Wanna hang for a day?

(WARNING: This is a long post, and one that might not be so interesting.... I tried to put a video of the amazing sunset and the call to prayer from last night up, but nothin' doin. Network isn't strong enough to do it for me.)

My day generally starts with being woken up around 3:30am by calls from the mosque. This is not the call to prayer, but preparation for the call to prayer. This call of praise will last about 45 minutes. Then a 15 minute break before the first call to prayer for the day begins. If I am lucky enough to sleep through most of it, I count myself lucky. If not, I might roll over onto my knees and join in. Why not, right? I snooze through the next hour or so while the sun makes its way from behind the dry rocky mountain to the east.

Within an hour my room is flooded with sunlight through the large, east facing windows I sleep next to (did I mention I love eastward facing windows?). My alarm won’t go off until 6:15, but I rarely lay in bed until such a late hour. Mind you, I don’t rush out of bed either… I’ll usually lie there and consider what my day holds and the things I want to accomplish; take a stroll through the Old City, maybe head down near the stadium where there is an endless array of shops and stands peddling everything from juice to high end cameras, grab some eggs at the tiny store around the corner…

When I feel good and ready I climb out of bed. Shower, read, throw down a bit of juice and bread; and I’m out of the house by 6:45.

As soon as I leave that door and step into the street I am instantly reminded of where I am (or where I am not). While veiled women dressed in black, jambya’s (the Yemeni Dagger which many men wear daily), and six to ten story buildings made of branches and mud are things that I am getting used to at some level, my heart still skips a beat when it remembers how white I am, and that I’ll have to mumble some words to the minibus driver to make sure he’s going where I need him to go, and to have him stop where I need to get off.

I walk past the intricately decorated facades of the homes in the area and the thick walls of the Old City constructed perhaps thousands of years ago of brown brick. The streets in this area are made with rough-hewn, tan stones about eight inches square. The foot and vehicle traffic has worn them into a slick surface that has me sliding around when there is even a hint of water.

After exiting the main city, I cross a main thoroughfare and walk along-side the military compound toward the bus stop. The compound stretches a quarter mile or so before I can round its corner and see the rows and rows of minibuses, all lined up to take me where I need to go. Looking over my left shoulder so as not to be run down by bus number 3 or a motorcycle carrying three Yemeni men, I cross the street and walk along the rows until I reach bus 7, my ride to Hadda Fundo.

This morning I’m lucky enough to find a seat where I can face forward and not have to duck my head during my twenty minute ride.

When the bus is full we pull onto the rugged, well used black top of the city of Sana’a. Because the tiny minibuses have very low clearance (only intensified when its seats are packed to the gills), the drivers take special care to avoid potholes or dips. When there is no choice but to take the hit, they slow to a snail’s pace in order to reduce the wear and tear on these vehicles that, though they seem to run like gems, invariably display several battle wounds from jockeying for position on the road in order to fill their seats. Very few private cars are to be found at this hour on the city streets. Most vehicles are either taxis or minibuses, either zooming toward a definite location, or trolling for passengers.

20 minutes and 50 turns later I mumble my words to the driver who somehow realizes that I want him to stop. I pay my fare of 40 YR (about 20 cents), and cross Hadda Street, entering the neighborhood that houses our office building.

The office building is nothing more than a three storey house with ten foot walls all around. The main working floors actually rise above that gate and from the roof I can see the mountain across town that protects the Old City where I live.

Work is work…. (I’ll get to that later since this is already getting way too long. If you're still reading this, you are either my mom, family, or we should really get together sometime...)

Once done for the day I hope on the bus for my return ride home. Traffic at 5:45pm is much heavier than it is at 7am, so my ride will be much noisier and much longer. By this time of day most of the men have a big wad of qat in one cheek. It is the stimulant of choice here in Yemen, and is used by around 80% of all men and up to 60% of all women. The leafy plant is chewed into a ball and placed in the cheek, sometime seemingly the size of baseballs. Literally, I have been dumbfounded by how distended the cheeks are of some men. Once the juices start flowing into the veins, energy and lightheartedness are not far behind.

I originally planned on taking a try at some qat. But at the admonition of my boss, and the fact that none of the lds crowd seems to think it’s acceptable, I think I’ll pass. Whether or not it is inappropriate for a good mormon boy to partake, the qat has done nothing to help the Yemeni people. My boss calls it a national disaster. I’ll decline (more on qat later if you’re interested).
Reaching the bus stop and starting on my walk home, I decide to take a different route. I walk through the middle of the Old City in search of some much needed grub. This always raises some anxiety for me… The last time I ate in the city by myself, all I could do was point to the dish someone else had in front of them, and hope I had enough dough to cover it. As it turned out, the dish filled me up quite well for $1.50 equivalent.

In the heart of the Old City I found a Falafel stand. The man would wrap falafel in a pita along with spices, vegetables, and some tasty salsa. I decided that if the previous dish had cost me $1.50 (300 YR), I’d ask for enough wraps to fill that order. He made me 10 wraps…. I had to laugh at myself. At least I’d have enough for lunch the next day.

Getting home, I went straight up onto the roof for a good meal, a good read, and an immaculate sunset. What more could I ask for? After the sun had dipped below the horizon and the calls for prayer had ended, I dropped back inside to change and get ready for bed.

A few episodes of Seinfeld later, I was ready to drop off to bed. 9pm isn’t too early right? Safely enclosed in my mosquito net, I drifted into the unconscious… gotta be ready for 3:30.