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Monday 2004-04-26 - Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Fellow travelers
Koning Aap organized a afternoon for fellow travelers to meet each other before actually leaving on their trip; the meeting was appropriately located in the Amsterdam Passenger Terminal, near Central Station. You could find your companions by the travel codes posted on the tables, and a (very tasty) packed meal with snacks from all over the world was provided. A “travel doctor” was present as well, with some good advice and an opportunity for last-minute jabs for those who still needed them. Danger #1 for travelers: malaria; but we won’t have much risk of catching that on this trip.
The group I met was a nice bunch; I’m sure we’ll get along well together. Unfortunately two couldn’t make it so we’ll still have a surprise when we leave. I brought my Central Asia photographs from 2001, to get everyone into the mood. That went over well.
A nice surprise was meeting Frank, who guided our Central Asia tour in 2001, as well as Piet, the photographer who organized and guided our trip to Mozambique. All in all, a nice evening.
Sunday 2004-05-09 - Damascus, Syria
Relaxing in the mosque
After a nice breakfast in the hotel we (two travel mates and me) first walk to Martyr’s Square where there is a money changer’s office — which turns out to be closed. We decide to go to the old city first, after the “advance” we got last night we still have enough cash for a drink and entrance into the Mosque. When we cross the street, a young man coming from the other side nods at us, and says: “Welcome!” — a nice sign of how friendly people are here in Damascus.
The old town isn’t far, and we get in at the Souk entrance; the Souk al-Hamidiyeh reminds me of the big bazaar in Istanbul, with its high vaulted streets, and endless shops along them. When we get out at the other end, skipping all the side streets for now, we see the Umayadd Mosque before us, through remnants of what looks like an old Greek temple, Greek architecture, anyway. Entrance to the Mosque is 50 Syrian pounds, and us women get a hooded robe (freshly washed and ironed) loaned to us for free. We visit the shrine first; people get very emotional there, moan, and even cry. We see some drying their tears when they get out, and whole families sitting together on the floor in the front room, eating apples, chatting, relaxing.
When we get to the mosque proper, we find same relaxed atmosphere. The inner plaza is very big, beautiful with lots of marble, and at various places people sit around, resting and enjoying the place. Inside the prayer hall this continues. Everyone mixes (no strict separation between men and women here, families sit together). Near the shrine of Prophet Yahia (St. John the Baptist) a group of women sit together, listening to what a mullah is telling them. A woman walks round and hands out sugared almonds (delicious!); some people try to chat with us. We end up staying here a long time, a wonderful experience. We see many other interesting things today but this is definitely the best.
Everywhere, people are very friendly and helpful. We all agree: this is a very, very nice city to be in — and one to come back to. And a great city to start our 65-day trip across Asia from.
Thursday 2004-05-13 - Aleppo, Syria
“In my next life I wish to be your hat”
The Syrians have a wonderful gentle kind of humor, of which we had a nice sample before at Krak des Chevaliers: Entrance fee is 150 Syrian pounds for foreigners, 15 for Syrians and 10 for students. After Carla and I paid our 150, Thom followed and said: “I’m Syrian.” “That’s 15 dollars, sir” was the immediate reply.
Today we roam around the very extensive Souk of Aleppo (much nicer than that of Damascus, with many very old vaults over the streets and khans — storage places — and caravanserais); it couldn’t be any closer since our pleasant hotel is right in the middle of the souk. Here we encounter more samples of Syrian humor. Many traders try a little ruse to talk you into their store but it’s all a game and they readily admit it’s just a trick to get you inside: “You have to try something to sell something” one apologizes laughing. What’s amazing is how many Syrians here speak some Dutch, or even have a portrait of our queen in their store: another conversation piece of course to get you inside. Farther on in the main street we chat with a small group of young men; one of them looks at my hat and tells me: “In my next life I wish to be your hat.”
Saturday 2004-05-15 - Antakya, Turkey
Eating out in the middle of nowhere
Our driver, Ali, and two guys (one is called Mehmet but I didn’t catch the other’s name) from the hotel are invited by our tour companion for dinner. Ali knows a restaurant somewhere outside the city of Antakya. Thom, Carla and I are coming, too. With the bus we drive out of town, to a little village that doesn’t look like there would be a restaurant — but there is, and it’s packed. The owner welcomes us, obviously pleased they’re bringing tourists. The meal is excellent, the company even better. This afternoon I bought a little dictionary and I barely lay hands on it: Mehmet and Ali use it all the time to communicate better with us since they don’t speak English. Joking and chatting, eating shish and köfte, three kinds of salad, bread, three kinds of humus; drinking Yeni Rakı, a kind of beet wine, and water: a great evening in a place where tourists never come — I wouldn’t be able to find it back either!
