Only in Sana’a can you experience a day of such intense heat you nearly pass out in the back of a car, then get stuck in traffic behind a group of Christian Ethiopians exiting church because the weekends here are Thursday/Friday so technically it’s their Sunday. On a quick drive, we see a young girl at the wheel of a jeep driving down the street. It turns out to be Nojoud Ali, the 8-year-old Yemeni child bride who, on her own, divorced her husband and became the world’s most famous divorce. She looked happy if a little nervous to be driving. But I’d be nervous too. She’s 12-years-old now but even at my age it’s scary to drive in make-a-lane-where-you-want-it Sana’a. Then, still nauseous from heat, (and the black sweater I wear for modesty only makes the heat worse) we head to the souq, the market, to meet with a group of foreign women who decide to tour a six story house in the “old city” of Sana’a. I suck in water as fast as I can to fight the dehydration and we make our way through the market and stop at Ali Baba’s shack again. He and I are old friends. But nearby I spot jambiyas, the Yemeni dagger men traditionally wear around their waist. The last shop I visited quoted me $150. Ha! We got down to $90 before I walked out. This guy was feeling friendly and with a little help from a Yemeni woman trader (my friend’s mom) I got my husband a beautiful jambiya for less than half the price of the last shop. “I want you to know you are getting a deal and I am losing money,” the shop keeper said grudgingly. I don’t feel bad. I’ve lost more as a foreigner shopping here. And later I found the red and white Yemeni scarf men wear. My very Palestinian husband is going to look very Yemeni in a few weeks. Time to enjoy a little World Cup and a Yemeni attempt at a snow cone (they have ice and blender they told me).

Last night I scored an invite to a real Yemeni wedding at the nicest hotel in Sana’a. It was theevent at the start of the wedding season. I wasn’t really sure what to expect but when we entered the room of 500 or so women only–after they checked our bags for camera phones because no pictures are allowed–I was pleasantly surprised at the atmosphere. Like most Yemeni gatherings, it was a segregated event. The groom and all the men were not at the hotel but at a separate location dancing and cheering (there isn’t the formal wedding march and public exchange of vows but rather three days of events). But the groom did make a ceremonial appearance in the banquet hall and the whole room went from boobalicious to black hoods in an instant. Everyone covered their hair and most covered their faces so the groom would  not see them and be tempted from his bride. He walked in alongside what appeared to be his mother and stepped up on a runway in the center of the room. Little kids did a sweetheart dance and they played Shania Twain’s “From this Moment”, then a panel wall was moved revealing huge picture frames lined along the wall. They were glowing with lights, the kind you find in an actress’s dressing room. He tugged at a curtain in front of each picture frame revealing his bride in various poses with her head uncovered. Finally, he tugged the last curtain from the picture frame and she appeared in all her beauty. Dressed in a white, strapless mermaid gown with a full bustle and handfuls of fluffy train that required assistance as she walked by. Rhinestones (or diamonds but I doubt it) glittered from head to toe. Her lips glowed a deep ruby red–I don’t know what lipsticks they use here but they’re so bright and it’s almost like a stain–and she walked with him for one ceremonial dance to Michael Buble. A few women were appointed picture takers and one had a small video camera. Then they sat in a chair side by side to watch a video clip of them as children and how they met. Then a modeling session video showed her posing for the pics in the frames. And every single one showed her in provocative clothes. A Marilyn Monroe dress blowing up shot. A naughty school girl shot. The camera zoomed in on her breasts and legs too advertising all the goodies he apparently hasn’t seen yet.

