Khat Market.

Every day our driver had an important errand. Even more important than buying bread and water for the day, was the purchase of his daily quota of khat. It's not as if this stuff comes in discreet little baggies. Often it looked more as if someone had done the seasonal pruning of the ficus tree. The leaves still on the branches made for a voluminous purchase and there wasn't all that much room in the Landcruiser, with us and all our luggage in it.
The smart little bunches you see in the photos are not the norm. We must have just made pictures at the equivalent of A.J.'s or Dikker & Thijs (depending in which part of the world you live). Mostly we would stop in a village and someone would appear with a donkey or bicycle that was laden with a bushel of khat and the negotiations would start. Knowing that this might take some time (by now we had experience) we would wander in the sewerless place and buy hard boiled eggs (if available), digestives (if available), bright colored sweets (always available), anything else (hardly ever available) or make some pictures of a goat or anything that was willing to act as a subject.

By noon the temptation became unbearable and as soon as we reached our destination the driver would chuck the bags out of the car and head for the communal khat room. There would always be a gathering of men and they would fill their mouths with the green leaves, looking like hamsters, and popping in more and more as they ground down the the wad they had in their mouths.

Khat has a sour taste, not displeasing but certainly not worth all the effort. Apparently it is mildly stimulating, because our usually stoic driver would become quite chatty. Needless to say nothing would be done for the rest of the afternoon until dinner time, so we had lots of time to rest and see the sights, which weren't always dismal. Often we would find ourselves in a beautiful region especially in Wadi Do'an where we stayed in Bayt Bukhsan.

Not all too different from home.

There is a lot of waiting involved in travel. In Yemen this can be due to a number of things. The driver might be purchasing food and water or khat, or fixing a flat tire. Sometimes it's because there is nothing much else to do but wait. Funnily enough my surroundings were often not so different from those at home. Perhaps the vegetation was a little different but I found myself in a desert once again.

There were some interesting women in the group and boredom really wasn't an issue because there was always something to talk about and even though we were in each others company all day and every day, there was always something to do or discover. Some preferred hiking, while others would walk around in the little villages we encountered along the way learning about how people live in this part of the world. There was time for a extremely sweet cup of tea or to find a pastry shop. Lounging about with a book or soaking your feet when there was a chance were also popular pastimes.

I am sure that I need not explain the role of women in the Muslim world, but normally it is not hard at all to make contact with them if you are a woman too. We didn't see many women in Yemen.

On the other hand I am positive that the men at times did not see us as women at all. How could they when we were unsexily revealed in every way? Nothing left to the imagination, with our short hair, hiking boots, in our pants and shirts and with our independent ways.

One thing bothered me. In the markets, where there were mainly men you would hear a whinny, as if from a stallion. This must be the Yemeni equivalent of a wolf-whistle but knowing you were in a country where the females are kept in seclusion it seemed to be a sign of disrespect rather than admiration to snort and whinny at women.

The Portal.

It could very well be that I read too many adventure books as a child. I was a voracious reader and still am. I had all the Famous Five books by Enid Blyton that would take me on fabulous adventures but there were many other books that offered me a chance to live in another world for a little while. I remember "The Little White Horse" by Elizabeth Goudge so well because I reread it many times and it was magical every time.

As an adult my travel allows me to escape to mysterious worlds that always amaze and fascinate me.

The door in the picture can hardly be called anything but a portal, an entry-way into Yemen.

In our ramshackle Landcruiser we made our way from Sana'a by way of the Temple of the Moon and the Bilqish Palace to the desert. If the names in our itinerary do not transport you and want you to crack your whip like Indiana Jones then a beach resort vacation is your best bet. To each his own.

Of course there is much to be said for comfort, so a beach resort isn't such a bad idea, especially when you are sleeping on the floor of a house that has no shower or bath. There were many nights that we had a communal room and we all just rolled out our sleeping bags on the floor and went to bed unwashed or washed at a tap outside, just cleaning hands, feet and face. These houses are the hotels in the rural areas. It wasn't as if we had much choice and even the hotels in the cities were very basic.

