mimi's adventures

2009-06-29T07:29:00.003+02:00

It's around 2.30 am, it's Friday, it was supposed to be a big night out, one more farewell party, so typical in this country where people constantly come and go.

I'm not in the mood for party, as this time it's my good friends' farewell party, I am going to miss her horribly as she became a very good friend, my confident, the one who knew and kept my little secrets in a country where you struggle to have a private life.

I decide to go home earlier. I feel a bit pathetic, I couldn't help crying a bit during the party. She's leaving and it reminds me how in my world, once again, all relationships have expiry dates.

I am driving home on the beach road, feeling sorry for myself when suddenly I see siren lights, 2, no 3, wait 4...all throughout the beach road. First I think they are check points, am not drunk, have my papers...should be fine...

But it's not a check point. the road is blocked, I arrived at an intersection that I take everyday, there are GNR's (portuguese contingent part of the United Nations police force)everywhere, I recognize a few of them, it's such a little place Dili...
they are not wearing their tight shirts that underline their overly defined muscles and they don't look hot anymore, they are on duty, some of them look angry and violent, they have big grey guns, never seen those before. There is a group of them on my right shouting at someone on the floor....I can't really see what that group is doing. I can hear them crossing, violent movements, but i don't know for sure, I am in between something apparently, they look beyond me, two make signs at me, one of them recognizes me.

I danced with him once, at a portuguese party. He was shy and giggling nervously. He doesn't look shy anymore, or intimidated. He looks at me like he knows exactly what he's doing, he tells me to drive away, to take the other road. I probably look like a clueless silly girl, but he smiles, making me feel safe besides the unexpected cenario happening in front of me.

So I drive away and a few minutes later I arrive home safely like nothing happened. But I can't stop thinking about what I saw...how the only reason I felt safe was because of the nationality of the police, I could relate to them,which is weird. I think about how easily things can't get out of control here, how things are still so sensitive, there are so many tensions ...that can potentially become an open conflict and disturb the little bubble I live in...

In 2006 when everyone was talking about a potential crisis I didn't believe it would happen, now after the 2006 crisis, and maybe also with more mature eyes, I think anything can happen, this place can burst out in a day...I just hope it doesn't for the sake of the people, for the sake of my little self centered vision that this place still has a future, and can be a model of sucess...

Hoje- Today- Aujourd'hui

2009-06-05T02:56:00.003+02:00

votei - voted- j'ai voté

para as eleiçoes do Parlamento Europeu

for the European Parliament elections

pour les éléctions du Parlement Européen.

Insolitas

2009-05-12T10:28:00.002+02:00

o transporte publico mais comum (conhecido aqui por "microlet"), leiam: "fodas" ou a reintroduçao do portugues em Timor-Leste

No restaurante turco...

E infelizmente nao fui a tempo de tirar uma fotografia do novo clube do Benfica inicialmente totalmente pintado de VERDE clarinho....os senhores já corrigiram o erro...

a bit of sydney a bit of kiwiland

2009-04-29T03:43:00.003+02:00

And yes it was great, and yes it is over. New Zealand is definetly worth it but nice weather conditions make it a lot easier and at least two full weeks are needed. Very similar to switzerland without the maoris and the ocean...beautiful

First dive

2009-03-25T01:38:00.005+01:00

despite the waking up at 5.30 am...it was all worth it, got to see the sun rise, and

I met Nemo and all his family...

Next holidays, I'll be here...

2009-03-17T08:31:00.003+01:00

and maybe I'll meet some of these guys...

The flat mate

2009-02-26T03:11:00.003+01:00

The Nice Lunch Break

2009-02-26T03:07:00.000+01:00

The (new) Office

2009-02-26T03:00:00.001+01:00

Just moved, small but cozy

mimi is

2009-02-25T08:15:00.001+01:00

starting her diving course today....

http://www.turismotimorleste.com/en/activities/diving/

Estrangeira no meu país

2009-02-15T23:48:00.003+01:00

Há coisas inéditas…próprias do meu país mas que me fazem sentir um pouco “estrangeira” quando cá estou.

O português típico – ADORA – dar palpites no trabalho sobre questões profissionais, mesmo quando não tem a menor ideia sobre o assunto. Por exemplo, no banco:

Eu – “então mais vale trocar dólares cá ou lá, o que é mais vantajoso?”

A senhora do banco, com as melhores intenções do mundo – “Bem, eu não sou perita nisso, mas eu até acho que se calhar, talvez, seja mais vantajoso…bla bla porque eu não sei, mas quando me disseram que bla bla eu pensei que até era melhor, e como hoje até se calhar é mesmo melhor fazer isso assim, bla bla mas talvez seja melhor esperar que o meu colega que percebe mais disto regresse da hora de almoço, ou então pode voltar cá amanha?”

Resultado: Perdi 30 minutos, ouvi uma história que nunca mais acabava e ainda não sei onde é melhor trocar os ditos dólares.

Com uma administrativa da universidade, supostamente competente na matéria, ao telefone:
Eu- “Mas eu preciso de mais algum documento para obter as equivalências?” (a propósito da minha licenciatura feita no estrangeiro)

Senhora: “bem eu acho que não mas, a meu ver, talvez, se calhar…como a lei até dizia que tal, tal, mas entretanto, acho que mudou, bla, bla, mas como eu também não a li, e até li um pouco, mas não entendi muito bem, se calhar é melhor vir cá logo e talvez possamos ajudar”

Resultado- frustrada e confusa pelos dias passados à procura de quem entenda e de respostas claras, continuo a nadar na incerteza, dada a incompetência generalisada das administrações das diversas faculdades que contactei...

E a lista dos exemplos poderia continuar.

Apesar de estar convicta que a troca de ideias e opiniões é a base de uma sociedade livre e democrática, fundamental neste mundo, não quero saber o que acham os profissionais sobre questões que lhes coloco relativamente a assuntos que eles têm o dever de saber ou pelo menos a obrigação de averiguar… Quero respostas fiáveis e exactas, mas pelos vistos, o palpite profissional…é muito usual na minha terra.
Talvez as divagações destes Srs. se devam à solidariedade tipicamente portuguesa, e à sempre vontade de ajudar o próximo que, por vezes, carece de bom senso e lógica. Esta mentalidade acaba por se reflectir na falta de produtividade do país: Onde se começa a trabalhar tarde, onde as pausas “café” estão institucionalizadas, as urgências são relativas e onde se relata os fins de semana extensivamente descaradamente à frente do chefe, que por sua vez, também não reprimenda e onde sobretudo, faça chuva, faça sol, sai-se às seis em ponto! (ou antes) E não, não penso que seja somente uma característica da função publica...

Por vezes tremo ao pensar que talvez sofra de rigidez mental, síndroma de quem viveu muitos anos num país como a Suíça, onde as pessoas aprendem a ter mais disciplina no trabalho. será...?

momentos preciosos

2009-02-11T23:07:00.003+01:00

- A tété vai embora Maria, queres que a tété vá embora?

- Nhao. Quero que a tété fique aqui pa sempe...

"pa sempe"! ai minha nossa! que me vieram as lagrimas aos olhos e já não quero ir para lado nenhum...

Maria, serei a tua tété "pa sempe", mesmo ao longe...

desejosa..

2008-12-23T02:00:00.004+01:00

por pegar na minha nova sobrinha ao colo, brincar com a minha sobrinha mais velha, conversar com os amigos e a familia, sentir frio, beber agua da torneira, dormir sem medo de acordar com a cara desformada pelas picadelas de mosquito, andar na rua anónima, comer comida da avó...poder ir a fnac comprar um livro ou um cd, aliás ir ao centro comercial e abandonar-me aos meus instintos consumistas....
ir sair à noite e nao ouvir a "garagem da vizinha" nem a "macarena"....perder- me na civilizaçao e nao ter sentimento de culpa nenhum por ser uma privilegiada....e finalmente reconectar com Portugal porque será onde vou estar ate fevereiro...