Monday 2004-05-17 - Şanlıurfa, Turkey
Tea near the holy carp pond
After a ride through a beautiful landscape of rolling hills with vineyards and orchards, grain and strawberry fields we arrive at two in Şanlıurfa (or Urfa for short). The three of us go looking for the tourist office first, because (of course) I want a map of the city. Two boys approach us, wanting to help and practice their English: they offer to walk us there. They’re very nice, and their English is surprisingly good. Chatting all the while, we end up in the pleasant park around Abraham’s cave where there is a small office of the tourist police; they’re friendly and give me a nice brochure of the area, but they don’t have a map; the friendly officer writes down the address of the real tourist office for me, so we can go there later (or tomorrow).
We invite the boys to share a tea with us near the pond with the holy carp, and they tell us a little about their life. We’d estimated them about 18, but both turn out to be only 15. Both have a number of brothers and sisters and come from outside the city. One, whose parents are separated, stays with his grandmother; the other lives in the school’s dormitory where they both study mathematics. Life at the dormitory is “boring” but both boys are obviously quite serious about their studies and practicing their English.
It doesn’t matter that we haven’t found the actual tourist office, because now we know the way to the park, overlooked by the citadel (yet another one), where some of the main sights of the city are. We decide we’ll come back here tomorrow, and the boys take their leave. A while later we walk back to the hotel, with a very nice impression of the friendly people of Şanlıurfa.
Tuesday 2004-05-18 - Şanlıurfa, Turkey
“We nice to meet you”
First we (Thom, Carla and I) have lunch together, and while we chat a little afterwards, one of three girls next to us asks if she can practice her English with us (a question we’re to hear more often). Of course she can, and she immediately joins us at our table. At first the words come hesitatingly but gradually Döne gets over it and starts talking better; the other two girls, Songul and Esin, join us, too, and since they don’t speak English, Döne starts translating both ways. All three girls have several older sisters and study biology here, like one of the boys we met yesterday staying with family in the city; they have a small grant from the government, dad pays the rest and though their families are well off, they don’t have much money to spend. Tomorrow they’re going on a tour to Mardin and Diyarbakır: they spent the last of their savings on the tickets.
We talk a lot about various subjects. The European union (Döne, with an obvious strong sense of identity, isn’t enthusiastic about joining, and also — with some justification — seems worried Europeans look down on the Turks), relations between Kurds and Turkish people (Songul is Kurdish and the three girls are the best of friends, but surprisingly Döne says she doesn’t like Kurds - a strange contradiction we’re to encounter more often), are we rich? (depends), music (they know European stars, why don’t we know Turkish singers?) and so on.
We offer them a drink and chat on. Döne also writes down a lot of useful Turkish words for me in my little notebook. When we finally separate, we find we spent all of four hours just sitting near the pond chatting - and practicing Döne’s English. In my notebook she writes: “We nice to meet you. Thank you for everything. We love you too.” We had a great time with them.
A visit to the mosque around Abraham’s cave and the citadel overlooking the park complete our visit to Şanlıurfa.
Thursday 2004-05-20 - Diyarbakır, Turkey
A Kurdish evening out
Our tour companion met a Kurdish man in Diyarbakır today; he knows about a cafe where there will be live Kurdish music this evening. We all gather to go there after dinner. It turns out to be a very nice and also interesting evening. The cafe is in a cellar - and quite open; only three years ago, Kurds here could not publicly play their music here, and had to meet in secret. At least the situation of the Kurds has improved somewhat now.
The singer of the band seems to be quite well known locally, and the cafe fills up: middle-aged and young people, but also whole families with children. The music is a mix of modern songs and traditional music, and whenever a traditional is played, a group of students next to us start dancing. We chat a little with them: the boys have learned the Kurdish dances since they were boys, the girls only last year. With other well-known songs they sing along. During a break a small boy comes to the stage and is allowed to sing a song. It’s obvious the Kurds cherish their own culture and keep it alive through meetings like this. The students are poor; they only share a bottle of water (they pay their share for the band, too) and can afford to do this only once a month.
We end up dancing with them, much to the amusement of the other customers, since the steps of their dances aren’t all that easy to learn. When the show is over at eleven, we get some group pictures taken, both with the dancing students and with the band, and finally are offered a drink by the cafe management. All in all a wonderful evening with an interesting little peek into Kurdish culture.
Tuesday 2004-05-25 - Tabriz, Iran
Conversation in the bazaar
After our visit to the Armenian church, our next goal is the bazaar, across the square. The bazaar in Tabriz is the oldest bazaar in Iran; not only is it very large but also very beautiful. It covers one huge block, and has all covered “streets” with vaults of brickwork, and sometimes larger halls. The brickwork is intricate at times and in many places very nicely restored. Also there are 55 open courtyards, many caravansaries, and countless small passages.
A man in a green jacket approaches us and tries to guide us — which we don’t want — but we don’t find a way to get rid of him politely. Sometimes he irritatingly tells us what we can see easily with our own eyes (“this is the paper bazaar”), then again he comes with interesting facts (like the 55 courtyards). At last it transpires he wants to show us his brother’s carpet shop. We explain we won’t be able to buy anything, with still such a long trip before us but that’s fine with him - just come along for a cup of tea, he suggests; we agree.
