To Serve and To Protect

Thirty minutes ago, he was just another cop. Now we were holding hands, his smile broadening with every step, my oozing of hand sweat surprisingly absent. Were we two lovers, striding contentedly in post-coital bliss, or maybe father and his small boy on the way for some summer ice cream? It should have been weird, real fuckin' weird. Two hairy faced straight men, one with a 16 inch dagger strapped to his sateen robe and the other with a 2 incher retracting in it's shell, walking Hand-in-Hand down the middle of the street. In Yemen's ancient capital of Sanaa. 7,000 feet up. Where? In most countries, a cop could be shot for that. And if he survived that, he'd most certainly be castrated. But in a land where homosexual tendencies are the domain of the straight (and, well, not-so…), we were simply another pair of friends enjoying the warm winter afternoon.

I wasn't sure where he was taking me. It could have been to the Infidel prison I'd heard so much about. But when a turbaned man with a thick black mustache and easily accessible cutlery smiles at you, and offers his hand, well…you either run, or say, "What the hell, it's not every day the Arabian Tom Selleck propositions me?" We met outside his Precinct Station. I had been trying to locate the tourist police who issue travel permits to 'risque' areas. In a land with few tourists, and much bureaucracy, this seemingly simple procedure had become a tour of the city's well scattered police houses. Stop after stop, a friendly officer would continue the scavenger hut, sending me on my way to some other government building.

If there is a God, and it wanted one nation to embody unwavering friendliness, irrefutable hospitality, and stylized blade attire, then Yemen is the chosen child. If you stop for more then two minutes, on any given street, an armada of dagger wearing bystanders will offer their assistance, and when none is needed, you will be greeted, welcomed, and sometimes given a phone number should you need help. Having no understanding of Arabic is inconsequential. Although visible cleavage might be. As would a "Jews for Jesus" t-shirt.

Even in a society of genuine helpfulness, certain people have that look. You get that feeling when you first meet them. Like a particularly eye catching stranger who soon after becomes a passionate lover. Or, a latent familiarity with a new work associate who eventually becomes a close friend. Or, that uncomfort in your stomach with your seatmate on the subway who later follows you off the train, trailing you for blocks, until you finally duck for cover into an illegal gambling hall full of Haitian refugees who remind you that the only French you can remember is from that famous Disco song, so the end result of your night nullifies your decision to open that door.

I had that feeling with the cop. And luckily, he didn't speak French. I didn't expect to see him again after my scavenger hunt continued, but there he was, on the side of the road, chatting with some fruit vendors. Next thing ya know, we're swingin' arms down Mulberry.

Perhaps, the most essential ingredient in advancing knowledge, creating experience, deviating from your norm, is the ability to say YES. No's, but's, and maybes are guarantors of monotony. Unless, of course, that gut feeling from the train hits. When one lands in a new society, and wishes to acquire the "what's really up" feel of a place, acquiescing to this rule is obligatory.

Where were we going? Was he going to walk me into the tourist police, like some kind of lost pansy. Those guys would never give me travel permission to restricted areas. I could hear him now, behind a thick cloud of smoke, the corpulent on-duty chief bellowing, "Oh, the little baby American couldn't find his way. Poor baby. Get 'em outta here. Both of you. I don't ever want to see you in here again. And Tariq, turn in your dagger. I'm putting you on suspension. And if I ever see you holdin' some wuss bag American's hand again, you're getting' yours lopped off at the Friday Hand Chopping ceremonies in Town Square. Now Get."

Still no clamminess. Better then a first date. I should grab Pig hands more often. We had walked at least 20 minutes, and exhausted our entire vocabulary.

English: from where you come?

Arabic: Chicago. Big city. Very Cold. 10 below zero. (arms hug a quivering body)

English: Bush. (Arabic); very bad.

Arabic: I don't like Bush. America don't like Bush. Crazy person (index finger twirled next to ear, three times fast).

Arabic: wrfasfujgahgawgwgjasfsfjjwgawjgswiwgh

Arabic: I like Yemen. Good country. Good people.

Arabic: Yemen, good place. Wawrefilsjfwaflf swfwsulsf wfsfhsfl waf

Arabic: I like this city. Not cold. Not hot. Good.

Arabic: Yemen afwfwfewgfs wafasaf afwgassagwg

Arabic: Yemen is good country.

Arabic: Muslim?

Arabic: No.

Arabic: Christian.

Arabic: No

Arabic: What?

English: Pagan

Arabic: wrafa afwtw?

Arabic: My name is Enrico.

Arabic: I am Tariq.

Arabic: Hi.

Arabic: Bush werafasfg wagawf wfasffwg America awrwgagsg America people good.

Arabic: Yes, Bush is crazy person. I don't like Bush. He has small banana. And he is big chicken.

