether you're in the next room or next continent. I have noticed that I've become hardened as a result of having to go through the grieving process alone. Though I guess there's some truth that what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

If there's one thing that will carry on in my memory of Aunt Trudy it will be her laugh. She had this energy and loud voice and hearty laugh that would project through the whole house when she was around. You always knew when she arrived for a visit. Lord how I already miss that laugh.

What lies beneath Sri Lanka's pretty face

2011-06-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

Sri Lanka is a strikingly beautiful country. Sadly its human rights record is anything but. Some parts of the country remind me of a shiny Christmas package with a big red bow on it...then you tear it open and find a lump of coal inside.

The contrast of natural beauty paired with a history of gross atrocities is not something new for me. Afghanistan,Yemen, Lebanon, Peru-all places making headlines in Western news outlets for some type of danger...all are places I have lived or visited and have found two truths in all...the people are friendly and the landscape is gorgeous. All juxtaposed with hidden images and histories tucked away just under the surface.

On Friday I traveled for a meeting to Trincomale (more commonly called Trinco) on the eastern coast of the island. White sand beaches were met with turquoise blue waters then stretching into the dark blue sea. Balmy breezes swept through lush palm trees bringing relief from the tropical sun and heat. People walked along the beaches near dive shops. It's a beach bum's Shangri La paradise.

Flashback to two years ago and it was better described as hell on earth. The LTTE were battling Sri Lankan forces for control of the north and east of the country. Those caught in the crossfire and who were unable to flee either by force or circumstance suffered unspeakable horror. Ethnic tensions in town resulted in the killing and maiming of civilians. Their bodies, both whole and dismembered, were dumped in the streets.The LTTE actively recruited militants by kidnapping children. There is an educational disparity in the country due to a generation of children who were kept at home by their parents from fear they would be abducted en route to school. LTTE guerrillas forced each family to give a family member for the cause. To be sure the LTTE got a member as ordered, they required each family to hang a family photo on the wall of their home. Men not in the photo were shot dead if by chance the LTTE did a surprise check on the house and found a man at the home not in the picture.

Simultaneously the Sri Lankan army shelled the areas of LTTE control-the same areas where innocent families were being terrorized for recruitment. There's an unwritten and undocumented history that goes with the counter offensive to the LTTE. One which has left entire villages of fatherless and with only single mother households. The census of the northern Vanni region prior to the conflict was roughly 50,000 males. Today, it's 30,000. Yet the official record here indicates that not one civilian was killed in the conflict between government forces and the LTTE. The discrepancy of 20,000 raises alarm bells as to how this could be true. My guess is the answer is waiting to be dug up in the north. Until then, 20,000 people can just 'disappear'-vanish into thin air overnight.

It all sounds so eerily familiar to tales told to me by Peruvians when I studied there in 2003. During the 1980's there had been a hunt for left wing Maoist guerrillas in Peru. The name of the organization was Sendero Luminoso or the Shining Path. They too, forced recruitment, more often by calling a community together, shooting the mayor and then saying men were to join or be shot as well. The Peruvian government responded by ransacking homes looking for anything that could indict a person as being a leftist--like books with Communist themes. As a result, many people disappeared and were never seen again. Even in 2003, nearly twenty years after the scare, my host mother was apprehensive to talk about Sendero for fear of being labeled a supporter.

Don't get me wrong in that Sri Lanka is a beautiful country and wonderful place to visit-it truly is and you should. It depends what you want to get out of it. You could come and visit the tourist areas and have an amazing beach holiday. I wish I could, but that's not my purpose for being here..It depends on how far you want to go to know the history. Some choose to ignore it and that's their choice. Others come an try to change it. I myself have come to learn from it and transfer the lessons learnt so that it hopefully doesn't happen again--here or elsewhere.

It's just that uncovering the country's dark history takes a bit of the joy out of the good food, white sand beaches, emerald tea fields, massive Buddha statues and stupas--along with the delight of seeing elephants roam free. This is precisely what I thought to myself when I experienced my first elephant sighting while driving home from Trinco to Batti this past Sunday. My driver was so excited for me he nearly caused an accident by swerving off the road so that I could watch the elephant standing on the side of the road chowing down on some ferns. My driver is named Arul and he is Sri Lankan of Tamil descent. He lived through the war, lived as an IDP and experienced more than I believe I could ever endure. Seeing him so excited about that damn elephant despite his having seen them so many times before made me smile. It drove home the fact that even though life can be so cruel to us we need to focus on the small things that can make us happy. And so I do.

Hopping Gates in Colombo

2011-06-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

My colleague and I arrived in Colombo following a 6 hour journey from Vavuniya just in time to hit the after work rush hour. My colleague had a meeting to attend at 7pm and she suggested I attend in order to learn the background on a project she will be working on. We would have been precisely on time had the driver known where our house was, but unfortunately this was not the case. Our driver is Tamil and the ethnic makeup of Colombo is Sinhalese. He was clearly uncomfortable asking directions using his Sinhala and I’ve been told that this happens often with the two ethnicities being divided and even more so after the war. I was recently informed one of the greatest fears of a Tamil driver would be to hit a Sinhalese child with a car in that more than likely the driver would be dragged out and killed in the street.

So this is the background to why we drove in circles for some time. Finally we found the house dropped our bags and then jumped in a tuk tuk taxi for the meeting. We met with a German man and Scottish woman, both the heads of two other NGOs. It was a working dinner meeting in a posh dinner spot called the Park Street Mew-high ceilings, plush leather couches, trendy paintings and everyone wearing black. I stuck out like sore thumb in just having come from the field-sweaty, hair unkempt and dressed in a flowing pale blue skirt and loose cotton top. They seemed not to notice my scruffiness-or perhaps this is expected from field workers. We sat for a two hour discussion on an upcoming proposal for monitoring food security in the northern Jaffna area-still under control of the LTTE. Development buzzword lingo was flying around the table and I felt like I was back in my Human Security class only these topics were relevant and interesting.

Following the meeting we went to a nice Italian restaurant to get some pizza and wine. Our waiters were clearly ready for us to be finished and had a taxi waiting for us to take us home. After leaving the gate, we could smell the marijuana before we could see anyone smoking it. As it turns out, the source of the weed was our fearless taxi driver behind a tree having a midnight toke while waiting to drive us home. I think that his being stoned helped with the events that were about to unfold.

Around 1am we returned to the house and to our surprise our guard had locked the gate from the inside. My colleague called the three numbers the guard had left with her just in case any event of this nature should take place. Unfortunately every time she dialed there was no answer. Except for one when a person answered and informed us that it was not the number of a guard.

Meanwhile our stoned taxi driver sat waiting for us to go in the gate. When he realized something was wrong he came and asked us what was going on. After about 20 minutes of trying to call and clanking on the iron gate to try an wake someone up it was decided that we would need to go to a hotel or somehow get over the 8 foot wall-avoiding the sharp points at the main gate. The taxi driver was happy to assist. My colleague was first-she stood on his shoulders and then managed to pull herself up the wall and got really scared at the top because she was afraid as to how to get down on the other side. The taxi driver jumped the wall and helped her down on the other side. They checked the guard station, which had all the lights turned on, but no guard to be found. The taxi driver returned and jumped back over to help me.

So it was my turn. I was wearing a skirt, and he told me to tie it so it was more like trousers. He then once again put me on his shoulders and boosted me up so that I could jump the wall-unfortunately I could not manage to pull myself up on the left side due to a shoulder injury circa 2009 when I had surgery. So we were back to square one.

My colleague at this point was trying to break the lock with a hammer. I began running to neighboring gates to see if any other guards actually did their job unlike ours and may have a ladder. The guard next door was indeed at his post along with an incredibly cute little dog. The taxi driver had not left and came with me to ask the guard if he had a ladder. The conversation took place in Sinhala and I had assumed there was no ladder. I walked back to the gate with a sense of defeat.

Back at the gate, my colleague was still trying unsuccessfully to break the lock. Then I noticed the guard and taxi driver dragging a large metal frame for a gate with them. They came to our gate and put the frame against the wall holding it in place so that I could use it as a ladder to get me to the top. I managed to quickly get to the top and then once again our taxi driver jumped the wall and put me on his shoulders to lower me down on the other side.

Following this he made his final jump over the wall in order to return to his taxi. My colleague and I attempted to pay him extra and he refused-instead he gave us his number and said to call if we ever needed a taxi driver in Colombo. Somehow I think I shall be giving him a call considering he did all that for $2.

As for the guard, when confronted in the morning where he was the night before, he denied not being at his post. He also said he had his phone with him at all times. A blank stare was his reply when we said if all that was true, then why the hell we had to try for an hour to break the lock and jump the fence.

I believe it may be time to hire a new guard. I’m going to suggest the taxi driver fill the post.

Bikes, guns, speeding and snakes

2011-06-06T09:09:00.000-07:00

Woke at 5am today to make a 6 hour journey north. The van had AC and I think I must be getting used to the heat here because the cold air hurt my skin..actually had to turn it off as a result. The radio station had an eclectic mix of Beatles and Eminem music playing. We saw a truck completely flipped on the side of the road-evidence of the insane driving here. Just the other day I realized how used to erratic driving I've become. Same goes for really big guns.

The other day I was in a bike shop and these military guys wearing what appeared to be grass in their helmets had kalashnikovs or some other semi-automatic weapons on their backs. You would think a normal reaction would maybe be to question why they were wearing the hats or let alone show up ready for war in a bike shop-though this could be a guaranteed way of lowering a price. No, instead my reaction is to continue to bargain on the price of my bike basket and then give the armed guard a dirty look for standing in my way. I clearly have to work on my bartering skills in South Asia as the shop owner wouldn't budge on his price...or maybe I didn't get the memo to come to the shop with a grass helmet and gun. In the end, I'm still without a bike, which doesn't really matter since I'm traveling for the next week.

My driver managed to not go above 80km/hour which I was thankful for. On my previous journey the normal 6 hour ride was shortened to 4 due to extreme speeding to the point that the van went up on two wheels when we went around a bend. To my surprise, law enforcement does ticket for speeding here-my speedy driver got fined 500 rupees for his attempt at race car driving on Sri Lankan highways. What was strange was how he got the ticket-it appeared that there had been no signal to pull over, but then all of a sudden he pulled off the road, grabbed his wallet and ran off into the bushes. Moments later a soldier appeared in full uniform and I saw him writing the ticket. Then the driver paid the fine and returned to the car. The apparent honor system is something I've never witnessed before. However odd the procedure of ticketing may seeem, I am happy because the driver finally slowed down to only a moderate speeding pace.

I'm inVavuniya till Friday. Interesting to see people out on the streets after 8pm. In Batti where I'm normally based it's a ghost town after 8. I was told it's due to the routine of war times. Today was the first time I saw long tailed wild monkeys running across the street. Still waiting to see the elephants and hoping that I never have the chance to see one of the vairous snakes sliterhing around the island. My colleague said there was a massive one in the office the other day-about 4 feet, though thankfully not poisonous. Sri Lanka is the daunting leader for the highest rate of venemous snakebites in the world. Aside from all the various others reasons why someone may purchase traveler's insurance, the thought of paralysis from a big ass snake was enough for me to purchase a plan.

My insurance purchase was further reinforced when I drove past the local hospital-still very glad to not need stitches!

Avoiding the hospital

2011-06-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

I'm going to blame the fact that I had a bit too much of the local Lion beer at an expat dinner party last night as to I was so groggy this morning and ended up slicing my finger open while cutting a tomato. It happened so quick it took me a moment to realize it was cut, though the sight of my own blood quickly made the alarm bells ring. And there was A LOT of it. The first bandage I put on appeared to work well enough and I carried on cooking until I looked down at the kitchen floor and it was literally covered in blood...I hadn't noticed that the bandage was leaking and it happened all so quickly. That's when I started thinking that I may have to visit the hospital here and I just became exhausted thinking of the idea.

I've been racking up some quality time in hospitals overt the years in facilities ranging from what appeared to makeshift clinics in Afghanistan and shacks on Socotra Island to modern royal health services in Bahrain for a whole load of various reasons...but I still became nervous thinking about being jabbed with a needle here. I could be wrong, but I think the doctors and nurses who have witnessed gross atrocities including natural disaster and war would not understand my whining over a chopped finger. Luckily the house I live in had a well stocked first aid kit so I could patch together a bandage to keep my finger from dripping blood everywhere and eventually it stopped. The difficult thing about it was making sure it stayed clean...which isn't the easiest thing to do one handed, surrounded by kamikaze grasshoppers, sweating and having to find and use bottled water.

But it wad a success and I wad impressed at my MacGyver-like ingenuity. In the end I even made it to the beach and tied a plastic bag around it to prevent it from getting wet. My friends thought it would be good to put it in the sea water, but I staunchly refused. Glad all is in the clear as I travel to Vavuniya in the morning and REALLY don't want to have to think of going to the hospital there. My friend and roommate from back when I lived in Cairo is here and lives there...recently she chopped her hand accidentally on a ceiling fan and decided against seeking medical treatment--I think that in itself gives an idea of the medical facilities here. A little first aid training apparently goes a long way in the field.

Yemen on my mind

2011-06-04T03:52:00.000-07:00

Ahmed 'Yella' in Sana'a

Yemen has been on my mind for the past few months and ever the more so as things appear to take a turn for the worse...at least according to the news. It's not so much the politics, but the people I hold dear to my heart that have been in my thoughts.

After a year studying Arabic in Egypt, I chose to go to Yemen for a job teaching English and to gain fluency in the language-actually the very name of this blog was created when I traveled there in early 2007. With most of my friends taking their backpacks and hitting the well trodden paths of Europe and South East Asia, I went in the total opposite direction and covered up with a black abeya dress in Yemen.

Yemen is comparable to Syria as far as far as the Arabic practice goes because people actually want to use their Arabic and not English...many don't even have the option to do otherwise.

Mostafa of Al Mukalla

If you really every want to master a language, then you have to immerse yourself in it, which is just what I did. Yemenis are notorious for their hospitality and will have you sit in their homes for hours only to then try and convince you to sleep over. You can drop in at people's homes unannounced and they'll immediately have a meal sitting in front of you and prop cushions under your arms and back to make you feel comfortable.
As a foreigner, if you have Yemeni friends, they will come in groups to your aid and/or defense if you ever have a problem. And as I learned from experience; if you are sick, they will show up to your home as a family and bang on your door until you let them in to then sit with you for as long as it takes to ensure you will be okay and feel better.

Khadija who became like a mother to me

So here I am in Sri Lanka, watching events of what appear to be a civil war transpiring in Yemen knowing full well that my friends are there and in some way being affected by the instability. To be fair, they've had experience with wars and instability and brush off the name Al Qaeda-but still that bring little comfort when you care about people.

The vast majority of Yemenis do not care about nor do they support terror networks, though it has taken haven in remote parts of the country and is all Western news sources report on...from what I read and see they never clarify the fact that the AQAP is an unwanted organization and viewed by Muslims as being immoral for what they do. In 2007, I was smoking a narila in the home of my friend Khadija, pictured here, when we heard news of the attack on Spanish tourists in Mareb-a suicide bomber had driven his car into their convoy killing the six Spanish tourists and Yemeni driver. Khadija immediately condemned the attack, yelling haram! (sinful). She then brought out the Quran and showed me the passage written that states Allah condemning violent acts against others. I remember her telling me to tell others in my county that not all Yemenis are like the crazy ones. I have tried to follow through with the promise that I would do so.

What really frustrates me is that the jihadi networks have been so damn blatant all these years and only now does it seem anyone cares. I was there as an English teacher and had knowledge of the training camps and who was involved in the recruitment for jihadis, which makes me question both intelligence networks and political officials who clearly had to be supporting them in some way.

Part of my Yemeni 'family'

It's unclear what will happen in the next year, though the outlook does not look good. The south has wanted to secede from the north ever since the country unified in 1990...southerners often refer to the northern as 'dahabashi' essentially the equivalent of a southerner calling a person of the north a yankee in the U.S.

Niazi and a really big sea turtule at Sharma Beach

The political and economic forecast of the country looks shaky at its best. I'm finishing with my Masters at the end of this year and am in the process of applying for jobs. From the way I see it, at this moment in time my career can take me in two opposite directions and I'm weighing out the pros and cons of a return to Yemen not as a teacher, but in a political or humanitarian role. If tomorrow the opportunity arose for me to return I would not even think twice about returning...I suppose it will happen in sha'allah.

Rosaries are to Catholics just as walking on hot coals is to Hindus?

2011-06-03T10:13:00.000-07:00

Not quite sure if rosaries and hot coals are at the same level of penance, but it's the only way I can comprehend why Hindus willing choose to walk on hot coals. I learned of the coal walking here in Sri Lanka last week and thought I would have to wait some time before witnessing it. I was extremely excited when I received an invitation to attend the ceremony today. There seems to be festivals galore happening at the moment in Batti without a clue why. The rituals of these festivals range from the mundane to the exotic. Some even border on the grotesque. My friend told me she nearly fell off her bike earlier today when she saw a procession of palm trees moving down the road...as she got closer she noticed there was a man dangling upside down hung by rings inserted into the skin on his back.Now that's something you don't see everyday. I think I actually would have fallen off the bike.

To be honest, I do not understand Hinduism-there are just so many Gods to know and ways in which to pay respects for which no one seems to be able to explain it to me. The other day my driver pulled off the road as we drove by a temple and he then put ashes on the hood of the car. I remember being in Nepal and my friend's wife telling me to wear green in the summer time because that was the God Shiva's time to rule and green was her favorite color. But I'm not sure what happens if you don't do these things...or if you forget? Something I do understand is that you must be born into it-you can't convert. The only other religion that has this rule for which I'm familiar is the Druze of Lebanon and again, I don't understand that religion either.

So it's no surprise that I'm still confused about why I just witnessed 6,000 people walk on the coals. Some you could clearly see the pain on their face while other seemed as if it did not bother them. There was one woman who actually strutted across the coals and then immediately fell down in pain convulsing afterwards. No one could accurately explain why they did it. From what I gathered, people make a contract with a God and if they succeed in walking on the coals then their debt is paid. The way I understand it that it's somewhat similar to the penance a Catholic may have to do for their sins...though 10 Hail Marys pales in comparison to the physical act of walking on hot coals.

Coals prepared for the walk


Coals before the event

Preparing the coals for the walk

The lead up to the actual walk was more entertaining than the walking itself. Prior to the walk, the coals had to be fanned, smooted and then surrounded by incense and flower petals. The crowd preparing for the walk were decorated in different colors and some had face paint. They carried leaves that some were stuffing inside their clothes...and they kept taking baths in preparations for the walk. We would sit and wait, then we would hear drums beating and everyone in the crowd started chanting and then the coal walkers appeared in a procession and looked out of there minds...some ran in circles while others seriously looked as if they were in a trance of some sort thrashing their head side to side. Then they started walking...one by one they walked calmly and quickly across the coals. No one yelled, they just walked. It was amazing in that children as young as 4 and old as 80 did it. Some carried their children. The entire distance they walked was approximately 10 fee from what I could see. After they walked they either continued to walk calmly or as other did they ran for water to be dumped on them. One woman fell right over afterwards.

Oddly enough, just as the actual walking began, the battery of my camera died-literally as the first man stepped onto the coals. I was unable to capture all the people walking, which numbered between 6-8,000 and lasted for nearly 3 hours. Though I could embellish this story with some mysticism by telling you that it must have been some divine intervention by a Hindu God...well don't believe this is the case. Instead it grabbing my camera as I ran out the door without knowing if the battery was fully charged, which I'll make sure of next time.

The Tuk Tuk Taxi

2011-05-31T10:17:00.000-07:00

Taxis in Sri Lanka are these fine three wheeled vehicles shown here and more commonly called the tuk tuk. Problem being is that you can't seem to find one after 8pm here. I've been told that people have gotten into the habit of staying home when the sun goes because of their routine during the war. No one, especially the men, wanted to leave home after dark for fear of 'disappearing'.

Luckily I have a driver on call named Raja. His number was given to me and he knows precisely where I live along with virtually every other foreigner in town. As much as I like the service and the unbeatable price of $1 USD a ride, I also like being able to move around on my own...my next step is a bike-preferably pedal with a basket. I brought this up with my an expat here and he assumed I meant a motorcycle not all that bad of an idea except that I would more than likely end up with having to have yet another surgery overseas...and unlike the others I don't think I would want to seek medical treatment here.

Home in Batticaloa

2011-05-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

Batticaloa (more often called 'Batti') is a peninsula between the Bay of Bengal and a lagoon on the East coast of Sri Lanka. Until this September it will be my home. Its beaches are beautiful, though they pale in comparison to the ones in the south. It's hot and it's humid and there is no air conditioning, which makes a wimpy American such as myself appear spoiled. I usually judge how hot a place is by whether or not the locals sweat--her they are drenched, which proves it is pretty damn hot. The other indicator of knowing I'm not exaggerating is the fact that I'm sweating in the shower.

Access to Batti is rather limited in that the road and rail system is very slow. It was the scene of numerous clashes between ethnic groups and rival LTTE factions during the civil war years and Batti, along with its neighbors, are struggling to recover since the LTTE being pushed out in 2007.

Per Rough Guide Travel Guides in reference to the town in which I'm based, " Few tourists make it this far, but there are lots of NGO workers around..." So very true. I pass UNHCR, Unicef, WFP, UNDP, USAID and IOM acronyms daily and was introduced to several staff as part of the local expatriate community. ICRC moved out of the region this past March.
These organizations are of course what can be summed up as 'the Usual Suspects' in any given post or ongoing conflict environment. Especially in regards to UNHCR and WFP, where virtually the entire city and IDP camps were their sole means for survival. What makes the mix so much diverse is the NGO crowd.

Last week I met a group of them over a local Lion beer at the Singing Fish Restaurant and I was truly impressed by all I met and the nationalities they represented. Amongst the handful that I had the chance to speak with: a French woman working with handicapped people; a Scottish woman working with USAID who has been in the country for 15 years; a Macedonian man who weathered the tsunami who now despearately wants to now go and give his experience in Haiti, a Bangladeshi woman who had just come from a remote village without electricity for the past 15 hours, a token Brit and a German who had some rather eccentric stories of his time in Baghdad.