12.12.2008

2008-12-12T00:48:00.004+01:00

It's my Birthday. I woke up with a pain in my stomach. Am not sure it's from the virus I caught or the stress of work... I recieved two friendly phone calls, and read a letter my friends gave to me before I left for Timor, I had orders only to open it today...

I am 28 today. I am the youngest of a lot of my friends, but I feel old and lonely. A feeling that might go away when I start drinking at the party am throwing for myself tonight.
This is what I wanted, an amazing stimulating and important job in a developping country. And here I am on the day of my birthday terrified I might fail at it, feeling lonely and convinced my friends and family will end up forgetting about me if I stay in this country too long...people are never happy... oh well, happy birthday to me

Goat castration

2008-11-21T11:04:00.003+01:00

I found out about the most interesting tradition in Timor-Leste.

It is an ancient tradition, in villages of this country, the chewing of the still attached testicules of young goats in order to make them stronger (the goats that is). The process takes hours and even days apparently...

It is believed to be more eficient than to have them simply castrated wih a razor. The chewing is a privilege solely reserved to adult males of course.

What I can't picture yet is an old man chewing the testicules of a poor goat...

city girl

2008-11-06T07:36:00.004+01:00

Uma amiga minha disse me recentemente que nao conseguia perceber como é que uma rapariga da cidade como eu se enfiava num buracos destes ... (nota bene ha buracos bem piores)

E de facto há dias como hoje em que eu própria nao entendo...mas aqui vai uma parte da resposta...

Está calor, um calor abrasador. Sonho todas as noites com uma brisa de ar frio, tipo brisa genebrina...Os mosquitos nao me largam apesar das toneladas de anti mosquito que verto em cima do meu corpo diaramente, me intoxicam e que acabam por me tornar fluorescente de tanto brilho que aquela porra dá...

Chego a casa, suada, cansada e nao há agua. Nem uma pinga. Podia ir ao poço buscar, mas por uma razao obscura e apesar de imitar todos os gestos do meu vizinho timorense, o meu balde vem sempre só um terço cheio....(o que provoca o riso incontrolável da vizinhança) o esforço nao compensa...

Estou colada ao sofá e se me mexo mais evaporo... começo a pensar que talvez se fosse magra nao sentia tanto o calor...aí inicio um plano mental de dieta infalível para o dia a seguir, mas sou detida pelo zumbido de um mosquito invisivel. Pego na minha raquete electrica mágica que mata mosquitos. BRZRRRZZZZZZzzz... e o mosquito já era. A minha raquete assassina procura me uma felicidade indescritivel...

Suponho que esse e um elemento de resposta a tua pergunta minha querida. Aqui, as coisas sao mais simples, nao fico triste por nao entrar num par de calcas 38, mas por nao ter agua em casa e nao conseguir matar a p...do mosquito que me anda a sugar o resto das energias. Quando regresso a casa espero ter agua e electricidade. Coisas simples. Quando como num restaurante mexeruca rezo interiormente que nao haja nenhuma bácteria mortífera que me cole à cama no dia a seguir...a felicidade torna-se muito mais simples de alcançar ...e penso que estas dificulades me tornam mais paciente e melhor pessoa...

2008-10-30T03:41:00.001+01:00

New Scent by Malaria

2008-10-24T03:15:00.004+02:00

The very practical thing about living in a country where there is a Malaria threat, is the frequent use of anti-mosquito, because you don't need any perfume and by the same token it's an excellent nail polish remover. Indeed, the beauty of strong anti tropical mosquito repellent is that it does 3 in 1.
It repells the mosquitoes, it involves you in a spicy toxic cloud and more importantly it makes sure your recent manucure doens't stay too long, Beautiful isn't it?

voiceless mimi

2008-10-20T10:05:00.003+02:00

My voice immigrated somewhere on Monday...
I went on a boat trip Sunday and in between the salt and the sea, the wind and the cold, between my kafkian metamorphosis into a codfish after so many hours in a boat, I became mute.

It is only today that I recovered it with a little help from the Cura Hao farmacia (i.e "heal me pharmacy") I entered the pharmacy and discovered all medicine available was in chinese, so after some universal body language, some pointing at my throat and some grunting illustrating my mutism (thank god I didn't have diarrhea) ..the female doctor (I want to believe she was a doctor) gave me her verdict and some small little pink pills that smelled like tiger balm...

the bad word has it I probably took pills based on elefant hair mixed with cockroaches eggs and monkey saliva...anyhow it was efficient, my voice was back after a day! So who am I to judge ancient medicine!?

And Mimi has a job!

2008-10-17T10:09:00.004+02:00

It has been a week now. I arrived in Dili last Saturday and it feels totally normal to be back here. I didn't really have a clear plan on how to find a job, I had a copy of contacts of all Organizations in Timor and thought I would send emails and go knock on doors with my CV - that was roughly the plan.

It took me two days and a coffee at the right place to get an offer. I am not that lucky usually. If I had known this would be this easy, I wouldn't have waited so long to leave Geneva...Everything seems so right now and it confirms that my decision was the right one at the right time.
My fare niente life style is over. I was starting to get bored and there is not much a person can do here unlike Bali. Until now my days were paced with the fight against the heat, the lunches and diners with friends and some reading of two- week- late Portuguese newspapers.

I start work on Monday, I am going to work for the Portuguese cooperation here, which means I'll work in projects that the Portuguese government funds in Timor. Portugal being the biggest donor of the Country, they have an important role and tons of interesting projects. The challenge part will be to work with the slow bureaucracy sitting in Lisbon vs. the feel of urgency of the field, the very generous intentions vs. the little financial means and availability that Portugal has in reality...amongst many others, politics and tensions particular to this place will make my days go by fast, my head spin sometimes and keep me extremely busy.
As my dad told me, I will be the ham in the sandwich... in between two worlds, two paces, two wills
I like the analogy and I like being the ham for a while :)

First impressions -being back in Timor

2008-10-13T03:55:00.002+02:00

It’s five a.m in Dili. Today is my second day in Timor-leste and I am obviously still jet lagged as wide awake.

My first impressions are mixed. I can see the country has boomed and the economy followed. There are a lot more restaurants crowed with expatriates but some Timorese as well, which is a pleasant surprise. The streets are crowded with slow and broken down taxis that contrast with the big and fast moving cars of the UN personnel.

New official buildings seemed to have popped like mushrooms since 2006 and most of the old ones have been coated with fresh paint and given a new look. The striking exception to that modernisation seems to be the Palace of the Ashes, the presidential office, still looking beaten down and apparently empty.

There are some military check points although it is not as shocking as I thought it would be. The visible military are the Portuguese GNR as the Australians are not allowed out for security reasons. The view of GNR's rolling their muscles as they proudly stroll down the beach with their tiny shorts is quite strange and somehow does not fit the landscape.

Despite Dili being the capital city of Timor Leste it has the size and feeling of a village. After a few hours only in the country, I ran into several friends and ex-colleagues that still gather in the same places. A lot of my friends that stayed throughout the 2006 crisis have moved on to better jobs and have interesting life stories to tell.

With its 90% humidity, it is extremely hot during the day and my body craves constantly for cold showers. But there is nothing new there. The rainy season will start in November and therefore the landscape is still brownish from the lack of water. The nights continue pleasant as I remembered them.

The roads seem a little less broken down ,although it is still soon to tell. In an attempt to make the city look better and give jobs to their citizens, severely touched by unemployment, the government has planted some trees in the pavement. Although the attempt is noble and does bring a bit of green into the city, the trees seem to be fading inside their twisted wooden frames.

Contrasting with these new developments, the constant electricity cuts happen often as I experienced tonight. I am extremely grateful for my lamps and batterieskit kindly offered by my previous P&G colleagues. The internet connections are still slow, although there is some improvement with wireless being now available at extremely expensive rates for public or UN owned and with restricted access.