Arabic: Yemen wagawsfs awfawgfwg wafwarere

Arabic: Yes, Yemen is good country.

Somehow, his smiling stash and child-like giddiness removed the need for small talk. But eventually we would have to do something. Help had arrived. On a quiet sidestreet, scattered with 400 year old ornate adobe brick homes and newer cinderblock replicas, two lanky teenagers came out to greet us. The sons. One knew slightly more English then my Arabic. They both inherited Dad's smile, and had entered phase one of Papa's Stash growth. In further emulation of Daddy's duty to protect, one boy had just become a police officer while the other had entered the military. In America, an afternoon with some flag waving gun swingin' Billy Graham listenin' cop family would be a mental prison sentence, but somehow this family of never ending smiles didn't seem so dull.

Soon, the universal sign for eating, gesticulated by the double-teaming of the thumb by sisters 1 & 2, was being motioned by Tariq. There is no culture in the World that eats in such a manner, but divine intervention has allowed mankind to share in the earth's rewards with whomever shall cross his path. Makes sense. If a fork using individual offered a chopstick user a mimicry of his fork eating ways, the chopstick user may be offended by the presumptuous offer to get his pecker sucked even if it was flatteringly insinuated to be quite large.

Lunch is the most popular meal of the day. So popular, that many work places close down for the afternoon, and streets are deserted. Maybe I would finally meet the mysterious Yemeni women, allegedly living free and happy in their family cloisters.
There was a mother and some sisters. It was a start.

Upon entering the 3rd floor apartment, we immediately went to the living room. A giant couch with it's base cut off welcomed us. We all took places on the rectangular shaped floor cushion ensemble with matching backs. A giant framed photo collage of the 6 brothers and sisters sat on one bookshelf. Light struggling through the stained glass arches illuminated another picture. The man looked very familiar. Like an Uncle. Who was that? No way.

Arabic/English: {pointing} Saddam. Saddam Hussein.

Arabic: {smiling stronger then ever} Yes. Saddam great man. Now Iraq many problems. Shia crazy people. Saddam asggwfwf (makes choking sign) Shia. America. Bush. Very bad. Qwfaswrvasf

A fine example of cultural bias and selected media bias. No different then American views toward most international affairs. In the American psyche, Saddam ranks a solid third behind Satan and Hitler. Although, both Osama B. and Ayatollah Anybody are gaining ground. Followed by their cousins Bush and Cheney. In a country dominated by Sunni Muslims, many Yemenis see Saddam as a martyr. They admire his toughness and emulate his thick Stash. They blame the Shia's as much as they do Bush for the ongoing problems. And when prompted about his abuses of power, they like to site the current state of chaos as tangible proof that Saddam's stranglehold policies were necessary to maintain peace in that country. Regardless, hanging out in a room full of strange Arab men presided over by Sir Saddam was only slightly less odd then walking down a street holding the hand of a unknown police officer.

We were like a bunch of little kids playing Operation for the first time, giggling at everything that happened. Horn honks in the street. Laugh. Stand up to stretch. Laugh. Fireworks. Laugh. I like Yemen. Laugh.

A large spiraled notebook was thrown on my lap. An impressive piece of photocopying.
The pages were primarily in Arabic, with occasional black & white photographs depicting American looking cops doing something indiscernible. I take back my Xeroxing compliments. Then, after several pages, a few English words appeared. Words I had seen before: Heroin. Cocaine. Marijuana. Metha-amphetamine. And the always underappreciated, "Barbituates." Great. I was holding the Arabic instructions to apprehend terror organizations who smuggle drugs. Pretty trusting family. Funny, there was nothing about Qat, the legal green leafed drug that bewitches the nation every afternoon with her mildly narcotic properties that bring about stimulation while somehow managing to induce relaxation. It's very UnAmerican as it is normally consumed one leaf at a time, over hours with groups of friends. Time is money people. We got work to do. Why don't you grind that stuff up and make some new high potency Yemeni Coke. Our people will take some of that.

Whoa. Turns out Magnum Tariq is no ordinary cop. He was the head of Yemen's DEA. Or vice-deputy assistant. There was a time in my life where I would have excused myself to the bathroom and disappeared forever, climbing down a broken trellis and running down alleys until nightfall had secured my escape. But now, being drug free, alcohol free, and sex free, I was practically an honorary Muslim. Was this a trap? Yeah, invite the long hair hippie freak into your home. Plant a few grams of coke in his pocket, then arrest him when he leaves. Make him watch Midnight Express. Remind him that Turkey is a Liberal Muslim nation. Then give him the choice of death in prison or a $100,000 bribe. Fuckin' Pigs. There all the same. Actually, callin' a cop a Swine in Mohammed land should be even more offensive. But there was no need to name call, his sons were merely proud of their drug bustin' Pops and wanted me to admire his documents.

Arabic/English: You steal some drugs. And sell to make money.