When I left the U.S. I had no idea that I would be going on a rough trip so I hadn't brought anything in the way of gear. Days before my departure for Yemen I bought a thick sleeping bag which served me well. I had a double layer of down under me so that I didn't have to touch the grimy carpets on which we slept. Although we didn't complain (much) we would of course have preferred a clean bed with crisp white linen sheets but then it wouldn't have been quite the same.

Making me laugh.

In spite of some modern buildings and cars, visiting Yemen is like stepping into the past. During an evening walk at twilight the only lights shone from behind colored glass windows high in the three story buildings of Sana'a. The houses are tall giving a contemporary look from afar but as you get closer a beauty all their own becomes apparent. The elaborate friezes, the carved frames and stained glass windows transport you to another world.

I wandered through San'a with some new friends. Dutch women, who else? Wherever you go in the world, there is sure to be a group of Dutch women right ahead of you.

We crossed the bridge into the fortified inner city and bought the necessities for the coming weeks. It was hard enough to find what we needed in Sana'a, the capital, so we could only imagine what the other cities would be like. We bought biscuits, and La Vache qui Rit cheese that would keep and other odds and ends that had been forgotten and might be needed.

The bazaar offered many things that we didn't need, but bought anyway. I ended up with an alarm clock that instead of ringing sounded, "Allah Akbar", right on the dot. It was made of hideous pink plastic in the form of a mosque that closely resembled a birthday cake. Pop Art in its purest form.

People all over the world are friendly. It is fear or xenophobia that prevents us from seeing this. The young man in this picture was trying to make me smile - and he succeeded.

Arabica Felix

In August of 1997, we were in the pool on a hot Arizona night with a drink and talking about things in general as we touched on the topic of travel. We always talked much and often. Not only were we married, we also worked together and especially when living in an area where we had to make new friends, we were also each others companion in practically everything we did.

Pieter would be sailing a regatta off the coast of Sri Lanka in September with some friends from Holland. He had sailed Catamaran for several years now and he was looking forward to doing it in another exotic location with his sailing buddies. He asked me what I intended to do. I said, 'I would like to see Yemen', not quite being serious and basing my travel destination on a recently read article in a magazine.

In November Pieter was no longer there, and I had no idea what to do with my life. I had traveled to Europe twice in a 6 week period. Nothing seemed to bring relief. It had nothing to do with location or whom I had around me. I carried grief within me and it seemed to have attached itself to me with a thousand greedy, grabbing hands. Nothing seemed to matter. I had no interest in life in general. I was running away from anything and everything with nowhere to go. All I wanted perhaps was to hurt more than I was hurting already, almost like scratching a mosquito bite till it bleeds. Not relieving the itch but adding pain.

On the spur of the moment I booked a ticket to Yemen. I hardly recognized my picture on my visa. There was something wrong with the eyes. The mouth smiled, but the eyes were empty and lifeless. I looked scary, but then again everything looked scary to me at that time and little did I care.

And so I went on my walkabout through Yemen, a little crazy in the head perhaps, hoping to find something close to purgatory, hoping that I would feel something worse than what I was feeling already so that what I was feeling would go away. Hoping that I would enter a world that would make me forget the world I lived in.

So totally me!

Nothing much has changed. I still wear cheesy hats and aprons.

I would say 44 Floss Street, but I could be wrong. The address was drilled into my head. ‘Where do you live?’, ‘44 Floss Street’. Just in case I decided to pack my bag and leave home I suppose. Floss Street was in Kensington. Not London, but Johannesburg. Our house stood on a ridge of a hill and the ‘pass’ made of flagstones, ran by our house, all the way into Bez (Bezuidenhout) Valley. That is how I remember it.