I am staying at some friends house, not the initial plan, but a lovely house with appreciated company. As room mates, there is a French girl that works as a watsan officer (water and sanitation) for an NGO, a Brazilian friend I knew from 2006 and works at IOM and an American girl that I haven’t met yet. They have a lovely garden, AC, and it is nice as houses in Dili can be.

My next days seem extremely busy for an unemployed person. I have several people to meet with prospects of work, friends to catch up with, a bike to buy, and the daily challenge of getting things done in a country where the humidity seems to discourage the bravest and logistics requires constant planning...

The roosters are up…it is clearly impossible to sleep now…

2007-11-08T00:35:00.000+01:00

It's so hard when the only person you want to talk to, is thousands of kilometers away, 7hours distant, and all you have is a terrible expensive connection on a noisy street...

viagem

2007-09-16T17:44:00.000+02:00

"Boa viagem"

começo a desgostar seriamente destas duas palavras, no entanto e o que mais ouço quando estou em Portugal...
tenho a impressao de estar sempre ca e nunca ao mesmo tempo

hasta...

repolho azul luso

2007-06-13T14:59:00.000+02:00

O repolho azul ilustrado nesta página não é o logo da Evax, nem da lotus ou outra qualquer multinacional relacionada com papel "extra absorvente", mas sim o logo da Presidencia Portuguesa (PP) da UE (leia-se União Europeia) que irá decorrer de Julho a Dezembro...é uma rosa azul de 27 pétalas aparentemente representando os 27 estados Membros da UE, como se pode ler no site da PP http://www.ue2007.pt/

Cada pétala pode vestir-se das cores das bandeiras nacionais de um país Membro, o que visualemente também poderá dar uma grande dor de cabeça...

A primeira vez que o vi não percebi....e continuo sem perceber porque é que este logo foi escolhido para representar Portugal... Nao que pense que só uma caravela ou um astrolábio possam fazê-lo...mas uma rosa? nao é um pouco....gay? perdoem a falta de polical correctness...mas um barquito minimalista nao teria sido mais adequado...? pergunto eu, que pelos vistos nao percebo nada da originalidade futurista dos artistas lusos!

o que é certo é que já me habituei a dita flor que me vai acompanhar durante os próximos 6 meses...e quaso que já não gozo com ela...espero que façam broches para por no blazer...

anyway isto só me lembra que....só faltam 18 dias para a ELA começar

easy-jet

2007-05-21T00:46:00.000+02:00

why is it that people rush to get into the plane with easyjet?
why is it that people want to be the first ones to choose their seats? what is the fundamental difference between easyjet categories A, B, C, D...anyway??

It's not like there is much difference between one seat or the other...or that you board significantly faster from one category to the other...or even if you did..
the plane is not going to take off any sooner because you rush and push people to get inside first...
and... why is it that easyjet never has the stuff on the menu?

2007-05-11T00:11:00.000+02:00

Ramos-Horta venceu eleições presidenciais em Timor-Leste

Parabéns...e boa sorte...!?

our Prime Minister

2007-04-24T16:32:00.000+02:00

This is the face of the prime minister of Portugal, Sócrates, in a construction worker's body. A while ago, there was a (ridiculous) scandal around the way he completed his university degree, and the value of the diploma itself.

Portuguese media have been talking about it for weeks now...responding to our very national thirst for scandals of anykind...

here we can read: "this is Socrates that didn't finish his studies", it's advertizing for going further in your education, pushing young people to continue their studies. I love it. There is one thing Portugal needs is better and more qualified people.

lunch break for yemeni truck driver

2007-04-19T01:44:00.000+02:00

we saw quite a few similar scenes on our way to Aden...note the stones behind them..to warn the driver that might come....and what we can't see...some stones in front of the tires, because the breaks don't work that well...

Aden-Yemen december 2006

2007-04-19T01:27:00.000+02:00

Or the effects of satelite TV...

comunicado

2007-04-13T17:29:00.000+02:00

No outro dia recebi uma carta das autoridades suíças... No dia 23 de abril, hei de jurar , uma mão no peito e outra agarrada ao hino suíço, que serei uma boa cidadã para esta minha nova pátria...
Ainda não percebi se tenho de saber a música de cor, ou me deixam espreitar a letra de vez em quando...e sobretudo se há música de fundo (vai ser um gozo senão) . nota bene: este comunicado serve de convite
vejamos os meus novos deveres de cidadã helvetica...
- votar nas dezenas de referendos anuais
- votar nas eleiçoes cantonais
- votar nas eleições das "comunas"
- pagar impostos (elevadissimos!)
- reciclar... e aquelas coisas chatas que os suíços fazem e mais ninguém..(nao me lembro de mais nada)

e os meus direitos....
- ao desemprego (elevadissimo segundo o meu primo T.)
- a ser eleita(vou já fazer campanha para a UDC (joke:é a extrema direita cá do sítio))
- beneficiar de um passaporte de cruz branca sobre fundo vermelho que me abre as portas ao mundo... e que tem um design muito fashion,
mas que pode ser (mal)interpretado como sendo de um delegado da cruz vermelha e ainda acabo no Congo (o que não é assim mau de todo)

outros:
beneficiar de novos preconceitos quando fora da europa: que sou boring como as casas e só como queijo, moro num chalet e vou de skis para o emprego. falo Sueco (!) e nâo se percebe bem porque nao sou loura de olhos azuis...bem vai mudar do preconceito habitual do bigode!

-viver num pais em que o macdonald's custa 15$! como sublinhou um amigo americano meu...(exagerado!)
-antecipar eventos e chegar a horas aos sitios...sem ninguem achar estranho
-ficar chateada com o autocarro porque atrasou-se de 5 minutos
-comer fondue no verao e ter pretexto para o fazer...
-achar que deitar lixo no chão é uma falta incrivel de civismo (e é) e conduzir à "tuga style" também (ok as vezes dá jeito)
-comentar a falta de neve nos alpes com um ar natural e conhecedor
-achar que os suicos-alemaes sao os tipos mais labregos do mundo...
-e que temos o melhor sistema politico a face da terra, mesmo se a porra dos suiços -alemães podiam votar mais como "nous"ah!!!!le federalisme...!

odelé odelé odelé hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiihuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
mas sobretudo ter todas as vantagens dos suíços e continuar a ser portuguesa!

saudades...

2007-04-02T01:07:00.000+02:00

Sebastião

2007-01-31T14:19:00.000+01:00

Espero que no paraiso dos cães haja muito queijo, muitos passeios e festinhas...
Muitos gatos rabujentos como os que aqui na terra deixaste para cheirar...
vamos sentir muito a tua falta "Bastas"...

Anachronismes

2006-11-21T10:20:00.000+01:00

I take a taxi back to my new home. The sun retired already and it's dark outside. Electricity is out. My room is silent, there is no one home. I sit on my new bed under the mosquito net waiting for the lights to come back...and it starts raining. My first tropical rain in a long time.
I am alone in the end of the world, it's dark and I can't find matches...
-------
Late afternoon I walk to Jesus. Jesus is the statue at the top of the hill, surrounded by the sea, its mountains overlook the city of Dili.
"are you going to jesus today, mariana?"

-------
We are running on the jesus road, it starts raining, heavy tropical rain... it seems normal not to stop, I think it makes us run faster, we are soaked in seconds, dripping, cars passing next to us...I feel amazing, the rain feels unbelievable on my skin...

Jesus give us the most breathtaking landscape... The sea is quiet and tainted by an amazing sunset, at the top, an unreal breeze, a reward after the many stairs you climb to get there...
I feel free and part of something much bigger than me...most of all I am alive, I am alive-

Dubai-biggest shopping centre

2006-11-12T15:55:00.000+01:00

This is the ski slope inside the biggest mall of the world (besides US),
in the Emirates....
temperature outside the mall: 38 degrees celsius...inside the mall a cold 18 (?)... inside the ski "resort"minus 5?

La prière 2

2006-11-12T15:35:00.000+01:00

sometimes I almost miss it...