Son translates {laughing}: No, no, he says he doesn't do that. It's forbidden in Islam.

English: Hey, Mohammed doesn't want you to starve. Just a little extra.

Son translating: Bad. He can not due that.

English: Ok. Does he take some hashish to use. The stuff from North Africa is the best. Maybe we could do some today.

Son: No, really, he is not using this thing.

English: Shit.

Son: What is shit?

English: Nothing.

English: How about the Qat, does he use that?

Arabic: Yes, I use. Qat is good for you. Not illegal. Not drug. Not forbidden in Quran.

English: Qat is a drug. All those people lining up in streets are addicts.

Soldier Son in English: No. It is not a drug. It is good for you.

Ahhh. No different then American cops on alcohol. After all, if it's legal, surely it can't be a drug. I don't think too many lives have been ruined by alcohol. The government would never allow a dangerous substance to be legalized.

English: American Government pays money Yemen.

Arabic: Yes.

Wherever one goes in the world, the Invisible Hand of the DEA is never too far behind. On the surface, sounds great, ridding the world of harmful substances. Except, when one chooses to discover the reality of the American led War on Drugs, it has only bolstered corrupt governments and kept prices artificially high to support a variety of gang, terror, and other subterfuge activity around the globe. Modern times have proven the impossibility of stopping poor farmers from cultivating illegal drugs. The amount of money America spends, and spends fruitlessly, since Americans consume the greatest amount of Planet Earth's banned dope, and those consumption rates have changed little over the years, and, well, if you took the tens of billions of dollars feeding this program and re-directed it, the entire World could have access to clean drinking water and millions of lives saved, or America could throw a really big Hajj party in downtown Mecca where it introduced Muslim Pilgrims to the joy of Drink and Pulled Pork. Ahhh, pulled pork. Those sweet succulent shaved pieces of the Other White Meat drenched in a warm blanket of home-stewed barbeque. There would be none of that today. Does make one wonder, what gets a longer jail time here, 2 kilos of Afghanistan's finest, or 2 kilos of Carolina's finest?

More diversions. Good. You've got to love strangers who know how to keep the entertainment going when vocal conversation is not really an option. Time to play dress-up the Infidel. That's right, not only were we the kind of male friends who held hands and swung our interlocked digits merrily down the road, but we were now going to try on some clothes. Lack of underwear would not be an issue today. Cool. I got to wear a neck to ankle polyester tunic. Or was it sateen? Is sateen polyester, or is it satin's pleather? The giggles were growing. Oh yeah. Time for my very own dagger. The traditional dagger is known as a jembia, measures 12-16 inches in length, and is hooked to ensure a proper death after stabbing. It's been worn by Yemeni males for over 3000 years. It's also the sole reason Metal Detector companies are unable to penetrate the local markets. You sure you want to outfit a real live Infidel with such a weapon. The 4 inch wide, green embroidered belt securing the mini-sword showcased my hips real nice. Wait. Dad, give him your turban. There we were, an Infidel and his captors, all daggered up, amongst the cushions and our leader. Yes, our leader. We'll need photos with our Hero. Twenty-five minutes later, the giggles didn't stop as we finished our first photo shoot for INFIDEL TODAY. A variety of poses were modeled, but the editors chose the quaint family shot, where the hosting men all pointed their weaponry at the Infidel, standing attentively under the watchful eyes of their American Slain Sunni Hero.

Lunch. And I get to eat with the Dagger. Right on. Maybe they'll present some really tough meat, and I'll be forced to unsheathe the curved blade and showcase my mean cutlery skills. Oh. I can't do that. Ok. Sorry. Just don't blow me up. That's all I ask. Families have a tough time identifying body fragments. And mine is particularly scared of flying to this part of the world. Thanks.

Home cooked meals, regardless of national origin, always have that something special, that flavor mojo. I'm prone to credit the love and care a homebound chef puts into the chow, but that doesn't explain why the occasional frozen pizza at a bar tastes so good. Ah, yes, yes. Alcohol. Well, that's not an option here. I think invited guests are also less judgmental, as they would probably be upset if someone passed off their neighbor's chicken ala king onto a 14.95 tab. But when you get to hang out in someone else's home, do nothing, pay nothing, and be served like royalty, you neglect the flaws, and ask for seconds.

Stacks of misshapen Indian Naan-like bread arrived from a mysterious kitchen source. Allegedly, the mother and daughter were in the kitchen, but God's dictum kept them stove-top incarcerated while the men were able to luxuriate for a lazy afternoon. Each time I would go to the bathroom, I was instructed to Never go Left. Naturally, I eventually went left which was met with uproarious shouts from the men, and before I could see a glimmer of the female flesh, I was re-directed to the porcelain hole in the ground.