During the conversation the power cut for about 5 minutes and the Scottish woman reminisced with her Sri Lankan colleague saying ( cue the Scottish accent and slightly euphoric talk from 3 litres of beer)...'remember 2005 in Trinco? What this would be a signal for?' She then used her hand to show what was meant for a bomb to fall on the table.

I believe I am at the start of a whole new chapter for my planned book I keep wanting on the personality types you encounter abroad...or at least some entertainment to fill the void of television.

NINJA attack on Sri Lankan mosqitoes

2011-05-30T10:09:00.001-07:00

If you know me well, then you fully understand the hilarity of this.

My uncanny fascination with ninjas can be traced back to an internship I had on the US/Mexico border during the summer of 2004. Myself along with five other students lived in El Paso, Texas for a summer as part of a Border Studies Program offered by George Mason University in conjunction with the University of Texas El Paso. We would cross into drug ridden border town of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico--which has received the dubious honor of being the murder capital of the world.

We frequently traveled to Juarez for a series of seminars, consular visits, internships--at the time I was interning with an immigration lawyer. One of the most interesting visits we had was to sites such as notorious murder houses used by the cartels led by photo journalist Gabriel Cardona. A very interesting charater who collaborates with renowned novelist Charles Bowden for work (just in case you are familiar with the area, these are well-known names of people working on the issue). At the end of the program, Charles Bowden (who everyone calls Chuck) invited myself and a colleague of mine to his home in Tuscon...it was by far one of the most interesting and bizarre experiences I have had to this day and the six hours I spent is a story all to itself. In sum, he's a great man with a lot to tell and was kind enough to treat me to a burger afterwards.

And so I digress...back to the ninjas.

One of the other participants was obsessed with ninjas. He even roped both myself and another participant into making a satire presentation for the head of the program based on ninjas in Juarez. Luckily I only helped with the power point because you could literally hear crickets chirping in the background following the presentation instead of the anticipated laughter. Clearly some people just did not get the joke--understandably so.

I would never fully understand the impact this ninja obsessed man would have on me until years later. It appears his constant ranting of them and forcing me to watch videos of them had some type of subconscious influence on me and has me sitting mesmerized by films with ninja fighting sequences.

So it was no surprise that I let out a squeal of joy when I found this package on a dusty shelf in a grocery store here in Batticaloa. I felt it necessary to buy this package just for the name despite already having a stack of mosquito coils at home. If you're not familiar with mosquito coils...they are spiraled incense that you put on a metal stand, light and allow to burn for hours. The smoke keeps the mosquitos away and its recommended to light them at dawn and dusk when they're most active-especially for those carrying Malaria.

In all seriousness, I give my full support to a coil carrying the Ninja name. I haven't been bitten once since lighting them. Now if I could only find the same thing in spray can form for the roaches...

Tsunami strikes a war zone

2011-05-29T09:54:00.000-07:00

On December 26, 2004, an earthquake with a magnitude between 9.1 and 9.3 struck off the coast off the West Coast of Sumatra Indonesia. It generated a tsunami generating in all directions as far apart as Malaysia and Tanzania.

The 2004 tsunami left three quarters of Sri Lanka's island coastline was reduced to collapsed houses, smashed boats and wrecked vehicles. More than 40,000 people were killed and a million were displaced from their homes. Colombo, Sri Lanka's capital on the West Coast remained untouched.

These photos were taken near Lighthouse Beach in Batticaloa. They serve as a mitigation measure to warn residents that they do indeed live in a tsunami hazard area. The other mitigation measure, known as the 100-metre rule, forbids anyone living within 100 metres of the coast line to build their homes. Fishermen were the hardest hit by this measure and many saw this as a way to claim the land for developers of 5 star resorts. Whatever the motive was, the result impacted the livelihoods of the poorest of the poor. While many involved with the tourist trade were able to comply and rebuild, the rest found themselves without homes and work and were forced into refugee camps.

While international response to the tsunami was heartening, the government contributed very little. Thousands of Sri Lankans became internally displaced people (IDPs) seeking refuge in the north from not only the tsunami destruction, but also from the war that was raging in the north and east.

Perhaps the reason why I bring up the tsunami before going into any detail as to the history of ethnic conflict here in Sri Lanka is that many people very well know nothing of the 26 year Civil War that was battled out in the north and east of the country between the government and Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE)...more commonly referred to as the Tamil Tigers. It was a war between the Sinhalese (Buddhists) and Tamils (Hindus) and gives a vivid portrayal of how mixing religion with politics can even make the belief of Buddhism turn ugly and violent.

And so these two events, the tsunami and war, should give a better idea as to what has brought me here. True, I don't speak the language and it's out of my regional focus of the Mid East, but Sri Lanka provides ample opportunity for me to learn of a country struggling to deal with IDPs in a post-conflict environment along with natural disaster mitigation. More than likely I will be applying what I learn here back in the Middle East...or at least that's what the plan is. Either there or Afghanistan, though I really, really need to weigh the pros and cons with the idea of a return to Afghan nation. The situation appears to be steadily deteriorating. I definitely have my fair share of grey hairs from my former Afghan experience, but I blame 99% of them on having to deal with my nutty boss trying to send me to Kandahar.

As a friend of mine summed it up, 'you seem to live for disasters'. I guess this is true to an extent.

What's up with the URL 'laurenofarabia' when you're not even living there?

2011-05-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

Peter O'Toole and T.E. Lawrence would most likely not approve of my lax reference to Lawrence of Arabia given I have not had the same success on a grand scale to unify Arab tribes as he had.

Added to the fact that I am not even in Arabia. I have, however, previously lived there and even paid homage to Lawrence by visiting the Baron Hotel in Aleppo, Syria in 2010. Lawrence reportedly frequented the hotel as did Agatha Christie. The place is like a relic from another time-peeling paint, creaky floors and the dingy smell that a building from the 1800's can acquire over the years. I doubt the hotel would even be standing if it weren't for it's famous clientele that came there in its glory days.

In this picture at the Baron Hotel, I'm at the bar holding some gin in honor of Lawrence. Aside from the stereotype of all Brits loving gin, I know for a fact he drank gin by taking a look at his bar tab also on display in the parlor across from the bar.

So in sum, the URL will remain the same, www.laurenofarabia.blogspot.com. I tossed around the idea of starting a new one, but there's just too much history on this one to start fresh. Plus let's face it, I'll more than likely be returning to Arabia once again in the future.

Dodging Cows

2011-05-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

I was beyond exhausted during the journey and was surprisingly able to fall asleep from time to time. I am ashamed at how naive I was to the development in the country. I had been warned as to the state of Sri Lankan roads, but the smooth pavement in Colombo made me think that this was a thing of the past. Until we turned right on the road leading to the north.

My driver and I had limited conversation. I did manage to learn that he himself was from Vavuniya and had only returned last year with his two children. The third is working in France. All of them had been refugees in Thailand for three years. As he put it, the guns and fighting...it was all too much. I nodded and looked out the window wondering about the others we passed as we sped along. Wondering what they've witnessed and how they carry on after having gone through nearly three decades of terror.

The size of the potholes are better described as being craters. The roads were so ruined in some areas that in my opinion the only explanation for it had to have been shelling by air. I didn't ask, but the result was pretty clear.

As we drove on the sun began to set. The road we traveled on was meant to be two lanes-one going in each direction. Sri Lankans make this four and use the opposite lane to pass. Added to this are people on bikes and/or walking along side the road, dogs and cows. Fearless cows that seem to wait on the side of the road until just the right moment to step and look full on at a car that is speeding by after passing a truck. The driver has two options. 1. Go back in the passing lane to get out of the way or slam on the brakes while veering off the road. Hitting the cow is never an option as they are considered sacred by Hindus, who are the majority in the north and east of the island-hence whey you find so many free roaming cows. Anyone who has been to India or Nepal knows what I'm talking about. They're everywhere!

When the sun set the driving became what seemed to be perilous. I could not see far in front of the headlights and was shocked every time a person or cow appeared in view on the side of the road. Headlights from the opposite lane made me blind and I wondered how the driver could see. I'm pretty sure he couldn't.

In the end we had a tally of 0 for the number of cows, people, and other cars hit or injured. My first impression of Vavuniya and the north is that it appears to be a separate country in comparison to Colombo. I've lived in developing countries, but never have I seen such a difference in development from one part of the country to the other...think something like Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Both are on the same island, but separate countries. Not the case in Sri Lanka where its that different, but under one government.

My love of Emirates

2011-05-28T09:14:00.001-07:00

I love Emirates airlines. Seriously, if you have the opportunity, you should experience a flight with them. I haven't lived in Arabia for two years but have had numerous layovers in Dubai due to my loyalty to the airline. I think it was the effort to make it look like stars above you with twinkling lights in the roof of the cabin that they put on while dimming all the other that first got me hooked. During On my way to Afghanistan I had the opportunity to be bumped up to business class and it was like a whole new world. The seats reclined into beds and even had massage control settings.

However, this is NOT how I traveled most recently on my journey to Sri Lanka. I was in coach, but it was still extremely comfortable. It was on this flight that I experienced my first flight emergency-not me, but some other man. For the life of me cannot tell you what happened. Gives you an idea of how big the places are-sometimes have a staircase. For the life of me I could not tell you what exactly happened. All the flight attendants were on opposite sides of a the five seat row looking really worried and an announcement was made that if there were any doctors on board to please let them know. I was neither a doctor but was extremely woozy after two sleeping pills and a bottle of wine so I chose to ignore the situation and go to sleep. All seemed fine when I woke up eight hours later.

I've flown the airline enough to be bumped up to their Silver status which allows me access into a lounge. This is not the business class lounge or first class lounge, so I thought it was just a lounge that maybe had some coffee in it. To my surprise it was this massive area with big comfy chairs, a restaurant area, four score meal buffet and open bar. I felt it necessary to celebrate with mimosas. It was bitter sweet in that I began to realize my days of backpacking and crashing on airport floors may very well be behind me...not entirely sure if that's a bad thing.

Sri Lanka requires all incoming flights to have the cabin of flights sprayed in order to comply with their health regulations. When this came over the announcement I thought they had said the outside of the flight until I saw the flight attendants walking briskly down the aisle with a spray canister in each hand that appeared to be erupting with some mysterious spray. I've flown into nearly forty countries now and never have I seen such an odd requirement.

And so I arrived in Colombo, Sri Lanka and was greeted at the airport by a driver who immediately had me on the road for the six hour journey north to Vavuniya...the northern city that served as the front line between during the 26 year Civil War which only ended in 2009.

Qana: A Site Commemorating Jesus and Massacres--South Lebanon

2010-07-30T01:11:00.001-07:00

UNIFIL Base, Naqoura

I was invited to visit a friend of mine in the UNIFIL—the UN Peacekeeping Mission in the Area at its base of Naqoura, an hour's drive from the Southern Lebanese city of Tyre, which sits in a UN controlled zone on the border of Israel—on the firing line as my friend says. To enter the area you need clearance from UNIFIL and the Lebanese Army, the latter I only learned when I showed up at the check point and the Army guards questioned what my intentions were. Usually any guard will let you in without the extra clearance if you hold a UN ID. I had my UNRWA ID with me and so did my friend visiting from the UNAMA mission in Afghanistan.

It’s worth mentioning with Lebanese guards that all depends on the mood of the individual. Apparently that day, that guard decided I should not enter without an extra clearance. He was ranting about a big sign on the side of the road saying non non-Lebanese individual—in all honesty I had no idea what he was referring to. We sat and waited and pleaded and called numbers of people to try and get us through. Eventually a plain clothes officer came and asked what the problem was—we explained our situation, he looked at our badges and told us to wait a minute. 5 minutes later he came to us, returned our IDs and said we could enter—clearly this man was in a good mood and overturned the other guy’s moody decision. can enter the area without clearanceand then went to do some site seeing in the area. The drive into Naqqoura was gorgeous, winding along turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and touring the UNIFIL base was interesting and not at all reminiscent of the UNAMA base I had lived on in Afghanistan.

Afterwards we decided to drive on to nearby Qana for a visit.

Qana, South Lebanon

Jesus was rumored to have hid in Qana and this is the biblical site where he was said to have performed the miracle of turning water into wine. It’s a serene location on a hillside overlooking a valley of goat herders. A cave is tucked away and outside of it is an area where Jesus is said to have spoken to his disciples. Sites for Christians seeking refuge from persecution are spread throughout Lebanon, but it is rare that one should find a site for which a miracle and spiritual leader was said to have spent time.

Oddly enough, I stumbled across this site en route to something else Qana is known for—the 1996 massacre of 106 Palestinians seeking refuge in a UN compound operated by Fiji soldiers working with UNIFIL—the UN Peace Keeping Operation based in the South of Lebanon.

During what was known as, “Operation Grapes of Wrath”, Israel dropped bombs on Southern Lebanon in strikes against Hezballah. The conflict intensified and thousands of Lebanese civilians sought to flee the area and find safe refuge from the fighting. By 14 April, 745 people were occupying the United Nations compound at Qana. More than 800 were there on April 18.
Beginning with the second day of combat Israel had been retaliating within 10 minutes directly at any source of fire discovered by reconnaissance. This tactic was widely discussed in Israeli media, and well known to the Hezbollah fighters and Lebanese citizens.

According to report, on April 18, Hezbollah fighters fired two or three Katyusha rockets and between five and eight mortars at Israeli soldiers near the Red Line (the northern limits of the "security zone") from positions about 220 meters southwest and 350 meters southeast of the United Nations compound. 15 minutes later an Israeli unit responded by shelling the area with M-109A2 155 mm guns. According to the Israeli military, thirty-eight shells were fired, two-thirds of them equipped with proximity fuses, an anti-personnel mechanism that causes the weapon to explode above the ground. As a result of the shelling, 106 civilians died, with more wounded.

A video recording made by a UNIFIL soldier of Force Mobil Reserve (FMR) showed an unmanned drone and two helicopters in the vicinity at the time of the shelling. Uri Dromi, an Israeli government spokesman, confirmed there was a drone in the area, but stated that it did not detect civilians in the compound. The IDF initially and repeatedly claimed that no drone was flying in the area. The truth only emerged when a video filmed by a Norwegian UN soldier of FMR at a nearby hill clearly showed the presence of a drone. The Israelis were aware of their actions at a location which had been UN headquarters for so many years.
I had wanted to visit this site ever since reading Robert Fisk’s book, Pity the Nation. I feel that the souls of those lost to senseless acts of violence should be remembered in some way. Upon entering Qana, in addition to learning of the site where Jesus had lived, I learned of something else I had been ignorant of. Upon asking a man as to where I could find the site of the massacre, he responded, “Which one--the old or new one?” I had no idea there was more than one, so my taxi driver told him, the old one.

As we drove we came to a stone which had directions to the old and new massacre sites, all was written in Arabic. We first visited the new site, 25 grave markers and pictures of men, women and children killed in an Israeli air strike on a building in which they had been seeking refuge during the 2006 war.

Onwards we drove to the old site. Remnants of the UN compound stood and part of the black UN sign could still be read. A parked Israeli tank sat next to the remnants of a building. A man, who’s name was Jimmy (so he said), came with photos and a history of the tragedy that took place in 1996. After having lived through these events, people can become desensitized to what they are experiencing and it was clear that this was the case with Jimmy. He described in Arabic details of the shelling and fires and then showed graphic images of the victims—body parts and mutilations. As he showed the images I physically began to feel ill and tears came to my eyes without my even realizing I was about to burst into tears. He flipped through the photos and all I kept thinking as he showed how they had died was that these were people, these were mothers and fathers and children and they had deserved better. No one even seems to know what happened there and they died in such a manner that you would not wish it on the worst of your enemies.

I had to walk away to catch my breath. I’ve found that I’ve had to do that too many times here in Lebanon.

Nahr el Bard and a Visit to the North

2010-07-29T23:36:00.001-07:00

Nahr el Bard Crisis 2007-today

In May 2007, a three-month conflict between the radical militant group, Fatah Al-Islam, and the Lebanese Armed Forces at Nahr el Bard (Cold River) Camp (more commonly called NBC) in northern Lebanon destroyed the entire camp. Before the start of the shelling, the Lebansese Army ordered the residents of this camp out-- to pack their things and leave—to where no destination, only to get out within 24 hours. The refugees reportedly thought they would return back to their homes and left nearly all their possessions behind. Conflicting stories are told about the exact events of what happened during this time of chaos, but the end result was the same. Areas immediately around the camp sustained severe damage. It was the single largest act of destruction in Lebanon since the end of the civil war in 1990. At least 27,000 refugees were forced to flee and abandon their homes.

The neighbouring UNRWA compound – which housed schools, health clinics and relief offices – lay in ruins, as did homes, commercial properties, mosques and community facilities. All roads and water and sewerage networks were also badly damaged or destroyed.

Nearby Beddawi refugee camp bore the brunt of the crisis. As families desperately sought refuge in the first few days of the fighting, Beddawi’s population swelled from 15,000 to 30,000 almost overnight, with displaced refugees occupying UNRWA schools and community buildings. The massive population influx placed enormous stress on UNRWA’s services to the camp and on the Beddawi residents themselves. The selling population instantly overcrowded the already cramped living conditions. Palestine refugees with any family sought refuge with friends and family who had homes elsewhere.

The Army’s justification for the attack came from their accusations that the radical Palestinian faction, Fatah al Islam, was hiding weapons inside the camp. To my knowledge, no proof of this was every given. It sent a clear message to the Palestinians as to what the Lebanese opinion of their existence in the country was thought to be and what the consequences were for anyone stepping out of line. According to residents, the perpetrators of Fatah el Islam were not residents in the camp. They were using the camp for their own selfish purposes and in the end, thousands suffered.

A donor unit was created by UNRWA in order to raise funds for the rebuilding of the NBC and has achieved some success in its reconstruction efforts. Unfortunately for those afflicted by the crisis, other world events took precedence over the world stage. Soon after the NBC tragedy occurred, the Tsunami hit and the world’s attention became focused elsewhere and has remained focused on other issues ever since. Rebuilding of the camp has begun, but there is a lot to do and not enough money to do it. This is a common problem with UNRWA-too much to accomplish without the funds to do so.

A visit to NBC

In July, I traveled to NBC in order to hear a presentation by a consultant gender advisor on the findings of the situation of gender issues in the North. The North is approximately 1 hour to 1.5 hours to the north of Beirut, outside of Tripoli. This trip depends on traffic and the degree of suicidal speed your driver decides to use. That day, we made it in one hour exactly-which means we were flying and had a few near death accidents on the way.

The talk was interesting and I commend my colleague for overcoming some fundamental roadblocks for the presentation—the power was cut and the temperature was soaring. Power cuts are the norm in every area of Lebanon, including the glitz and glamour of Beirut—people fail to pay the taxes and it’s my opinion that corruption is involved. The difference between Beirut and a refugee camp is the ability to run generators to compensate for the lack of power. Amongst other things found in my colleague’s investigations and audit, it was found that women have increasingly become the breadwinners of the family, but due to conservative views are sometimes not able to work due to negative pressure by their family.

After the presentation, I was able to tour through the camp and visited what are referred to as ‘the Barracks’. These are tin, prefabricated containers with 6 people put inside them to live—peering into the container it seemed 3 people could comfortably live-6 seemed impossible. There are three sets of them spread over the camp, each sub-human in living and vary in their poorness of quality. They consist of a large living space with two beds, a tiny kitchen and toilet. In the 40+C (100+F) heat of summer, these containers become virtual ovens. This combined with power cuts prevent even a fan from bringing some form of relief.

As a result, refugees choose to sit outside to keep cool in the shade—seeking comfort outside rather than inside their home. Still, the refugees extended invitations for a coffee or to come join them. And yet, as I walked through these horrendous containers I was repeatedly offered a coffee or water or a motion to join them in their sitting circles. Arab hospitality that permeates from the Palestinians continue, even when they nothing to offer except conversation.

The people living in these barracks are those who lost their homes from the destruction of the Lebanese Army in 2007. Their families have been refugees since 1948 and now again, since 2007; they are refugees living like sardines in hot ovens during the summer and then freezing in the winter—waiting for their homes to be rebuilt.

We then took a tour to see the old site that had been demolished—I had seen pictures, but the reality of the mass destruction that occurred was shocking. I was also shocked to learn that the Lebanese Army is able to patrol inside NBC; this is strictly forbidden in any of the other 11 other refugee camps, where the Lebanese Army has to sit on the perimeter—the Palestinian factions are in control on the inside. This is not the case in NBC.

My tour continued on to another camp nearby, Beddawi. I accompanied my friend and colleague to a carpenter’s shop, where we interviewed a married couple working together in the profession. It is a progressive idea to have a woman working in a field such as a carpenter, which is almost always dominated by men. UNRWA wanted to write an article on the woman’s activities. I helped assist with translation of Arabic to English and observed the wood crafts the couple produced. It was quite inspirational to see how a woman blazing a trail for her family and other females in the camps to understand that women can work and help bring in extra income for the family.

Murals, drawing and graffiti are common in the camps. One in Beddawi caught my attention and made me smile. On a main street in a Beddawi, a large mural depicts the familiar incident of the famous shoe thrown by an Iraqi journalist at then US President George W Bush. There have been increasing numbers of Iraqi refugees found in the camps alongside the Palestinians; there fore it was not entirely surprising that the shoe incident struck such a chord with the Beddawi residents.

Flashback to Once Upon a Time

2010-07-07T00:18:00.000-07:00

I went through my old blogs and found one I had written when I was in Yemen called, "Once Upon a Time". I re-wrote it with some additions...

I tried to dream of home, but it has become a tangled memory for me. The normal life I knew of the past has changed and my childhood home is as foreign as the lands I’ve traveled to. My comfort zone has changed. People no longer ask when I’m coming ‘home’, rather they ask when I’m going to return…as I’ve proven I nearly always do.

I came back to the Mid East and felt comfortable again and happier than I have in years. I had thought it would be that way when I returned to the USA, but alas time has changed both me and the people who live there. I don’t understand why things are they way they are there and I don’t remember who I was when I lived there. I remember wondering what the Mid East was like…now I know and I can never go back to my naïve self.