If you stood in our back garden you could see all the way down to where the pass met the road in the valley. In between there was veld and rocks. Sometimes, when the idea struck us, my grandmother would pack a little lunch for us, our ‘padkos’, travel food and walk halfway down the pass, choose a flat stone to sit on and eat our lunch. We would take Rex, our dog with us and pretend we were far from home. A little adventure; I liked adventures, I still do.

This is possibly the only photo that exists of me cleaning a car. I think that the experience didn’t make it to my list of favorite activities. However the pinafore became part of the wardrobe. I sew my own. Not very well, but aprons are not a fashion item so I get away with it. I remember all my aunts and grandmother wore aprons when cooking or cleaning. My mother was not into aprons. They do tend to make you look a little slovenly.

We all lived together in this large house overlooking the valley, seven adults and Elsje. A year or so later my parents and I moved to our own home. Seemed very quiet to me.

Our Christmas holidays were usually spent in Durban, down on the coast in Natal. The whole family would pack up and spend a couple of weeks there. This one year I went with my grandparents, aunts and uncle but my parents didn’t join us. I knew my mother was expecting a baby and when I returned home there he was. Things were not so quiet anymore. So much better.

A while ago, Kristy, Rosie, Marco and I went to Mexicali for a really delicious breakfast and on the way back at a gas station I saw a hat that probably no one else would buy. A floppy, straw, little bucket shaped thing, and I averted my eyes, just in case temptation got the better of me. As we were nosing around the store, the others saw it too and decided that it was totally me. I wear my little straw hat often and I so agree, it’s totally me.

Mud walls.

The walls of my courtyard are starting to look African and just wait and see what I am going to do to them next. My own little piece of Africa right here in the Desert Southwest. The color on your monitor may not be an exact match to the warm, deep ochre as they are when I look out my window. I took the pictures late in the evening because it was so hot today (44 degrees C) and it still is, but in some strange way I like the hot summers here.

The harsh light at midday reminds me of the Sheltering Sky, by Bernardo Bertolucci, a film I have never quite forgotten from the early 90's. Perhaps that's what has shaped my idea for my wall.

Have I become a mother?

When I decided to take a dog I was convinced that a dog is a dog, not a little hairy human with an overactive tongue who likes to spread gob all over you whenever possible. I am not her ‘Mommy’. If she was my offspring she would not be as sleek and delicately built as she is. She would not have a short-haired coat that always looks trim and groomed. She would probably look a lot more like a red (L'Oreal Number 26), out of shape Lab, huffing and puffing while the silver ghost sprints by at the speed of light.

My dog and I are simply not a visual match.

Today we went to a Dog Pool Party and Athena immediately found the steps of the pool and if I threw a ball she would get in, swim and retrieve the ball, drop it at my feet and we would start all over again. All very genteel, just the way she likes it. As time went by more dogs joined the party and soon it was all just one big and continuous splash, water and dogs everywhere.

After a little while, I noticed that Athena was the only dry dog there. Even the jittery little poodle energetically made wild dashes and launched herself straight into the water to grab a ball. Every time Athena made a move to go down the steps there was either a dog going in or coming out and she looked back at me anxiously, trying to telepathically communicate, ‘make them go away’ with that goofy look she has when she stresses.

Suddenly I realized that she reminded me of myself as a child, a little timid, somewhat shy, and certainly not a boisterous pool bomber. ‘I wish they would get out of the way’, I could see in the bubble over her head.

There I was, looking back at my mother; not bold enough to push my way through the other children to claim my space. My mother could probably read the bubble over my head too, feeling as powerless as I did now.

For the first time in my life I felt what other mothers must feel and it took me totally by surprise that I felt so protective. I glowered at a rowdy dog that made enormous belly flops and was not being careful at all by landing right on Athena’s head. ‘That’s my baby, you bully! Stay away from her’, the bubble over my head said.

The pool party has set me thinking however. Did I teach my long-legged pup to be so prissy and cautious or is she like this by nature? Is the bubble over my telling her to always wear flip flops in hotels and never sit down on unfamiliar toilet seats? Worst of all, have I finally turned into a doggy Mommy?