The four daggered musketeers sat in a circle around our single cast iron cauldron of a northern Yemeni specialty consisting of a soupy tomato base laden with white cheese, spices, and mildly spicy peppers, interspersed generously with chunks of fresh tuna. Sometimes in synch, we'd all stick our ripped chunks of bread into the abyss where we would return for air moments later, full of more giggles as no chin went unscathed from the runny sauce. We were like six year olds playing in the mud. And these were the people entrusted to protect the country. Can a statement be made about the cultures who enjoy sharing dishes versus the cultures who prefer to have their own personal plates? Ok, the latter definitely have a higher gauge of silverware. Perhaps a lack of choices in poorer countries never gave them persnickety food tastes, since not liking a dish meant you went hungry. Although food sharing cultures always seem less selfish in general. Its in those places you are more likely to find people to go out of their way for you. Although the personal platers may be more likely to share their spouses. The debate continues…

Towards the end of the Midday meal, words were finally exchanged:
Junior cop: Spicy.

Infidel: Yes, Spicy.

Junior military: Too spicy?

Infidel: No. I like spicy.

Senior cop: Spicy. It is spicy.

Infidel: Yes. Spicy. Good.

Junior Cop: Good. Yes.

Infidel: Good.

Senior cop: Bush. Crazy. Saddam. Good.

Infidel: Yes. Spicy.

Ah hah. That's why the streets were empty every afternoon. Large meals are necessary for the marathon QAT chewing sessions that follow. The law enforcers seemed very excited to share their prized mild narcotic with the Infidel. And here, unlike in food times, the Qat leaves are not shared, as each person is responsible for having their own bag of leaves. Very un-marijuana like, and quite typical of the narcotic world. Hey, Send the narcotics over to the personal platers and start burning the hashish like your North African cousins.

A small argument broke out over who would provide the visitor with leaves, as it was considered bad manners for him to purchase anything while under their care. A fairly universal trait among both Yemenis and Arabs, as their hospitality traditions are unmatched anywhere in the world. Along with their unique attire for women, they now currently hold two number one rankings. Magnum Tariq and Junior Cop agreed to share leaves throughout the afternoon, but sent Junior soldier to the local market to get his own stash. Every neighborhood has a row of tabletop stalls, where a daily bag fetches between $2.50 and 25 bucks. Immediately following lunch time, the crowds can be so immense, that an Alabama outsider would think a Revival was taking place, only to be disillusioned when hundreds of men came pouring back into the streets failing to sing the praises of Jesus, and remain fixated on their plastic bag of afternoon stimulant.

A couple of neighbors and a brother-in-law, oblivious to his sister's banishment, joined the other four spread out along the floor cushions. But being a recreational activity of relaxation, no one sits upright, and instead gets possession of one stiff rectangular upholstered foam cushion and rests his elbow on such while the legs splay out below with one upright knee providing rest for the other arm. This behavior seemed indicative of food sharers. Personal Platers would never behave in such a barbarically bohemian manner.

Our new arrivals weren't adding any English to the fray. No problem. Dad had the solution. Like Dads the world over, he held within his dagger holster, the Remote Control, man's last bastion in the global war of the sexes. Well, really that would be the patriarch's last bastion, as a youth most always cede control rights to the most senior, who, may, at his own personal discretion, decline such offer, in which said control would pass chronologically down until the potato lost it's heat. Magnum doesn't pass.

What do a group of narcotic leaf chomping dagger donning Yemenis watch? Music videos. Cartoons. Santa Claus bearded fanatics chanting death threats to the Infidel. The Stock Market. Springer.

Someone was speaking. The words sounded almost like English.

Arnold.

Van Dammy.

Sta-loan.

James Bond.

Arnold.

Rock.

Jackie Chan. Van Dam.

There would be no Sundance Channel today. Men. We are bonded by violence. Denying such would only get me sent into a corner, where my precious leaves would be confiscated and an Arabian sign would be hung from my neck saying, "Pussy. Halal."
Don't say no. It's "Yes, and.."

I stood up and made my best effort at a muscle head imitating a grown monkey.

Hulk Hogan. You like.

The next five minutes were a cacophony of various wrestling names, some even leading to arguments as one party would claim their previously yelled name had more weight over the last. Having not seen a wrestling match since 1983, I would occasionally shout "yes" or give the random thumbs down, just to get an argument going. I even threw out "The Iron Sheik" once, but someone must have told the Arabs he was just some unemployed truck driver from Pittsburgh wearing a ripped tablecloth from a cheap Italian restaurant cause he got no reactions. American marketed violence clearly has some biological grounding. Maybe those who criticize American film for promoting aggressive behavior will finally understand that the makers of films such as, "Death to your Mutha" and "Kill 'Em All, Parts I thru VII", are only evangelizing what mother nature has embedded into the genes of all male humanity. I don't hear too many women complaining about the TLC channel or movies centered around a group of women who have a falling out and spend the entire movie crying and complaining only to become friends in the end. Just as pathetic, but biological, so back off.