(click on title)

La prière-souk

2006-11-12T15:31:00.000+01:00

(click on title)

Sana'a capital of Yemen

2006-10-20T17:02:00.000+02:00

La gauche caviar

2006-10-20T15:22:00.000+02:00

La gauche caviar means in french the champagne-lefties. I believe that's how anglophones translate it...

The expression comes from the 80's it refers to a social-cultural change in the political left mouvements, some left voters leaving the typical working class to become middle class and better off financially.
Calling someone "gauche caviar" had a negative connotation, because it was believed the real revolution came from the poor working class, the idea being that you can't fight "the capitalists" unless you know the real misery the working class lives in.

... but the wages continued to rise(thank god)affecting everyone and giving a chance for the working class to make a better living. Merit became slowly more important than birth...the middle class rised.

Nowdays, gauche caviar still has a negative connotation...it would be something like: "left voter with financial comfort with no sense of the social-economic reality" (here refering to the conditions of poverty of the lower class, etc..)

But what intrigues me here, is that guilt related to being better off, I explain:

In Geneva, being a particular rich country as you know and not representative of the whole Europe, young people from the left, students, artists, etc... even though they have money, (or at least some money due to the great generosity of their government they can live out of subsidies) need to express some kind of faked pooreness...
It is highly unpopular to say that you bought this or that (unless it's at the flea market), went to New-York (bamako or calcutta are generally prefered)well mention any financial transaction to items that can suggest you are well off...

there are indeed a series of unpopular topics among some of the young socialists of geneva that you rather not mention...although among a lot of those people, some of whom I am actually friends with, most of them...are quite well-off financially.

They go to New-York , they buy vintage expensive clothes and have either a nice unemployment subsidy at the end of the month (another trendy thing: to be unemployed)or parents behind them to support them.

Understand this, I have nothing against that, being myself blessed to have my parents to support me, but why should people be afraid of who they are, have, what they did etc... from people they share the same basic political views and are supposed to make things better...

these people probably refer to me as a gauche caviar as I would vote left but don't live under the bridge and like to wear make-up sometimes...
Nowdays, decades after this social-economic revolution, gauche caviar still has a negative meaning, but I would like to reform it, to my advantage
gauche caviar: "left voter with financial comfort with no sense of the reality he comes from and is part of"
What worse than a fake left that pretends to be what it's not and doesn't recognise that she's been blessed?

make it a better place

2006-10-19T13:55:00.000+02:00

If everyone lived the way I live we would need 2,3 planets apparently...!!

what about you?

p.s.: I think I cheated a bit too...
(click on title)

They found me...

2006-10-19T09:23:00.000+02:00

After moving out 3 times in Geneva since february 2005 and being out of the country, while everyone else had trouble tracking me including environmental friendly NGO's, banks and insurances I was related to... they found me....
I recieved the first letter from The EGLISE CATHOLIQUE ROMAINE (catholic church) yesterday....
they are worse that the FBI...and they are expecting my financial contribution...!

numa loja de jornais e revistas...em Genebra

2006-10-17T23:11:00.000+02:00

e de pensar que somos uma das maiores minorias cá do sítio... e ninguém acertou

being back in Geneva

2006-10-15T02:23:00.000+02:00

I am back in Switzerland. For a while I guess...And it's almost with sorrow that I discover not having anything interesting to write. Sure, Geneva is wonderful... in the middle of europe, close to the alps, closer to Lisbon, and beautiful in its own way...It's a village with all the advantages of a big city (ok, without the exciting night life)

The good part about being back, is that I can make plans in the longer term... I'll go to see this play in november, I wont miss this party, I'll catch up with this friend many times, I'll take my forgotten bike for many rides, I'll subscribe to some sportive activity and try to keep up with it...I'll get an appartment soon....I am no longer in a rush to do things because I am home and there is a routine...
The bad part, I guess is having the blues about my previous exciting life (especially in Timor), and having to fit in again....
I went to this party tonight, and although geneva is quite small and you always meet someone you know...I didn't tonight....things change, life goes on without you, you leave a place and the people continue their lifes of course, good friends stay, but you are somehow disconnected....
you need to create a network again, a network of people you don't necessarily think about when you are gone, but that you like to see..for example at parties...in matter to be reassured maybe...

I start my part time monday and from monday on..I'll start my life in Geneva again.

Tia Mariana

2006-10-10T14:11:00.000+02:00

They exist!!

2006-09-21T18:56:00.000+02:00

For the picture here under I had to beg an australian "mate" known only by "R." to stop the car and take the picture...despite contesting about the embarrasment of this task he took it. thank you :)

The Zoo of Doha airport.

2006-09-21T17:29:00.000+02:00

On the way to Yemen and back, a forced passage is Doha (Capital city of Quatar, a golf country) airport...The first time we stoped there, I elected it the worst airport in History (of airports!).

It is crowed, small with a strange lack of seats and full of odd people...in transit just like myself. The bathrooms had a long queue and were a very nasty experience even if after Yemen I thought I was cured of that syndrome...
We took a bit of time to find two seats to camp on for the next five hours...

I don't think I have ever seen an aiport with such a variety of people with different cultures, religions, ways of dressing and walking. The whole picture just seems like an odd zoo where the camel is sitting in the seal pound.
Doha airport seems like the middle of the world, flights to Manila, Sana'a, Ryad, Bangkok, Bali, Sydney, Mumbai, Rome, Paris, Algiers, Johannesburg, etc...you can go anywhere from there...
The first time, I was intimidated. I felt a bit out of place, strange, I couldn't identify the rules of social behaviour, wasn't prepared....I felt I was wearing high hills to play basketball... Then, yesterday, I felt quite at ease, like an usual custumer, I know where the best bathrooms are too...

There are men in white robes and turbans, like the saudis, there are working men with more simple robes and without turbans, yemeni maybe. There are Philipinos allways traveling by dozens, smiling and laughing, the main d'oeuvre of the middle east, working in restaurants, as maids, in hospitals... there are Indians, maybe working in hotels, the women with their coulourful dresses exposing their bellies, going home after two years working in Abuh Dabi to well deserved hollidays.
There are the hooligans, muscular english man with big tatoos and bulldog faces, the kind you would prefer not to cross at night in a one-way dark street, probably working in the oil fields (or following their football team??). There are westerners wearing short skirts and clivagy tops showing off a puket or Bali tan. There are the shadows of the turban men, the dark veiled women, with face veils changing according to the codes of the country they came from, their walk, disturbed by the bags and kids they carry, giving them a pinguim look from behind.
There are the business man, a rare specie, that you can only observe in front of the frequent flyer VIP rooms,
There is me. An odd looking portuguese-swiss animal, with a passeport full of stamps from islamic countries coming from Dubai after a holiday in Austrlia...
This time, siting on the most cofortable chairs of the airport, while sipping the best coffee available, I found another representation of a portuguese specie besides myself. He was sitting with his computer and talking loudly (as we do) on the phone in his Lisbon accent...ah...
Hearing my language in this chaos reminded me that I belong somewhere (even if not well defined) I have a pound too in this zoo...

my beautiful hairy niece

2006-09-17T12:28:00.000+02:00

www.memoriasdeelefante.blogspot.com

ah...what a proud little aunt I am...and I haven't even seen you yet! but I have many tiny little gifts that you might like...hihihihi

11 de setembro de 2006

2006-09-12T09:19:00.000+02:00

I am the proud Aunt of little Maria who decided to come out a little earlier than her mom predicted...after 25 hours of labour (!!!)...2.700 -kilos- maria was born on a 11th of September 2006..I can't wait to see her!

in Aussie

2006-09-08T07:44:00.000+02:00

I am in Aussie. Who would have thought?
After landing in Perth, we drove to Albany...I've been in Asutralia for about a week now...
I find the country beautiful and the people warm and welcoming...but I have a few unanswered questions:

Why is it SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO cold??? ok it's winter...but it's Australia!!..in my imaginary I allways thought of it as a warm country...brrrrrr

and where the **** are the Kangaroos?? they are supposed to be hopping around...I haven't seen a single one!! no koalas either and the other day we went whale watching..guess what!?
NO WHALES... none! not even a little one...and I was there for a while freezing against the antartic (well allmost) cold my eyes wide open....nothing....