The vague memory of my Friday nights involve making plans for a Southside Crawl and wondering if I could hold strong and make it to Bar 11 for the obligatory Long Island Iced Tea. Even a weathered Irish man would be astonished by the amount of alcohol I consumed. O Fries and Primanti Brothers sandwiches were a treat. Visiting my grandmother was a weekly tradition and fighting with my mother seemed to be a mandatory daily occurrence. Having to drive a car to work from 9-5 was the norm; paying $20 for a good meal was not such a bad deal. I supported the goal of my best friend getting married and promised I would be there for the wedding day. I never broke an arm, ran marathons and was always happy to have health insurance coverage from either my family or job. I spoke with a Pittsburgh accent and dreamed of the day I would finally leave the ‘City of Bridges’. The Middle East was a location on the map, a place of violence, wars and hatred towards the West.

I thought that Islam was scary. I thought it was a religion based on violence and wanted to hurt the West. We were to be either with or against the enemy, who was Al Qaeda—no wait, Osama Bin Laden—wait, no better yet Saddam Hussein—or was it Taliban? Did we ever figure that one out??? War for me was men fighting in trenches—and like the action movies I saw on TV. I had never been exposed to how fragile life could be and how in the blink of an eye everything can change.

I have fallen in love with the Middle East—its culture and history so rich and diverse that it has taken years for me to really understand how much there is to it and how much I still have to learn. Islam is anything but scary. It’s full devotion and the basis of the religion is on peace. I really don’t understand why the United States believes the world is out to get them, when in reality many parts of the world feel the exact same about the United States.

Years of living in the Middle East has made me realize and that it’s not just a location on a map; rather it’s an intricate mix of people, cultures and languages brought together in the same geographic location. I see the violence and wars just I saw them in the United States, on television. Except of course in Afghanistan—but that’s a different story all together. My image of hatred has been replaced by experiences of relentless hospitality and curiosity of who I am and where I am from. Being American is identified by a passport, and explaining why I think a certain way is lost in translation.

Fridays involved hearing the local Imam at the mosque with the call for prayer and there is no Southside, let alone alcohol. Beer drinking and Long Island Iced Teas were replaced with sheesha smoking and in Yemen there was always the Qat. Friday became the Sunday in that the work week begins the next day on Saturday. Unless of course you’re in Lebanon, where the Christians are the majority and adhere to their work week.

Visits with my grandmother live now only in my memory along the rosary beads I took from her funeral. If I have the chance to fight with my mother it happens at the most once a week and involves dialing international—sometimes we don’t even know enough about each other’s lives to argue. Planning for my best friend’s wedding was done through emails and phone calls and ended with a falling out when I was not able to attend her special day. I have no car, and I would have a suicide wish or masochistic desire if I were to drive here—except for when I took to the wheel in Bahrain and I was worse than the others. I would seriously flip if I were to pay more than $5 for a decent meal. I have some crazy pseudo-British accent from time spent with foreigners and not speaking English.

Here in Lebanon, I have to worry about my clothes, what I look like in public. In Afghanistan, I worried I revealed too much. In Yemen, I would wake in the morning and conceal my pajamas with my abeya when I left the comfort of my air conditioned home. It didn’t matter if my hair was clean or dirty; styled or un-brushed; long or short; because it was always wrapped in a headscarf, hiding it from the public eye. Women’s legs, arms and faces were concealed in sheer flowing cloth, even on the most blistering of heat days. Yemeni men wear skirts, those of the Gulf wear long dresses and no one blinks an eye, nevertheless if one were to wear shorts a line of curious spectators would form wondering why they would choose to wear that.

I now know what trauma is both in a physical and mental sense. An injury to my back left me in unimaginable pain led me to go under the knife in Taiwan. My limited Mandarin led me to be in tears and also taught me how precious friends and family are int times of need. A near death experience in the sea near Somalia left me with a shoulder that will never be the same. Consoling my colleagues following attacks in Afghanistan and trying to understand the waste of life that occurs on a daily basis is something I may never truly understand or process.

CNN has been replaced by Al Jazeera. Fruits and vegetables are bought by the kilo at a corner produce stand, sometimes at 2 am; no more Farmer’s Market waxed apples bought with a two for one special at Giant Eagle. A caffeine fix is a complimentary Turkish coffee served in a porcelain cup, so much richer, yet so much more basic than the double soy grande skim latte that cost $5 and is served ‘to go’ in a foam cup. Regardless of fixed price tags, the price can always be negotiated.

Aside from Lebanon and Syria, church bells do not ring, even if they did they would be drowned out by the five daily calls to prayer reminding everyone that Allah is greatest and the Prophet Mohammed, his messenger, has written this for us in a sacred book. Praying does not occur privately or just on Saturdays or Sundays, praying here happens everywhere whether it is in a mosque, in a home or on a prayer rug in the corner of a grocery store.

So I ask myself, when did it all become normal and when did I lose touch with my own native home? When did I stop comparing myself to others and realize that I was one of them? When did a language so unfamiliar and cryptic become easy to understand? I love it. I’ve changed. If I compared myself to myself ten years ago, I would not know her. I have come a long way since that time not so long ago when I was a curious teenager living in the Northeastern United States. The experiences, people and places I have had the opportunity to encounter can not be expressed in words nor replicated on film. They exist only in a continuous movie played only in my memory.

As I gain more of these experiences I am beginning to realize that life is a series of events meshed together in a bittersweet symphony that no one will ever be able to capture in shape or form.

And so I continue to live and absorb these experiences, for what purpose I am still attempting, if ever, to comprehend…

4th of July in Beirut

2010-07-06T23:37:00.001-07:00

I was invited to go to the US Embassy as part of their 4th of July
Celebration. I was surprised to get in as it is invite only and the list
had been closed for weeks...however, a fellow American at UNRWA pulled
some strings.

The Embassy in Beirut is tucked away and I was glad to have my trusted and
reliable taxi driver Imad take me there as any other taxi would try to
charge an arm and a leg. Taxis in Beirut-and most of the Mid East for
that matter, do not use meters. It's a system based on negotiation and
understanding of distances while computing prices. Eventually, we found
the embassy and after passing through three layers of security I was on
American soil abroad. The Embassy sits up on a hill overlooking the
Mediterranean Sea. The view is gorgeous--as it should be considering that
all Embassy staff working there are confined to its compound and are
allowed out only twice a week with armed guards.

I have often debated if I would want to work as Embassy staff and after
meeting the employees in Beirut, it became strikingly clear that it would
not 'fit' my interests and lifestyle. I love being abroad--I've traveled
to 40 countries and lived in 5 extensively, however, the reason I enjoy
being abroad is experiencing the culture and meeting new people. Working
for the US government does not allow for much of this, especially in the
ares of the world I'm interested in working.

The party included an open BBQ buffet, a Native American tribal dance, men
in cowboy hats with lassos and to top it off a mechanical bull borrowed
from a place called El Rancho located in the mountains of Lebanon. For an
hour there was a bull riding competition to see who could stay on the
longest and the only indicator that we were still in Lebanon was the 4
minute blackout that occurred--Beirut has rolling power cuts that involved
a generator kicking into gear when the power goes out.

We could see fireworks in the distance and one of the staff told me that
the US is able to save money on fireworks in Lebanon as there is always
some Lebanese setting them off. So very true. Once I had some kids
setting off full out fireworks underneath my bedroom windown when Brazil
won a match for the World Cup.

I've been overseas for the 4th before, but this was by far one of the most
random and enjoyable.

Summer Recreation Activities

2010-07-06T23:36:00.001-07:00

UNRWA in Lebanon has partnered with a Canadian NGO called Right to Play
and is participating in a series of activities for 8 weeks as part of a
summer camp. This is a pilot program and, if successful, will be used in
the future as an after school program. I am tagging along to observe the
activities which begin at 3pm every day.

I was able to go last week to the Ein El Helweh Camp in Saida,
approximately 45 minutes south of Beirut. Ein El Helweh is probably the
most famous camp in Lebanon as it has representatives from all of the
Palestinian factions based inside the camp. It is also the most densely
populated and makes for sensory overload when walking through it.

Something I found to be shocking was a bullet hole next to the inside
entrance of the boy's school that we were visiting. The Fatah
Party--completed with decorations of Yasser Arafat photos--is neighbors
with the school and when there is a dispute with the party and outside
Islamic extremist groups, they often battle it out with fire fight
shootouts between each other--the school is the middle ground.

A colleague of mine who lives in this camp had to be on lockdown for three
days in January when a domestic dispute erupted into what sounded like all
out war fare in the camp including rocket propelled grenades being
launched. So, it makes you wonder, where does a refugee seek refuge?

The day I entered Ein El Helweh, I used my UNRWA ID to pass the Lebanese
Army checkpoint outside the camp. I could hear popping noises in the
distance and my escort told me this was normal there to hear gun
fire--made me a bit uneasy.

Inside the schools I observed the artwork of the children--most of it
focused on the Palestinians history, their hope for a right to return and
the situation in Gaza. I enjoy looking at children's artwork as it
conveys the honesty in what the people feel without the need of
censorship. The drawings I saw were ones depicting the hope that allows
them to endure the suffering they experience on a daily basis.

The children seemed to enjoy the activities very much--laughing and
playing. They liked that I could speak Arabic so that they could talk to
me--this is a skill many of the International Staff lack and the kids love
the opportunity to speak to foreigners who understand them. I attended a
meeting with an Operational Support Officer and Head Master of the school
to discuss issues surrounding the activities and found that there was an
issue with paying for electricity in addtion to funding for supplies. It
seems that all problems are related to money.

Currently I'm tasked by the Protection Officer to collate observation
reports for the Protection Office related to the findings of all 5
recreation locations and is what will keep me occupied for the next coming
days in addition to assisting with a training for all Head Teachers at the
Hariri Canadian University on Thursday and Friday. Originally it was to
be on Saturday, but due to the Ayatllolah's death in Lebanon there was a
day of mourning yesterday that affected the schedule. I must admit that I
am happy to not have to do a 6 day work week!

Work at UNRWA

2010-07-06T23:35:00.001-07:00

A colleague of mine in Afghanistan had been the first to inform me of the
work that UNRWA does. UNRWA-the United Nations Relief and Works Agency-is
based in five locations--Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, West Bank and Gaza--it
provides the primary relief and assistance needed by Palestine Refugees.
It suffers from a severe lack of funding and as a result, nearly all the
programs that UNRWA supports suffer.
I had applied for an internship in both Damascus and Jerusalem, but it was
with personal contacts that I was offered the position in Beirut.

I'm working as an ombudsperson--a link between the camps and front office
in additiont to work as a protection officer. It's overwhelming to say the
least. As an intern I have found myself staying at the office until 6 at
night and sometimes being required to work on Saturdays. The Agency
depends on all individuals to the full extent--therefore, this is a very
'hands on' way of learning.

I've also made several trips to the camps--Borj al Barajni, Shatila, Sabra
and Ein El Helweh. It is shocking when you first see them and I sometimes
forget that the colleauges I have at work return to them on a nightly
basis to live. For me, I can enjoy the life that Lebanon has to offer--for
them their reality is confined to a camp with little hope for the future.

Life in Beirut

2010-07-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

Most of my family was scared to death when I told them I would be spending
the summer in Beirut. Images of war torn times and descriptions of Tom
Friedman's book, From Beirut to Jerusalem, were in their minds.

Reality is, Beirut and Lebanon are more like Europe than the Mid East.
Beirut is one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world and the people
who live here take the time to be as well groomed as possible-looking like
they stepped out of a spa at 6 am in the morning. Women are obsessed with
heels. I went hiking with a group of Lebanese and we had to stop en route
to buy proper shoes because one of the women showed up in stilettos. No
I'm not joking.

Things are quite expensive, as they are in any major city. Getting out of
Beirut in the summer is the norm...Beirut sits at the base of mountains
and once you go up into them you can get a break from the heat and
humidity that is constant.

The New York Times ranked Beirut as being one of the top travel
destinations in the world...I'd believe it. This country has made a
rebound and is only going to be getting better.

Of course the bullet riddled Holiday Inn looks like a massive tombstone
serves as a reminder of how bad things can get. Apparently the Amer of
Kuwait owns the property and just can't decide what to do with the
property.

Work with UNRWA

2010-07-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

A colleague of mine in Afghanistan had been the first to inform me of the work that UNRWA does. UNRWA-the United Nations Relief and Works Agency-is based in five locations--Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, West Bank and Gaza--it provides the primary relief and assistance needed by Palestine Refugees. It suffers from a severe lack of funding and as a result, nearly all the programs that UNRWA supports suffer.
I had applied for an internship in both Damascus and Jerusalem, but it was with personal contacts that I was offered the position in Beirut.

I'm working as an ombudsperson--a link between the camps and front office in additiont to work as a protection officer. It's overwhelming to say the least. As an intern I have found myself staying at the office until 6 at night and sometimes being required to work on Saturdays. The Agency depends on all individuals to the full extent--therefore, this is a very 'hands on' way of learning.

I've also made several trips to the camps--Borj al Barajni, Shatila, Sabra and Ein El Helweh. It is shocking when you first see them and I sometimes forget that the colleauges I have at work return to them on a nightly basis to live. For me, I can enjoy the life that Lebanon has to offer--for them their reality is confined to a camp with little hope for the future.

http://www.unrwa.org/

Helicopters

2010-05-19T13:31:00.001-07:00

If you are ever getting on a helicopter when the blades are already rotating, make sure to have the pilot give you the signal to board and never approach from the rear. This was one of the many pieces of information provided to me in the Security in the Field Trainings that UN Staff members have to take prior to or upon arrival in their duty station. Other information included pertinent information as to how to use your VHF (very high frequency radio) and how to use your watch as a compass. Other is relative to survival and one would hope to never have to actually use the training for avoiding mine fields, surviving a kidnapping, hostage situation or the correct questions to ask a caller informing you that there’s a bomb in your office.

I remember taking the online course thinking it would be a waste of my time until I actually did encounter mined areas and was told that I would be traveling by helicopter to a remote region in the Central Highland region of the Hindu Kush mountain chain, where my new duty station was located. Outside the main cities in Afghanistan—and often times inside the city themselves--there are terrible roads full of bumps, dirt, concrete and sometimes just an open space with some past tire marks. Highway systems do not exist--dirt paths and windy mountain roads are all that the country has and serves as mother nature's natural protection for anyone who wants to seek shelter in the mountains. In the south, it's vast desert roads--open roads leaving travelers sitting ducks for ambushes, which happen with relative frequency to military convoys.

During the winter, many parts of the country are inaccessible and the rate of suicide attacks and insurgent ambushes drop due to the lack of mobility. Locals in the coldest parts are reduced to walking in order to travel and limits how far they can go. Schools often shut as a result because children are not able to walk the long distances in snow from home to school--gives a whole new perspective to your grandfather's story of walking to school up hill both ways. Due to the logistics involved with Afghan travel, helicopters are the most efficient and effective way for many internationals to travel and access remote areas Afghanistan and I had the chance to travel frequently in them. Most of the NGOs and businesses do not have the chance to travel by them, but ICRC, diplomats, spies, UN staff and military are always jetting around the country.

I’m not sure if it was out of total error or lack of flights, but the first helicopter flight I ever took was VIP. I flew with ten other high level UN officials who were traveling to the region for a series of meetings and a short day visit to the Band-e-Amir lakes. They traveled with a Romanian close protection team—translates into men with big guns—and I had to wait until they safely boarded the flight to then get on. We sat in one line on one of the two metal benches lining the inside of the chopper. All the luggage is put in the middle and then tied down with mesh and rope. It's recommended to have an Ipod and definitely to wear the ear muff headsets to drown out the noise during the flight. As soon as the propellers start up, you can hear nothing but the drone of the engine and then after waiting for some time, doing some test starts, the helicopter ascends vertically in the air and you're on your way.

The helicopters operated by the UN are ironically old Soviet choppers. Markings on the inside of the helicopter are marked in Russian and some words in English. The pilots themselves are Russian and I think their English vocabulary equaled about 10 words. I once tried to engage the one in conversation. He smiled back at me with the majority of his teeth being gold plated. You seriously were in the hands of Allah most of the time in the sky.

After I began in my duty station I commuted twice weekly to a remote province named Daikundi in the town of Nili. I have mastered the art of sleeping in nearly all moving vehicles and helicopters proved to be no different. If I did manage to keep my eyes open for the duration of the 1.5 hour flight over the Hindu Kush, I would admire the sharp peaks and beauty of the mountains that passed by underneath.

The thrill of a helicopter ride beats the hell out of commuting by bus any day.

"It's like a dis Looreen..."

2010-05-19T13:10:00.000-07:00

The reputation of my training manager with the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan preceded my meeting her. Everyone seemed to know her and they unanimously had the reaction, a worried and sympathetic look in their eye as they asked, “Oh, and how is that going for you?” One Venezuelan man gasped when I told him who my manager was, “De veras? Estas trabajando por la loca??? After a couple beers this more times than not translated into, “como es el trabajo con la bruja?”

My boss, who shall remain nameless, was a Brazilian woman I’m assuming was in her fifties and severely unstable mentally. She did look good for her age, though I believe she secretly loved Botox. She always wore revealing shirts showing off her obviously enhanced chest saying, ‘It’s a like dat Looreen, they’re real! Everyone thinks that they are fake, but it’s a like dat, they’re real!’ Every bizarre thought she had would always be preceded with her waving her hands saying in a think Brazilian accent, “It’s a like dis…or, it’s a like a dat…"
Unfortunately, she suffers from extreme insecurity and takes it out on her subordinates. Your guess is as good as mine as to how she got to be in the post she’s at and making the salary she does—as a senior manager put it best when he was asking me about her, ‘what a f@!*%ing waste of money.’

I tried to not judge her before first meeting her. I even tried not to judge the fact that she wore completely inappropriate low cut shirts in front of Afghans. I even tried not to judge her when I would be stuck in her office listening to endless ramblings of her thoughts which included her berating other staff members, love for her cat, talk of Moses on a hill, theories on life and death, her passion for Portuguese men and her praising herself for how great a manager she is—going as far as to tell me that most of the staff at UNAMA wanted her as their manager. But I did have to judge her after what she put me through during my initial months in Afghanistan.

Also I did judge when she told my colleague to have all the most important items in her grab bag—passport, money, medications and condoms. The logic of including condoms with the other obviously necessary things is understandable unless she was thinking stress sex would inevitably be needed in the case of evacuation. The fact that I can even attempt to analyze the workings of her mind scares me.

After nearly two months into my time in the country, it was finally decided that I would be deployed to Bamyan. Upon my initial acceptance, I was to be deployed to Mazar e Shariff in the north, very close to the Uzbekistan border—after my shoulder surgery I delayed going and that assignment was given to another. I was later told Bamyan and it was Bamyan that I had originally been told I would be based and was the location I had mentally prepared myself to go to; however, upon arrival in country my boss informed me that I would be going elsewhere—to Gardez. If you paid attention to the news and heard of the suicide attack killing seven CIA officers in a place called Khost then you are aware of where my boss intended to send me. She also told me that she did not have a map to show me where it was located—merely waved out the window saying the helicopter went that way—yes, she was in fact crazy.

After Gardez, I was told I was going to remain in Kabul. I was fine with this until I was then told that I would be going to Herat—a beautiful city on the border with Iran. People were calling me from Herat and asking when I was arriving—everyone was asking except my manager. When I went to her office she informed me that I was not going to Herat, oh no, in a very thick Brazilian accent she informed me, “it’s a like dis Looreen—you are going to Kan-da-har.” I honestly think the floor dropped out from underneath me. Kandahar is the spiritual home of the Taliban, in the thick of the fighting and is NOT the place to be posted, especially as a female, especially as an American and especially as a UN Volunteer making half the hazard pay of an international employee. And especially since in my interview I was specifically told I would not be sent there—I raised this question to her and she waved her hand, “things change Looreen.” What’s changed? I didn’t change. The situation in Kandahar didn’t change. Obviously it was her decision that changed.

She assured me that we would go together—in her own words, she told me that we would go and stay for a couple days and share the same room-toast each other with wine and then I would realize that Kandahar really isn’t such a bad place to be. Of course she herself having been in the country had never been there for herself. To top it off, she then told me I had to go and if I didn’t want to then I could go to Gardez or if I was still would not go then I could pack my bags and go to the US. Mind you there was another English teacher and friend of mine who, upon arrival in country, told psycho boss she actually wanted to go to these places…crazy pants boss told her, “We don’t send women to places like that.” I guess I was different. Honestly, I think she kind of wanted to kill me in some sick passive-aggressive manner.

I did pack my bags and was about to board a plane the next day, not for Kandahar, but for the USA. My awesome friend and neighbor and emotional rock in Kabul learnt what was happening and had an intervention with me and basically told me to go to every high level UN official who would listen to my case and raise hell. And so I did. First to my sympathetic UNV manager—she got the worst of it because I had kept so much bottled up that it came out in a stream of profanity and tears. She herself had suffered abuse from the boss I had.
She then walked me to the boss of my boss (in retrospect, the bureaucracy of it all was quite funny). He is a very understanding man, American and a converted Muslim. Despite the amount of craziness he encounters in the mission he is able to remain calm and understanding. It drove my boss crazy I’m sure.

I sat and first apologized that I was too upset to be diplomatic and for the next five minutes let out a monologue of all that I had endured with my boss. I’m leaving a lot of the details out, but it was complete abuse of authority and, as I reflect, I realize it was close to harassment in many aspects. At one point he sat rubbing his temples saying he did not know how to professionally respond. What was my response? “Well that’s all understandable, but I just thought it best to let you know why I have packed my bags and am ready to depart Kabul tomorrow morning.”

He then called in a colleague of his, they documented what had occurred and it was agreed that my boss was to be reprimanded harshly. I also added in this meeting the fact that I was being harassed into going to the South of Afghanistan, a place I was not willing to go as a UN Volunteer, but there was a volunteer who did. It was agreed that the solution to this was simple—and I would be swapped with the volunteer who wanted to go to Kandahar.
And so, after being told my duty station would be Mazar-Gardez-Kabul-Herat-Kandahar…I was deployed to Bamyan. The place from the beginning I was to go to. As bad as my boss was to me, I kind of feel impervious to office politics now. I mean, I don’t think it gets much worse than your boss doing a smear campaign on you and attempting to send you into the line of fire because they are on some power trip or in some state of mania. If it does, let me know.
I arrived in Bamyan in September and remained until December. Unfortunately for my colleague sent to Kandahar, she arrived and was then evacuated out of the country five days later due to a horrific Taliban attack that resulted in a large number or UN staff to be relocated outside the country.