The bitterness of the leaves was fading, and additional leaves found their way into the Infidel's waiting mouth as various members would continue to donate handfuls, wanting their guest to realize the benefit of a centuries old tradition. No action movies on in the afternoon. I'd have to wait until the evening when the good flicks come on. We were settling for "World's Greatest Police Chases" hosted by that self-righteous guy with the distinct voice who failed his police officer's exam, the one from America's Most Wanted.

And here we see television's great breakthrough. It's why parents know longer need to supervise their children. The Almighty Entertainer. The ultimate mediator of disparate languages. Through her actions, words were no longer necessary. Uncomfort levels dissipated. Grunts of shock and others of exhilaration filled the room, reminding the sequestered women to the LEFT of the benefits still available from a forced separation of sexes. An 18 wheeler Sprite delivery truck was being chased down the interstate at high speeds. Being that even four wheels are still a novelty here, this was a bit futuristic for the crowd, but even local law enforcement seemed on the side of the wheeled behemoth. The truck eventually jackknifed sending Sprite bottles all over the street which prompted Junior Soldier, the lone occupant of limited English, to ask, "The Sprite. It is free now for the people or police drink all?"

Soon after, while being chased on foot, the renegade driver was cornered, he had climbed up into a tree thinking nobody would see him. The crowed enjoyed that. More leaves for everyone. On me. The offender was classic White Trash, with a text book mullet, crystal meth sculpted body, ripped wife beater tee, and wiry mustache. I tried to inquire about Yemeni Trash but to no avail. It was best to let the television handle the conversation.

Next up, a dashboard patrol camera catches a drunk driver assault a police officer, and then run away, only to be captured by a passing pizza delivery guy. All eyes were on me. I guess sometimes Miss teevee can cause some confusion. Typical woman behavior. How do you explain to a culture that lacks pizza, food delivery drivers, and drunks what just happened. They understood my re-creation of a drunk, which even included the classic drunken male white trash slur, "Yooou fuckiiiing bi-itch" but the pizza delivery charades only resulted in a room full of silent dilated pupils and expanding cheek reservoirs of crushed leaf.

Ah yeah. The crowd liked this. Highway cameras catching car wrecks. Everybody likes a good smash-up. A Mercedes that rolled over for 100 yards, and ended up in a ball of flames got the family screaming for more. The 12 car pile-up produced enough laughter to get through a couple of lame snow skid-outs. The brothers re-enacted the car driving scenes while slouching in their Qat chewing positions. Papa Cop displayed that bittersweet expression of pride and embarrassment that fathers are prone to do when sons acts like boys and fathers are confused over who they should be acting like.

An extended period of silence led to some temporary channel surfing. A episode of Doctor Phil led the minion to their American emissary. Hmmm. How to explain. I mimicked a person without a dick and then pointed to the kitchen which brought about enough laughter to continue the surf. Watching little television only re-enforces how scary your popular culture is when you're forced to view it from afar. It was hard to figure out if they were avoiding the Arab channels to appease me or they simply preferred American television, which kinda upset me cause guys like Bin Laden are pissed at this invading Western culture which most likely means he's pissed that he can't get any quality programming on Arab television. Most programs look like they were shot in the late 70's despite being new releases.

Yes. War movies. The audience was engrossed. A late 50's American movie about the lead up to Pearl Harbor had the father waiting to give commentary at every possible moment. When it looked like Radar officials were ignoring warnings that the Japanese would attack, Dad was quick to point a finger.

Papa Cop: American government bad. Liars.

Infidel: Yes. I agree.

Papa Cop: Bush, bad.

Infidel: Saddam, good.

Dad and I were buddies now. The movie, which apparently was some classic I never saw but my grandfather would have memorized, was depicting the military cover-up to get the U.S. involved in WWII. Each sign of malfeasance just got Dad to turn his head and look at me:

Bush, bad. Saddam, good.

The other half of the movie portrayed the Japanese and their military build-up to the Pearl Harbor attack, but the movie's attempt at realism left the Japanese portion subtitled. But some inconsiderate Arab distributor swapped the English subtitles for Arabic. Now, everytime the Japanese made some controversial comment, Dad would look at me for recognition failing to realize that I had no comprehension of the Nippon tongue. His bushy browed eyes kept saying, "Roosevelt Bad. Hirohito Good." When the attack finally began, all commentary was halted. Even the consistent swish of Qat leaves between the teeth cheek had subsided. Airplanes. Machine Guns. Torpedoes. Bombs. Man's true Bible. The Book of Bombs. Ricocheted grunts of pain and awe swept the room until the Japanese finally flew away. Looks of pity descended on me. What. It's ok. It was over 60 years ago, and we got the run of the World after that, so maybe those conspirators knew what they were doing. Plus we got all those cool Rosie the Riveter posters and a chunk of Okinawa where our soldiers occasionally give payback to the local village girls. No matter. These narcotic leaf chomping Yemenis were waiting for me to give the battle cry. It was like they needed to hear my outrage so they could express their own. These guys were seriously ready to go and fight with me. Their warrior culture had been re-ignited. I took down phone numbers and told the room they'd get a call when I needed them.