Maybe it's all myths part of some government propaganda to attract tourists!!

back in Yemen

2006-08-27T12:04:00.000+02:00

"I know, I know, it might be a little hard to understand my adventures and locate me, but explaining the why of my travels -believe me- is a more boring story.

I had a beautiful time during the past month going "almost naked" in the streets of geneva and Lisbon. I was only in Yemen for a month and a half....but the first time I left my house back home in geneva, after unpacking, wearing a long black skirt and a t-shirt....it felt odd.

I was quite nervous to come back here, I think my first experience was overwhelming, it is such a different world. I am not sure I will ever understand it, and maybe this is why I was nervous to come back. I was angry at the women's condition, living and wasting their ressources in a country that lacks them, and I hated thinking that most men probably see me as worthing half a man's life. And maybe I hated waking up to reality, to what I already knew... as a woman I am priviledged, in the majority of the world women are repressed. I am really afraid of sounding like a bitter old feminist, or even repeating myself, but I will take that risk.
We are a minority. A tiny, shocking minority.
We study, work, wear what we like, talk to whoever we want, male or female, date them, we go out at the time we want, with who we want, read what we want, have sex, marry who we want...I believe you got the point...
We do not reflect the world..our skirts, our rights, our lifes changed less than 50 years ago...in some states of Switzerland voting right for women was given in the mid 90's...(!)

Maybe it's just me, but I always lived like those rigths were granted...that's maybe why I was so upset that those men might think like that. How could I prove to them we can be as good or jsut as bad as them. How could I talk to them and not being misinterpreted? How could I feel natural in a society, where I still have to figth for my rights? without knowing how to as I never did fought for them-or anything really...
This is why I need to remind, my dear female friends, that might be reading me...not to forget...that our rights are something new, even in our societies. We do not live like most women. I believe we are blessed with that freedom. But that freedom can be hell for other women...

... the veil is the tiniest problem in this society. the veil here is cultural (even though women that choose not to veil shouldn't suffer from that choice) In yemen, apparently what those women want is the right to choose diner time, what's on the menu, how many children they'll have, when to have sex, etc..they think we are mad to demand the same rights. why work? when they can stay at home and not worry about feeding their family?-silly western women-..."

wedding pictures

2006-07-22T10:27:00.000+02:00

Long weekend in Sada or the woman who was possessed by the donkey

2006-07-22T10:21:00.000+02:00

the wedding
I cannot leave Yemen without writing about the wedding I was invited to. I am afraid the taste of Swiss milk and yogurt will betray my senses and fail describing this Yemeni experience. Although I feel my words will never describe the quite strange adventure I experienced.

After all the celebrations in Sana’a, the bride was now ready to meet her husband and consummate her union. The husband, a 17 year old, was expecting his bride in his natal village of some hundreds of inhabitants in the north-west of Yemen, close to the Saudi Arabian border, the same village as the bride’s father.

We left on Thursday. Thursdays here are our Saturdays, Fridays Sundays. My friend K and I are sitting in the bride’s car. Friends and relatives of the families surround us in other cars. I count 30 vehicles but the number will grow as we approach the village forming an impressive cortege worthy of a royal family.
This road trip will last for 7 hours. Seven hours, where we, the women will not be allowed to exit the car. Where the man, will stop to buy khat, chat, pee, and shoot guns.
Half of the road, will be spent in a steep rocky mountain road, bouncing up and down, my bladder on the verge of exploding and my mind wondering what’s yet to come…
The father chews kaht and replays the same tape of some professional tongue-yodelling women during the whole journey…
The mother will lighten fire crackers and other noisy explosive gadgets out of the window, making me nervous and ending up by leaving scars on my abbaya. (long black dress)

The bride, a recent 16 year old (confirmed age), sitting on my right side, cannot be seen, especially by the husband’s family. I take my job very seriously and cover her with my scarf, believing I wont need it. She is nervous as she is about to become a woman…

In our car, there are 12 people. The bride, her mother and father, three aunties, the cousin, the little brother and little sister, K. my American friend who embarked me in this adventure, and myself…although the car is a 4*4, we are cramped together like canned sardines.
The bride is a typical Californian teenager, her parents although lived in America for many years, want her to marry her honorably by respecting the Yemeni traditions.

We arrive at night time. Power is out for the night, candles and the many bright stars are the only clarity of the evening.
Our arrival has been announced by gun fires from tribesmen, and of course the fire crackers that our cortege has been wasting along our mountainous road.
L., the bride is shaking. She is lucky, she saw her husband 4 times before. Many brides do not have this luxury as they marry a man they never saw before.

Women are yodeling and singing, it seems like there are hundreds, coming out of the house we stopped at. Everything rushes in my head, it’s noisy, there are tambour beats and so many people around us. It’s dark, I can’t really see what is happening.
As I exit the car, a man asks me where is my scarf, I reply that the bride has it, he unfolds himself of his Saudi scarf and covers my hair.
I entered another world, much different and traditional than Sana’a.
We are escorted by covered women, they have very colorful dresses unlike the women of Sana’a. These are very simple women, working in the field, cooking for their husbands having usually a big number of kids and hoping their husbands will never be able or wanting to afford a second wife.

I now became part of the horde following these women in trance, not knowing where they are taking me, and quite thrilled by it. Suddenly, a small man penetrates the room with a big golden sword, changing the atmosphere and rhythm of the crowd.

The bride is sitting down, crying and shaking in her mother’s arms. The women make me sit next to her, the groom uncertain of what to do, as he sees his inconsolable bride, stands there. We whisper something to her, that I will later know being : don’t be afraid. But she cries, and cries, making the groom disappear in the midst of the loud women.

The bride finds refuge in her husband’s room, with her mother. K. and I are left in the first room. The singing has stopped, we are sitting in front of a mass of children and women. They seem very intrigued by me. I believe ignorance made them think that K. was a servant (K is black American) not worthy of their curiosity, this would change in the following days.
Some women start kissing my hand, greeting me. Some ignore K, others greet her too. She is infuriated by their ignorance and racism but stays calm.
Many pairs of eyes are staring at us, in an uncomfortable silence. The ones who speak to me, don’t feed their curiosity as I have no idea what they are saying. K. who speaks fluent Arabic struggles with the dialect.
As I am hot, I take the scarf off my hair. Suddenly, as I do this, the girls in front of me, all kneel down simultaneously obviously reacting to my unveiling… I stop and look at K. – “what the…?”
Apparently, they thought that this strange foreign woman was about to say something important and they were waiting to hear it.
All through the week end, the women, the girls and children of the house tried to find out who we were, when they saw how gold less we were, how poor dressed we looked, compared to the direct family of the bride, they started whispering that we were dancers or maybe singers…
As the days passed, the more we become normal to them. But the fact that we were strangers, that I didn’t speak the language, acted differently or didn’t veil inside the house, always caused some questioning.

These seemed like the longest days of my life, and I wished many times I stayed in Sana’a with R.
I always had someone observing my moves. Private space or any sort of intimacy is seen has impoliteness or at the best incomprehensible. Someone who wishes to be alone is either sick or crazy. I once retired to the bride’s room, pretending to be tired. One woman, started the rumor that I was possessed by the spirit of the donkey!
In deed when donkeys bark (or whatever noise they make) they release a spirit that can possess someone changing his/her behavior. This was the justification for me retiring for my naps! K. only told me this afterwards which made me laugh quite hard…

After a few hours, it becomes almost uncomfortable to be surrounded by people, almost hypnotized by me, gesticulating and emitting sounds in front me. Sounds and faces, that’s what it all seemed like for me: I could not understand a word they would say.