The virginal offering theme was very apparent. That’s the one thing women here have as an asset. Their virginity. It’s sacred. It’s a commodity. It’s a man’s right to have. Now the men are often proud of touring the world, as this groom did, sowing their wild oats in the process. But you better not even think of it here if you’re a good Yemeni girl saving your reputation and trying to land a good Yemeni boy (and that is, for most women here, the single most important goal in a young girl’s life–marriage security). And a lot of girls are very focused on landing that guy and getting their moment to sit at the head of the room, alone (the groom only stays a short while and leaves the bride), on a wedding throne in a fluffy dress like a queen (or sacrificial lamb?) And it’s easy to see why young girls and women work so hard to get this type of wedding for themselves. You are a queen. All the guests dressed like it was a red carpet event. Women of all ages wore evening gowns, some even wore tiaras. It was a weird mix of couture and any gown that glittered and you wanted to wear even if it didn’t fit your body or flatter you. Weddings are an excuse to get out and dress up and breathe. The Yemeni wedding reminded me so much of my own wedding and how much my husband didn’t want the wedding throne for us. But that hidden princess part of me stirred a little at the sight of the bride and how all the attention was on her. She was beautiful and deserved this moment like all brides deserve their moment virgin or not. But she didn’t dance with her guests, she stayed regal, unmoving on her throne. Maybe she was thinking of the night ahead. Who knows? But I looked at her and wished her happy thoughts. And good days to come. I hoped that her moment of glory and the gift she was giving her husband was one he would appreciate and cherish and their marriage would be a long lasting one. I root for happy marriages everywhere and fight hard against the demon of divorce.

I can’t talk about Yemen unless I talk about qat, or khat, pronounced ‘got’ like ‘caught’ with a g-sound.   The green leaves are the narcotic of choice for this area of the Middle East. Yemenis center their days around hours long qat chewing sessions, they build special rooms in their homes strictly for qat chewing, business is done over qat and cigs and hookahs, unemployment flourishes while chewing qat, a water shortage is the result of the for-cash crops of qat, markets for qat are everywhere, big bulges in men’s cheeks are full of qat, women secretly chew, you get high off qat, you get sleepy off qat, you get euphoric off qat, you get sick off qat. It’s everywhere.  When you come from a culture where the only people who put leaves in their mouths are cowboys and rednecks and you call the stuff dip, you just can’t appreciate a substance that looks like rose bush leaves, tastes like raw jalapeno peppers and then turns to a parsley like mush in your mouth. But you cannot function in Yemen with qat. Your social life would be non-existent if you didn’t at least pretend to enjoy chewing–they chew and suck the juice and form huge balls on the side of their mouth–but don’t swallow the leaves. For some it has no effect but most people who chew fall into a euphoric or lethargic state. Their eyes sink in a little, get big and it’s said to increase libido too as well as energy in some similar to a few espresso shots. For the most part, qat chewing sessions are as segregated as everything else but they are lively and full of conversation, dancing, book discussion, politics, life, relationships. Even non-chewers can enjoy themselves because those who do chew don’t get out of hand or embarassing like drunks do. They are mellow and friendly instead and the effect isn’t nearly as significant as a hangover. Women aren’t supposed to chew until they get married–but most do outside of marriage. And there’s not set age to chew but little children are discouraged from picking up the habit though it’s common to see street children with a wad in their mouth because it acts as an appetite suppressant as well. Often people want rooms with huge windows to enjoy the view and breeze while they chew. They’ll go to the mountains or sit on hillsides with bags of qat chewing, chatting and doing nothing for hours on end. It’s the downfall of many marriages as men prefer to chew for hours rather than work. Since the World Cup began, qat prices have sky rocketed here. Farmers get rich and poor people waste their salaries on qat. And soldiers here have used it to help settle fears before armed combat. And because it’s full of pesticides and many people don’t wash it thoroughly enough before chewing they risk both cancer and liver disease for what can best be described as a mild high. In the U.S., like most countries, it’s illegal and police have started cracking down.  But then again it’s Yemen. What else is there to do on a Saturday night? There’s no movie theaters. No bars or clubs for Yemenis. There have beencalls to stop chewing qat but rarely will you find someone here who does not–even among the educated elite in Yemeni society. And while I can appreciate the addiction because let’s face it, Americans have a hug issue with alcohol, you have to wonder what this country could really be like, how it could really improve if people were sober most of the day and working instead of  getting high?

