R E C E N T L Y Homemade heaven in Italy By David Downie Wild boar stew and other delights in Italy (07/21/98) Couped up in Cambodia By Rosemary Berkeley Remembering the right place at the wrong time (07/17/98) Mondo Weirdo Nude beaches of the week Favorite nude beaches around the world (07/17/98) Tour en Irlande By David Moore Tour de France: Pomp and pedaling in Ireland (07/16/98) Bad news from a black coast: Part Two By Moritz Thomsen Part Two of Moritz Thomsen's unpublished memoir (07/15/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		It's hard to find a good tampon in Yemen -- and other misadventures. BY SUSAN HACK | "Excuse me, where's the nearest place I can buy some Tampax?" I whisper. I'm in Sana'a, capital of Yemen, about to set off on a two-week November desert drive. "My little friend" (and I don't mean my travel buddy) has arrived earlier than expected. I've gone down to the front desk of my hotel to see the reception clerk, who, thank God, is a woman. "Tampax? What's that?" she asks, loud enough for two oil workers checking in next to me to overhear. "Um, you know, tampons. For when you have your period." "You mean pads." "No, not pads, tampons. The ones you insert." She looks at me, pity in her eyes. "Madam," she confides in a low voice, "in Yemen we do not insert." OK, we're not talking rape, death or dismemberment here, but a Tampax nightmare is one of the worst travel experiences a woman can have. (Men, you may not want to read further.) Tampons inspire insane brand loyalty; one girl's best friend is another girl's leaky sponge. But not only does Yemen not have my preferred brand of tampon, they do not appear to have any tampons at all. In desperation I ask our guide, Mohammed, a tribesman with a curved dagger in his belt and an automatic pistol in his glove compartment, a man who is prepared to protect us from kidnapping, who will keep us safe against thirst and scorpions in the Empty Quarter, who we've hired to drive us 10 hours in a Toyota 4-by-4 to the top of a roadless mountain to a fortress village called Shahara -- I ask this white-robed man of the desert to take me to a Sana'a pharmacy. Ten pharmacies, in fact, none of which have tampons, and whose clerks treat me, when I ask for tampons, as if I'm morally and physically tainted. A true gentleman, Mohammed can see my mounting frustration, but I'm too embarrassed to tell him what I'm looking for. "Whatever is troubling you, chew this," he says kindly, handing me a bouquet of qat. "Qat solves everything." A mild stimulant, the Yemeni equivalent of a stiff drink, Qat's green leaves bind you up, which partly solves another feminine problem: how to shit with dignity in the desert. Squat toilets and rock toilets I'm prepared to handle. And thanks to qat, I don't have to shit that much at all. But the prospect of going native when it comes to period control is making me crazy, making me consider curtailing this trip. It's a hot country, Yemen. I've packed lots of white. For a moment I debate going to the American embassy, to ask the diplomats if they have any tampons, or if they can give me a list of expatriate women residents to whom I can appeal for a sisterly loan. Finally I call the Sheraton, an American-owned hotel chain, and ask the guest relations director where I can buy insertable feminine hygiene products. "I don't use them myself," she says amiably (she is from Pakistan), "but I believe you can buy them in the big department stores here. Try City Market on Az-Zubeiry Street." Mohammed and I get back in the 4-by-4, and I ask him to take me to City Market. It's not so big after all. Zip. By now I really am desperate, so I give in and buy pads. Not mini-pads with wings, or even pads with adhesive strips. These maternity ward-sized pads have string belts. Like the kind Mom used to use. One word sums up my situation. That word is: yuck. N E X T+P A G E | Don't leave home without them!