 | DAY 4 |
Shibam |
Sunrise over Shibam. We climbed up a hill outside the city to get an early bird view. 
Houses built inside the face of the mountains. A lone woman walking. Both pictures taken outside the old city.
Shibam behind the city wall.
Manhattan of the desert, as it is called because of its skyscrapers built hundreds of years ago.
An old man we ran into driving around on his moped. 
Scenes from inside the city. 
The people of Shibam. The old man has his turban tied around his knees and back to support him while sitting.
Lounging in the shade outside the city wall. |
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Climbed outside the city for sunrise. Met a nice old man outside the wall riding around on his motorcycle. It's 7:30 am and I'm extremely hot. Walked around town a bit. Now it's 10:45 am and I'm totally exhausted from the sun. Took a rest; I saw another old man riding around on his donkey looking at me - this creature passed out in this oasis in the middle of nowhere. I didn't have the energy to say hello at first. Half an hour later he came back, riding sideways on his donkey still in his bright yellow skirt. He stopped by for what must have been curiosity at first. The conversation quickly turned into a discussion about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, as it will many times throughout this trip. He had been in Palestine before 1948 for work. He spoke about what it was like back then. He felt sorry for the people who have lost their land, and for those who have never been able to live on it (he meant those born in exile like us). The heat is not heavy and drenching like Mukalla – humid – but I feel my heart squeezed as if a long heavy black weight is pushing down on it. I can't take a deep breath. My hair feels like a haystack – a big bunch of dried up, stiff consistency. I don't think that I'm sweating. I'm wet now from the iced water that Abboud brought down. This ex-hotel turned into employee housing has been a haven for us the past two days. For me certainly, as when I'm too hot to keep going, I return here and sit under a tree. Aida is off wandering the streets of Shibam on her own; later she tells me that a woman invited her in for some tea that I missed out on. But I'm too hot, and hence lethargic, to care. The water I pour on myself dries so quickly. It evaporates in seconds. I wonder what the temperature is – I'd rather not know – it would be harder on me mentally. I'm about to pass out. Abboud decides that I'd be better off inside, so he's opened up the old office for me – the fan is blowing full blast – at last. I'd like to drench my body in cool water and lay down in bed for a little while. I think I'm exhausted. It might well be with only three hours of sleep last night. Waking up before 5 am everyday might be taking its toll. | |
 Say'un |
Sunset over a mosque in Say'un.
The children crowd over screaming "soura, soura" (picture). At times I would feel almost ill at east with the number of kids following us around.
A young girl in Say'un. |
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7pm or so. We've made it Say'un – again lucky enough to hitch a ride. Staying at a funduq at 600 rials. We leave for the desert at 4:30 am. We asked one of the guys who works at the hotel if he knew of anyone who would be able to drive us through the desert. He thought we were mad to want to do that, but he obliged us by calling up one of his friends. I'm sitting in a café at what might be called downtown, or the souk area. Definitely the center of attention! Aida is off buying a sandouk (wooden trunk) – hope it's not too big to drag around. The men just hang out. Some young ones are playing dominos. Others just sit and eat bizzer (seeds) and chat – or in this case, stare. Interesting some of the men walking together in the streets hold hands. It's so innocent, human, friendly, but nothing you would ever see in a Western country, unless the men were gay of course. But as a couple of friends walking down the street, I'd be hard pressed to imagine any European or American doing this. And the stereotype is that Arab men are machos! How wrong it seems! Sitting here, now I wish I could record the sounds – the endless flow of motorcycles, the slapping down of the domino pieces, the conversations, the degradations of the "muezzins." It's great. This city is so alive, so happening – not like the villages we've seen so far. It's nice to experience the differences – last night by the pool in discussion, tonight in full crowd absorbing the sounds. Two Dutch guys with amazing photographic technology hanging from their necks distract me with a few minutes of conversation, and leave me in my loud solitude when their taxi arrives. The dogs freaked me out today. When