The Nabiiy Andrew

Sana'a, Yemen

Before traveling to a foreign country, it’s a good idea to learn a few of the most important words. “Yes”, “thank you”, and “hello” are always wise bets. I include in this elite list the word “vegetarian” because it saves me from having to moo and act unsatisfied—or whatever other charades would be necessary to communicate the point. And though I’ve broken my dietary habits a few times here—once I ordered tea and was inexplicably brought fish—I was committed to defending my herbivore lifestyle.

The word for vegetarian in Arabic—as I deciphered it in my traveler's dictionary—was nabiiy. So for the first few weeks whenever I would order food, I would say simply “I’m a nabiiy,” implying that I’d eat anything vegetarian-friendly. For some reason though, people never seemed to understand. I would get blank stares, and plenty of comments that amounted to "What do you eat then?" I just assumed that it was because my accent was bad (which it was), or because vegetarianism is rare (which it is). On one memorable occasion, a restaurant owner brought me a plate of chicken. "Maybe that's appropriate," he said kindly and walked away. Concerned that I was deeply offending the culture, for a time I considered giving up the battle and going carnivorous.

As I discovered far too late, the real reason for my dining woes was still worse. In Arabic class one day we were reading a selection in which the phrase “the nabiiy Muhammad” appeared. Familiar with Islam’s taboo on pork, I thought that maybe nabiiy signified one who abstains only from pork—thus explaining some of the dining confusion I’d been experiencing. Curious, I asked my teacher for a good translation of the word “vegetarian” and whether nabiiy was an appropriate synonym. My teacher opened his mouth to respond and then his lips rested in the strangest frown. It was almost precisely the look reserved for encountering high-schoolers who believe in Santa Claus. One simply doesn't know where to begin.

Finally he cleared it up. “Nabaati is the word for vegetarian,” he said. “A nabiiy is a prophet.”

I felt a sharp pang of horror. Not only had I been messing up the language and offending Yemeni dietary habits, but I’d been parading around the country claiming to be a messenger of God. That said, despite the weird looks, no one gave me a hard time. Sometimes they just served me chicken.

A Bumpy Ride

Sana'a, Yemen

Despite all the botox jokes and earthquake imitations people make when they learn I live in L.A., I’ll defend it against every criticism except one—public transportation. To travel from A to B without a car, the only options are entering the public transportation matrix or hiring a taxi with fares that make even Lindsey Lohan cringe. How ironic then, that Sana’a—not otherwise known for its infrastructure—can show the City of Angels how it’s done. They’re called dububs, and they’re visible from every corner in numbers that make the New York taxi service seem understaffed. There’s no need to hail a dubub; if there’s any space available they’re sure to pull up and invite you in. Looking something like an American minivan gone to seed, dububs are marked by number and color in an elaborate system most Yemenis confess they don’t understand. In fact, there’s little point in mastering it because the sun has gradually robbed most dububs of their many hues, making them all a ubiquitous yellow.

Dububs also have no doors. Considered an impediment to speedy—if not necessarily safe—travel, their absence allows passengers to jump out at their destination the moment the dubub stops. In this way, the American style of stopping every fifty yards to let someone off is avoided. Instead, people seem to disappear from the dubub without anyone really noticing, quietly paying their dime for travel and going about their private business.

And their business almost always is private. Most everything in Yemeni life occurs within the home, where life’s experiences are shared only with family members and trusted friends. This poses problems for foreigners, in that there is no real public arena in which they can meet people or completely immerse themselves in the culture—except, that is, in the dububs. For a short time, an aggregate of otherwise unassociated people—doctors and muezzins, housewives and foreigners, are packed into a few rows of seats and made to get to know one another or risk considerable awkwardness. Being a foreigner, and therefore of some interest, people start conversations with me often.

What language they use to greet me is hard to predict. Arabic is common enough (it is Yemen after all), but some of the more worldly try their stab and whatever foreign languages they’ve studied. One kind gentleman greeted me in Turkish, and was frustrated when I didn’t answer back. “Are you Turkish? Your eyes are Turkish,” he said in Arabic. I told him I wasn’t. A look of surprise crossed his face and he sat in silence for a moment. Thinking he was formulating another guess at my nationality, I let him ponder. A minute later he whispered to me in English, “Are you still not Turkish?”

When people ask if I’m American, I assent honestly. Then I’m transformed from the silent kid with weird clothes and headphones (many Yemenis have told me this makes me look European) into an object of intense interest. Sometimes there’s a pause after my nationality is exposed as questions swirl in people’s minds. It’s like after a particularly mind-numbing linear algebra lecture. So many questions have emerged, but no one wants to break the silence and dare to ask one.

When someone finally get the nerve to ask questions, the questions are seldom rude, but usually concern why I’m staying in Yemen and what I do back in the States. Sometimes they get a little bit more penetrating, circling around American politics, the Iraq war, and the current election. Occasionally Yemenis will even throw in their own election picks (invariably Obama). And though it would be simplistic to say that there are no misunderstandings between the two cultures, any malcontent is always directed at the American government, not at the American people. I’ve heard a few unkind words about a handful of American politicians, but never one against me or the other Americans who live in Yemen. There’s one English phrase that comes out very often when my nationality is exposed—said so often it must be a prepared response, but nonetheless said with full sincerity:

“America, number one.”