Recently I began an internship with another UN agency, the UN Relief and Works Agency, in Beirut, Lebanon. Second day on the job I met the training officer who was asking me of my time in Afghanistan. She then asked me if I knew a Brazilian woman working in training there—I couldn’t help smiling when she gave a perfect description of my ex-boss. “Yes, she was my manager.” My colleague gave me that all too familiar look of people who had encountered my boss, “What’s wrong with her? She’s kind of crazy, isn’t she?”

Yes,she truly is.

Shahr-e-Gholgola (City of Noise)

2010-05-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

The ruins of Shahr-e-Gholgola are one of the first things you see when flying into the picturesque Bamyan valley located in the Central Highlands of Afghanistan. From Persian (Farsi) it translates into the 'town of noise'. I have heard it referred to as both the Silent City and Screaming City. The hill it sits on has the remains of what was once a prosperous city from the 5th to 7th Century AD. In 1221, Genghis Khan's grandson was killed in the area and Genghis did what any other blood thirsty Mongol ruler would do in an event that a family member was murdered--he sought revenge and by this I mean blood bath.

Genghis Khan invaded the region in 1221 AD and vowed to kill everybody including every man, woman, child, bird and animal in the valley and, true to his word, he did just that. The scream that accompanied the final massacre gave the citadel of the city the name by which it is often referred to today. The Mongols thereafter referred to it as the Mao Balegh or 'cursed city'.

Tourists can visit the ruins, but it is imperative to have a guide for safety reasons. Unmarked landmines are in the area and the threat of stepping on one is very real.

I saw Gholgola daily in the distance when I lived in Bamyan, but I never did make it to the top of the ruins. Once I, along with three others, attempted to visit Gholgola and had a an unexpected experience. As we began our ascent up the hill, we were intercepted by a very rude Afghan tour leader who seemed to appear out of nowhere--his loud voice and angry tone earned him the name Mr. Scream. He yelled at us in Dari that we needed to buy a ticket and told us we should leave the ruins, go to the tourist office--located a fair distance away--and then return. We had no car and asked why we could not just purchase admission there--for some reason he inisted on us going to the tourist office.

The tourist industry is obviously just starting in the Bamyan valley and there are tickets you can purchase at the tourist office just opposite the Buddhas. The idea is that a tourist buys the ticket and then gains entry to all the sites in the Valley including the Buddhas, Red City and Gholgola. However, the Afghans have not put into practice this procedure and there seems to be no cooridination or instructions posted anywhere informing you of this process.

Randomly, a pious man who spoke Arabic just happended to be hanging out on the hill and after seeing Mr. Scream act like a moron came to us to see what was the matter. Given my basic Dari did not convey my frustration created from the Afghan red tape I was facing, I explained to him in Arabic that I merely wanted to pay admission and could not understand why I had to go all the way to the tourist office. He attempted to negotiate with Mr. Scream, but Mr. Scream was adament on following the procedure of going to the ticket office. The end of the argument involved the arrival of three ex-Mujahadeen fighters--really not sure what there job was, but I believe they were guards at the top of the ruins to ensure everyone had a ticket--whatever they were, they had big kalashnikovs and agreed with Mr. Scream that we had to go to the tourist office. At that point, it was obviously futile to continue attempts at entry--angry looking men with guns was Mr. Scream's trump card.

The Arabic speaking elderly man accompanied us down the hill from Gholgola and he repeatedly apologized for his fellow country men saying all of Afghanistan is a problem. His soothing words and understanding nature soon made me forget the anger I felt from Mr. Scream's ignorance and the mujahadeen's guns. He told me of the countries he had visited while seeking refuge abroad--his beautiful Arabic, which he spoke in a the classic form, was a result of thirty years he had spent living in the Gulf. He eventually separated from our group and walked on, gently counting his prayer beads as he silently reciting a name for Allah for each bead he held between his fingers. Arms folded behind his back, he sauntered off towards his home in the distance. Though he lived near to my guesthouse, I never saw him again. Problems are everywhere in the world, but it's people like him that give you faith that there are good people out there--and can appear unexpectedly when you give up hope of finding them.

The Young British Soldier

2010-05-17T21:41:00.000-07:00

In 1895, Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem entitled, the Young British Soldier. I came across the following excerpt many times during my time in Afghanistan:

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your God like a soldier."

Recently, a modern-day British soldier re-wrote the famous Kipling poem. I think it's worth sharing as it gives a pretty good account of the war today, which I don't believe Kipling could ever predict.

The original:

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

"It's not green."

2010-05-16T03:16:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Kabul four days later than initially expected. Actually four months later if I want to go back to the delay involved in shoulder rehabilitation. But it was the actual day of my departure that was the most frustrating.

I departed Pittsburgh's airport at an ungodly early hour in the morning and then flew to DC, where my flight was delayed. I had to go onwards to JFK in NYC and the delay got me in just in time for a half hour to transfer terminals, pass security and get to my Emirates flight to Dubai. For the record, I did not make this booking--a travel agent for the UN did and I suppose they thought it would be more convenient to fly my twice inside the US before getting to my international flight--who knows.

From there I would take the UNHAS (United Nations Humanitarian Air Service) flight onwards to Kabul. It only operated on specific days. At that time, I thought it was only these special servers granted access to Afghanistan--but now I know there are commercial airlines such as Safi and Ariana--more often referred to as Scariana and was the airline used by Bin Laden to transport loads of heroine and weapons around the country prior to WTC attacks in the US on September 11, 2001.

I arrived in JFK with just the time to spare. In DC, the airline ticket counter had been kind enough to issue me a Emirates boarding card so I would not have to re-check in at the Emirates counter and, theoretically, save me some time. All looked good, right? Wrong.

JFK is crap at signage. Myself and three other passengers thought the air rail would take us directly from Terminal 3 to Terminal 4....instead it took us closer to Manhatten and shaved 15 minutes off the time we so needed to get to our gate, where our flight was in the process of boarding. When we finally hopped trains ran to the security gate and breathlessly handed our cards to the TSA agent in front of the security line, he looked down and handed our cards back saying, 'its' not green'. I was confused and gave the card back. He did not even look this time and again said, 'it's not green'. I then asked what the heck he was referring to. He told me that if it was a real Emirates boarding pass, then there would be a green strip at the top of the card. Instead, mine was white--cardboard, information, name, all the details, but lacking that green strip--he of course did not explain this to me. Only repeated the same three words over and over looking over my head. I was desperate as I could literally see my flight boarding behind him.

I and the others then made a mad dash up a flight of stairs to the counter to get our magic green tickets. The agent made a radio call, then apologetically told us that the gate had closed and we would have to re-book our flight. I was in shock. All I could remember was the 'it's not green man' was missing a front tooth--I wanted to go down and knock them all out.

I was then given two options--take the next flight and wait a two days in Dubai before the next UNHAS flight departed, or fly back to Pittsburgh and take a later flight. I opted for the latter and was re-booked for a direct Pittsburgh-JFK flight. Soooo much better. I even wore green in anticipation of the toothless security guard, but alas he was not there. I can only hope he was fired.

14 hours later I was in Dubai transiting to the UNHAS counter. Honestly, I kind of thought I would be on one of those planes equipped to drop food from the sky. It was not. Rather, I was checked into the flight and sat nervously with a group of UN diplomats flying to Kabul. I surveyed the crowd. Everyone seemed mellow and not really shaken given we were about to fly to a war zone. One in particular stood out as his face and neck were completely tattooed. I later found out he was a Kiwi who worked counter narcotics in Helmand and despite his intimidating appearance, was one of the kindest individuals you'd ever meet. That day I stood clear of him.

After waiting for quite some time, we were herded onto a bus and then took a long ride out to what seemed like another airport where we climbed the stairs of our plane with a big UN painted on the side. Not surprising, the flight was empty. I believe there were about 15 of us. Travel caught up with me and I crashed on the flight to wake up to a view of the Hindu Kush out the window.

Arrival in Kabul. Helicopters were all over the runway. Do I put my veil on or not? I non-nonchalantly tried to observe the three other females on the flight to follow their lead--only one threw a loose veil over her head, so I did the same. I still felt awkward as I stepped out and breathed the air of Kabul--I have gotten into the habit of noticing the smell of a place upon arrival. In Kabul I smelt dirt.

I went through customs and then out to the greeting area, where I was told someone would greet me. Sayed Hamed, an Afghan national and assistant to my Romanian UNV manager, had a sign with my name on it. He quickly greeted me and courteously took my one bag I had brought with me to help me carry it. He then slipped a cigarette into his mouth. Before lighting it, he cocked his head to the side and asked, 'So have you been to Afghanistan before?'. I told him no, first time, and he then lit his cigarette, exhaling and smiling. "Welcome to Afghanistan." Sayed was the first of so many others to repeat that phrase during my time in the Hindu Kush.

Life for the Foreigners

2010-05-15T23:55:00.000-07:00

The #1 thing that shocked me when I arrived in Kabul? There's actually places to go and you can actually have a social life outside of where you work. The presence of the international community along with some very savvy restaurant entrpreneurs realized that they could turn a very good profit off these foreigners coming to work. The restaurant owners also realize that the workers are very well paid and the prices in Western establishments reflect this. All is marked in US dollars--Euro and British Sterling will never be refused.

A diner or drinker in Kabul is able to choose from various culinary cuisines ranging from: Lebanese, French--this on complete with a lit up Eiffel tower--, Mexican, Chinese, French, Italian, American, Afghan, Thai and others that I was only learning of when I left. These establishments were well stocked with booze when I left in December 2009, though I have learned that there have been several raids on alcohol in the early period of 2010. A handful of these restaurants are 'cleared' by the UN's MOSS (Minimal Operating Security Standards) and foreigners living under lock and key are able to go without the added stress of violating their security protocol. MOSS standards include buildings having a barricades and checkpoints into the establishment, a safe room to go to in case of attack, armed guards, blast walls, and a minimum of 8 foot walls along the perimeter.

If someone wants to 'risk it' and, and they very well do, their options open up to even more non-MOSS compliant locales.

There is also a five star hotel, the Serena, boasting a weekend brunch with sushi. Swimming pools (clearly only for the summer months), restaurants and bars are scattered in Kabul. In the early days of the US led operation in Afghanistan, you could visit places without the security measures in place today. Since 2005, a steady stream of suicide bombers trained in Pakistan, have been sent over the border succeeding in their missions and, as a result, the situation has steadily deteriorated and doesn't appear to be changing anytime in the near future.

While no Western equivalent of a fast food chain exists, there are the local versions of AFC (Afghan Fried Chicken) and KFC (Kabul Fried Chicken)--this one even has the Colonel on display though Kentucky no longer exists for KFC Kabul style.

I never tried them so I can't comment on the quality!

Kabul

2010-05-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

Kabul is the main artery into the country. It's a crossroads of Afghan tribes and I heard a statistic once in passing that it's the most heavily armed city in the world--I would believe it. This is not surprising given the amount of US and NATO forces that are based in the Afghan capital. It is a flat city sitting at the base of the Hindu Kush and it is the mountains bordering the city along with the thick layer of brown haze that you first see upon descent into Kabul International airport.

Kabul was once lined with green trees with orchards on the outside of the city full of delicious fruits, juicy apples and plump almonds. Then the Russians came and decided it was more important to use those trees as firewood. Kabul today is a dust bowl of urban sprawl in an arid and dry climate. Respiratory illness from the dirt and pollution is common.

Kabul International Airport is located near downtown and its entry way is decorated with a fighter jets and the remnants of a rocket attack. From my time that I spent there, the amount of security at the checkpoints continually increased and you are now greeted far from the airport by men with guns and a tank.

After you leave the secure barricades of the city it's a patchwork of life. Bikes dodge through lanes of traffic that change in number and direction quickly. Streets are lined with shops selling goods and many shoes always seem to be for sale on the sidewalks. Women in burkha walk by as do women with only veils--both seem to like to wear heels. Men and boys run through traffic and play in dirt piles and all seem to be wearing the chalwar kamiz dress. And there are several men wearing sylish, pointy Italian shoes with shiny polyester shirts complete with uber amounts of hair gel.

Stalls of fruits and vegetables are on the sides of the road--when I was there there were always melons. Big melons that never seemed to go down in quantity. Go out at 2am and you'll find a guy selling a hundred melons--that or big hunks of naan bread. Naan is round flat breads baked fresh and can vary in sizes from 6 inches to 2 feet of goodness. Bread shops always have a man furiously kneading dough and taking the breads out of the oven...they are stacked in the windows to be sold or hung around the windows of the shop. The going cost of a 2 foot piece of naan will cost you roughly .50 cents.

Afghan cars are unique in that I believe it to be the one place in the world where you find cars with with steering wheels on both the left and right. That's not to say that a car has two steering wheels, but you will see some cars going by with one or the other. I suppose it's whatever they can get into the country. Given that there's barely a functioning government, I think that the placement of a steering wheel is the least of the country's worries.

After passing the shops you begin to see very high concrete walls lining both sides of the street. These are blast walls, built to withstand bomb detonations. Often the top of these walls will be complete with large loops of barbed wire and the rule is for the walls to be a minimum of 8 feet in height--making it difficult for anyone to jump them.

Upon entry into buildings frequented by Westerners you also have to pass through several security checkpoints. If driving, you may be stopped far outside a building in a little garage surrounded by sandbags while your ID is scrutinized, the bottom of your car is evaluated for any bombs along with under the hood of your car. If you pass that, then you go through several barricades before going through another two sets of security screenings complete with men with guns watching you from above in guard towers, just in case.

Mind you, these are the places where 'hard targets' work and live. For the rest of Kabul, you can enter with relative ease and if it's an Afghan establishment, the security restrictions do not apply.

Why on earth would someone travel to Afghanistan?

2010-05-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

Despite what is shown on virtually every media outlet, tourists are visiting Afghanistan. Let me repeat myself in case the first line is not fully understood--tourists are visiting Afghanistan and it's not to see grisly battles or dodge suicide bombers. Adventure tour companies will arrange for short one day tours to week long ventures into the various areas of Afghanistan.

What about the war? Yep, there's fighting, but it's mainly isolated in the Southern regions of Helmand, Kandahar and along the Eastern border with Pakistan--listen closer to the news reports when they announce where incidents take place and you'll notice a trend. All these places are where the Pashtun tribe is dominant. The lines of Afghanistan are drawn by outsiders in order to contain and govern the country. Afghanistan itself is tribal. That line between Afghanistan may as well be drawn with chalk or invisible ink for that matter given that the Pashtuns in Afghanistan are the same as the ones in Pakistan. But they are aware that by crossing the borders they are exempt from the governance 'laws' of the country. It's a tribal system that exists and always will.

Afghanistan is, in fact, one of the most breathtaking places a traveler can ever imagine. The hospitality of the Afghan people and readily available, potent hashish brought long haired hippies in droves back in the 70's while they wanderlust took them on a path for their Shangri La in nearby India and Nepal. For the record, the hotels from the past are still operational and waiting for the day when visitors return once again.

The Band-e-Amir Lakes are one of the hidden gems in this country. Local folklore gives a history as to why these lakes exist in the middle of the mountainous desert they are found. The lakes are inaccessible during the winter months. Band-e-Amir translates into the the Lakes of Commander--a reference to Ali, the first Imam for the Shia sect of Islam. The six lakes roughly translate in to the following:

Band-e Gholaman (slaves)
Band-e Qambar (Caliph Ali's slave)
Band-e Haibat (grandiose)
Band-e Panir (cheese)
Band-e Pudina (wild mint)
Band-e Zulfiqar (the sword of Ali)

The were created by the carbon dioxide rich water oozing out fo the faults and fractures in the surrounding rocks; however, the Afghans have much more romantic explanations as to why the eerie blue waters exist that include divine intervention and swords being struck in the ground.

This is not to say that there are not limitations or difficulties to traveling in Afghanistan--there most definitely are. But there also is a possibility of visiting a fascinating part of the world known to the West only as war.

The Bukhari

2010-05-14T12:49:00.001-07:00

I've been told the one good thing about the Afghan South is that it is warm in the winter. For the rest of the country it's cold. Damn cold.
The difference between damn cold and next to unbearable cold is the fact that Afghanistan also lacks indoor heating...or good insulation. Plus, there's power cuts. A recipe for some intense shivering especially at night.
And if you're in the Central Highland region up in the mountains in the center of the country, then you are guaranteed to freeze. It's acknowledged and accepted that -30C is the norm during the winter.

And that's when you need to meet the bukhari. A rudimentary heating system conisising of a metal stove, a piping to let the exhaust out--preferably a chimney, but an open window will do as well--saw dust, oil and a match. You light the bottom of big pile of saw dust and it burns thru the night. Surprisingly, it kicks some heat, or rather the one I had in my bedroom did. A friend of mine said she could have straddled hers and still would have chattering teeth.

It's a major fire hazard, environmentally unsafe and a saving grace for the hundreds stranded in the freeze of Afghanistan. The second would definitley have to be Vodka--Russians were truly on to something and is probably the only good thing they left in their wake of withdrawl back in 1989. Of course, copious amounts of Stolichnaya do not even begin to compensate the number of trees cut down by the Russians for firewood that has left Kabul the virtual dust bowl it is today.

The bukhari is not illegal or able to be confiscated by Afghan police raids, too--so, its you most reliable method for staying warm in the dreaded winter months of Afghan Nation.

International Day of Peace: September 21, 2009

2010-05-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

A series of peace activities were scheduled in Kabul in response to the International Day of Peace. Even the Taliban acknowledged the day and promised a cease fire in respect to the day's intentions to bring a hault to violence. UN vehicles proudly drove the streets of Kabul with blue and white doves symbolizing the event and loads of preparation went into preparation for the event. I'm sure the money could not have been spent in any other well deserving capacity. Nevertheless, a series of events ensued including a kite flying event at the UN's compound on Jalabad Road. Oh how proud Khaled Hosseini would be in that the title of his well-known book, the Kite Runner, did indeed live up to its expectations. Of course there was no kite fights or cutting involved.
It did leave us with a good feeling after the event, maybe just in that it lifted the monotony of our daily lives on the compound. As I walked back to my office a very large explosion could be heard. Usually this is followed by a SMS text informing you that it was only a test--what exactly they were testing I was always curious of. Sometimes at 11pm I would hear machine gun fire and explosions and these sounds would always fall into the background with the reassurance of receiving that beloved SMS telling you it was only a test.
But that day it was not a test. Rather it was a suicide attack on a NATO convoy led by the Italians. I believe 9 total were killed. One, as we later learned, was the brother of a dear colleague of mine. He was on holiday from Pakistan visiting his family in Kabul.
We initally learned the news over lunch. The head of engineering and a security officer I was with began received text messages informing them to do a head count on staff--to track any UN victims. I was always amazed by the poise of the security officer. He very calmly finished his sandwich, stood up and steadily excused himself telling us he was going to go freak out.
I returned to the office and my manager was nowhere to be found--not surprising--so we had to account for all on our own. All were there except for one colleague who we knew was to be going to the Indian Embassy that day to get a visa. That being the location near to where the bombing took place. I called her number to check if she was okay--no answer. I tried to reassure myself that she was okay--that she did not answer because they had cut the telephone lines. IED (Improvised Exploding Devices) are often set off by mobile phones. If there is an attack, a nearby military convoy or threat of explosion the lines are cut to prevent detonation.
We all sat in our office tensely for what seemed forever and we then heard the click clack of our colleagues heels. She had missed the blast entirely and we carried on with our day as we always did. Put that event on the back burner. No time to think about it as another event would come. This was our reality.
As an addendum, this did not happen on the scheduled International Day of Peace--but did occur during Peace Week. The Taliban held true to their promise and no such event occurred on 9/21/2009.

Reflection on Afghanistan

2010-05-11T21:28:00.000-07:00

I did not blog in Afghanistan. I should have, but I did not. You could blame it on many reasons, but in retrospect I believe most of my mental energy was consumed by stress. That combined with the fact that the Internet was repeatedly down, websites were repeatedly blocked--or the recurrence of power cuts made it quite the task.

Decompressing from life in a war zone is not easy. I truly believe if you are to survive, then you have to mentally remove yourself from reality. If you don't, then you risk breakdown and all too often you see your colleagues go through it.You see hear and feel the reality of how fleeting life can be from the bombs exploding and land mines that are marked. You see the flares set off by planes to divert rocket launches and wake to your windows shaking from a suicide blast that was clearly not far from your home. Text messages assuring you that 'the machine gun fire you are currently hearing is only a test'--and this becomes your reality. You joke of always having your grab bag ready--15 kilos of your most important items in case you have to evacuate immediately--and sometimes you actually use it. I did and actually re-enacted the opening scene of MASH by running for a helicopter to get out of a remote area due to a colleague who had lost his marbles--he was not able to remove himself from the reality like I mention above.

The worst of it is when you go to someone for comfort, more like search for someone who can be a source of it. But alas you never find that person. They too need someone to assure them that it will be okay, but in a fluid environment that changes without warning assurance is a luxury that no one can afford. Everyone is scared and if they say they're not then they're a trying to be proud.

The most chilling is when you receive the warning that an attack is imminent or that a vehicle known to have a bomb in it is on the loose in your city. Or when you hear your colleague's home has been attacked--knowing you had been in that area only an evening or week earlier having dinner and you could have been victim. Your only crime? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I think the worst of it is that hope has left the country. Everyone you speak to has the same reaction when you inquire as to the future of the country. Often they shrug their shoulders and tell you Afghanistan is war. That's all they know at this point. 30 years of it and it won't end any time soon. I hope for the peron who can bring that hope and faith so desperately needed by the people--I can assure you that Karzai is not that person. His opponent in last August's election, Abdullah Abdullah, did give many a flicker of hope in their eyes. But alas, corruption won once again and Karzai is still in his posh palace assuring Western leaders they have his full support.