With the channel surf on hiatus, intermission took place. No belly dancers. No jihad laced sermon. No wardrobe malfunctions. Nobody really moved. The Qat chomping had really set in. An intense focus style high wedded this sedentary desire to kick back further on the floor cushions and chain smoke cigarettes. Something about nicotine and narcotics. It becomes candy for the lungs. But then Dad threw Junior Soldier a Glock style pistol. Junior examined the gun. He was sitting to my right, no longer in The Leaf chewing slouch. He got up, stood in the middle of the sunlit room and cocked the gun. A few nights before, a police Sergeant with a baseball size cheek full of crushed green leaves, almost killed me when he grabbed a machine gun off his desk and chased a low ranking officer into the hallway where the low ranker decided to stand right in front of me so the jacked up Serge ended up waving the loaded machine gun in my face. Like a schoolyard fight, the other deputies broke it up before the Gringo was gunned down. Now, again, after such a pleasant afternoon, my life was being threatened. No wonder they brought me back here. Bush. Saddam. He'd probably been waiting years to find some random single American in the street. Now I was going to die for the sins of my government. Would I make CNN? All those last minute death thoughts hit you like who you'd invite to the funeral, or will I get buried here or in the States, at which I thought a grave in a place like Yemen could make my tomb a pilgrimage site. How cool to have pilgrims come visit you and credit you with all their good fortune. Maybe there would even be those little street urchins who sell postcards and overpriced cokes. Where you off to this vacation. I'm going to visit Enrico's tomb. Man, that place has become such a tourist trap. If you ask around, somebody will show you where he was shot, and if you go at the exact time he was gunned down, you supposedly can hear faint screams of, 'Bush Bad. Saddam Good.'

Meanwhile, Junior was still brandishing the gun. At this point, I grabbed onto the ivory dagger handle jutting out of my belt. This would be my Flight 93. I would go down fighting. Maybe the drugs would affect his shot. But they picked the wrong Infidel to mess with. As Junior aimed the gun at various targets in the room, none of which included the framed Saddam posters, I kung fu gripped the waiting blade. How was I going to do this? I'd never knifed anything larger then a stick of wood to roast marshmallows, which, invariably, I always burn, failing to get that perfect golden brown singe. Fuck, I'm gonna blow this. I'll yank out the jembia, and charge the son. I'll trip over the lunchtray, landing my fatal blow into the opposing floor cushion. The other Qat chompers will come over a give me a ceremonial swipe with their blade. Incapacitated, high on a leaf so bitter that a starving donkey wouldn't eat it, the smell of cheap upholstered cushions burning my marshmallow further, Junior Soldier and Senior Serge would stand on either side of me. As the son pointed the Glock at the blasphemous mind of a soon to be forgotten Infidel, Dad would start chanting words of praise for his hero, initiating my descent into a burning pile of guck, with only a whittled stick of bones remaining for the embassy to send home. Shit. If they sent me home, there could be no tomb. No postcards. Need a new plan.

The main man, Magum Tariq, was practically in my lap, sprawled out along the cushions, indulging in his son's warrior antics. In fear, I had straightened into a Buddha, albeit one who can't quite get the feet to rest upon the thighs. But there would be no infinite compassion here. I figured instead of lunging across the room, it would be easier to headlock Dad with my dagger, convince Junior to drop the gun, and then maybe we could all just forget this happened and go back to our mild narcotics.

As my contemplations continued, Dad saw the look of fear on his adopted friend's face. Clearly, I was not displaying the fierce Arnold vibe I had intended. Without saying a word to me, he demanded Junior remove the clip, and put the gun on a high shelf. Just like that. No martyr. No tomb. No Jessica Lynch rescue. Good thing the family and I didn't drop a sheet of acid, or the paranoid hallucinations would have surely led to somebody's death. There is a Yemeni tradition, practiced until this very day, that mandates any stranger taken into your watch, whether in a restaurant or home, is your responsibility until that person shall leave. You are expected to feed them, shelter them, and protect them. A particularly useful custom to remember if one should ever find himself homeless in Yemen. I guess my fears were all for naught. Great word, by the way, naught. We use it so seldom in the American lexicon. Must be its close resemblance to the puritan demon, naughty.

If Big Tobacco needed an advertisement to show the benefits of smoking, this near death experience would suffice. Cheap cigarettes for everyone. The lighter made its way around the horn, promising to sully the flavor of each inhaler's sperm. But for an unmarried male in Arabia, where your only hope at flavor commentary is marriage, sully away.

