Well, they say that it's more likely you'll get kidnapped in Yemen than not. Therefore many a tourist has skirted by this country of mud skyscrapers and fairy tale colored glass windows. I chose to come to Yemen with my eyes shut, okay, just plain uninformed. I had heard about the kidnappings but I'd never thought them to be a rampant trend. It wasn't until I was deep in the middle of kidnap county, the land that lies due east of Sana'a, that I learned about all the "borrowing" going on.

I managed to avoid the kidnappers on that trip (due in part to one of my guards who wanted to make me his wife because his current bride was a "stone in the house"). But then I set out on a four day tour of the central and western parts of Yemen. The first day went by without a hitch with most of the day in the car bumping along dirt roads up into mud villages in the mountains. The second however, was different. I was quietly plodding along through the narrow winding path in a village called Sabr in the mountains overlooking the city of Ta'izz. My driver Abdulla had paused to ask me some questions and while we were in the middle of bickering over his allowing me to hike up the rest of the mountain I heard a voice. Flash. Before I knew it I was dragged inside a nearby house. Abdulla could do nothing but stand with his mouth hanging open. When my eyes adjusted to the light I saw three women beaming smiles at me. I beamed back at them. We chatted on a bit about who I was and what I was doing (there my Arabic gives out) and then I stood to go. Nope. Where did I think I was going, they projected by a quick lock of the door. I sat back down and tried my best to understand their questions. An hour later I had gulped a few cups of tea, had my hands henna-ed (a traditional Arab temporary tattoo) and tried on a number of their clothes when there came a knock knocking at the chamber door. One of the girls got up to see who it was. Abdulla looked like he'd seen a UFO as the girl ushered him into the room. In five seconds Abdulla was sitting, feet up, chatting away with the three un-veiled girls.

grinning from his the tip of his toes to the tip of his jambia, Abdulla practically skipped to the car when, two hours later, the girls finally let us go. "Stay here. I'll be your translator for life." Said Abdulla. In a country where the sexes are actively divided encounters like Abdulla's are rare. "I hope you get kidnapped ten times tomorrow." Abdulla's wish came true because I can't count on my hands how many homes I was pulled into the next three days. Each time Abdulla's eyes would nearly pop out of his head before he remembered that it was alright to follow along behind me into the men's forbidden places.

Now, sitting in a hotel room in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, I look down at my typing, henna-ed fingers. I miss Yemen. What a strange friendly place. Where even the kidnappers are nice. It's true what they say, you will get kidnapped if you visit Yemen, but the only thing they'll keep is a little piece of your heart.


(Beyond most things, minus the qat, the light narcotic plant 80% of the country chews, guns are one of the most common sites.)

 AUSTRALIA: Time to check out all the Olympic preparations in person. I landed into a less-than-small international airport. This is never going to fit all those people, I thought as one small, fair, freckled Aussie examined a jar of honey I had bought on a side road in Yemen as a gift for the friends I was visiting in Sydney. "What brand is this, hey?" The little man asked holding the old 1/2 liter glass bottle up to the light. "And are those dead bees, Mate?" This I could only nod to. The label on the bottle, Vitmto non-alcoholic fruit flavor cordial, peeling off and faded wasn't giving the fellow any confidence. "It says 'purity guaranteed'," I joked. I didn't want to plead with the man and risk his taking the gift away. Honey in Yemen is like gold. the top quality from the eastern deserts go for as much as 50$ an ounce. The reason being that honey is an aphrodisiac of course, like rhino horns and snake blood in other countries. "Fine. Anything else?" He asked. I shook my head and he smiled and motioned me through. "Thanks Mate." I said and the fellow motioned again without acknowledging my address. Saying "Mate" here is not something to be singled out about.

Sydney is an incredible city. People rush to a fro under the watchful gaze of large sky-scrapers, the logo of their owning companies grasping their tops. I'm impressed with the cleanness of everything. Of course, eight months in developing countries can make you sensitive to sanitation. Back into the swing of western culture I strapped on my running shoes the next morning and jogged to a small park with my eyes wide open. My friend had told me about a few of the deadly animals that inhabit Australia and I wasn't about to meet one if I could help it. I rounded a corner and came to an abrupt stop. Instead of the 1 1/2 foot Hopper spider I was expecting I ran smack into a flock of parrots. Luckily the parrots were not poisonous. They up and flew away with beautiful loud argument.

 NEW ZEALAND: Zipping off from Australia and onto New Zealand for a week I've discovered that these two places are worth years of exploration. It's funny, being in so many developing countries I had the ignorant idea that the western societies of the lands down under wouldn't be all that different from those of America or England. They all speak English, right?

Of course these places are different, anyone will sit you down and explain a few of the vast differences. I thought it rather funny to open the morning's paper and read a poll about 'What People Think of When Running'. A web site for runners had taken a poll of runner's thoughts from country to country. The headline read: Kiwis, 1 in 3 Think of Sex while Jogging. The article went on to say that this was fairly close to all other western countries who partook of the survey minus America where runners were overly obsessed with work, "carrying the office on the jog".

Ha, ha, aha. I laughed. But later while I was out for a stroll, thinking about internet access and how the print version of therewewere was coming along back in the States, I slapped myself. I looked around and saw large numbers of Kiwis jogging; this country promotes usage of the outdoors. I couldn't help but notice the funny expressions on their faces as they passed by.

We touched ground a few minutes later and I was greeted by one of the smallest airports I've yet to encounter. Police were dressed in traditional sulus, the wrap-around skirt, and a group of musicians were singing Fijian songs in the lobby. I headed towards the little four-bench waiting area to pass the three hours until my mother's flight arrived from the States. Before I sat down though I noticed a somewhat bewildered lady who quite resembled my mother lurching through the outside crowd. "Mom!" I yelled. "Mom!" 50 other Fijians yelled when she didn't hear me.