Me in Bayt Baws/ Photo Lamya Noman

I’ve been in the Middle East for roughly two weeks and for the most part things are going well. My stop in Beirut was almost comical. It’s very liberal except when you run into a group of Iranians visiting for the summer in your short denim skirt and give them a heart attack. Women and men are obsessed with their looks and Beirut residents are obsessed with not being Arab–they speak more French and prefer the label Phoenician. And they love heavy eye liner and botox. It’s like Dallas without blonds.  But in the Middle East I am like some sort of freakish unicorn walking around. EVERYONE stares at me. Men and women. Like they’ve just seen an alien land in their world and frankly I feel like an alien. I don’t know if it’s because I’m super white (which they value here) and girls try to tan out of themselves in Dallas or because I dress differently or my hair is short (women here have very long hair) and I have freckles, but I am a walking freak show and people stop to take my picture and have me pose with their child. Thankfully, other foreigners often receive the same treatment.

Day to day life is interesting. There are blackouts every day in Yemen and in Beirut and only six hours of electricity in Saida, Lebanon. I’ve gotten used to that. I’ve also stopped waking up to the call to prayer. I sleep through it. And most people seem to ignore it. I’m in a haven of women and foreigners in Sana’a–a coffee shop my friend’s family owns caters to foreigners and upscale clients…and oh, wait a minute a herd of goats just walked past the coffee shop entrance…yes, that’s Yemen. It’s also incredibly hot here except when it’s cool and breezy. There’s no A/C in most homes and when we are in homes we constantly have to keep a curtain pulled in front of the window so people can’t see in and the girls’ reputations aren’t ruined.  

Down a rain cut road, the Imam’s house juts from the rock, a beacon on a hill for tourists. We park and get our tickets (twice the price for foreigners) and start the climb upwards to Wadi Dhahr, the rock palace built in 1786 by Imam Mansour Ali Bin Mahdi Abbas and used in the 1930s by Imam Yahya Hamid Al Din and his three wives–each with her own floor–as a summer residence. It’s now a museum and a long steep walk up stone steps. We walk in and cats and kittens are everywhere so are tourists who’ve braved the unpaved roads through the village of  Qaryat al- Qabil. Built using stone from the mountain and parts cut from the mountain, it’s an oddity tourists trek to see. We start the climb up thick, uneven steps and are met by tourists who stare wide-eyed at the foreign girls with bare heads, with skin showing. They ask us to pose for photos with them, with their kids, with their veiled wives. We’re the tourist attraction. Higher we climb into the house where thick white walls cool the thin air. Breeze blows from every angle. It’s easy to see why this would be a summer home. Below, we see the tops of Turkish baths where women once walked for cleansing and bathing. Each window shows a view of stone hillsides and stain glass panes glow above window frames. High up top, we see a three burner stove, and next to the kitchen we spot prehistoric burial caves carved out of the stone. Scraping marks can be seen on the walls like finger scrapings. It’s an eerie place to be in a tomb where bodies once laid to take pictures inside. On the rooftop, we rest and bake in the piercing sun. A family joins us. Pictures! Pictures with us. Pictures of them. As tourists, we al participate in this experience.

In Yemen, much of my day to day life separated between men and women. I can’t walk out of the house without a conscious effort to cover exposed skin and even though I cover much, much less than most women here–Yemenis stop to take pictures with me like I’m a tourist attraction–there is always a separation. Girl’s nights are a special occasion in Dallas, bars advertise drink specials and there’s the infamous ladies nights. We are happy when we have a day or a “girls only” weekend. Now imagine that every day, most nights and every where you go. I’m surrounded by so much estrogen at times it’s as choking as the cigarettes everyone smokes. I miss men!! I miss having a guy in a room that says something stupid/sexist/idiotic/or pure male. I miss goofy things guys do like beer can pyramids. I miss ordering men around–get the milk, can you grab the napkins?, fix the grill its gone out again. And it’s not just that I miss my husband (which I do mucho) but I miss the presence of men as equals to me and as friends. Not the freaks I have to hide my hair from, or who can’t see me in a tank top and shorts, who can only catch glimpses of me behind pulled curtains on the floors women congregate together on. (There are non-family, non-married friend relationships between men and women here though but you have to be careful about just how friendly and how public you are.) Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl-time, but it’s suffocating at times. Always girls. Always girl talk. Always kids, marriage, relationships, clothes etc. I’m not saying men are more intellectual than women, but I miss a guy’s perspective on anything at this point. Hell, I’d give anything just to play a hand of poker with a dude. And to think, some men call me a man hater! But even here you meet Yemeni men and they are as hesitant to speak freely with me as I am with them. Men walk up and down the street holding hands here, arm in arm at times. It’s bizarre until you realize that they too spend enormous amounts of time with other men. Their relationships are as unisex as women. I understand the cultural and religious customs that separate men and women here, but I wonder if men might look at me (and treat me differently) if they knew women more as friends and people not veiled oddities they can catch only glimpses of.

