 | DAY 10 | |
Amran | 
Girls on the side of the road selling incense in brightly colored homemade baskets, traditional of the North Garbage outside Old Amran, a familiar sight everywhere in Yemen. | |
Two girls and window detail in Old Amran | ||
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Waiting for the convoy (meaning required military escort) at a police stop. My head thumps because I just hit it on a steel bar which served as the only roof to the bathroom. Two soldiers were in the midst of their beauty treatment, one was diligently combing his hair in a hand held mirror. Interesting to poop in an open roof bathroom. I'm getting quite used to going to the bathroom while squatting, but peeing is still tough – it's not like I can aim! I don't know if I like the whole washing with water rather than toilet paper thing. I don't think it quite does the job. So far the "convoy" is made up of us, one other Toyota Land Cruiser with a sole German man, and two military jeeps with about eight soldiers in each. These "administrative" things in Yemen are such a pain in the ass. The whole country operates in this fashion where there doesn't seem to be any rules and laws and each does as he wants. Things rely on wasta (connections) or something like that. It's total fawda (chaos). I imagine the entire Arab world functions in pretty much the same way. Perhaps the whole world outside the West. They carry weapons, they have police stops on the streets, it's really up to the guy there to decide what to do, it's not like he's following any written rule. The policeman that asks ten thousand questions that he doesn't really need to know the answers to in order to do his job. Our driver Hamid has bought us some qat, at our request. Our first stop is Amran, an old town with an unbelievable stench of garbage, simmering in the morning sun. The old town is made entirely of mud houses. We enter through the gate inside the old city. The children swarm around us. Aida and I have gotten more and more comfortable at taking pictures and assuring ourselves as Palestinians. In every town we go to now, children scream "They're Palestinian! They speak Arabic!" Amran is poor, the children are plentiful. What is it about poverty that leads people to procreate more and more? I assume it has to do with the family network of support, so that the more kids you have, the more financial (and other) support you can secure. It may not make sense logically or mathematically, but somehow it adds up. We continue on to Huth for lunch. Six girls selling bread have taken a liking to us, they come to touch our hair, tell us we are beautiful and keep smiling at us. Their names are Gamila, Jooma'a, Fatma, Sara, Layla, Aisha. We are seated with the tourists - the first time we are made to sit with tourists - and Hamid and the drivers and the military guys all sit together in the back of the restaurant. It's an open air cafeteria really. They choose what we are to eat, they determine everything for us. We have to pay for the military guys, so our bill comes to some exorbitant amount. I feel more tension up here than other parts of Yemen. Young boys spit as we pass by, or give us the finger. The military escorts of course don't give me much comfort, neither the forecful separation of locals and tourists. We're not really allowed to go walk around as we wish, only to and fro from the cafeteria to the car. The girls, when we leave, blow us kisses as we leave, screaming our names... We drive through dried out landscape. Plateau of rocks. All sand color, blending with the dull gray-white sky. On to Sa'da, Hamid's home town. On the road we pass poor merchant children. They whip out all their belongings as soon as they see us. I feel so bad about seeming to have so much money and not giving any away. Some were selling bakhour (incense), others were selling colorful baskets, and others firewood. They all have dusty faces. One girl confides in Aida that she has a crush on Hamid and asks her what she should do about it. Hamid is married, is in his mid-thirties; the girl must have been no more than fifteen! As we drive through the modern part of Sa'da, Hamid stops the car and waves down a woman. The veiled woman comes by and he kisses her hand. It's Hamid's mom. How he could recognize her from across the street in her full veil is a mystery to me. I notice a lot of political grafitti in this city. We check into a hotel predermined by Hamid and go and visit his family. There is no negotiation as to whether we can stay elsewhere, this is the only hotel in town, and the prices are set too. | ||
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Sa'da |
Rooftops in Sa'da where most houses were made of mud
Painted steel door and elevated roof corners
Old-fashioned grooming
Henna design on my arm, that Houda painted on while we lounged at her house with the family | |
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How to describe this feeling – I just qatted for five hours. I smoked some madda'a (hubbly bubbly) at Hamid's parents' house. I feel very out of it. Although I've discovered the trick to chewing qat: combining it with chewing gum so it doesn't' swirl around in your mouth and takes away the bitter grass taste. Banana flavor and qat, a funky combination! The locals think I'm nuts, but at least innovative! My head feels funny and a strange taste lingers in my mouth: the tobacco taste of the madda'a, the sweet taste of pomegrenade juice, tea...
Went around town with Hamid, walked on the city wall looking down into courtyards, rooftops and windows. Aida was taking pictures, straying behind us the whole time. Hamid and I walked together. I could barely speak, feeling so intoxicated by everything I've just inhaled and chewed. I'm relaxed. I almost feel like I'm floating on the outskirts of this city. We see a Dutch girl walking through the city, apparently she has lived here for five years and works at the hospital. She could pass for a Yemeni woman, except for her Western sandals and ash blond hair. Hamid is talking the whole time, and I don't hear a word he says; I'm too high to pay attention. I'm trying to concentrate on walking. We stopped in town to see the Jewish silversmiths (the last of their kind in Yemen, as all others have since fled to Israel). I was too shy to take pictures. There is a castle in town that is turned into a military fort, and pictures are forbidden. Had some tea at a "coffee shoB" in town and talked to the locals some more. (I love how Arabs can rarely say the letter p and say b instead. But when I see it written with a b instead of a p, it just makes me laugh). The minute the locals figure out we speak Arabic, they want to chat all night. I feel like I'm learning so much from talking with the locals. I'm beginning to get accustomed to the accent, at times even imitating it. Tonight, both Aida and I seemed to be so much more agile in our Arabic. We haven't had a hard time so far, but for some reason, by this point in our trip, it becomes effortless to keep up with the Yemeni dialect. We discuss Marxism, Communism, how it was in South Yemen back in the communist days; we talk about higher education, about the French university system, and so many other things.. We went back to Hamid's parents' house for dinner and more madda'a and his little sister Houda painted my arm and Aida's arm with henna – black motif of flowers called nakesh. The women in that family weren't shy. In fact they spoke so much, much more so than the men. Refreshing to see life from the inside. Sofia, his mom, would spread the incense fumes on her, it was beautiful watching her direct the vapor onto her hair, under her clothes, all around her body. I imagine the smell lingers on her clothing and skin for hours. I wonder if Hamid, or Hamid's dad for that matter, recognizes Sofia by her smell. I find her beautiful, a soft round face with fragile features, a strong voice and a roaring laugh.. She's a heavy set woman with henna on her fingers and feet. A big smile. She exudes warmness. I have taken an immediate liking to her. Aida keeps bugging me to ask of her roots, but she keeps saying she's from Sa'da. I think Aida wants to know if she's African, because she's rather dark and has more of an Arican complexion and hair than say Hamid's dad. Latifa, the older sister, was also very talkative and friendly with us. The police came to Hamid's house to see where we were because we hadn't been to the hotel yet – they were afraid we had been kidnapped. So we had to leave and end our night out with the family early. They escorted us back to our mosquito infested hotel room. After a few hours of trying to squish mosquitoes with my sandals, while carefully sitting in the silence to figure out which way the little bastards are flying, we finally think of calling the front desk and asking for some insect killing spray (which much to my surprise, they have). We spray the room and take refuge in the sitting area while the stench subsides. We go back to sleep, careful not to rub off the nakesh from our arms which are wrapped in gauze and a plastic bag for the night. |