Many ask me what the solution is to it all and my response would be the same as all the policy makers--not a clue.

That being said, Afghanistan is also a place of beauty and hospitality that does not exist elsewhere. The whole of the country is not at war. You can literally draw a line in the country between the north and south and determine where problems will arise. It is the south where the fighting exists the most--centered around the Pashtun tribe and poppy fields. In the north, it is quite calm. You can see some of the most spectacular scenery from the mountains and also see the eerie blue waters of the BandAmir lakes.

Hotels do exist and the owners wait endlessly for the return of the travelers who in the '70s used to come following their wanderlust on the 'hippie trail' leading on into nearby India and Nepal. Adventure tour companies cater to the intrepid tourists, though there is a hefty cost.

I leave with one last clarification--not all the women are wearing the burkha and I for sure did not have to do so. As a non-Muslim female you do not even have to wear a veil--though it is the de rigeur of nearly every female you encounter.

I'm sifting through my notes and journals and will write more of my days in Afghanistan--though it will be in reflections. I'm still trying to understand things that I saw and forget some of the feelings that I felt--though I understand that I never will.

Surgery in the Middle East

2009-07-30T03:38:00.000-07:00

Almost one year to the date of my spine surgery, I had to once again go under the knife. I thought only had a dislocated shoulder, but it turned out to be a Grade 5 separated shoulder. This is the type of injury rugby players usually get. I knew from the bulge coming out of my shoulder that it was bad, but it wasn't until I saw the x-ray image that I realize how bad it really was.
I left Yemen early in order to seek medical advice in Bahrain. I was glad to leave the bastard Wagdy behind in Socotra, he deserves to be dubbed worst island guide ever. One of my former Yemeni students was my flight attendant on the plane and he sat with me on the flight to let me know what he was doing with his life. Amazingly, he knew a miracle working doctor 45 minutes outside of Sana'a who could apparently fix me. As sweet and tempting as this offer was, I had to decline...the amount of pain I was in combined with the thought of having to get into an abeya dress and wear burkha and the drive to and from this doctor was too overwhelming for me.
Upon arrival at the airport in Sana'a, I tried to get a flight to Bahrain that night, but was not able to get on a Gulf Air...the only one was Yemenia and I would lose money. Flashbacks of being robbed by that airline came back to me, so I instead decided to wait one more evening before returning to Bahrain. A colleague of mine from Cairo is a freelance journalist in Sana'a and she offered to take me to the Saudi German hospital there to get checked out. I have to admit that my entire time in Yemen, I never once had to go to the hospital aside from when I had to get a mandatory HIV test in Aden. Now I was becoming well acquainted with nearly every medical facility imaginable. The doctor at the hospital agreed with the Soctori doctor that I would need surgery. As if to ease my anxiety, he then pulled up all these photos of metal plates as if I were going to say, yes! Let's do it right now!
Upset by it all, I returned to Bahrain the next day. I rented a Hertz car at the airport and was upset to not be able to turn off the hazard lights. I actually started screaming as a result, I think that all the stress went to my head. I drove to the American Mission Hospital where a jack ass of a doctor looked at me and said I was fine. He took some nursing tape and taped my shoulder...not even binded it...just taped it and then told me to come back in two weeks. He was Asian and for some reason it made me feel good I suppose due to the surgery I had in Taiwan. The next day I realized that the bump on my shoulder was still pretty damn bad so I sought a second opinion...I mean I couldn't even tie up my hair, so I had to cut it super short.
I went to another doctor and sure enough with the new set of x-rays I was in need of surgery. I was scheduled for surgery at the Bahrain Defense Force hospital where they boast about giving Royal Medical service...my surgeon was always in military fatigues and when I was in the operating arena he was wearing a camoflage dew rag.
I had to have a reconstructive shoulder surgery with a metal plate put in my shoulder. Six months later the plate can be removed...it holds the bone in place to repair the fully ruptured ligaments.
An absolutely amazing colleague of mine drove me to and from the hospital and even gave me a teddy bear with a ribbon sling for support. If it were not for her, I think I would have completely lost it. It's not easy having surgery...but try having surgery without any kind of support network in a foreign country. It's not easy, but I think I'm going to be a pro soon.
In the end, the surgery was a success. I underwent physical therapy with a man named Socrates and oddly enough he was from the Philipines with absolutely no connection with Greece. I still have a metal plate, but it is set to be taken out in October or November...I'll return to Bahrain in order to have it done.

From Taipei to Bahrain...to Cairo...to Socotra and a shoulder 'incident'

2009-07-23T04:19:00.000-07:00

In late November of 2008, I left Taiwan and took a six-month contract in the Kingdom of Bahrain. My reason for leaving came from my feeling unsettled in Taiwan, not liking my job hours and having an incident with my manager, who basically ordered me to obey his ridiculous requests and hung up the phone on me. Life is too short to stay in a place where you don't want to be. So, I quit my job and hung out on an island called Penghu, where I swam in the sea and drank Taiwan beer. Within a week I had a job lined up in Bahrain.

Where is Bahrain? This is most likely the first question that pops into your head as it surely was mine. To give you an idea, it is a tiny island located in the Middle East right off the coast of Saudi Arabia in the Persian Gulf. There is a huge US Naval Base, which provides key support in many operations in the area.

For six months I worked at the International School of Choueifat as a Primary school/English teacher. Teaching children in a culture that virtually stresses no discipline and has no consequences is not the easiest of tasks; however, I survived.
When I first arrived in Bahrain, I learned that I would be given a month-long paid holiday. Many jobs don’t boast such a perk. I took advantage of my location and booked a flight to Egypt, where I spent the holidays. Strange to think how Cairo has become a second home to me now. I enjoyed spending the holidays with friends, but I was truly homesick. After I accidentally dropped the host on the ground at Christmas mass and the elderly priest nearly keeled over picking it up and then almost setting the church on fire when I tried to light some candles really put me off. I guess it is just a time when I may want to return home.

My only vacation during this time was to be a brief 10-day vacation on the deserted island of Socotra…owned by Yemen, but located closer to Somalia. I traveled by myself and the first few days were glorious aside from the pain in the ass tour guide named Wagdy. On the fourth day of travel I had an accident in the ocean. I was picked up by a wave and slammed down on a sand bar. When I came up from the water, I realized that my collar bone was jutting out. I was ‘rushed’ to the hospital (by this means a one hour drive on bumpy roads) braless and with sand on my face and wet hair blowing in my face.

I was rushed to the one room emergency area where a Russian doctor told me in broken English and Arabic that I needed surgery…this was upon just looking at me. I insisted I needed an x-ray, so they took me to the x-ray shack, which was locked. They gave me a plastic chair and I sat in the shade and waited. Finally, the man who was sleeping inside next to the x-ray table opened up the door and I, along with five other men, were in the room having some x-rays from the 1950s developed. I think my ovaries were radiated, but in situations and pain that I was feeling, I really didn’t care much. The x-ray did indeed reveal a break and a man ran from the x-ray shack to the emergency room ( a dingy room with two beds and a small desk) to show the doctor. I along with the doctor, tour guide, driver and random onlookers all stared at my x-ray illuminated on the wall. Again, the Russian man re-affirmed, “Surgery.” He then told me to leave the island. In the meantime, he chose to wrap my upper torso like a mummy with ace bandages. I told him that this just was not feasible, so he asked for a sling. Unfortunately, the latest shipment of slings was held up in Al Mukalla on the mainland due to pirated waters and would not be there for the next month. The solution to it all was to take the head scarf from my tour guide and make a very basic sling to support my arm. Rock on third world medicine!

Now in any other location a flight out would not be a problem, but Socotra is special. Flights to and from the island only operate on certain days. Mind you, my accident took place approximately 7am on a Monday apparently there is a flight that departs Mondays at 1pm; however, my brainless tourguide assumed that perhaps I wanted to stay in Socotra despite my collar bone sticking out of shoulder. When I asked him what days the flights left for Sana’a, he responded, “Mondays and Fridays.” Common sense would make one then ask if an injured person would want to leave, but oh not Wagdy. It was not until I was in the home of my driver when I learned of the departure time. By then it was too late to get on the flight. My driver, Ahmed, was kind enough to take me to his home where his family took care of me. I was put on a mattress in the corner of a room which served as a living space for a family of about 15. All of the women sat around me watching my every move to see if I was okay. The best part of it was that Wagdy was not allowed to enter the home because of the women present, a much needed break. The women insisted I shower, which proved unbearable in pain due to the severity of my injury.

I was escorted to a 4x4 space with a bucket and a toilet in the ground where I had to pour water one handed over me to try wash the sand from the sea off. There was no door, only a sheet which kept blowing around in the wind. I later had to use a stone to keep it in place. I could hear the women and children outside all wondering what the problem was with me. Every time I moved my arm I would lose my breath from the severity of the pain I felt. Finally, I finished the hefty task of showering, carefully redressed and walked out. Almost instantly I was surrounded by no less than twenty women, all wanting me to sit and read them English from an instruction manual of a television. It was obviously the highlight of the week in this little village, if not the year. I read about five lines and then insisted that I had to go to sleep.

By this time word had spread through the village that an injured foreigner had arrived in the village and the women were filling up the room to the point where they had to stand in the doorway. I could communicate with only two other women in Arabic because the rest only spoke a dialect of the island called Socotri. One of the women had what I thouth to be green henna all over her face. I found it odd given that when the green power is removed a red stain is left; however, she corrected my mistake by letting me know that it was some other kind of herb that protected her skin from the sun.
Food arrived, rice and beef. As unpleasant as an injury can be, it is even more unpleasant when fifty women are sitting around watching every move you make and especially while you are trying to eat. One hundred eyes watching your every move makes you lose your appetite a bit and is not very nice.

I suppose Wagdy got bored because I was then told via Ahmed that we had to leave. In retrospect I can now see what a naïve ass that Wagdy is. We left the home, myself showered and strapped in a blood stained sling lent to me by the family to go on dirt roads up a mountain and camp for the night. As soon as we got to the camp Wagdy flopped down on a mattress. Oh how I hated him. At that point I didn’t even care to hide it. I insisted I be put on the next flight out, which turned out to be two days away on a Wednesday.

I spent the night with other campers, a couple from Barcelona and an eccentric British man with an obsession with birds. The woman from Barcelona was a pharmacist and gave me some strong pain killers that undoubtedly saved me from killing Wagdy. After a nice dinner and a drum session played on used oil containers, I went to sleep in a tent and was feasted upon by vicious mosquitoes.

The following morning I returned to Hadibo, the main town and that evening I went to a local woman’s home on the recommendation of Wagdy. As it turns out, it was the only good thing Wagdy did as this woman had the most amazing talents with henna. We showed up at 7pm and she worked on my arms for three hours drawing intricate lines in black hair dye and later filling them with red henna. A woman came by to visit and told me she could have me engaged to her brother, I kindly declined the kind offer.
The following day I took an Arabia Felix flight to Sana’a. I could not believe it when I realized one of the flight attendant was Bast, a former student of mine from Sana’a. Then again, nothing comes as much of a surprise in Yemen to me anymore.

Ya Salaam, she's alive! And back from Boracay!!!

2008-10-27T08:08:00.000-07:00

After a load of emails asking about my blog, I've decided to update the damn thing. Truth be told, I'm extremely busy...namely due to a crap schedule I have for work, but hopefully it will be changing soon.

After six months of non-stop work with ridiculous hours, I took a vacation to the Philippines...to Boracay island to be exact. It's a little bit of an effort to get there, but once experiencing those turquoise waters and power white sands it's well worth the travel time. Only access to the beach is by little jetty boats, so you have to fly into the nearest town of Caticlan after arriving in Manila. From Caticlan you can take the jetty boat. Another way to reach the island is to again first fly into Manila, then fly to Calibo and then take a two hour bus ride to Caticlan where you can finally get the jetty taking you to Boracay Island.

Boracay is boasts powder white sand beaches and crystal clear waters that take on an amazing turquoise color in the sun. The island is quite touristy but the people are laid back and friendly. The San Miguel beer is flowing; beach massages are plentiful; and life seems to come to a standstill while you enjoy one of the most gorgeous beaches in the world.

Some pictures

2008-07-21T03:43:00.000-07:00

I've spent most my time in the capital of Taipei, Taiwan which can proudly take a spot on the top ten list for cities that never sleep. I'm starting to travel more around the island...here are some shots from places I've been so far...

Natural Disasters, Children and Zen

2008-07-21T03:18:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the North Eastern United States, where the winters can be quite harsh. I remember waking up early in the morning to watch the list of school delays and closings and becoming ecstatic when I saw my school's name listed (which was usually once in a blue moon due to the sadists that were in charge of the school district). Here in Taiwan, it's much the same only for typhoons. This little island gets pelted by heavy rains and strong winds during the summer months...my apartment comes with bars on the windows for typhoon debris not burglar protection. Apparently there was a typhoon that hit Taipei last Friday, but it was a let down as I still had to work.
Earthquakes are the other natural disaster that are common to Taiwan. To date, I have only physically been in one earthquake, and that was while I was sleeping. I blame it on some uber strong sleeping pills I was given in the hospital, but truth be told I am able to sleep through an earthquake. The medal for sleeping, however, belongs to a former student I had in Yemen who apparently slept through a bombing.
I am in a two week summer break from my normal classes, and I need it. While I went through a month of insomnia due to my sciatica I actually wanted to murder children...after I became rested again I am back in action. However, I am appalled at how spoiled some of these children can be! Therefore, I am happy to have a bit of a break. I've also started teaching little kindergarten children in the morning...cuteness! I have already fallen in love with them.

I am finally settled here in Taiwan, but as always I'm planning what will be coming after my contract expires in March. Ideally I would like to return to the Middle East, my Arabic is failing me big time. It's a bizarre mix of Mandarin that comes out now. I have found several good offers in the UAE, and as long as I don't plan to be having sex on the beach in Dubai (crazy Brits were busted for this recently) it will be a welcome change from the conservative nature of Yemen. The more and more I keep thinking, I need to get back to grad school so I can begin a career outside the realm of teaching. I enjoy it, but it's a way to pay my debt and get experience abroad...I never expected to do this for the long term. I do have to admit, it's extremely rewarding.
At the moment, I'm the happiest I've been in quite some time. I was burnt out in Yemen, and the whole ordeal with my back p ut me into tears for months. I've met a good group of people here in Taipei, and am enjoying life again. I keep thinking of some other people, all of them expats, who I met while living in Egypt and Yemen. When put in such a stressful living environment, you can become close and form bonds stronger than you do with people you may have known all your life. While I have kept contacting with many, there are a few that I have lost contact with. I know that if our paths were to cross again, there would be no hostile feelings...just a curiosity to know what they have been up to since last seeing them. Then there are those, that you know, no matter what your paths will never cross again. It's strange how I can sit here with some awesome memories, but realize they're only memories and that the people I was with can never be reproduced. I guess it's the people you know that you can hit the rewind button with that are the precious few that you should hold on to.

Quarter Life Crisis

2008-06-23T06:26:00.000-07:00

So yes, this is my quarter life crisis. While many questions run through my head, I also have come to many realizations and understandings...

1. I hate humidity.
2. I hate teaching children...they're cute, but they need to listen. I now
understand why the nuns in Catholic schools always carried a ruler.
3. Frank's Red Hot is undoubtedly the best hot sauce ever. EVER!
4. I will never be happy with a 9-5 job.
5. I could give up expat life following the next election ~or~ may not consider it
until 2012.
6. True friends and family will provide the support and help for you when you need
it the most, and expect nothing in return.
7. I am addicted to watching Desperate Housewives.
8. I think I killed myself in a former life due to lack of air conditioning.
9. I could live on fresh pineapple.
10. The existence and availibility of Lavazza espresso and Merlot is proof there
may be a God.
11. While the majority of foreigners who choose to live abroad are quite
interesting, there are an equal number of socio paths and those rejected in
their home countries seeking refuge abroad. That, or they're running from the
law.
12. Choose friends wisely as sometimes it's the one ones you thought would be there
forever who are the first to forget.
13. Duct tape can repair just about anything.
14. Money is not everything, but it sure does help when you have some.
15. Nostalgia is a double edged sword...you feel bad to remember and even worse
when you realize you've forgotten some fo the details.

Much more can be added, but those I'll keep for myself. These rambling thoughts of nothingness were conjured up from my over-availibility of time on my hands. I have been ordered by the doctor to rest while my back recovers from surgery. As a result, I am not allowed to be as active as I used to be...at least not for another couple months. Time has been spent reading, sleeping and meditating and I have had time to reflect on what it is I actually am doing with my life now and have come to the realization that I am currently going through a quarter life crisis.

Up until this moment I have studied, traveled and worked my ass off on what could be dubbed, the 'Road Less Traveled'. I know that I should be able to land a job easily with my language and experience...problem is that the careers I'm bound for don't exactly list help wanted ads in the Sunday Classified Section.

Taking time away from constant Arabic study was wise just in the fact that I now understand what area I want to focus on...a professor once described our perception as a gold fish in a bowl. Unless you take the fish out of the water and say, 'hey look that's water...it's what you live in', you never come to a complete understanding as to what your surroundings are.

Now the question remains as to where I am headed. My contract is due to expire in March 2009, and I highly doubt that I will be staying in Taiwan longer than that. One of my main goals next year is to get to Damascus and hopefully find work there...most likely I will first return to Cairo and then go to Syria after.

At the same time I am attempting to break into the world of writing...which at the moment feels like I am bouncing a tennis ball off the wall and having it repeatedly hit me in the head. I'm preparing an application for a Fulbright Grant, planning to take the exam for entrance into the famed Arabic language CASA program and tossing the idea around of grad school. I know that I can return to Pittsburgh for a Master's Degree with funding provided for...but my heart is set on programs at NYU, Berkeley and Georgetown.

And I'm planning to apply for the Foreign Service...between 2004 and 2005 I was both an intern and contractor for the State Department in DC. At the time, I said it was an introduction to everything I never again want to do again in my life. hating the buttoned up bureacracy, political round about negotiations and having to provide a face for the Bush Administration. However, I'm registered to take an upcoming entrance exam, which requires that I travel to Mainland China to do so. I don't understand how there can be a testing center in Phenom Penh, Cambodia; yet not one in Taipei, Taiwan or Hong Kong. So yes, working for the MAN could be an option.

And then I have to think of family. I love to be abroad, but I love and miss my family, too. And what am I going to do when I get older??? I mean, unless I find that rare guy who at the drop of a hat would move with me to Afghanistan...well I may have a bit of difficulty there. I mean, I don't want to be the sixty year old cat woman!

And I'm sure when I hit the mid life crisis I'll look back at this all and think it was peanuts compared to what I'm up against then.

Taipei Dragonboat Festival

2008-06-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

Two months of early morning practice was spent to get my company's team ready for the International Dragon Boat Festival which took place from June 6-8th at the DaJia riverside park in Taipei, Taiwan. My position on the boat went from rower, to steering helmsman (even had a Mandarin training lesson, with the certificate to prove it) to cheerleader on the sidelines. My surgery took place a mere two weeks before the event.
During the festival, teams from all around the world (mostly from Asia) and race their boats four at a time. First and second place moves on to the final round, third and fourth are disqualified. My team won the first race, then lost the second by a mere 1.5 seconds. So sad!
During the festival people sell special sticky rice dumplings that are wrapped in leaves and tied with a string...some of the dumplings are stuffed with meat, lotus seeds and eggs. Others are like dessert, they are heated so the rice become like jelly and the inside is some kind of bean. I find it odd here that red beans are always sugared and served as dessert...my thoughts of red beans are always for burritos. It is surprisingly yummy to eat. Sachets, little bags of fragrane, are are also given as gifts.
Many told me not to worry about not rowing this year because I can always do it next year. That will all be insha'allah.

Ramblings from Arabia Withdrawl

2008-06-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

Shisha is alive and well in Taipei!!!

There is a saying in Arabic that says that once you drink the water of the Nile you will undoubtedly return. I never did drink the water, let alone touch it as I always feared amputation may be necessary. I once ate a fish from the Nile and my face went numb for five hours as a result. Also, when the Bird Flu spread to Cairo, there was a mass slaughter of chickens and rumor has it their bodies were dumped into the mighty waters o the Nile. Water was cut in Cairo for three days as a result.

Regardless of my failure to drink the water, I do feel that I need to return. Whether it be to live I’m not so sure, but I have missed living in Cairo since the day I left. I do not have the same desire to return to Yemen; however I do have a desire to get back to the Middle East. I used to say this about Latin America, and I do feel this way. While in college I studied in Peru and Bolivia and I will always hold those times dear to me and I have since returned. But there is something about the Arab countries I find fascinating.
I left because I needed a break. Arabia is a special place and is not for everyone to live. For the western visitor it is truly the exotic experience. For the pessimist, it is thought to be utterly dangerous. For those that fall under the spell of Arab culture, the people, the food the dance, the history and camaraderie all of the negative reasons fall by the wayside.