Casting shadows in the light.

Look what I bought for the courtyard! They were made by Lisa Furner of Mariposa Avenue in Salt Lake City. They are number 10 recycled food cans in which she cuts holes and are then powder-coated. Mine are in a rich bronze color and cast a beautiful patterned shadow on the wall when its dark.

Pedro gives update on Courtyard.

Dilemma.

Writing a blog presents one with a whole new set of questions. Why do I write? Does anyone out there read my blog? Is everyone out there reading my blog? Also the people who I don't want to read my blog?
Did my friends really mean it when they said, we know nothing about your life? Why don't I write them letters anymore? Am I the only one I know who doesn't watch TV and so has time to write? What do I write about?

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." Ben Franklin

My answer lies in the above.

Since I have started writing my blog I feel far more connected to the people I know. I enjoy sharing the perhaps insignificant things that are important to me. I have a need to communicate and even this one way exchange allows me to experience my life differently. Not in a deep way, but it is still meaningful enough to give an enhanced pleasure in the things that make up the fabric of my day to day life. The writing inspires me to do things that are perhaps worth writing about.

I have dreams and aspirations to fulfill, interests, travels, hobbies, books, music to experience so that I can share what impresses, astounds, amazes and stirs me.

I hope you stay with me on this incredible journey called 'life'.

(Photo: A little Platespinner and Table Mountain, Cape Province)

Frances wins the California Staffing Professional 2008 Award.

You can believe that I am as proud as punch that Frances, our El Centro Branch Manager has been awarded the California Staffing Professional of the Year 2008 for Southern California. Everyone who knew about her nomination and that she was the winner (including Erik, her husband) managed to keep it a secret from Frances. When her picture came up on the large screen, Frances blinked, realized what was happening and gave me a little slap on my arm. As she stood in front of the audience holding her trophy some hoots of joy and shouts of victory caught her attention. The little group in the back making a lot of noise were Judie and Nydia, two of her staff members, Rosie, Kristy and Marco from Head Office and of course, Erik her husband.

Frances and I stayed for the rest of the convention and had a really nice evening at our hotel, the Hilton Resort in San Diego. The Austrian chef of the restaurant served the most delicious dishes and we had a perfect view on Mission Bay while we watched the fireworks. ate and chatted (we are both very good at that).

Jungle drums.

On my way up to visit with J&M&F last week, at around 9, I decided to find a hotel. The trip takes 10 to 12 hours of steady driving depending on traffic in Los Angeles. If I zip through L.A. then I shave off an hour or so of driving-time. As most of those around me know, I am not fussy about hotels. Actually I seem to have a preference for cheap ones, especially when all I am doing is going from A to B. I need a bed and a shower and all they need to be is clean, that's it! I can put up with clanking plumbing, fuzzy T.V. sets and even turn a blind eye to a lost cucaracha as long as it does not get too close. I have slept in too many evil little rooms on my travels not to consider Motel 6 as quite luxurious.

I asked for a single on the ground-floor at the desk and the gentleman informed me that he only had a double with two beds at $ 75.00. I asked what a single would cost and he said, "$65.00". I raised my eyebrows and said, "I am not paying $10.00 for a bed I won't sleep in. Are there any other motels around? I am heading North". He bobbed his head, didn't look happy and told me about Motel 6 just a few miles away.

As I opened the door of Motel 6 the delicious smell of curry wafted its way to my nostrils. I asked for a single and the young man said that he only had doubles available but he would give me one at the price of a single. Good enough. He was friendly as he went through the motions of the paperwork, and said, "You have a preference for ground-floor", nodding his head from side to side.

It made me smile and he smiled back. The jungle drums had already announced my arrival.

Chalk & Cheese.

Although I would never admit it, my mother is always right. No let me change that to 'often right' because otherwise I am setting myself up for trouble.