I was shocked by the amount of gold these women possessed, but their indifference to the poor conditions in which they lived in. Big earrings, long necklaces, countless rings and massive heavy belts that worth a thousand dollars each.
These women would change dresses everyday, after sleeping on the floor and without any sort of ritual that resembled a bath. With a tiny piece of mirror, they would redo their make up before joining their female visitors coming from all parts of the region.

I cannot step aside from my western views of the world under my eyes. The conditions of hygiene were terrible. The Hamman, what we westerners refer as being the luxury of oriental steam and hot baths, saunas and an enjoyable and relaxing time, are in Yemen just the word referring to the bathroom. And like in many Arabic countries, the bathroom, is a whole in the ground. In this case, two wholes in the ground as there were two bathrooms. We were sharing the bathroom with the guests sleeping the night at the house plus the visitors that keep coming.
Two bathrooms for around 200 people. The conditions were appalling, knowing there was not a lot of water available and children running in and out. The trash is the floor. Anything that you don’t need anymore you just throw it on the floor, very practical but not very hygienic either.

The bride calls for us. We enter a room where the married couple is supposed to consummate their marriage. The couple has 3 days to do that, and only proving that the young girl is a virgin will validate the union.
They are about 15 women in the room, all the senior women close to the couple. I am surprised to learn that we will all eat there. L., is on her bed, crying. K and I surround her and try to reassure her. She is afraid. “What if I don’t bleed? Does it hurt? I can’t touch him… I won’t touch him”
K and I start an intensive and accelerated sexual education class right there, the girl doesn’t know anything, including where her genitals are.
The husband comes back after some hours, and the women all retire quickly.

The party starts and we all retire downstairs for the celebration consisting of khat chewing, chatting, and dancing. Again women, gather in front of me, observe and comment among themselves.
I sit next to this lady, and as I do so, she comes closer, she touches my hand, kisses me, and talks, and talks, like a little school girl, she demands all my attention.
After translation, I know that they want to know if I am married, they are disappointed to know I am (I am not) some tell me if you weren’t you would marry my son (euh…what about my opinion on the subject!?)
The contact is constant, we touch, we kiss, we embrace, we dance…I am almost sure there was this unspoken concurrence- who is going to speak the most to the foreigners, who is going to become more friends with them, share more complicity…they share everything with you and I believe these people to be genuinely kind and generous.

I finally manage to retire with K.

We are a bit worried how we are going to take this constant contact, conditions, and the obligation as guests to participate in every dance, every meal, and show with bid enthusiasm how happy we are, how better the tea is here ( a fierce competition between woman), how amazing is the food, etc…
But it is a fascinating experience.
It’s only until Saturday we think, we can manage that much…
I fall asleep in my improvised bed on the floor with this thick dusty old cover, I don’t even care, I don’t think I am going to manage to shower during the next days, and I am too tired to care…
The night goes by with constant interruptions, we are about 10 in one room, and some women come with their candle lights to watch me sleep. It is far from a bad intention, they want to make sure the guest is warm, happy, not hungry or thirsty, but they scare me a few times…my surprised look justifying how possessed I must be.

I wake up, women around me chatting, there is tea, coffee and robz (Arabic bread). Their tea is very sweet and minty, the coffee is diluted in a lot of water and also extremely sweet, I go for the coffee…
My body is itching badly, mosquitoes, here? I look at my arms, and legs, I have big bug bites everywhere….the women laugh as I make fun of myself by exaggerating the scratching, body language is all I have to make friends.
But it’s not mosquitoes, it’s fleas, the family has many guests, mostly farmers, who bring fleas with them.
I´ll be itching during the whole trip.

The ritual begins, the women cook, get dressed dance, eat, chew Khat, change dresses, eat again, dance and chew kat…
For 3 days…that´s what they will do, repeating every ritual every day.

The bride gets out of the room, “we didn’t do it” she tells us, they talked instead. He is nice and understanding apparently. He is a kid, but he does understand, that marrying L. is the best thing that happened to him, it’s a green card to the US, and a possible chance to become citizen.
Brides with American passports are expensive buys. L. cost 80 thousand dollars to the groom’s family, plus all the gold. Gold being what wife has left if a man divorces them.

He needs to treat her well, after all, she can divorce him, coming from a “liberal” family . Also, L.’s father did threaten to kill him if he treated her badly…and I believe It’s not just something you say here…
The groom is a bit stiff looks a bit lost, a man with a little boy’s look. He doesn’t really know what he should do, but tries his best to hide it. He dresses with typical clothes, loose white robe with his Jambia (curved small sword) around the waist, a scarf around his head like a turban, and carries the heavy long gold sword offered to him for this occasion that gives him quite a prince look-like. I suspect he doesn’t know how to read or write.
He never smiles, but is quite conscious of the importance he acquired now. He is a married man, all women of the house will retire when he arrives in a room and hide their faces (if not from his direct family).
The eldest women of the household owes him respect and must obey him, that’s how I understand it…I think at some point I made him feel uncomfortable as I stare at him, intrigued. I guess his thoughts are : this women does have loose morals, her husband should punish her for looking at me, uncovered!
The women of the household, will constantly ask for my scarf- as I feel very hot with the scarf on I take it off on every occasion I find.
Here in the bilad (village in Arabic), people are more conservative, even among women, you don’t show skin while eating, you cover most of the times, and apparently they are shocked to see the bride’s dress. It is strapless! So she covers herself with a black wool jacket with purple stripes, that looks terrible over her white long dress.
Some times they will rush to me: “man, man! A man is coming”…they all run around like crazy bees, looking for their scarves, and when almost surprised by a man, they giggle and laugh a long time…
They accept my silliness, they know I am no competition for them, I am married, even if a lousy wife, as I haven’t given my man a couple of baby boys, am occupied, therefore, their man cannot have me for second wife.

I tell K. I need to go for a walk, get out of the house, I am becoming claustrophobic, smiling and nodding is what I do all day. As we leave the house, the women, call for us a little worried, where are you going, there are man out there! L.’s father gave us permission, it is ok- “tamam, tamam” (ok, ok) we get out under the eyes of the women of the house-what the hell are they going out for?
We go behind the house, trying to discover what other beauty this land has. But has we start walking, women from other households, start coming out of their houses, walking towards us, bravely. More and more women, exit the small houses, to greet us, look at us, and ask if I am married and how many kids I have.
Unhappy for not being able to breathe a little I console my self thinking I created the first women’s convention in Sada’a.

L., becomes a woman on the second day. She comes out of the room with a shy look under the smiles, giggles and pats-on-the-back of the women. But she will only tell us the details of her first night.
He was gentle although he didn’t know what we was doing. He asked her if she knew but she pretended she didn’t know anything even after “our class”, she didn’t want him to get false ideas as where she got that information. As soon, as they “did it”, he turned on the lights to inspect the sheets. There was blood. So his brother went to shoot the big gun on top of the roof to announce it to the village. She shows us the blood on the covers.
And there was more dancing, more khat and more chatting.
The men party in another house, they dance outside in front of our house with their knifes aiming at the sky, slightly jumping and bending one knee in this tribal dance.

Saturday comes finally. The hours pass, but no news of L.’s father. We depend on his will to come home to Sana’a, so we wait and feel what is to be a Yemeni women waiting for the men.
He shows up the next morning. HAmdulilah! (thanks to god!).
On the way back we take some pictures, and the father decides to visit his cousin for lunch. I need a shower, am itchy, this became a real test to my patience (as some know is quite small) but am thrilled to see that the endless mountains and lost bilads stayed behind me.
We eat, drink and dance again. The Sana’a women also want to come home to their husbands.

We left the bride with her new family, but the rest of the original group is there. The women start commenting on the food in Sada, their outfits and how badly they smelled. The women from Sana’a clearly see themselves as different, more civilized.