The second half began with some camel races. Very stereotypical. Except there were no jockeys. And no black people in the sand. About 20 camels ran a straight line through the desert followed by a gawking parade of LandCruisers and RangeRovers. I asked about placing a bet, incorporating the universal sign for money, a quick rub of the thumb and index finger, which, when placed away from the mouth somehow means money. I married this gesture with a back and forth finger point to indicate my desire to bet the father, who just saved my life. NO. Not only does the Koran forbid alcohol, but gambling isn't allowed. Nor can banks charge interest for loans. No wonder the Muslims hate the Jews.

News. When you can't bet on the races, and you've got no programs with blood, bombs, or boobs, then the Male goes right to the News. Maybe it's some innate male desire to manipulate already manipulated information to further their own self-importance in later social events, where his completely irrelevant and factless 5 minute harangue on world affairs will leave his fellow companions in a state of imagined admiration for yet another false prophet.

News is News. Without language, its probably not much different. Just a bunch of self-important, sleekly dressed politicos talking about some novel way to further bilk the resources of the people. Probably better to not hear it. The sons kept budging their Procreator to change the channel. Boys don't watch the News. But they will. Obstinate, and father-like, Tariq only turned up the volume. Nice to see that even drug leaf chewing fathers in unknown lands behave the same as their Western counterparts. Forgetting that his entrusted guest couldn't decipher Arabic from Assanine, the channel turned to the Arabian Fox News, Al-Jazeera. In English. Now they didn't understand a word, but nobody seemed to care. Was it the Qat or was this genuine Yemeni tradition, putting on television channels only you're guest can understand? Anyway, their News was littered with the deaths of seemingly innocent Palestinian and Iraqi civilians. That was the majority of world news. Problems in Asia, or sub-saharan Africa were irrelevant. Most irksome was the naming of all Palestinian deaths as 'martyred' and those of Iraqi's as simply 'killed.' Whether those killed were actual combatants or bystanders, a distinction was never made. Hmmm….I don't suppose this could be helping to fuel the latent hatred most Muslims already have against Jews. It's bad enough that the Koran is covered in references to killing those who do not believe, and saving many a bad word for a Jew. But since the Israeli defeat of the 'Arab world' in 1967, Mohammed's teachings are no longer forgotten words in a selectively compassionate text. So every mention of an alleged Jewish crime, in self-defense of not, managed to turn relatively loving people, over a billion of them, most from countries with issues far great then those of Palestine/Israel, into one seething mass of hatred, coupled with a general reluctance of those with clout, to openly condemn terrorist actions. Don't you see Infidel, these are our Holy Warriors that our Prophet promised for protection?

With Saddam dead, Dad was pretty much hopeless on the Iraqi cause. Yet, he managed to find some News event worthy of commentary. Live from Karbala. The great Holy Site for Shia's. Dad sat up from the Qat/heroin user slouch. The only words I understood were, "Shia….Crazy, …Shia….Bad." And then he would point to the screen and make a chokehold, indicating that because of Saddam they had no ability to cause trouble, insinuating the entire issue with Iraq is due strictly to Shia terror activity. The room seconded his opinion. The sons began to imitate the self-flagellation ritual the Shia men do during the ceremony where they literally bludgeon themselves until they are covered in blood. The family was emphatic that this was not the religion of Allah, and that the entire Shia sect should be left to die. Just more proof of the positive aspects of organized religion. Me…I learned another thing I could do to stay on the good side of Father. During a lull, or some other moment in need of laughter, I would simply stand up and start beating myself, gaining the smiles of all, and further chants of "Shia. Crazy people. Saddam Good." A foster family was finally born.

The bags of leaves were emptying dutifully into waiting cheeks. Expanding slowly in the fading light, but unfortunately, not too powerful, narcotic buzz. What would we do when the leaves ran out? The brother-in-law had already finished, and only a ball of BubbleYum spin cycles remained in his left cheek as his dilated pupils refused to leave the television.

It was Conversion Time. The satellite company dedicates one channel to showing the English speaking residents the joys of Islam. They have a long way to go if they want to catch American Christian cable. Islam does not actively convert in the way their rabid Christian brothers do. But knowing that the only way English Speakers, raised in a Christian world, can be brought to a Higher Power is through the Sales Pitch, local marketers had no other choice. And of all the people to lead today's discussion, but some drop-out American tele-evangelist in Santa's beard and JoMuslim's skullcap. If you wanted me to sign my Islam papers, this was not the way to do it. Kareem-Abdul Jabbar, Mohammed Ali, whatever name Cat Stevens now uses. These guys, and maybe you'd have a chance. A hook shot, an upper cut, and catchy songwriting could all ensure a prosperous future for a single male. Some ex hand-on-head healing preacher who decided to take one version of the Old Testaments misinterpretations and now preach another version was only going to appeal to a nation of Qat stoners who forgot to turn the channel. I did enjoy the one accidental camera shot of the crowd. Normally, as in a normal U.S. televised sermon, the audience is often standing, in rapt attention, possessed by their messenger of the Lord Above. In this case, a group of distinctly Arab men was shown completely ignoring the Immigrant Prophet, and just laughing amongst each other. Probably about how much money the Producer's paid them to make Ol' Christmas Spirit look legit. More Arabs. We need more Arabs in the audience, or we'll never get those crucial Ex-Pat conversions.