Arabia does have its fair share of ironies such as veiled women buying sexy underwear from outdoor male vendors. There are the nuances like the five calls for prayer that can shock the new comer especially if they are staying in a hotel next to a mosque. The 4:30 am fajr prayer sounds as if there were a man in your room with a blow horn to let you and you alone know that Allah is waiting for his prayer. And of course there are the fears like eating with the wrong hand.
And then there are all the other sights, sounds, smells and tastes that overwhelm the senses. Men who wear long galibeya dresses in Southern Egypt and men who are wearing futa skirts and daggers in Yemen; this of course not being complete without a wad of qat in his mouth. The occasional man with a flute charming snakes. They sit and chat over spiced mint tea, the sounds of Um Kalthoum wafting in the warm night air while men sit puffing on large pipes that bubbles and fruity smoke is exhaled. Child vendors with youthful but the eyes of an adult. Taxi rides that can make you re-evaluate your goal in life as you almost lose yours in the process of getting to your destination…the cabs that have screwdrivers holding the window in place and the door that occasionally opens in traffic.
The daily fast during the month of Ramadan and the party that begins with the evening call for prayer. Prayer, always there is prayer. Drinking a Stella beer on the rooftop Odeon when the Morning Prayer is sounded through the city. Saudi business men dressed in freshly starched white, clutching prayer beads with one hand and tossing money to a belly dancer on stage with the other. The belly dancing, tie a sash around your waist and then watch hip shimmies and body control that make every onlooker envious for their own respective reasons. The look of sadness in the eyes and abnormal white power on the face of a Somali prostitute forced to service sailors.
Defending myself while I was being robbed by a corrupt manager of a Yemeni airline and the generosity of the others on my flight who were appalled by his behavior.
The hospitality, the un-relentless Arab hospitality that is a must and makes the host forget about world politics and ideas. A bond that is formed between strangers by uttering only a few sentences in a common language. The jealousy of the women who want the same freedom in life as their brothers. Sweet smelling incense being burned to clear the air especially on Thursday evenings. Holding the coals under my hair allowing the smoke to fragrance my hair and sometimes being wrapped in a green cloak and forced to stand over the burning coals to perfume my body and clothes. Mixing henna and having women with years of practice quickly decorate my hands, feet and arms with intricate floral designs. I remember seeing the same floral designs in the black wedding khadab (black henna)on the arms and legs of a Yemeni teenage bride, not more than 16. She was made up to look like a doll and had fear in her eyes and she was fighting back tears while she waited next to a packed suitcase; waiting to be taken to her new home and life.
Being one of five females out of 700 men packed onto a boat from Egypt to Jordan and wrapping my hair in a flaming red head scarf to ‘protect’ me…protect it did and also enticed a Jordanian customs official to propose marriage. Watching the sunrise over the jagged mountains of Sinai and thinking if it really was the location where Moses received the ten Commandments…thinking the same thing at the gate of St. Mary of Zion Church in Ethiopia where the Ark of the Covenant is rumored to be kept.
The characters I have met and friendships I have found through the years from every walk of life and every corner of globe. Waving goodbye and giving a kiss on the cheek; walking in opposite directions and not knowing if those paths will ever cross again. Wondering if this crazy road I’m on will ever end and where that will be. Hopefully it will not be with a dead end.

I left it all because I needed a break, and I long to return. While I lived in Yemen, many had told me I had become Arab. I laughed and cast this to the side. But I understand now, I did in a way become Arab. I had created an identity for myself, and now I’m beginning to lose it. I guess it’s like a drug, skeptics are apprehensive to try it; however, once they have a taste they are dying for more. Perhaps I’m suffering from a bit of withdrawl. This time too will pass.

My Story of Sciatica and Surgery

2008-05-30T21:49:00.000-07:00

This is the story of my lower back. If you have met or spoke to me within the past two years, I have undoubtedly told you of the woes of my back. Two years ago, when I lived in Egypt, I auditioned for a commercial for Egyptian tourism. It involved my riding full throttle on a horse for about five hours around the pyramids. Little did I know that this pounding hurt my back and was the beginning of a two year period of pain and recovery.

A few days later I lifted a very heavy oriental carpet in my apartment, I don't know what happened exactly, but I do remember feeling something pop in my back and then I keeled over in pain. For weeks I could not walk correctly. When I visited docotors in hospitals they doped me up on drugs and told me to rest. When I visited chiropractors they told me that I had hurt a joint, and in a few sessions I'd be okay. They did a minor test on me and at the time decided that the cause of my injury was not due to a disc being out of place. Finally, I visited a physical therapist, who diagnosed me with 'my sacroiliac joint coming out of place'. I then underwent therapy with him, but the pain was not relieved. I became used to living in pain, and began to use pain killers to ease it. It was not until months later, when my leg began to go numb that I realized I had a really big problem. Around this time, I was returning to the States, a place where I should have felt security in seeking medical treatment, right? Wrong.

After first seeking a doctor and fighting for an appointment I saw a rheumatologist, who basically told me everything I needed (MRI, bloodwork, testing, diagnosis) would put me into medical bankruptcy, therefore he would prescribe none of it. He also accused me of being a CIA operative, something I found quite amusing. His advice was to get medical insurance as soon as possible so I could properly be treated. He also told me I had to live in pain until this could be fixed. He wrote a prescription for the same pain medicine I had take in Egypt, which in Cairo cost roughly $10 US dollars...in the States I could not afford it as it cost me about $200 with no insurance. Also, my doctor bill, for him to tell me he could do nothing, cost about $300. Rock on Medi Care USA.

My brother, who is a persoanl trainer, told me that my ass was weak and that if I strenthened my glutes and abs then I could alleviate the pain. After a session at the gym and him telling me what I needed to do I started to do that, and yoga. A month later, all my back pain went away. My entire time spent in Yemen was pain free. I always had the memory of the pain in my mind and long distance travel on buses/planes always involved emergency pain medicine in case it started up again. Funny stories getting the medicine include one time in an Ethiopian pharmacy where they absolutely refused to sell me muscle relaxers, saying 'we are not that kind of pharmacy, you must have a prescription'. Even though the assistant pharmacist then fished in her purse and produced a bottle with 100 pills of Vicadin in which she offered to sell it to me under the table. I told her I just needed enough to travel in which she just shrugged and gave ten to me free of charge.

I am currently living in Taiwan and am covered by the national health insurance which makes all medical bills super low...however, I just realized how low they really were as I just had surgery here.

I am known to be quite active, loving to do lots f outdoor things and as a result always jeopardize my injuring myself. Six weeks ago I was belly dancing, Dragon Boat rowing and then went for an intense hike with the local Hash House Harrier Group. That night and the following week my back was out. I thought it would get better, but no it got much, much worse. I had shooting pains from my hip down to my toes, sometimes part of my leg would go numb, the other excrutiating pain. I do not cry but I would often have tears streaming down my face because it hurt so bad. I could not sleep, I went for about two-three weeks with no rest becuase everytime I moved I would be jarred awake by pain I can not even describe.

I visited the emergency room several times being injected with pain killers and put on loads of steroids and anti-infammatory medicine. Problem is, that with nerve pain no amount of pain killer will take it away, it's always there.

I learned that I definitely needed a MRI, to see the soft tissue damage done to my body. When the doctor told me I had to be put on a three week wait list to have the test I burst into tears thinking of how I could be able to manage the pain. That's when he told me I needed to be admitted to the hospital.

Being an American, first thing that comes to mind is cost of health care, how the hell can I afford a MRI and hospital stay? He smiled and told me not to worry, with national insurance I would not have to pay for a MRI and the cost of the hospital stay would be minimal. I agreed and was put into the hospital. After finally receiving the long awaited MRI, the doctor told me I had a ruptured disc in my lumbar spine, the L5 portion. It was so far out that there was no way other than surgery to fix the problem. Because it was so far out, it was constantly hitting my sciatic nerve, the nerve that controls everything waste down in your leg...this explained the shooting pains and numbness I was experiencing and I was diagnosed with sciatica.

At first, I was fully against the surgery, but then after consulting with friends and family and other doctors...I realized it was the only option. I was scheduled for surgery the following morning. It was for a discotemy, the doctor would remove the material that had ruptured from my disc along with the inside liquid from my disc. Following surgery, scar tissue forms inside the disc...making it nearly identical to what it had been.

Following the surgery I found myself drugged and screaming in Arabic and Mandarin...but not English. I guess I registered that I was in a foreign country and could not speak English. I remember screaming 'I'm cold' and 'I need drugs' in Mandarin to the nurses. I was then given an easy pump medicine machine, in which I could inject myself with drugs when I felt pain. In my dazed state I looked up to see my school director and co-worker with me in the post-op room. Not one of my finest moments...I believe I now have a reputation for crying a lot at work :)

While I'm sure that I would have been taken care of on my own, it was with the overwhelming support and help I received from my co-workers, family and friends. I had enough Mandarin from what I learned to communicate my needs to doctors and nurses, but it was from my friends and co-workders where I got full on language translation...from expressing my needs to the doctor to translating every piece of paper that had my name on it. I have never been so overwhelmed with the care, concern and generosity that everyone had and gave...I really have no idea how to repay them all.

The first two days of recovery were pure hell. I was miserable and cried a lot, I remember people who I did not know coming to my bed and telling me in Mandarin to stop crying, and they dried my tears with a tissue. I was a complete invalid, and was not allowed to move my spine for three days. I was constantly put on 'ice pillows' to lower my fever and depended on everyone around me for help. A co-worker came and fed me fish soup with a straw the first day in the hospital...the nurses smiled saying that I had become Taiwanese. The next morning a nurse tried to feed me nasty smelling and tasting fishy rice...like I child I spit it out. She then tried to bribe me saying, 'if you want your pain medicine, then you have to eat it'. I told her fine, I didn't want the medicine and she then reluctantly gave it to me. Thankfully a friend arrived soon after to sort things out. As much as I hated this at the time, I believe that it sped my recovery. After the third day I was walking and a week later I am able to perform functions and I am building my strength up. I will have to wear a brace for 3-6 months, a very light weight one which keeps my spine straight. I will be able to do all sports, but none that involve deep stretches forward or backward. I guess yoga is out, but there is always pilates!

From my experience, Taiwanese healthcare is incredibly efficient, the doctors are very well-trained and the surgeon I had was amazing. I ended up spending ten days in the hospital with round-the-clock care from the nurses.

To give you an eye opening idea of how affordable the healthcare is here...
Cost of a MRI WITHOUT insurance: $300 USD
Cost of a MRI with national insurance: FREE
Cost of discotemy surgery, ten day hospital stay WITHOUT insurance: $1900 USD
Cost of discotemy surgery, ten day hospital stay with national insurance: $272 USD
Cost of life pain/debt free of medical bills: PRICELESS

So now, the story that first began in the desert of Cairo, traveled to America and Yemen and finally, and thankfully, come to an end here in Taiwan. I never did get the part for the Egyptian tourism commercial; however to this day I see it on CNN. Some memories live forever I suppose. Lets just hope there's not a sequel to the problem with my back!

The Color Red

2008-04-16T23:44:00.000-07:00

If you have ever seen one of the Kill Bill movies you are for sure familiar with Beatrix Kiddo scribbling down the names on her 'Death List 5'. What you may have not noticed, was that she writes those names in red ink. The significance of this is a Chinese superstition that a name written in red means you will die.
I made this mistake in class when I was explaining a grammar point on the board. I was using a red marker and without thinking, wrote a child's name on the board with the red ink. Realizing what I had done, I tried to quickly erase the red Jeremy that was on the white board; however it was too late. A terrified gasp swept the classroom and one girl even said, did you see what teacher did? I apologized and told them I really didn't mean it...I don't even believe in this but I still felt very guilty for potentially having a child killed.

Chou Dou Fu

2008-04-12T01:49:00.000-07:00

In English, this is called Stinky Tofu. And yes, it describes it to the its full extent. The first time I smelt it, I actually had to stop and inspect the sidewalk to see where the stench was coming from. I was confused, as the nearest thing to me was a street vendor with a plume of steam coming up from a pot. When I walked closer, I realized that the stench was the food he was serving up to people, Stinky Tofu.
Now I'm open to new experience, new foods go with this; however, when it comes to food I like to use all five senses. Normally, all five senses should have a good reaction to the food...so when my sense of smell sends off alarm bells of 'foul stench', I wonder how I could consume such a food. A friend told me that a shop owner was once fined due to how bad his tofu smelt.
I have not tried it, yet. I will...I just have to work up to it. Many have told me that it actually does taste good...others tell me that no, it tastes just like it smells...that being pretty awful.

My other experience with a strange food came when I was at a breakfast buffet after just a couple days of arriving. I bit into a bun that looked reminiscent of an asiago cheese bagel...however, when I bit into it I dropped it in horror after finding it stuffed with a fuzzy red substance that was overly salty and really not pleasant. I must have let out a scream because a the table next to me with a couple of Japanese tourist were curiously looking at me staring at my plate in horror. I later learned that the fuzzy red stuff is some kind of shredded pork substance...and is put on loads of baked goods here.

Perhaps it's all an acquired taste?

Settling In

2008-04-12T01:31:00.000-07:00

My old home of Yemen has recently been in the news due to a series of bombings in the capital of Sana'a near to where I lived. This along with political unrest in the south are cause for quite a bit of tension in the country...however, when I emailed friends to find out what was going on they all were quite mellow saying that, 'yes we did hear of some explosions. Not sure why, but it's all okay. No big deal.' or 'so whack job with a grenade threw a grenade over a fence and now CNN's reporting Al Queda is on the offensive...which is completely blown out of proportion.' Despite my friends' complete disregard of the events, the US Embassy has issued departure of all non-essential personnale from the country. I'm glad I left when I did, but sad that this is all going on, not fair.

After nearly two months in Taiwan, I've settled into daily life. My first pay check immediately went to paying debt which really made me upset...but, this is how it goes. I have private lessons teaching what can only be described as a demonic child...it's only for a couple hours and I make around $30/hour for it...so I will deal. A company wanted to hire me as a spanish tranlator, however then said that they wanted someone with a European Spanish accent...that being the one with the lisp. Something I proudly do not have! But alas, I did not get that job.

I am surprised at several similarities that I see between Arab and Asian cultures...however, I have clearly been taught patience in the Mid East as I hear a lot of westerners complain of the 'crazy traffic' and 'lack of lines'. When I see the traffic it all look quite orderly to me...I mean they actually drive in lanes here as opposed to on the sidewalks and down the wrong way as they did in Egypt and Yemen. As far as lack of lines go, I think I'm guilty of nearly everyone else when I cut to the front...I had to learn to fend for myself in Egypt. However, not only the Arabs are guilty of the mob scene at counters...Italians are pretty bad about that, too!

Two things that I'm getting used to are the non-confrontational conversations and the food.
Taiwanese will neverly directly tell you if something is bothering you...rather, they will politely beat around the bush until you pick up what they are trying to say. Such as if you wear shorts to work and your boss is displeased, she will say to you, "Is it cold outside today?" when it is very well hot...then you are supposed to wonder why she said such a ridiculous comment and then decode it to know she meant that you should not be wearing shorts. Often you do not know this until its too late and she does not give you a raise do to a flaw with the dress code.
This happened to a friend of mine. I now find myself freaking out everytime a Taiwanese person makes a comment directly to me...not sure if I'm supposed to decode it or not.
As a result of this non-confrontation, everyone is extremely polite. Even when they are upset with you, they have to be polite...otherwise, it is shameful.

The food is the other things I'm getting used to. Sometimes it's just downright bizarre, at least for me. I'll write more on this later. I have pictures to go with it!

From Taiwan

2008-03-01T01:26:00.000-08:00

While I still use the 'Lauren of Arabia', I have left the location. My reasons for doing so were both psychological and financial, more so of the latter.
A year in Yemen was intense, and after leaving the country I am beginning to realize how intense it was. When put in a situation, you must adapt...which is what I did while I was there without difficulty. However, after a year of fundmental Islam, lack of bookstores, lack of movie theaters, lack of nightlife, questions of my nationality, questions of why I was in Yemen, questions of why I wasn't Muslim, constant poverty, political injustice, government wire tapping, being unhappy with my job, crazy foreigners, watching my Yemeni friends live in place they want to leave, and most importantly missing my family...I found it was time to leave. Yemen is a special place that words can only scratch the surface while describing its lure, but it can take a toll on the most hearty of psyches.
Upon return the States I had a much needed reunion with my family and friends. However, I have found that after having been away for two years there are some changes in a lot of the relationships I have there. I still view everyone as I did two years ago, as if my life in the States is on hold in the States. The reality is that life continues on for everyone whether you be in it or not. I found the majority of my friends and family to be te same, unfortunately I was faced with a few which I had drifted apart from. C'est la vie.
I have friend in Taipei, Taiwan and am able to make quite a bit of money with a very low cost of living, which is why I have chosen to live as an expat in Taipei for the next year. I have moved in with my friend and her Korean roommate. I'll be teaching English and doing freelance writing on the side. The beauty of it all is I work half the time I did in Yemen with twice the money :)
Plus, I never have to question whether I may receive a negative response when I tell someone I am from American because this country pretty much depends on the States for its very existence.
The language barrier is irritating me as I'm so used to being able to speak the language. I'm enrolling in language classes by the end of the month so all should be okay. I'm already picking up the language just the way I learned arabic...throwing anything againt the kitchen wall to see what sticks. My 'mafeesh mushkeela' is now a 'may won tee' both meaning no problem in English.

More to follow...

Women Veiled to Western Eyes

2007-12-12T02:11:00.000-08:00

One of the most common stereotypes associated with the Middle East is the oppression of women, and the requirement of veiling the women...especially the face. Many of my friends have asked me questions regarding the veil, and I feel it necessary to take the time to debunk some common misconceptions.

Misconception: Veiling of the Face is an Islamic Requirement

This is untrue. My evidence for this comes from having read the Qu'ran, spoken to Muslim women and from my very own personal experience. In the Qu'ran it states that women should wear a 'hijaab' literally a talisman to ward the unwanted attention and gazes of onlooking men. However, this is often a choice by the woman, and depending on which culture she comes from. For instance in Egypt, many Muslim women from upper-class society do not wear the headscarf as a status symbol, whereas the lower-classes often will have their girls wearing the headscarf at all times.

However, the veiling of the face (wearing naqqab) is an ancient tribal practice. During the Byzantine era this was done to show a sign of prestige. In Yemen and Saudia Arabia this is practiced because of century old tribal practices that have been in existance until today. Interestingly enough, in the southern port town of Aden, women often choose not to wear the face veil and this is fine. Up until the unification of north and south Yemen women were free in Aden to wear western dress. However, post-unification the influence of the north filtered into the south and more and more cultural practices were introduced including the full veiling of women.

Interestingly enough, a recent study done on the rate of lung cancer in Yemen found that the rate in women to be much lower than that of the men. This undoubtedly must be due to the covering of the nose and mouth, serving as a filter.

I myself wore naqqab in Yemen on several occasions, this being by choice. Often it was while traveling providing me much flexibility. Oddly enough, even with my face covered up, people still knew I was a foreigner, at least they did when my eyes where showing. The experience from behind the veil as interesting as attention was immediately taken off of me...I blended in and was able to stare at crazy tribesman without fear of being detected. It was kind of a power trip as I was able to peer out and stare at everyone, but no one was allowed to see me.

Granted I did this by choice...if I were to have to wear it by force I would not enjoy it.

Misconception: A Foreign Woman must always wear a headscarf and be covered in Arab Countries

Saudia Arabia is a country whose cultural rules and regulations are criticized not only by the west, but by the other Arab countries as well. Saudia women are required by law to be fully covered. While a western woman is not required to wear a face veil, she must by law have her hair covered along with everthing to her wrists and feet.

Fundamental Islamists will be seen wearing full covering, including gloves and socks...but mind you this is a cultural and personal choice. Not Islamic.

I wore abeya (big black choir dress) from the day I arrived in Yemen. This was by no means required of me...I chose to do it. As a result I found people to respect me more and in all honesty I feel it only to be polite to wear it. This was the Yemeni culture, I was a guest; therefore, I wore it. I sometimes wore the veil as shown in the picture below, this was done when I was in areas that no other foreigner normally ventured. Also, I took on an identity as a Palestinian when wearing the veil, not by choice, rather people just asked me if I was Palestinian...strange. It all proved to be interesting conversation in the end.

Misconception: Muslim Women have no Choice, only to cover
As I wrote before, Saudia Arabia is the only country that requires women to cover. Depending on the religion and culture of the society of which a woman lives is a determiner for whether or not she will cover.

I have been told by many women that they choose to cover because of the harrassment that receive from men. While Arab men can be very respectful towards foreigners, it can often be the complete opposite towards an Arab woman. However, this all depends of the country and culture. For example, I have friends who live in Yemen, who wear full headscarf, abeya and naqqab; however, when they travel abroad they often shed all of these coverings. One of my friends is Syrian-Yemeni, while in Yemen she wears abeya and headscarf. But, when she travels to Syria she wears no coverings and goes around in short skirts with her hair flying blowing in the wind.

Before passing judgments on a country...it's religion and culture...be wary that there is indeed a difference between religion and culture. Practices in the Middle East are not all from Islam, they are learned behaviors deep rooted in the regions culture and history.

The Quest for the Ark

2007-12-03T10:44:00.001-08:00

Following my Ramadan term in Sana'a, Yemen, I chose to leave for a couple weeks and travel to Ethiopia with a fellow teacher at the MALI Institute.

Our mission was a mix of naivity and idealism spurned by our love of Indiana Jones's Raiders of the Lost Ark. Our plan? To indeed find the Ark of the Covenant, that treasured relic which is now guarded by one elderly priest in a small church in northern Ethiopia called Axsum.

The quest began in Ethiopia's high-altitude capital of Addis Ababa. We were greeted by my friend and his Ethiopian girlfriend who put us up in a house while staying in the capital. Ethiopia is striking in its history. It is home to history's cradle of civilization with it having Lucy (Dikenish), the thought-to-be grandmother of us all.

Ethiopia was ruled by a king named Halle Salase, who after visiting Jamaica shortly after a drought was then regarded as being sent by God; hence, Rastafarian worshiping was born. The religion that uses marijuana smoking to bring one closer with God and has us all supporting 'one love' as Bob Marley so often did. Obviously the bus driver who took the time and effort to make this shrine to both the great BM and JC thought so...

The best part is the hay that is layed on the floor of the bus!

Following Addis, we traveled by bus to the north, stopping in Bahar Dar which sits on a Lake that is home to many hippos, and monastaries which one was rumored to have housed the the Ark in the past. Unfortunately many did not allow woman to enter.

African bus rides are quite the experience, having to wake in the early morning hours to fight your way on to a bus. We did just this, and for some unbeknownst reason to us, our driver decided not to go to the destination as he originally had said. But no worries...we found alternate modes of transportation.

For the next few days my friend and I found ourselves the target of load of unwanted attention from the rather friskey Bahar Dar men. One of which had learned English from the U.S. Peace Corps volunteers in the area and referred to himself as 'punta'...which in Spanish translates into whore. This pretty much sums up what his personality was like.

One night we were in the culture house where we were entertained by loads of Ethiopians with beer, music and impromptu poetry...all in Amharic (language of Ethiopia) which made it quite difficult when they chose you to recite the poems about. Not sure what is worse, knowing the insults and jokes or being ignorant. I'm going with the latter.