I arrive in Sana’a at 7 pm. I took the longest hot shower of my existence and scrubbed my body fiercely with a lufa glove. I immediately washed my clothes with industrial quantities of soap, to get rid of the smell, dirt or any little bug that might have taken advantage of the ride back to Sana’a.
Days after , K. tells me the father confessed just wanting to marry his daughter in an honorable way, knowing that she would divorce her husband later on. It is probably what will happen as L., is going back to the US with her parents. She will fulfill her part of the “contract” getting a green card for her husband when he comes to the US. She doesn’t like married life she told K.

This is quite an happy ending. Not a very common one either as it is not a typical Yemeni family and as women don’t have the chance or (the misfortune) that L has. If L., is smart she will go back to school and date another teenager like her.
I understand that it was important for her family to reconnect L. with her culture, but why put her through all that when she had another choice given the fact she lived in America? I cannot put aside the financial aspect of it, being quite a attractive transaction for L.’s family

I’ve been told that a lot of Yemeni women are happy with their life styles. I believe from having asked around that most of them want to stay home, take care of the kids, and the food and all the household choirs. Why bother with politics and the outside complicated world of men…?Indeed all the women I’ve been around never talk about anything else than family and food (with teacher). Quite frustrating really…
But again my western views might be arrogant…I have only been here for a month, what do I know about women’s chance or misfortune in Yemeni society? Nothing. Although, I am very happy to be able to make my own choices in life.
Obrigada maezinha e paizinho!

curiosités...

2006-07-07T21:57:00.000+02:00

In arabic...
Plural is above number two... so if you are refering to two people you will use the singular.
Portugal means orange, and I discovered I've been saying I am an Orange to taxi drivers...
Yemenis liked the Portuguese team in the world cup and never said anything about them not being fair play (!?)...

In Hotels, you have somewhere in the room, a note telling you were the prayer's direction is... If I were muslim that would help a lot...

Flash news: Am now in Istambul, where I taste civilization, sun sets at 10 (unlike Yemen or Timor), it is warm, I can go shopping (that can be good and bad!) I can see the sea of Marmara (I finally know where that is!!)...and other women's faces... but...
Strangely women seem all very naked to me... I now see the positive side of being in Yemen: there are no amazing, tall, fit women reminding you of the kilos you should loose (at least you don't see them!)
Maybe the veil should be compulsory all over the world on very attractive, tall, thin women, after all they are the ones responsible for impure thoughts! No one fantasises about chubby ugly girls!

Midi

2006-07-03T13:36:00.000+02:00

Il est environ midi.
Je traverse la vieille Sana'a a cette heure.
Ma leçon d'arabe terminée,
Je rebrousse le chemin que j'emprunte tous les matins.

C'est entre ces mille petites maisons au regard moyen agêux,
Qu'une voix s'élance dans la ville: AAAHrrrhhrrhhLLAhhhhhhhhh….
Puis d'autres voix la rejoignent,
C'est l'heure de la prière…
Cette voix inonde Sana'a cinq fois par jour,
Je l'entends toujours à midi.
Elle est grave et profonde, tremblante et si certaine à la fois.

Le vendredi, toute la journée, cette voix me récite le Coran,
Et je comprends juste qu'Allah est grand…
Quand j'entends ce chant, je me sens toute petite et insignifiante,
Seule dans ce monde étrange…

mara yemenia, women of yemen - part ONE

2006-07-02T11:05:00.000+02:00

Everyday, my admiration for my teacher grows.

A. decided against all that she would not marry. In this society marriage is sacred and a woman's destiny.

A. decided to be free instead. It was not an easy decision, and her mother warned her that she would probably not get married if she went to university.

But that is a price she's willing to take, she refuses to be at the mercy of a man, a possession, and she wants to study, to learn. "I would be bored at home"- she says.

Most of her friends think she is crazy, why work? She can't really talk about her interests to the ones around her.

Today she has more qualifications than many man. I am tempted to say than most man. She had to be better than a man to get where she is. But she probably earns half the salary of a man in the school.

Finding a job was difficult, no one wanted to hire her, or pay her for her services, unqualified man passed in front of her, because here women are not "responsible".

A man is responsible for his family, he needs to bring money home. Giving a woman a job is taking it from a man, and therefore depriving his whole family.

In a less commun sense, a woman in Yemen doesn't have legal responsibility, she's not responsible for her acts like a child; she doesn't have legal personality either, for example her testimonial is worth nothing in a trial. Basically, she doesn't have a voice...

What a crazy woman my teacher indeed, she went to the trouble of learning, studying hard, working instead of just marrying... She has to fight prejudice everyday for a miserable salary not worth a man's one.

Her independance comes at a high price...

There are of course many nuances to all this and all is not black.

A. believes society is changing and that more women will want to learn, and will defy society. In the meanwhile I feel repressed, the submission of these women is the submission of all women, it irrates me that many women don't wish to learn and comply with rules that make them the equivalent of slaves...

But I made up my mind: I refuse to tolerate the way society treats women under the "cultural factor" excuse.

Everyday that passes, I want to go home, feel free again...or stay... and empower these women..even against their will!!

long wedding weekend in Sada

2006-06-27T11:53:00.000+02:00

Sada is located in the north west of Yemen, near the Saudi Arabian border. It is a very tribal village, surrounded by green mountains (compared to Sana'a). As a foreigner you need a permit from the office of tourism to visit the area due to armed conflict between one of the tribes and the government.
But mimi didn't ask for one, as her entourage was the most important tribe of the area...she passed all the checkpoints without any interruption...lucky mimi...

She wasn't kidnapped, although the marriage proposals were various... But as the local joke here says : being kidnapped is an enjoyable experience, kidnappers treat you well (It has been heard of business man not wanting to go home!) - If the army tries to liberate you- then you are in trouble!

I spent 3 long nights and almost 4 full days in a village very close to Sada.
I've never been more happy to be home in Sana'a...and take a shower!
Never been more conscious of how lucky I am for being a "western" woman... and educated one too!
I will need a couple of days to collect my thoughts and write down this incredible weekend...

old sana'a

2006-06-20T16:48:00.000+02:00

2006-06-20T16:45:00.000+02:00

http://www.cultodaostra.blogspot.com

porque escreve bem (a maior parte das vezes!!) e tambem porque nao consigo por nos links...hi hi sou mesmo azelha!

wedding festivities

2006-06-20T15:52:00.000+02:00

We arrive at the house around three o’ clock. On the way we passed by the khat market, we bought big bundles of the plant. I carried them to the car followed by many man’s curious eyes. We picked up the body painters. We all sit in the car cramped together.
The driver is the father of the bride. He has a thick American accent, wears a black baseball cap, black sweater pants and a loose t-shirt. The mother is in the front. They talk a lot. The bride is actually almost 17 years old- she says. And she is lucky: she saw her husband before, many times. She lived all her life in America and left before completing high school to marry and live in Yemen. In America, she dated and wore bikinis. The only prohibition was for her to lose her virginity, she tells me.
In their new lives the mother and the bride are fully covered. It’s odd to hear such a thick American accent under the black hidjab (face veil). They choose to wear it, the father says not understanding this choice, sounding pretty liberal. Later on I discover he has a second wife.
They come from a tribal family. Meaning they are the elite of the Yemeni society. They have 4x4 cars and an important-sounding name. The Yemeni society is divided by castes with two ruling tribes at the top, both descending from the prophet, so they say.

The cars stops. There are kids throwing fire crackers everywhere. Women are making those Arabic yodelling sounds with theirs tongues.
We sit with the men for a while, share a cigarette. This is quite rare, as women do not smoke, and especially don’t gather with the man. But we are foreigners. And they are very happy to have us and even ask us to photograph them. It would be Haram (sin) for a woman to ask this, and she could possibly be killed if her uncovered face photograph was shown around. The women will fear our cameras all day. We will end up putting them away.

The men leave, the party can finally begin. The women are uncovered, have shiny golden colourful dresses on, the more flashy the better. The make up is bright and gaudy. There are kids everywhere, the other family members, clearly Yemeni, are intrigued by our presence. We sit in a smaller room in a circle on comfy couches at floor level. We are offered tea and the famous khat.