Perhaps a sign of fading interest is when an Arab channel is showing an American program dubbed into French. It may have been that show 'Lost' I hear so much about. Not sure, but being that a group of people that looked way too good to be stuck in the Jungle and complained all the time, this must have been the show. So, nobody understood anything. Dad was done with his Qat. He looked over at me and gave this big smile. Not creepy. Not insinuative. A genuine smile. This man was so happy to have me in his house. Hyperbole aside, I was honored. He wanted me to eat dinner. But the affects of Qat include appetite suppression resulting in really lean male bodies. Yeah. We agreed to wait until Hunger growled.

Meanwhile, Dad was about to get 'couped' from the armed sons. Everyone respects a Father's Universal Right To Remote until he leaves the audience on some lame looking American program that nobody can understand. The boys put on music videos. Dad didn't approve which led to a heckling session in which I think the boys accused Father of liking Shakira. Too much. Maybe they were right. Tariq actually blushed and turned his head from the television. I put my hand on his shoulder, and simply said in ArabicEnglish, "Bush Bad, Saddam Good. Shakira Better."

Junior Cop had taken control of the remote, and selected a horror movie complete with ghoulish looking people taking over a rural community. Each shot of a Ghoul brought 'yucks' and 'ucchs' from the now Qat-less audience. The channel was quickly changed. The other brother, who knew a bit of English, turned to face me, and simply said, "Satan." A lifetime in the arms of Islam had taught them that all non-human looking humans were clearly the work of the devil. Finally, Hollywood's Satanic nature explains the hatred bestowed upon it by the cave dwelling Beardies.

Another cast iron cauldron of tasty mush was delivered by the faceless Kitchen. With moderate hunger beating away the narcotics, the family gathered around the pot to begin the bread dipping ritual. I ate slowly, impeded by my conscious Amazement at how easy it was to build a genuine connection with very few words. This family of strangers had truly made me feel I had a home in Yemen, forever. In the eyes, and in the smiles, you could feel nothing but love. Strange. Normal. Whatever? It was there. Through televisions, and the abolition of personal platers, Peace would be attained.

Dad refused to let me walk back home alone. No matter that I had spent my entire tour of duty in Yemen wandering the streets at night. I expressed my joy for walking, and that I'd rather walk the 40 minutes back to my GuestHouse then take a taxi. No problem. Dad insisted he walk with me. I gave back my temporary Yemen residency. The family pressured me to keep the clothes but I couldn't. Who knew when another Infidel would wander astray into that abode of childish joy. The sons and I kissed goodbye, traded emails, and laughed at Dad for his latent Shakira love. The other audience members, a neighbor and a relative, offered phone numbers should I ever need any help while in Yemen. Uh…can you let me see the hair of Just One woman?

The almost Head of the Yemen DEA and the ex-Infidel held hands and walked with smiles through the still crowded streets of Sanaa. Friends of the Drug Czar stopped to greet us. A Salaam for him. A Salaam alaykum for that guy. And so it went. I don't think we spoke a word to each other, but it was the most comfortable silence I've felt in awhile. 3 miles of hand-holding and acquaintance greetings. Hey, did you see Tariq with that Jesus lookin' guy. He's one of our prophets, right? Man, they make a good couple.

We made it through the gates of the old city, but Dad insisted on walking me to my door. Good first date, this guy. People have been living here for over three thousand years, and it feels like it. Every stone you walk on, every wall of mud or plaster, every stained piece of glass. They all leave you in a state of awe, and perhaps, in recognition, that you're treading on ground where people have lived in relative peace for longer then the existence of the world's most popular religions.

It was a bit sad. This angel of friendliness was leaving. I knew I'd probably never see him again, like most of the angels one can encounter on a journey. But his memory wouldn't fade. Qat or no Qat, this guy was Yemen. We exchanged cheek kisses, and one of those giant man hugs. As he turned to disappear into the city that's outlasted all others, I said to him, "Bush.." and together, in a proud smile, we said, "Bad. Saddam. Good" I left out Shakira this time, and added, "Yemen. Better." He blew me a kiss goodbye, and carried his smile along the streets, and the land of a place waiting to share it's warmth with the Infidels of the World.