we told the guy who drove us to town today that we wanted to take pictures from outside Shibam, from the rocky hill nearby, he dropped us off in the middle of a sand trail and we walked the rest. There was no way for him to cross the sand, and he indeed got stuck although we had only gone in a few feet into the dried up river bed. As soon as Aida and I stepped out of the car, wild dogs suddenly came out of nowhere and were barking hysterically. It was so incredibly loud, and they seemed totally out of control. I can't take domesticated dogs too well to begin with; I've often asked my friends if they can leave their dog outside, or I can stay outside, just so that I can avoid them alltogether. Now I was in the middle of this river bed, Aida laughing her ass off at me, and I was convinced that I was going to mauled over. Aida kept telling me that they're harmless and that they get scared of humans because humans treat them so badly in the Arab world, hitting them whenever they get in the way and such; but that didn't appease me much. Their barks may have been bigger than their bites, but it was enough to scare me. I hurriedly started making my way up hill on the rocks as Aida was taking her sweet time behind me (later I find out she was busy fiddling around with her tape recorder, so she could play a practical joke on me and run the tape while I'm sleeping!). I booked up the hill, not caring anymore that I was missing the spectacular sunrise over Shibam and the photo opportunities I never got. As I got higher up the hill, I discovered there was another pack of wild dogs coming across the mountain. I was about to get into a paranoical hysteria, but I somehow collected my nerves, and calmed down. Neither of the packs got any closer and I was able to enjoy the remainder of the sunrise. I felt somewhat similar, although certainly not as intense, with the children this afternoon in Say'un – following us everywhere and screaming. Word of foreigners spreads like wild fire and suddenly there are swarms of kids everywhere around you, jumping up and down in your face, screaming and shouting, as more of them arrive from all corners. They get in the way of every picture you want to take, they want to touch you, stick their fingers in your lens, pull on your clothes, and always ask for pens or a picture. When we respond to them in Arabic, the volume suddenly drops and their interest wanes. The girls are obviously a lot calmer and sometimes shy. As we walk by, they blow us kisses or quietly say hello from behind a window. Quite a few of them had henna on their hands, compared to the kids in Sana'a we would see later. As one girl said hello from the window, her mother pulled her back in, but when we responded in Arabic, the mother waved us in and asked us if we had time for tea. We declined the tea but chatted a bit at her entrance. Her eyes had thick blue kohl (old-fashioned eye-liner) on them and were beautiful – the only thing that could be seen of her, as she kept her face covered. Some of the kids have remembered our names and shout them out in the city when they pass us again. "Aida! Aida! Halka! Halaka!" (Arabs can never say my name, nor do they ever believe that it's my real unchanged name when they discover my Arab roots. I so often get asked, once they accept that I'm telling them the truth, why my parents gave me such a Germanic name, to which I don't really have a response. It's just a name they chose - out of the blue I guess). Some kids pass by as I'm still sitting here in this cafe, and say "Hello Helga" to me and ask me where Aida is. They're so proud that they remember our names, so pass back and forth saying hello (with my name) at every time. There's this man who's been staring at me for an hour and it's making me mad. His stare is so intent, so deep. Almost desiring – it's just too much. Even when I look up and stare back, he doesn't back off. He's in purple – a color I've never liked much. Aida has been gone for a while now, I wonder if she's going to find the type of trunk she's looking for. I remember our parents had wooden trunks with little gold or silver ornaments on them when we lived in Oman; my Dad had used it as the storage box for my toys when I grew older. There's also a calm little boy – maybe 5 or 6, fiddling with what's around him. He stares too but much more innocently – maybe all he wants is my kalam (pen)! Children scream one of two things in Yemen to tourists: kalam (pen) or soura (picture) - never for money. He's got one of those generic t-shirts I've been seeing all over the country, the imprint reading "high traffic area." One out of every five people seems to have the same t-shirt, throughout Yemen. Some kids have come over to chat; so I shall put my notebook down. |