The travel to Yemen was long – three days. Luckily, with a little help from my friends, I was able to catch up on the sleep that had been deprived during the days leading to my departure. The 4 hour layover at the Frankfurt Flughavn was a bit of a blur, although I remember enjoying some oversized pilsners at the Goethe Bar. I was pleased to find that my German had stuck with me enough to carry on a casual conversation while keeping an eye on my Lufthansa gate. I was reminded of the million other pilsners and casual conversations I had enjoyed 20 years earlier while defending Europe against the red menace.
The Frankfurt to Sana'a leg was nearly as long as Chicago to Frankfurt, and I passed the time again in a narcotic coma, thank goodness for helpful friends. Based on the orientation sessions and literature provided by KBR, I should have been on my toes upon arrival at Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. Instead I was torporous. Luckily Al Qaeda was off duty, and the visa and customs processing was uneventful. My driver met me outside of customs with my luggage. His face matched the photo I was provided in my security dossier – I love that term, it’s so spy - so I got into his car and drove across town to the Sana’a Sheraton.
The next morning’s flight was in a twin engine charter plane, one of two that is dedicated to the Yemen LNG project. All of the ex-pats on the project – about two hundred – are shuttled from Sana’a in these planes. I was the only American, and the only first timer. The others on my flight were from Egypt, England and France. They were coming off of rotation leave, and they seemed cheerful enough, which I took as a good sign.
The plane took off into the cloudless sky, and headed south. The flight attendant recited the familiar instructions about seat belts and cell phones in both Arabic and English. The city below gave way to isolated mountain villages with sparse patches of green, which I took to be agriculture. Eventually the villages played out and we flew for an hour and a half over barren, sun-baked desert, with no evidence whatsoever of roads, development or commerce of any kind.
The Frankfurt to Sana'a leg was nearly as long as Chicago to Frankfurt, and I passed the time again in a narcotic coma, thank goodness for helpful friends. Based on the orientation sessions and literature provided by KBR, I should have been on my toes upon arrival at Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. Instead I was torporous. Luckily Al Qaeda was off duty, and the visa and customs processing was uneventful. My driver met me outside of customs with my luggage. His face matched the photo I was provided in my security dossier – I love that term, it’s so spy - so I got into his car and drove across town to the Sana’a Sheraton.
The next morning’s flight was in a twin engine charter plane, one of two that is dedicated to the Yemen LNG project. All of the ex-pats on the project – about two hundred – are shuttled from Sana’a in these planes. I was the only American, and the only first timer. The others on my flight were from Egypt, England and France. They were coming off of rotation leave, and they seemed cheerful enough, which I took as a good sign.
The plane took off into the cloudless sky, and headed south. The flight attendant recited the familiar instructions about seat belts and cell phones in both Arabic and English. The city below gave way to isolated mountain villages with sparse patches of green, which I took to be agriculture. Eventually the villages played out and we flew for an hour and a half over barren, sun-baked desert, with no evidence whatsoever of roads, development or commerce of any kind.
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