Once a village with both Muslims and Jews (the synagogue still remains), Bayt Baws (the kissing house in Arabic) is now a city of squatters, families who’ve moved to the mountain top town out of necessity. My friend tells me last year 13 families lived here, now there are 22. Not a good sign. Each Ramadan she organizes a food and basic needs drive–roughly about $50 worth of goods per family. The men here chew khat (Yemen’s narcotic of choice) and do not work. Women are left running the household and raising children on a meager existence. As we arrive, goats, two donkeys and waves of children come forward. An older boy I’d say around 10 or 11 (he doesn’t know his age, few if any do as they have no birth certificates) emerges as the pack leader. He recognizes my friend, the Ramadan lady, and instantly strikes up a conversation. This is a great tourist destination in Sana’a–amazing scenery, hillside views. Today, the sun strikes through the clouds glistening off ripples from a damn of water below. Not long ago, tourists were detained and kidnapped here. But on this day, I sensed no violence. The children were more than pleased to show us their town, the best views, their sister and brother. Picture! Picture! They love digital cameras that let them see their photos instantly. They made a list of all the families in the village for Ramadan–in two months. They haggled over who would be on the list of needs. “Not that family, they have a truck!” And our guide told my friend about the problems at home. He gets money from tourists he guides through the area but gives the money to his mother. His dad doesn’t work . A young girl, a twin, emerges and follows the group. She’s very shy, her clothes dirty and soiled but she desperately wants to participate in the tour. I catch her behind a wall and snap a picture. She cracks a small smile. Already it seems she knows how much harder it’s going to be for her life here and how easy it’s going to be for her twin brother. And there’s not much you can tell her that will be optimistic. But today, for a little bit, she’s a little girl, running and playing with a kitten enjoying a day with foreigners in her home. It’s a nice hour, a happy few moments she’ll have. We dig in our wallets for money to give the children, not the adults. Never the adults. And we walk back through the village past crumbled rooms where trash and goat droppings are left. It’s getting darker. We must leave. One last photo of a boy scaring goats.

On the way to Shibam, ‘the Manhattan of the desert’ some say, a stone-wall escape from Sana’a. A beggar boy offers poems for rials. “What’s your name?” he asks and recites a poem in a rocking tune calling me shaykh (an honored woman in a tribe, it means elder and usually someone who’s completed the pilgrimage to Mecca). Later, we zoom along winding roads climbing the hillside where the air is thinner, clearer. Houses are built into the rocks here and it’s hard to imagine how people live in this environment, how they get groceries? We stop and dine with Hamida, an old woman whose restaurant is a must see for any road trip to Shibam. You don’t order food here. They bring you food, plates full of it and as you lay back on pillows lining the wall pastel paint catches your eye. The typical Yemeni crown molding here is painted in Easter egg colors. A man brings in a huge serving tray on his head. The dishes are bubbling hot. He shows a scar on his arm. See I burned myself he says. He shows the same burn again when the tea is late and when the bill is late. Later, we drive up to Shibam and climb the stone steps lining the hillside to a hotel. People rent rooms here to chew khat–a green leafy substance Yemeni’s chew most days. It’s said to have an hallucinogenic effect on people. Most just feel relaxed, even euphoric. People like to chew with a view and here the sights are stunning, open. The air is crisp and yet key chains, and other items find their way up here, “Good stuff. Very good,” the young men tell us. We walk back up the hillside toward the parked car. It’s so far this place, across rock piled roads, past villages and checkpoints and the blankness overwhelms you. But the beauty is inescapable. The Sana’a escape. See pictures here.