One of the entertainers took a liking to me, despite our not speaking the same language and offered to ride with my friend an I to the next town up of Gondor--no, this is not the same as Lord of the Rings. While both of us were not a fan of Gondor and the number of totes, which humorously have names like Bob and Johnny, it was part of the quest for the Ark. Gondor is home to a church which had a room built for the Ark. Interestingly enough, it also has the only visual depiction of the Prophet Mohammed.

After spending time in a hotel which undoubtedly was in need of flea bombing, we literally ran to the bus station to get out of Gondor. Unfortunately we took a bus with a driving 'trainee', what should have been a 10 hour bus ride turned into a 13 hour drive, arriving in a transit point a half hour after the last mini-bus left for Axsum, our northern most destination and where the Ark is currently located...or at least rumored to be. Our transit was in place called Shire, which oddly enough was name from Lord of the Rings, however it is safe to say that any hobbit would be suicidal after any substanial time in this place. After the local mafia of the town tried to rob, an attempted escape on the top of freight truck and many other mishaps, I along with several other traveleres had to bite the bullet and spend the night in the dreaded Shire. Our thoughts through it all was that it would all be part of the quest.

The next morning we again faced the mafia, however were successful this time in having bypassed their futile attempts and finally arrive in Axsum. However, one very VERY important fact seemed to be overlooked through it all...

The St. Mary of Zion Church which is pictured here, the home and resting place for the Ark, is forbidden for women to enter. Apparently, centuries before a woman entered the church and tried to set fire to the place and they are still bitter. Also, the Ark is guarded by a 70 something year old priest. This man and the rumor that you'll burst into flames just by looking at the Ark is apparently enough to keep you from trying to see it. That, and the rumor that the Ark sits underneath the ground and the passageway is rigged with bombs should anyone but its guardian enter its territory...well, I guess it is meant to be kept hidden from public eye. There are annual parades where a replica is marched through the town, but not the actual relic.

We seemed to get over this shocking fact rather quickly. Following Axsum we flew to Lalibela, an isolated town in the mountains of Ethiopia and up until 1955 was undiscovered. It is home to 11 rock-hewn churches and has been said that it were not located in Ethiopia it would be considered one of the wonders of the world. Indeed it is. Legend goes that King Lalibela visited the Kingdom of Heavenin a dream, then built it on earth. It is also thought to be a replica of Jersalem and many pilgrims migrate towards Lalibela during the Christmas season each year. The churches are ENOURMOUS and it is rumored that no human could make them, therefore they must have been hewn by angels or God. A highlight of the visit including witnessing indeed a church servic in gees...an ancient language. With the chanting and swaying of the people in the dimly let incensed church...it could have been something from centuries ago.

Unfortunately, I poisoned both myself and poor Kuki with flea spray due to a flea scare in our hotel on our final day in Lalibela. But no worries, as we ended up waiting for endless hours in the airport. We then returned to Sana'a.

The quest for the Ark was a let down...however there is always hope for the Grail...

What am I doing here?

2007-09-18T01:22:00.000-07:00

On the eve that marks my eight month mile marker here in Yemen, I find myself sitting here pondering the thought, 'what the hell are you doing in Yemen???'

For some reason, I thought of several fond memories of my family during the holidays...maybe it's due to Ramadan here. It's a southern Italian tradition to have 7 different types of fish for a large dinner on Christmas Eve...while we did this annually, no one was actually able to explain the reason why...we just did it. My father would fry fish in our home which would stink it up for days, and then we would all get into the car and drive to my grandparent's home. The air was filled with smoke, there was a load of food on the table and in the kitchen. Children ran around the house, people laughed, people fought...never saw anyone cry, but given the sarcasm my family has it's a definite possibility. I used to not like it so much. I remember my cousin once telling me it was times like those that I will miss the most when I get older. I told her I didn't agree with her...after months away from family along with several key members of my family passing away; I now understand what my cousin was talking about. I would give anything to go back to that time, just for a moment.

I have literally been adopted by a Yemeni family here. There is a mother and two sisters that are my age and we have become very close. I met one of the sisters and the mother in Aden, the first week I had arrived. The sister moved to Sana'a the same time I did and I was introduced to the rest of the family. I spend time with them on weekends...with all the aunts, cousins and granmother. While it is not the same as my true family, the feeling I have with them comes in as a close second. Without them, I believe I would go insane here.

I came here in order to continue my study in Arabic...and this purpose has, in fact, come to fruition. Al Jazeera Arabic is no longer cryptic messages--rather, it's my source for news. I understand conversations without struggling with the langugage, can flip in and out of Egyptian Colloquial, Yemeni and Fusha. Arabic speakers often switch the conversation into Arabic with me which used to never happen in the past.

So my goal of reaching a good proficiency has been achieved. However, I have NO IDEA why I want to continue studying...it's not as if I have some ultimate goal I'm striving for. I know this is a lifelong investment, but it's taking a toll on my psyche. I've been promoted to a position with the school I'm working with to director and am being sent to another city to supervise. Downside? I'm staying here for another 5 months. I'll be living in Tai'zz, a town south of Sana'a by 3 hours. I move there in January 08 and will be there until May 2008. No matter what, I will leave Yemen at the end of May 08. I'm trying to qualify for a program for advanced arabic that would place me in Damascus or Cairo for another year starting June 2008. We'll see what happens.

This study of Arabic has become similar to an odyssey for me. I departed the States in January 2006 for Cairo, Egypt with the idea I would be there for 6 months studying Arabic. 19 months later I find myself living in Arabia, Yemen of all places! I've made a point of immersing myself in the culture and have had some remarkable experiences as a result. I'm in a position right now where I'm able to spread a good image of my country in time where most of the world questions the logic behind America's foreign policies. Hell, I question them on a daily basis too.

This area has such stigma on its culture and people that many westerners are fearful of traveling here...I was afraid too. However, I decided to see what all the hype is about and I have found it to be such an amazing area to live in. The reality is, there needs to be more westerners in areas such as this to kill the stereotype that so many biased news agencies spread about Americans and Europeans.

Downside to this all is I miss my family, I miss my friends. Life continues back home as it did when I left. I know when I return home, I'll walk back into it and this time I've spent abroad will be like a dark void. It's like I have two lives and there's no way to bridge an understanding between the two.

I return to the States December 3rd for a month vacation. A much needed vacation.

!رمظان كريم

2007-09-14T03:55:00.000-07:00

At 9pm this past Wednesday, a Sheikh looked at the moon and declared the 13th of September to begin the month of Ramadan, the holy month in Islam when the Holy Qu'ran was revealed to the Prophet Mohammed. The entire month is characteristically marked by strict fasting: no drinking, no eating, no smoking, no sex...basically nothing can enter your body from sun up to sun down. Almost all businesses are shut as well. The normal congestion and honking that fill the streets of Sana'a are empty and silent.

I started laughing when I went to the supermarket the night before Ramadan began because it reminded me of people in Pittsburgh stocking up on food before a winter storm. The place was packed full of people, children were nearly hit by women in burka swiftly moving with their shopping carts stuffing as much food as possible into their carts. However, I was confused because they bought all this food yet could not eat it...at least during the day.

Muslims will eat an early morning pre-fasting meal call (sohoor) which is followed by the morning call for prayer. With the sunset (maghrib) prayer they eat a date and then have their breakfast (futoor) to break their fast. Contrary to belief that everyone is nasty during their fast, it's actually the opposite. Most are relatively pleasant.

While some bypass the true meaning of the fast by chewing qat all night only to sleep the entire next day, waking to the sunset prayer to instantly light a smoke and start eating; most do adhere to carrying out their normal routines minus their normal drinking and eating.

I see a marked difference between Ramadan in Yemen compared to Egypt. Egyptians, who are known for their nightlife, celebrate Ramadan much like the West celebrates Christmas...buildings are decorated with lights, people sing 'Ramadan carols', everyone parties at night. Yemen seems to be a lot more religous in that instead of stuffing themselves with food while lighting up a sheesha, they break fast and then immediately pray. The lightheartedness of Cairo ceases to exist here.

And if you may be wondering if I fast here, the answer is no....I fast during Lent. There is a deep rooted religous meaning to the fast, it's not cultural. The fasting is one of the pillars of Islam and I feel it unnecessary to do this unless I have been invited to a breakfast, I do fast in this case because of all the delicious food they make. I need to fast for a few days in order to try it all! That being said, I am respectful of those who are fasting, no eating or drinking in public.

Ramadan Kareem is the saying that goes with this month...much like a Merry Christmas in the States.

I have to work a a night shift because everything shuts during the day and comes alive at night. My schedule is from 8:30-12:30 night...should be interesting. Just hope they have coffee readily available for me.

Following Ramadan I'm travelling to Socotra Island...called the Galapogos Islands of Arabia. These islands have been called the land which time forgot, pristine scenery and gorgeous beaches. There wasn't even an airport on the island until 1999 and there are only 2 flights a week to reach them. Should make for quite the experience and photos ops. Until then, Ramdan Kareem!

Locust, It's What's for Dinner

2007-09-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

For the past month I have been dodging locusts divebombing my head in the street and locking my windows at night from fear that a few of these critters may enter my room while I sleep. In my opinion a locust looks similar to a praying mantis, however unlike the latter they appear in mass quanitities. I was ignorant of the fact that swarm of these things attack deserts and their crops...Al Jazeera has been dedicating a special segment on their destructive path in Yemen.

After being attacked in my kitchen the other night from the supposedly harmless creature, my roommate and I decided we were living in some type of Biblical myth. I remember in my Catholic upbringing stories of the plague of locusts...I can only wonder if one of the other plagues may hit Yemen too.

The Yemeni solution for it all? Eat them. For weeks the newspapers here have been printing recipes on how to prepare scruptuous locusts. Cultural differences aside, the locusts are reportedly high in protein and some reciptes appear fine cuisine. Some articles even go as far to descibe where the meatiest part of the locust is, apparently it's in the breast. I was horrified to find the legs of locusts covering my desk when I entered my classroom to teach, remnants of someone's late afternoon snack.

While so many of my students generously ripped the wings off the insect and extended it to me saying, 'teacher, teacher, try the yummy locust'...well I kindly refused. Something about a locust au natural makes me uneasy. I would pay a Yemeni to bite into one, smile at me while saying in Arabic, "tastes like chicken".

QAT

2007-08-04T01:04:00.000-07:00

What a lot of women wear under all that black.

It has taken me until now to write anything substantial about the magical green leaf that nearly the entire population, both male and female, chew.

Qat is a considered to be a 'mild narcotic'. The most powerful variety comes from Ethiopia. Other countries where it is chewed include Djbouti and Kenya. It is found in other places, but it is considered to be illegal.

There are dozens of varieties and the best are found in the north where qat is produced. The most expensive, with the longest stems is called 'baladee', other good kinds include 'sameen' in the south and 'gatal'. To get the qat you go to one of the various qat 'sooqs' to buy your bag for the day. The taste varies, the best kind has small sweet leaves and stems that make your mouth go slightly numb. The cheaper kinds have more of a bitter taste and you are not able to eat their stems.

A typical qat chew can last from anywhere between 1 to 8 hours. A group of people will get together, sit on cushions which are on the floor; they chew, talk, relax and often smoke sheesha while chewing. Water is a necessity because you will become dehyrdated while drinking it. Some people choose to drink some kind of soda or energy drink with it. The most common question someone will ask you is 'Tishtee ihmaar u iswid?' 'Do you want red or black?' Referring to Candada Dry Red or Black.

To really get a good affect you need to chew for at least two to three. You take the leaves, break off the smaller ones and then pop them in your mouth, storing them in your cheek. If you chew long enough then you form an enormous ball that resemble something of Popeye the Sailor Man. An Iraqi woman, who happens to be a political refugee due to the war, told me when she first arrived in Yemen she saw all these men with bulging cheeks and became horrified for she thought they all suffered from some sort of disease. She soon understood following her arrival that they were in fact only stoned on qat.

Now, you ask if I have chewed qat? Of course I have. People offer it to you everywhere. The longest chew I ever did lasted seven hours. It amazed me how fast time goes when chewing. I remember looking at my watch at 2 pm, then looking back at 7 pm to find that five hours had virtually disappeared. However, compared to alcohol or any other types of drugs, you are completely coherent on qat...you don't act high. Just very mellow and talkative. And of course you have a certain glaze to your eyes.

The problems with qat are many. Yemen is a poor country and loads of people dump money into their daily chewing habit instead of into the maintenance of their families. Just as with every over type of drug, several people become addicted to it. Also, the lucrative qat fields have replaced what used to be coffee. While domestically qat is sold for a good profit, it is illegal to export it; therefore, limiting the amount of exports to enhance Yemen's economy. To grow qat, the crop needs a lot of water. Yemen, similar to so many Arab countries, has a limited water supply; the water going to producing a crop of qat reduces the amount for human consumption or for another cash crop.

This is only a few of the major problems qat produces in the country. This is not to mention the multiple health problems that arise due to its use. Similar to other drugs, it helps people to escape the reality of their lives. I believe that if it were made illegal in Yemen all the people currently suppressed on qat would start some type of revolution. That, or they would turn to some other type of drug.

A man once handed me a bundle of qat saying, "In Yemen we are poor and don't have any flowers. Instead will you please accept my bouquet of qat leaves?". Qat is a controversial part of Yemen as deeply rooted as any other tradition found in the region.

الأمريكية استعربت

2007-07-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

استعرب

This verb (ista3rb) literally means to become Arab, to adopt the customs and beliefs of the people. I have been told by several people that I am no longer American, I am Arab now.

However, I beg to differ. As close as I become with the people, and as accepting as I am of their thoughts and beliefs, I am still very much a westerner and always will be. However, I am at the present moment having difficulty trying to balance the mindset here with everything I have ever known.

I feel so incredibly comforatable here, and have formed a bond with a Yemeni family that I can only compare with the feeling I have when I'm with my parents and brother. I realized the other day how difficult it's going to be for me to leave this place. But in reality, I could not live here forever.

Sometimes what at first seems so strange and icky can become second nature. Living with the poverty, dirt and Islamic virtures can be tiring at times, but then they are accepted...not even thought of until someone new to the environment points them out. Nonetheless, things still can shock me.

Such as seeing a boy who appeared to be the age of 12 driving a car with a mouth full of qat and his fully burkaed mother sitting in the passenger seat next to him. This was strange and it happened yesterday which is why I feel like writing of it now.

I came to this region to learn Arabic. I have learned the language and no longer struggle with speaking. Arabic script comes automatically now, instant recognition of the letters. Many foreigners come to the Arab world expecting to learn the language in a matter of months. In reality, it, long with so many other things in this region, is a slow process that takes time and a knowledge that كلّ شي يعني إن شا الله

2007-07-13T04:05:00.000-07:00

Top 3 countries with the most guns per person:
1. Yemen
2. United States
3. Finland

Maybe I should start a gun blog???

Welcome to the North my Friend...

2007-06-24T01:47:00.000-07:00

My departure from Aden involved fighting yet again with Yemenia airways...I really do hate them. However, this time I had my Yemeni friend Aziza who has friends at the airport along with my Sudanese friend Magdy. Magdy is amazing in that he is probably the most generous person I have met in my life. After the woman bitched about how I was way over my weight limit, Magdy took one of my bags saying he would bring it to me in Sana'a next week.

My flight from Aden to Sana'a should have been 45 minutes. However, I had the grand opportunity to fly from Aden to Mukalla, Mukalla Sana'a, thereby making the flight 2 hours travel time. It was a strange flight...they were transporting all these patients from hospitals in Sana'a, so a lot of the seats were folded down to allow the patients to lie in them...a makeshift hospital. I really can't describe it, but it was odd.

After realizing I was surrounded by invalids, I chose to change my seat and found myself next to a student of mine from MALI Aden. He insisited that his family escort me to my new home in Sana'a...considering my boss was not able to send me anyone to greet me at the airport, I accepted.

The student, named Ala'a, and his family then began to give me juice and food...anything they had on them. When we landed, Ala'a told me to sit while he collected my bags, not allowing me to help in any way. The mother discovered I had not eaten lunch and became very upset, telling me that it was necessary to feed me. We met Ala'a's uncle, a man named Waleed wearing the traditional Yemeni white dress and sporting an impressive dagger, complete with a red head scarf. Waleed runs a tourist agency here in Sana'a, and I must say he is gorgeous.

They took me to their car, told me I had to sit in the passenger seat so I would be comforatable, and then they proceeded to load my luggage into the car. I laughed when I got into the car, because there was a huge stack of qat leaves wrapped and waiting to be chewed...actually Waleed had already begun to chew. This was a preview of what my night would be like.

After taking me to my new home and carrying all my things, Waleed and and Ala'a took me for dinner and then bought my favorite kind of sheesha and we went to a place chosen by Waleed to sit and chew qat and smoke sheesha.

Waleed had his laptop with him and he proceeded to show me loads of photos from all over Yemen and then his machine gun collection. I complimented him on his choice for a screen saver which is a semi-automatic rifle. I am living in the north now where it's more of a 'Wild West' kind of feeling. Everyone is tribal and packing heat.

We sat for hours, smoking, chewing, talking and then we watched Pirates of the Carribean. Somehow watching Johnny Depp playing a pirate while sitting in a tent full of men with daggers smoking sheesha and chewing qat seemed quite surreal, yet completely ordinary at the same time.

Oh and most importantly...the weather is amazing. This is the first time in four months I have not been hot. I think I will like it here.

From North to South...Sana'a or Bust

2007-06-21T04:10:00.000-07:00

Until 1994, Yemen was a divided country, North and South Yemen. The Yemen of the North is traditionally more conservative, whereas the South is known as 'Liberal' (remember this is in Yemeni terms) and was communist for several years. The port of Aden, where I live, was a former British colony. In the past, the South was much more lax...women did not wear abeya and the thought of veiling oneself did not cross anyone's minds. People of the north still think of Adeni women as being 'loose' because some refuse to veil their faces.

Following a civil war and the unification of the countryin 1994, the south has dramatically changed and Yemen as we know it is now united as the Arab Republic of Yemen. Influence from the North has brought with it cultural traditions unfamiliar to the South. And like so many other countries in the world, the South hates the North...the North hates the South. Southerners refer to the traditional northern men from the villages wearing long white dresses, large belts and jambeyaas (the daggers) as being Dahabashee (Dahbasha for plural)--a term coming from some TV show in the past that made fun of the northerners. The main character was called Dahabashee.

As a result, when I informed my friends and students of Aden that I would be moving north to Sana'a they were upset with my decision...telling me how much better Aden is. I told them that unless they could supply me with an air conditioned abeya I will most likely become a big black puddle.

Yesterday was my last day of teaching at MALI Aden. To my surprise, the majority of my students came bearing gifts and letters telling me how much they would miss me. Some even asked if I would have an online course so that I could teach them from Sana'a. It was really cute, especially when I was trying to escape the school and even more students came running after me to say goodbye...apparently they had waited for a few hours until I finished my last class so that they could say their farewells and give me more gifts.

Really nice...I just hope the students are the same in Sana'a! I've been told that they have a check-in desk where students carrying guns and qat have to leave them on hold until they finish their class. Should make for an interesting experience.

Sweat Insomnia

2007-06-21T03:59:00.000-07:00

As if I thought sweating in the shower was bad enough, I have found something worse. Sweating at night while trying to sleep.

Yemen is a poor country. More than half the population lives off of $2 a day. As a result they have a series of financial issues, one being not a large enough power grid to supply people with the electricity they need to run their air conditioning in the steamed air they live in. The result? Power cuts.

I have been used to having my water cut, I even have a routine worked out so that I can always shower while there being enough pressure. However, there is no routine revolving around power cuts...they come on the whim and strike when you least expect it. While working, while eating, and the worst is while you are sleeping.

It is not humanly possible to sleep in 90+(37)degree heat and over 90% humidity. For the last few nights I have woken drenched in sweat because my power has been cut, the result is a very unrested English teacher who lashes out at her students.

For all of you living in hot places complaining of the heat...if you can read this and have the luxury of full access to air conditioning I suggest you think twice before complaining. I watch the Yemeni people suffer from the corruption and lack of education of their government...joking about how the new Minister of Power had promised no more power cuts only to find themselves with no electricity for over a week's time. And they laugh, shrug it off and say it's God's Will. I used to be amazed at the faith and devotion that people have towards their faith...and I'm starting to see that when you have a load of crap dumped on you on a daily basis, this can sometimes be the only escape and explanation as to why their life is so unfair. And for many, it does not seem fair.

However, I have the luxury and ability to change my current situation and will be transferred to Sana'a which boasts year round moderate weather with no humidity.

Al hum d'allah!

Sweating in the Shower

2007-06-06T04:33:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Washington, DC, I used to complain of the heat and humidity. I said it was soooo bad. I obviously had never experienced an Aden summer before.

I am currently seeking refuge under a semi-functioning air conditioner. It is 40 degrees (over 100 degrees farenheit) and the air is heavy with humidity. I can not move or do anything without sweating. Even at night I walk through an outdoor sauna. I sweat while I walk, I sweat while I teach, I sweat while I speak, hell--I sweat while doing nothing! I never thought it was a possible, but I actually sweat while showering here.

I had mentioned the lack of hot water here in a previous blog. Let me rephrase this. There is now a lack of cold water. Everything here is HOT. I really would like a cold shower, but alas it's not possible. Usually my water is cut at night...and if there is some it is super low pressure, but hey it's something to wash the massive amount of sweat this environment creates.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel as I will be moving to the capital of Sana'a in two weeks time to escape this heat of the southern Aden. Sana'a is located in the mountains and has a year round mild climate...can't wait.

Until then, I will remain locked in the air conditioned fortress of my apartment.

Once Upon a Time...

2007-05-30T02:18:00.000-07:00

I dreamt of home, it’s becoming a memory for me. There was a time when I lived a ‘normal’ life. Things were clean, things were organized; and I did not have to worry about explaining my past, nationality or reasons for doing things to others. There was an unspoken history between myself and my family and friends. There were no culture clashes, homesickness or thoughts of when I would return ‘home’.