The bride is brought in, under much clapping, tongue-yodelling sounds and loud music. There are 20-25 women in this room, and the children in their shiny dresses. The body painter, starts painting my hands, and the mother offers me khat that she shoves into my mouth while teaching me how to chew it. The women around laugh at my ignorance.
These people are warm and friendly, they share everything, from the food on the floor, to the tea or even the water that passes by on one single cup.
This is a celebration to the bride. The women will dance in the middle of the circle to the loud Yemeni music in front of the seated bride. We are invited to dance too. The elderly women with golden teeth and mouth full of the green plant, smile and nod approvingly of the show. And hours pass. The bride in the meanwhile left the room to submit to the painting ritual.

Her feet are red with henna, and her body fully waxed. She now needs to be wrapped in black flowers. The same drawings that I have on my hands. She is so excited and takes her role very seriously.
I need to be perfect for my husband- she says.

We manage to farewell our hosts from the first day of celebration after a few hours. They make us promise to come back for the second day. The second day is what the bride will call diamond’s day. The third day will be gold. Thursday, we’ll leave for her village, when she will actually get married. The men will join us, at least for some occasions.
Everyday, she will wear something different and become more ready to become a wife. Everyday, for a week, the women will dance in front of her, drink tea, chew khat and share laughs.

mimi undercover

2006-06-18T12:40:00.000+02:00

Am going to a yemeni wedding this week end.

I am meeting the bride and her family today for lunch. She's Yemeni- american and 15 years old. I'll take the opportunity to cover from head to toe and assist to the festivities from the women's side. Maybe as a foreigner I'll be allowed to chew the khat with the men...
That's the way they do it. The women parade their very indecent dresses bought for the occasion among them, while the men marry the bride and the groom next door, without the bride...

I'll write more, after this exciting event...
p.s.: I need to find an extravagant dress to wear underneath my veils...I don't want them to think I am a poor foreigner

curious things

2006-06-15T12:37:00.000+02:00

It is my second week in Sana'a.
I now won confidence and walk around alone. Well, I don't go very far I must admit.
I guess I got used to the looks of men, and women...I try to ignore them.
I decided not to veil, although in my arabic school, a lot of foreigners veil. The other day some kid threw a stone at me (era pequenina a pedra maezinha). They missed me though. the interesting thing is foreign women veiled or not get harassed or at least very unconfortable walking in the streets.

I realized some women are "luckyier" compared to others. My friend K, a black american woman studying the condition of black african woman in Yemen and in muslim countries, gets insulted almost everyday for being black...I admire her strenght. How she keeps going, interested by the country and keeping focused on her work.
The worse is, unlike me, she can actually understand what people say to her.
Yemenis are very friendly in general but they can be very racist towards black people.
A lot of ethiopians, somalians come to this country to work. Some black african woman, not forbidden by their religion or culture, take jobs as maids or as waitresses in restaurants. Some are prostitutes. Others work in embassies.
For some reason, some yemenis think that they don't worth anything, that they are scumbags...
The treatment they get from some yemenis is outrageous. When I was walking with K in the oldtown, K holder of two scholarships, student of a well known american college, an educated, funny and interesting woman, I noticed the looks of many yemeni towards her...I was schocked, and embarrassed of the human kind especially after the stories she told me.

The ridiculous of this all, is that now in the US, for some black americans it became trendy to convert to Islam. Starting to think it's closer to the black culture, that it's more "Brown-black" like to be muslim. Ignoring how black people are seen and treated in most middle eastern countries...

infidel mimi 1

2006-06-11T15:19:00.001+02:00

It’s now the second week of my life in Sana’a.
Today, I have my first Arabic class, and it’s also the first time I walk alone through the old town of Sana’a. Good to know: No one threw stones at me for not veiling.
The director of the school, now forced to look me in the eyes (coz “my husband” is not there) is friendly and almost happy to see me.

And there comes my teacher. It’s a woman. Covered in black from head- to –toe. I am smiling inside in anticipation of all the secrets from that unknown feminine world she might share with me.
It’s almost intimidating not seeing who you are talking to. I stare a her eyes, and nod a lot, smile a lot, more than usual, I realized I behaved like if she was short sided...
She closes the door of the class room, and uncovers her face while speaking to me. For some reason, I expect her to pause, and great me again, as I feel I just met her now that she unveiled.

She’s pretty. But most of all she belongs to a tiny minority of Yemeni women who can read and write their own language (80% of Yemeni women can’t read or write). Her English is perfect which makes her quite an exception.
And now that I am writing this, I realise, although she just met me, she showed me something she hasn’t shown her colleagues that she knows better: her face.
We already have a secret in common.

Every time, someone knocks at the door, she puts her face veil on, and only then opens the door. She is obviously annoyed, and I can’t help asking why she puts it on.
She answers that she is the only woman in a school of men…
Ah! Of course…obvious answer.

As the class goes on, I realize I’ll have a lot of work to do with my Arabic (!) and that the more stupid sounds come out of my mouth, the more she seems happy with me.

-Mumtaz! Mumtaz! (Excellent! Excellent !)

She tells me “Inshallah” (if its god’s will) I’ll know my alphabet by tomorrow…
well then I have nothing to worry about, and I am certainly not going to rush god’s will!

2006-06-11T05:19:00.001+02:00

The traffic in Sana’a is crazy.
After Timor, I thought I couldn’t see worse driving. But I realize there are numerous varieties of bad third world driving (sorry for the lack of political correctness). The taxis are sometimes very representative of national driving:

In Timor, the Moto is: slowly but surely I’ll get where I want.

Must have: a tape playing of the worse Portuguese or Brazilian music on earth, what we call at home "Musica pimba!"

Must do: arm hanging out of the window, chain smoking cheap Indonesian cigarettes.

I drive 20km and hour with the first sometimes second gear, shifting more gears might use the car (?!). The aesthetic of the cars, varies with the artistic fibre of the driver.
For example some like to use pieces of glow- in- the dark- card- board to make their car more “tuning like”. The most important thing is to make your car look -alive- : pillows, teddy bears, all plastic colourful accessories that look useless and might attract dust...

In Sana’a, the Moto: We’ll get there “Inshallah”

Every taxi driver (every driver) is suicidal. Really.
You can overcome anytime by any side you desire.
You can take a round about the way its more convenient for you.
Surviving is NOT respecting the laws of the road. Sorry, did I say laws? There are no laws. or should I say:

The law is no matter what you do, don’t forget to honk. It looks like bumper cars, those small car attractions in fairs where the goal is to crash in other cars.
In Sana’a the objective is to avoid them last minute... while honking, of course!
The drivers have their cheeks full of Khat, the national-legal drug consisting of green leaves they chew and store inside one cheek, making them look like they have a bad tumour.
Probably making their death less painful, if Allah decides their time has come.
Their cars are furry in the inside, to make the passenger more comfortable. The outside doesn’t really matter, besides to the eyes of the foreigner who imagines the car has been through many, many wars...

mimi infidel 2

2006-06-11T05:19:00.000+02:00

The other day we hired Abu (sir) Abdullah to drive me around.
As a competent housewife that I am now, I went to pick up my new acquisition: a fabulous vacuum cleaner, (vacuums wet floors, dry floors and washes the carpets!!) indispensable machine in my war against Acarians (?!) (little microscopic bugs that hide in the carpets).
After I drop the expensive thing in the trunk, my driver asks me if he can go pray. I am a little puzzled as I do not want to keep him away from his obligations towards god, but at the same time I need to go pick R. up. I ask him how long does he need to pray for, hoping this is not a lack of cultural- religious insensitivity. He tells me 15 minutes but that he can do it also after lunch... Ouf!

For a moment, I imagined myself in the car waiting hours for my driver to finish his one- on- five times pray a day in the middle of a traffic jam…