Inside the gates at Bab Al Yemen, Sana’a's best souq (market), shopping for silver and scarves with the fragrant scent of spices and kebab mixed in the night air. Dresses hang from shop fronts, children pester you from money, pyramids of spices–cumin, salt, pepper and curry–pinch your nose as you walk by. Trucks and motorcyles squeeze through the aisles.  Here, they weigh your purchases before quoting a negotiable price, and the handcrafted necklace hanging by pins in Ali Baba’s jewelry store called to me from the blue velvet. It had a turquoise center, surrounded by stars and spades, rings with agate stone and a camel bone mirror rounded out my purchases. I hesitated though at the estimated cost. This is a lot of money. But this is real silver my guides tell me. The shop keeper says he’ll bargain. “I Ali Baba No. 5,” he says, with a wad of green khat (Yemenis everywhere eat this stuff) bulging from the side of his mouth. ”Where you from?” We chat in broken English and nods. Finally, the price. “Ali Baba No. 5 make deal,” he says pounding his chest with an open palm, proud like. He comes down $10. Then his hands flick over the calculator. He talks to the man next to him, “He Ali Baba No. 4,” my salesman explains. But then Ali Baba No. 4 started inching in on the negotiations and Ali Baba No. 5 sent him away. Finally, ”I accept you,” Ali Baba No. 5 says. We make a deal and I leave a fistful of rials lighter. We snack in the souq square over kebab and potato and egg sandwiches and walk through the copper aisles where men are closing up shop for the night. Bartering is acceptable here but not too far. Most aren’t marking up there goods that much and it’s pure silver and real stones here. In one shop, my friend drools over a $500 wreath necklace of silver and stone. The shop owner’s prices are high but he offers to let her wear it home to think about it and get opinions from others. I spot a silver crown. They tell me it’s for women who’ve just given birth. Forty days after she delivers a child they throw a party and some women deck themselves in silver including crowns at the celebration. After giving birth in Yemen, I think you deserve a crown of silver, a necklace of gold, and agate stones. See pics here.

So a friend took me to a local gym for a real Yemeni workout–basically working out during specified hours for women only. The Weider gym is one of the most popular here and they’re open for women from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. most days. There’s not a dedicated women’s gym such as Curves (though I did see one in Beirut) so gyms here accommodate women during certain hours of the day (and no I can’t take pictures of women without robes on and they’re face exposed so don’t ask). The Weider gym has a sauna, showers, an aerobics room, treadmill and lifting equipment. Basically, the same kinds and quality of equipment you’d find at your local fitness center. There’s not A/C in the gym but there was enough cross ventilation that it didn’t matter. The random power outages during the workout were a bit of a downer though–one occurred while I was on the treadmill and another during a workout video and another two just now. All the ladies wore workout pants, and exercise tops under their long black robes. Once you get women in a gym cultural, religious and language barriers are pushed aside. Women in all countries want a flatter stomach, tighter abs, less hip and gut. They sweat and run and lift weights. There’s not a 24 hour fitness feel to this place (but they said other gyms do offer full fledged aerobics classes) but one woman acted as a personal trainer of sorts offering hints, helped with the tread mill settings and volunteered to spot while another woman lifted weights. Today, a woman brought a workout DVD with her and led an informal class–basically we watched the TV in the workout room and the woman who brought it did most of the work. There’s no aerobics instructor or boot camp stuff just women making do with what they have at hand. (I’m going to try and mail workout DVDs to them). I looked at our reflections in the mirror and wondered how different it feels alone with women. And the black robes that have intimidate me most of my stay suddenly didn’t feel so spooky because now I know who’s under there–women like me.