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.”