Once upon a time I lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA. Friday nights involved making plans for a Southside Crawl and wondering if I could hold strong and make it to Bar 11 for the obligatory Long Island Iced Tea. Even a weathered Irish man would be astonished by the amount of alcohol I consumed. O Fries and Primanti Brothers sandwiches were a treat. Visiting my grandmother was a weekly tradition and fighting with my mother seemed to be a mandatory daily occurrence. Having to drive a car to work from 9-5 was the norm; paying $20 for a good meal was not such a bad deal. I supported the goal of my best friend getting married and promised I would be there for the wedding day. I spoke with a Pittsburgh accent and dreamed of the day I would finally leave the ‘City of Bridges’. The Middle East was a location on the map, a place of violence, wars and hatred towards the West.

I now live in the Middle East, and know that it’s not just a location on a map; rather it’s an intricate mix of people, cultures and languages brought together in the same geographic location. I see the violence and wars just I saw them in the United States, on television. My image of hatred has been replaced by experiences of relentless hospitality and curiosity of who I am and where I am from. Being American is identified by a passport, and explaining why I think a certain way is lost in translation.

I have left the City of Bridges; I now live in the ‘Pearl of Arabia’…otherwise known as Yemen. Fridays involve hearing the local Imam at the mosque with the call for prayer and there is no Southside, let alone alcohol. Beer drinking and Long Island Iced Teas have been replaced with sheesha smoking and qat. Friday has become the Sunday in that the work week begins the next day on Saturday.
Visits with my grandmother live now only in my memory along the rosary beads I took from here funeral. If I have the chance to fight with my mother it happens at the most once a week and involves dialing international. Planning for my best friend’s wedding is done through emails and phone calls with bad connections and cut short by too little phone credit. I have no car, and I would have a suicide wish or masochistic desire if I were to drive here. I would seriously flip if I were to pay more than $5 for a decent meal. I have some crazy pseudo-British accent from time spent with foreigners and not speaking English.

I used to worry about my clothes, what I looked like in public. Now, I wake in the morning and conceal my pajamas with my abeya when I leave the comfort of my air conditioned home. It doesn’t matter if my hair is clean or dirty; styled or unbrushed; long or short; because it is wrapped in a headscarf, hiding it from the public eye. Women’s legs, arms and faces are concealed in sheer flowing cloth, even on the most blistering of heat days. Men wear skirts and no one blinks an eye, nevertheless if one were to wear shorts a line of curious spectators would form wondering why they would choose to wear that.

CNN has been replaced by Al Jazeera. Fruits and vegetables are bought by the kilo at a corner produce stand, sometimes at 2 am; no more Farmer’s Market waxed apples bought with a two for one special at Giant Eagle. A caffeine fix is a complimentary Turkish coffee served in a porcelain cup, so much richer, yet so much more basic than the double soy grande skim latte that cost $5 and is served ‘to go’ in a foam cup. Regardless of fixed price tags, the price can always be negotiated.

Church bells do not ring, even if they did they would be drowned out by the five daily calls to prayer reminding everyone that Allah is greatest and the Prophet Mohammed, his messenger, has written this for us in a sacred book. Praying does not occur privately or just on Saturdays or Sundays, praying here happens everywhere whether it be in a mosque, in a home or on a prayer rug in the corner of a grocery store.

So I ask myself, when does all this become normal? When do I stop comparing myself to others and realize that I am one of them? When does a language so unfamiliar and cryptic become easy to understand? I love it. I’ve changed. If I compared myself to myself ten years ago, I would not know her. I have come a long way since that time not so long ago when I was a curious teenager living in the Northeastern United States. The experiences, people and places I have had the opportunity to encounter can not be expressed in words nor replicated on film. They exist only in a continuous movie played only in my memory.

As I gain more of these experiences I am beginning to realize that life is a series of events meshed together in a bittersweet symphony that no one will ever be able to capture in shape or form.

And so I continue to live and absorb these experiences, for what purpose I am still attempting, if ever, to comprehend…

Back to Life, Back to Reality...

2007-05-30T02:02:00.000-07:00

My return to Yemen was marked by a series of uninviting events including an Egyptian girl puking next to me on the plane when landing in Sana'a (so not fun) and being scammed out of money by the airline Yemenia. I had a horrid six hour layover connection in Sana'a en route to Aden and the Yemenia manager at Sana'a International Airport swore I had no ticket continuing on to Aden, despite the fact that all the information was in the computer system and my bags were checked all the way through from Cairo to Aden.
The Sana'a International Airport is small, and for six hours I as harassed by various Yemenia officials demanding I buy another ticket in order to fly to Aden. At some points, I wondered if the man was trying to rob me or if he was just plain stupid. My conclusion was a combination of the two.
I staunchly refused to pay, at times screaming they were dirty thieves and liars, however after they threatened to throw my bags off the plane I finally caved and paid for another ticket telling them all they would rue the day they met me…I really don’t think they cared. One of the other passengers who witnessed my harassment felt so bad for me that he insisted I meet his family and have them ride me from the airport home, his little cousins even carried all my luggage for me. It somewhat made up for the sorry excuse for night manager running the Yemenia office in Sana'a. But no worries, I will be getting a refund as I went to another office and pleaded my case with one of my former students who happens to be a general manager for Yemenia. It helps being a teacher here, everyone loves you.

I spent an amazing ten days in Egypt. The work week in Yemen ends on Wednesday. I spent extra time at MALI that evening preparing the final grades. I handed them in a manila envelope to the man who manages the café to give to Abeer in the morning. I ran home to get my things in order for my departure from Yemen. I first stopped at a phone booth to phone the Arabia Felix hotel in Sana’a to ask if there was space available. I had difficulty because I didn’t know the code for Sana’a and in the process ran into Salam, my Arabic teacher. He told me that I need to dial a zero and finally I reached the hotel by phone, confirmed space and then waited for Khaled to pick me up for a ride to the airport.

My relationship with Khaled is and was an odd one. He was my ‘boyfriend’ or so he says, to me it was just a bizarre relationship. I have no emotional attachment to the boy and he is completely self absorbed with his image and detached from reality and to what it is to have a girlfriend. He also was in love with the fact he was with an American. He did not like me, he liked my foreign identity.

He came wearing his Raja Taxi suit, driving his Yellow Mini van. We had an awkward parting. It was as if he were a taxi driver and we had never known each other. He asked when I would return and I told him maybe I wouldn’t. I had the thought many times while packing that maybe I should take everything with me. But I didn’t and as I write this I am in Aden, so it never happened.

My flight to Sana’a was uneventful. When I deboarded the plane I had my first feeling of being cool and dry since arriving in Aden. I look forward to when I move to Sana’a at the end of June to escape the steamy heat of Aden. Once arriving I had the experience of trying to get my bag. Apparently it causes confusion when you have a 10 hour layover and want to get your luggage. After changing various offices and clarifying that I just needed my small grey bag it was delivered and I found a taxi to take me to the Arabia Felix.

My cab driver at first was distant but after realizing I spoke Arabic he never shut up. He asked if I chewed qat, I said no, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing a bag of balaadi qat from under his visor and dumping a large amount into my reluctant hands. We chewed, we talked, he drove. He also helped me carry my bags into the hotel. The men at the reception found it funny the ijanaab checking in at two in the morning had a mouth full of qat. They told me I would not sleep. I smiled, saying ‘mafeesh mushkeela’ and they laughed.

When I woke I felt I had entered a new world, even though it was the same country I had been living in since February. My view of the Old City in Sana’a was outstanding, the ginger bread houses, children playing and tribes men meandering through the stone alley ways with the back drop of the mountains in the distance. I look forward to moving there in a month's time.

My taxi driver from the night before returned to pick me up in the morning at 8:30 am. I was enjoying the complimentary breakfast when he arrived and told him to wait. And so he did. He had brought me a juice and told me he had stayed awake all night chewing qat I front of Bab al Yemen.

When I boarded the plane I first thought I would have trouble with a Yemeni man sitting next to me. His wife was sitting in my bulkhead seat next to the window and I had the flight attendant move her. My seat was broken and kept reclining, making for an interesting take off. To my surprise the man sitting next to me turned out to be a highlight of the trip, chatting me up in Arabic, introducing me to his family and giving me Arabic lessons. He volunteered to change seats with me so he would be in the broken one and when I left, he gave me his contact info in Sana’a, telling me I must come to several weddings.

Once clearing customs and gathering my bags I had a gracious de-veiling in front of duty free in the airport. My headscarf was the first to fall and a a child was in shock as I ripped the black dress off throwing it into my bag all in one motion. I immediately wheeled myself into duty free where I bought my full allowance of alcohol and cigarettes. Several Yemeni men followed doing the same.

My cab ride to Garden City was an intense flashback to my past Egyptian life. From bartering with the driver, to him telling me repeatedly how ‘helwaa’ I was also included my hanging me head out the window screaming in joy everytime I saw a familiar landmark.

It was a return to the past, it was a return to a place familiar, to a place I now to refer to as home. Will returning to the United States ever feel so good?

Wearing burka

2007-05-01T00:57:00.000-07:00

For a foreigner traveling in Yemen, they must be granted a permit by police and the army has security checks on the highways. If a foreigner is found to be in the car, there can me serious delays as they have to radio in to the next check point that a foreigner is on the road...this is all for security reasons because of the kidnappings that used to happen here. The Yemeni government has become very strict with the issue of kidnapping because the problem was really bad. The death penalty is now enforced for anyone involved with a kidnapping. The combination of a potential delay along with fear of a something happening and being held at fault makes a lot of bus and taxi drivers afraid to drive a foreigner somewhere...especially a British or American citizen. They often says it's forbidden.

The solution? Wear burka, this could apply for men in extreme cases.

If a woman is in burka, no one is not allowed to speak to her...it's forbidden to talk to her if she does not talk to you. So when I put burka on, I'm allowed to go anywhere do anything, see everyone...but at the same time they have no idea who I am.

This past week I traveled to Mukalla, a ten hour bus or taxi ride from Aden. I had told my friends I would wear burka to prevent any problems, and they all told me it was not necessary. However, when I showed up at the taxi the driver took one look at me and asked me where my veil was. So I had the pleasure of being incognito in a car full of Yemeni men chewing qat. It is pretty freaky when going thru some security checks...the guards with automatics slung over their shoulders shine flashlights in the car barking out questions of where you are from and sometimes checking the cargo. However when the light would shine on my black face they virtually ignored me. Not even a question was asked about the lady in black.

As intimidating as they can be, some of them can be humorous. A friend of mine once told me, how can I take a man seriously when he tries to look official and intimidating asking me where I'm from and what I'm doing...while at the same time he's looking at my passport upside-down.

Yemen. A diamond in the ruff.

Big Brother is Watching Lauren

2007-05-01T00:44:00.000-07:00

The rival school of MALI is Amideast here in Yemen. There was a problem awhile back when some American teachers from Amideast went boozing in some nightclubs here. The police became involved and there was a big debacle.

This is the background information...

So one day I meet a friend of my manager's named Mostafa, one of the most closed minded Yemeni men I have encountered thus far, and comes from a tribe notorious for illegal weapons smuggling. He tells me he would like to chew qat with me and another foreign teacher from Finland, named Maria. Before I could politely refuse, Maria accepted the invitation...I felt obligated to go because the man is pretty crazy and I didn't want Maria to be with him alone.

We all went to Maria's apartment and he was there along with a man from Qatar and the administrative assistant of MALI, who had taken off his professional clothes and was wearing his traditional Yemeni dress; a skirt, loose shirt and turban. His name is Mohamed Hassand and looks like Popeye when he chews qat.

As we sat and chewed Maria told us she was being sent to Mukalla, a town about 10 hours from Aden. Mostafa became upset, but then turned to me and smiled saying well at least I have you now. Thereby telling me that I was his new interest...oh yes how I was flattered. As the evening progressed Maria said she wanted to go to a nightclub with me, and Mostafa flipped out saying that I was forbidden to go because I was a woman, an American woman no less and I was not allowed to go. Mind you, I just met this man.

Mostafa later left and within a half hour I receive a phone call from my manager telling me the police called him advising him to tell his teachers to not go to nightclubs. This no doubt was the doing of Mostafa because he is friends with the police here. In addition, my manager told me to be at home by 11pm. This is my MANAGER.

Blah. So the next night a man who I am friends with came to pick me up. Within a minute of meeting him on the street, he received a phone call from a man saying to drop the foreigner and immediately go to the police. Then we kept seeing a car drive by us. In addition I received phone calls from my manager again at 1 am asking why I was not at home.

A few days later we found this to be the car of Mohamad Hasan--the administrative assistant from MALI. He was instructed by my manager to watch me...basically spy on me. And this all began because of Mostafa.

I flipped out on my manager, told him he was out of line and if this continued I would immediately report him to the American Embassy. Since then, the problem has stopped.

But this is the world I live in. A dumb Yemeni man with machine guns gets the hots for me and next thing I know I have a qat stoned man with a turban spying on me.

When does this all become normal?

Countdown to Egypt

2007-05-01T00:33:00.000-07:00

I leave for Egypt in one week!

Yemen has taken its toll on me. All of my friends are Yemeni, Syrian or Egyptian. I have become drawn into a close knit circle and am learning more and more of how Yemenis think, and what have I decided? This is truly a bizarre culture for me.

It is now normal for a man wearing a bleached white galibeya and large dagger to pick me up in his car to go smoke sheesha while he tells me about the machine guns he has at home.
It is normal for a man to be your friend for two months before even learning he has a wife and two children at home.
I now feel naked if I leave my home without my black abeya dress and hair covered.
People stoned on qat are the norm.
Calls for prayer and waiting for hours for someone to finish their praying is expected.

You have a country that preaches Islam and looks down on loose 'western' values such as dating. But in reality the same exact things are happening in this country, just under the surface. Yemen has nightclubs where prostitutes work, some veiling their faces but showing everything else. Very bizarre to see a woman shaking her hips to Egyptian dance in an Arabian nights spangled bikini top and sheer skirt on top of a table while at the same time wearing a black veil to hide her face. Oh! and they have this dance, which is no doubt the 'electric slide' from the U.S., but all the girls in a nightclubs will get up on stage and dance to it. They call it 'Samba'. I can declare it is nothing like what they have in Brazil.

So which is better? Saying that people have no sex or relationships before marriage and then hide behind curtains and locked doors gossiping and looking down on stories that surface--or just being honest about it all??? I am currently dating a Yemeni man here (named Khaled), and it is proving to be as bizarre as the culture itself. For instance, he has told me that his best friend swears he can steal me away from him. And they are still friends. Who says that to a friend???

So many Yemenis tell me they like to be with me because I'm foreign. Because I'm different. They think that being a westerner means I'm more trustworthy. The Yemeni feels they can not trust another Yemeni with secrets, and for good reason. People here love to gossip about everything.

Strange, yes?

Teacher Lauren

2007-03-05T00:11:00.000-08:00

All of my students refer to me only as 'Teacher'.

Teaching here is more difficult than I had originally thought. I have three upper level courses so I have to do a lot of outside reading and writing with them...which means lots of work for me. I do enjoy it and my students are amazing. All of my classes have 8 students maximum and the majority are female. Not all are Yemeni, I also have students from Syria, Saudia Arabia and France. They are very attentive and are a pleasure to teach. No exteme problems yet.

I love working as a teacher in the fact that I get a look into the culture on a daily basis. Classes are based a lot on conversation so we are constantly discussing cultural ideas and topics. However, the first lesson I had to teach to one of my classes had the subject of dating and romance...try teaching that to a class where the dating culture is completely hidden and not discussed openly. Not a good topic to start with when you do not fully understand the culture.

Some other things I deal with that I would not have to face should I have chosen another country for teaching:

1. Memorizing female students names who are fully veiled. I have become quite good on identifying students by their eyes.

2. Call for Prayer. Our class schedule changes depending on when the call for prayer is so that men have enough time to pray at the mosque and then return for classes.

3. Students Praying Between classes. It has become normal for me to be reviewing a listening activity while three female students begin to pray in the classroom...using their books to kneel on.

4. Students Stoned on Qat. Yemen has a narcotic leaf that is chewed by nearly everyone. I strictly enforce the rule of no chewing, however some of my students have come to class after chewing and have a glazed look in their eye. Their contribution to discussions are hilarious.

5. Cultural Differences. The text book I use was printed in the United States and I have to read all the lessons ahead of time to explain cultural differences...which there are a lot. Yesterday I was explaining what a 'typical suit' is for business. A lot of the students thought it was wearing a skirt (as the men do here).

6. Business is Personal. Arab culture makes everything personal. My students act as if I am a family to them. From time to time, I am having trouble trying to separate myself as a teacher.

7. Power Outages. It is not uncommon to be teaching when there is a black out. It has only happened a couple of times, but that was more than enough! Especially considering how it is so hot here...without AC it can be unbearable.

These are just a few differences I have come across with my teaching.

I teach one morning class and two night classes, all two hours in length. I am also studying Arabic in the afternoons. I am BUSY. But enjoying it all.

Aden

2007-02-24T00:11:00.000-08:00

I felt comforatable in Sana'a, enjoyed the weather and felt I had become oriented to Yemen in the mere three days I was there being introduced to my school and surroundings. On the 22nd I took a Yemenia flight to Aden, a short 45 minute plane ride south.

Yemenia is a decent airline despite what everyone told me prior to my flight, saying it was a no hold bar kind of airline where anything goes. Except for the annoying three year old French girl who kept kicking my seat, I found it to be enjoyable. They even played music all during the flight, my favorite was the Godfather theme song playing prior to landing.

My first impression of Aden? HOT. And humid. Mind you a week ago I was in subzero weather of the United States under a blanket of snow. Aden is a city built into the crater of an extinct volcano. Mountains surround the city which has beaches lying on the sea. The people are very laid back here which is nice. I have shed the abeya (big black dress) and veil I wore in Sana'a...you need to pay me to wear that in this heat. I have no idea how the women here do it.

The director of the school, Shukri, was the man who greeted me at the airport, wearing his skirt and with the biggest wad of qat (I'll write more about this stuff later) I have ever seen stuffed into his right cheek. He along with a random guy in the passenger seat drove me to my apartment, which to my surprise is private. I thought I would be sharing housing, but I have my own place here. It's nice...two bedrooms one sitting room, kitchen and bathroom with a 'throne' toilet. Not the normal hole in the floor so traditional of Yemen. I still have no idea how to get the hot water working properly.

At first Shukri took me to the wrong apartment, one floor up where a man named Abdullah lives. Shukri knocked ont he door, Abdullah emerged and greeted me as if I were going to be living there. I had joked to my friends and family about how I was being sold into white slavery and it was at that moment that I actually thought I might be! However, it was an honest mistake, and Abdullah is a sweetheart. He came down the following day to introduce himself properly, gave me his number and told me if I needed anything I could contact him.
I only had one day before my classes began and I spent it getting oriented, cleaning, unpacking and lesson planning. This was also the day I experienced my first real bit of culture shock. I don't know if it was from the jet lag or the fact that this place truly foreign to me...but I did feel quite uneasy. My mom called me which seemed to make the feelings subside and today I'm better. But it really did blow there for a while.

I also feel homesick not for the United States, but for Egypt. Strange.

Welcome Home?

2007-02-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

I have finally arrived in Sana'a, Yemen to begin working as an English teacher after signing my contract with MALI (click on one of the links to learn more about it) nearly four months ago. I will be living in the coastal town of Aden until summer time when it becomes unbearably hot and humid, I will then be living in the Capital city of Sana'a which has a year round mild climate.

I am not experiencing any culture shock. Rather, I am feeling strange about not feeling like this is a foreign country to me any more. Several people have emailed me, writing 'welcome home'. In a way it feels that way.

So you may find yourself asking, 'Where the heck is Yemen?'. It's simple. Start in Egypt and go east until you get to Saudia Arabia, then make a sharp 90 degree turn right and head south. You will find yourself crashing into an enormous mountain range and ir's around this point that you have arrived in a part of Yemen. However, it is not only mountains, Yemen is split into thirds: desert, beach, mountains.
It cannot be compared to any other place in the world. Yemen is a place with a unique culture and history that I am only beginning to understand. It was not until the fall of the Imam in 1962 that the Yemeni started opening up to the rest of the world and it was not until the 1980s's that foreigners began traveling to the country.

So now you ask, 'Why the heck are you in Yemen?'. Again, it's simple. I like teaching English, I receive a decent salary, have my airfare paid for, cost of living is cheap, I do not pay for an apartment and I receive private Arabic instruction for free. These are just the logistics.
As a friend of mine once said, Yemen gets into your blood and you keep going back for more. I do not believe a country hosts a more hospitable people combined with a culture and history that includes the Queen of Sheeba along with where Noah allegedly set sail in his Arc. Walking around in Yemen is like walking back in time.

More questions you may ask...

Is it required to wear burqua or veil for women? NO

Can women drive? YES, the only place they can not is in Saudia Arabia because that country is crazy.

Don't men harrass you? NOPE. If a man were to touch or say anything to me it would be shameful. I once saw a man beaten by a baker with his shoe because he had followed a woman home. I'm not exaggerating.

Is it safe? YES

Aren't you scared? NO

Don't they hate Americans? No, they just don't understand America's foreign policies. Come to think of it...neither do I.

Will you be kidnapped? I don't think I will be. You are more likely to be kidnapped in Mexico City. Even if I were I would be treated as a 'guest'. Lots of food, lots of tea and lots of gold given to me upon my release. Foreigners were kidnapped in the past by tribes because they needed money to build infrastructure in their town or wanted to get the government's attention. Now the death penalty is enforced for any involvement in kidnapping and it is virtually non-existant.

Isn't the country full of terrorists? NO...the terrorists who have operated here were not Yemeni. Psychos from other countires using Yemen as a base.

Is the food good? Hell YES!

Are the people friendly? The nicest and most hospitable people I have ever encountered in my life.

So now you wonder why the heck is there so much bad press about Yemen? And the Middle East for that matter. Very simple. Over sensitive governments (not mentioning names here but I'm sure you can figure that one out on your own) irritated that foreign governments will not follow on a leash with policies instilled by the West. And blowing a few events up so that they characterize the country. Imagine America portrayed by Oklahoma City bombings or 9/11 or the bombings in London's Tube.

The other reason is ignorance. For anyone who has traveled to this land knows the treasure it holds.

Still don't believe me? No worries, I'll just sit back and enjoy it all myself.