Yemen (I think)

Yemen's three favourite things, all rather uncharitably banned from my office

I am in Sana'a, capital of Yemen.  It is no doubt a fascinating place, but I couldn't tell you as security restrictions are such that I am not allowed to walk the 100 yards to work in the morning.  On the plus side my conversational arabic is getting a work-out and I can tell you plenty about the families and home towns or all of our drivers.  The security is justified, as Yemen is currently the kidnapping capital of the world.  Fear not - there are two principal kinds of kidnapping.  The first is courtesy of Al Qaeda, who are so hot right now around here, and let's not think too much about that kind.  Tribal kidnappings, though, are meant to be a right lark - your captors will be demanding the release of a prisoner or a new cinema or free milk for kids in schools, and they will treat you like a guest until their modest demands are met.  One fellow I heard of was even updating his Facebook status while in captivity - I don't know if he even thought it worth mentioning that he had been kidnapped.  Even better is the story of the German chap who was kidnapped about thirty years ago and still goes back to Yemen every couple of years to visit his captors.

In fact, I was probably in more danger in Lebanon, as here there is little chance of getting alcohol poisoning, breaking a leg while skiing or impaling oneself on a bottle of absinthe after slipping while dancing on a bar.

Yemen is the poorest country in the middle east, mostly as far as I can tell due to qat, a leaf that you chew to get high, or to chill out or something.  90% of Yemenis spend about 70% of their time with cheeks full of it, often managing to cram in a cigarette as well.  Government buildings close at lunchtime as the workers usually follow their meal with a bit of a chew, and when they look at their watches it's time to go to work the next morning.  Nearly half of Yemen's water supply goes to watering the thirsty qat trees, leading to predictions of Sana'a running out of water altogether by 2017, a frightening thought that the Yemenis need to chew a lot of qat to forget about.

Beirut

I am reluctant to write too much about what life in Beirut is like, lest I am accused of selling out or murdered by a bitter humanitarian worker who was sent on a deployment where you can't watch rock legends live in concert or drive an hour to go skiing with a sea view.  Therefore I won't mention the Guns n Roses show or the quality of the snow in the mountains.

On my first weekend in Beirut a colleague invited a few of us to watch her judge a tattoo contest in a nightclub.  No tattooing was conducted – instead the contestants revealed their tattoos and explained their origins in the Lebanese mixture of English, French and Arabic.  The more attractive or drunk ones danced about a bit.  There was a stunning likeness of Lenin on one fellow’s shoulder, rubbing cheeks with Che Guevera, and another had Lenin on his chest.  I don’t know if the Beirut tattoo scene is a hotbed of communist thought; in fact the second one could also have been the Argentine footballer Juan Sebastian Veron so I won’t speculate further.

A few days ago the prime minister of Lebanon and his entire cabinet resigned, leaving the country without a government.  Political turmoil is so familiar here that people barely noticed.  Our security detail sent us each a text message warning us of celebratory gunfire from some factions and the other kind of gunfire from the other factions, and advising us to "avoid areas associated with political tension", so I guess we all have to leave the country.

I play football twice a week with a nice group in Burj Al Borajne, where Hezbollah hang out.  Sometimes we hear deafening AK47 fire coming from behind a wall just beyond the touchline, but no one is bothered - it is just an arms dealer testing his wares.

I spent a pleasant couple of days at our office in Qubaiyat, in the hills by Lebanon’s northern border with Syria.  When our field office here has visitors they are put up in the guest rooms of the Convent de la Paix, and I was disappointed not to pass gaggles of giggling trainee nuns on my way to breakfast.

Garish decor in my bedroom at the convent

We are distributing winter clothing and shelter kits to Syrians who have crossed the border in search of a land where bombs don't keep falling on their heads.  Our logistics manager got sun-burnt at a winter clothes distribution recently which made us wonder whether a bikini and flip-flop distribution would be more appropriate, but it still gets cold at night in the mountains.  To try and make it look like I'm actually doing useful work and not just smoking shisha and dancing on bars, here are some photos of a recent distribution in Qubaiyat.

Field Manager Suleiman briefs the team before the mayhem begins

Outside the school and distribution centre, before
this area resembled the mosh pit at a Slayer concert

UNICEF clothes - high on quantity, low on fashion quality

Tarps in hand, boxes of age-appropriate clothes on their way hopefully

Inspecting the wares

2 blankets per child - some of the larger families
had trouble getting all this stash home on the bus