We are as different as chalk and cheese. She always practical and I more with my head in the clouds, looking down to see my mama with a firm grip on my ankles preventing me from floating too far away from reality.

'What your eyes can see, your hands can make' she would say, as she made a tent for 4 people so that we could go camping.

My mother is precise, I am far more slapdash.

She taught me to be prudent but not afraid, to wear flip-flops in hotels, not to sit on unfamiliar toilet seats, to pack light, to be aware of what is going on around me and to take care of my money, but she also taught me to enjoy the freedom of seeing new places and meeting new people.

'I want to email you, show me how', and she mastered the computer in her late 70's when I moved to the U.S.

She taught me that it's okay to relax on Sunday mornings in my pyjamas, and that good books should be a regular pleasure. She taught me how to crochet, knit, embroider, sew and re-use things that others just throw away.

'Grandma Moses did it, so it's not impossible' and off she went to drawing and painting classes at 74.

She taught me never to let her cut my hair. She could be ruthless with my bangs. She taught me that jealousy is not worthwhile because you are not going to get something by being jealous. That most tears are tears of self-pity and to dry them and move on. That change in life is inevitable, so accept change and make the best of it. Try something new, you might like it.

'Tomorrow everything can be different', she often says and so true. Everything looks different when it has settled for a while and I add my own wisdom, 'things look different after you have eaten'.

She taught me to make great soup, and that a house without plants and flowers looks like you will be moving out soon. I would never know how to make a fire outdoors, if my mother had not shown me. She showed me too, what it means to be business-savvy and that a woman can be an entrepreneur too.

Being chalk and cheese, we do not always see eye to eye and a couple of years ago when visiting my mother, we decided to take a road trip for a week or so. This particular day we were tired and my mother was already finished eating after the first course, which turned out to be a complete meal for her. It upset her that she would have to return the second plate untouched and was definitely not happy about this. We sat in silence for a while each contemplating where else one could be but here, when my mother took a sip from her mineral water.

Now I need to tell you that in Holland they often serve mineral water in very high and slim glasses.

As my mother put down her glass, the suction in the glass cause the water to drop back suddenly and an enormous drop of water erupted out of the glass and into her eye. For a second she stared at me with one eye closed and the other bright blue, twinkling with amazed mirth and then we both collapsed in a fit of the giggles. We could not stop. Every time we looked at each other we would start again and even a semblance of composure was impossible. After a while the chef peeked out of the kitchen and smiled while my mother and I doubled up again, with tears running down our cheeks, laughing helplessly.

Large wasp on Milkweed.

It looks like my mail won't be delivered the next couple of weeks. Twice a year my Milkweed plant is visited by rather large wasps. I have never experienced any problem with them and I have made pictures of them and get really close. They look scary I suppose if you are afraid of insects but all they do is drink the nectar and fly around the plant. The lady who delivers my mail said that I should have them exterminated. I opted to have to pick up my mail at the Post Office for a couple of weeks.

The entrance and enclosure.

Courtyard shaping up nicely.

The Courtyard Phase 3

It is going so quickly. Plants out, cement in. It looks much bigger than I thought it would be.

Courtyard Phase 2

No more turning back. I love the curve Azarias has made and we all agree that because of the mature trees the courtyard will look good.

The Making of the Courtyard Starts

They have started breaking up the cement for the courtyard. This picture was taken through the window. I wanted to make sure my toes didn't get in the way.

Moonie over your hammies.

Girls. Atlas Mountains, Morocco

Shopfront in Sidi Rabat, Morocco

Entrance to Mosque. Morocco

Our travels in Morocco stay with me still. I am starting one of my largest projects yet. I will build an inner courtyard at the front of my house. The many elements of northern African life return in the Mexican culture thanks to the Spanish Conquistadors. That is one tiny postive aspect of cruel colonization. I intend to incorporate the colors that both cultures use with such delicious abandon and the shapes of Arabia and transplant them to the Sonoran desert.

Melon market. Rissani, Morocco