That turns out to be a good decision — we have a very interesting conversation over tea. The older brother doesn’t speak English so our guide translates: the carpet trader travels in many countries around Iran to buy carpets and thus has a different view of the world than most Iranians. First he tells us he thinks Carla and I are overdoing it a bit, the way we are clothed (we explain we feel more comfortable this way). He also tells us that Iranians are suppressed, and have little access to information because all information sources are controlled by the government. It’s obvious he is not one of the conservative Iranians, and hopes the situation will get more liberal here. So our tour of the bazaar ends with a nice meeting — this sets the theme for our trip through Iran.
Meeting in the park
After we take our leave form the carpet seller and his younger brother, ‘Green jacket’ no longer follows us. Our next goal is a visit to the beautiful Blue Mosque of Tabriz (Masjed-e Kabud, still in the process of being restored, very expertly) and after spending quite some time there we decide to call it a day and head for the park. We find a bench in the shade and watch the locals relax. Soon a man approaches us and asks if he can talk with us; we agree and he joins us on our bench.
He turns out to be an Azeri (not all that surprisingly as we should have known: this region is actually called East Azarbaijan and many Azeris live here; Tabriz is the capital of the province). His story matches that of the Armenian at the Maryam church and the carpet seller but adds new insights. He tells us that as opposed to the very small minority of the Armenians which obviously don’t form any threat, Azeris aren’t allowed to use their own language: Turkish is forbidden here in Iran. Of course people speak it all the same (when they feel safe enough) but it’s not taught in any school and thus they can write only in Farsi.
Another surprising tidbit he tells us is that while alcohol is strictly forbidden — if you are found drinking it you may end up in prison for six months — some two million people are addicted to drugs which are easily (though not openly) available; they can go to some parks to use the drugs. Also according to him, many young people (four million) are depressed. Except at university, young men are not allowed to speak to girls, and if caught, a young man may even be forced to marry the girl in question (frankly, that sounds a bit far-fetched to us). Like the carpet seller, he brings up the point of access to information, and tells us that many people have a satellite dish, which is forbidden. A dish can be bought secretly if you know the way, and is kept indoors. At the recent elections for parliament here, when so many liberal candidates were removed from the list, only 14% of people in this region actually went to vote — partly because there was no candidate left which they wanted to vote for, partly as a form of protest. In general, it seems that while things were gradually getting more liberal before, now that’s being turned back again.
Of course we can’t check all the things he tells us, but he seems remarkably open and clearly eager to talk about the problems in his country and for the Azeri minority he belongs to. We end up staying much longer in the park than we had planned. All in all, an interesting day, even more for the people than the sites we visited.
Wednesday 2004-05-26 - Bonāb, Iran
Delay turns out to be our luck
When we finally arrive in Bonāb, to have a look at the old mosque there, our delay turns out to have been very lucky. Normally non-muslims aren’t allowed to enter this mosque, but at the moment we arrive a service is starting; a prayer service, we think. And when Jan takes a peek through the door, he’s invited in; then to our surprise then our whole group, still standing outside, are invited in. It turns out to be a funeral service. We’re allowed to sit at the side, and can watch the proceedings. One older man and his son are standing at the door - obviously the bereaved. Several young men, all dressed in black trousers and a black shirt, go round with water to spray or pour on the hands of the guests, then tea is brought, sugar, and delicious dates. Little plastic baskets stand all around on the floor for the date pips. Continuously, men come in (we see no women), sit down quietly and get served tea, then pray, and take their leave again, only then saying a few words to the bereaved at the door. Everyone sits on the floor, except a few older men who are sitting on chairs along the wall, near the mullah. And all the while the mullah is praying (it’s almost singing), sometimes answered by some of the men — it’s beautiful to listen to.
The mosque itself is superb, small and simple but with a unique wooden ceiling resting on wooden pillars; the flat ceiling is constructed and painted in a way that’s found nowhere else. So thanks to our delays we get not only a unique chance to watch the inside of this unique mosque, but at the same time experience how a funeral service is conducted. It’s one of those precious experiences that are rare even on a trip like this.
It’s very late and fully dark when via a winding road through the mountains we finally arrive at Takāb.
Thursday 2004-05-27 - Takht-e Soleymān, Iran
Warm welcome in a Kurdish village
On the way to Sanandaj we make a visit to Takht-e Soleymān which has two attractions. One is “Suleiman’s prison” (Zendan-e Soleymān) — nothing to do with anyone’s prison but in reality an extinguished volcanic crater, and then the large citadel called (like the village) Takht-e Soleymān on top of the next mountain. Although the citadel is supposed to be very interesting, with an enclosed lake, most of us decide to skip it: we’ve seen so many citadels already! In-between the two mountains is the small Kurdish village named after the historical citadel (we’re still in Kurdish country here), to where a small group of us walk from the citadel.
First we drink tea at a tiny restaurant strategically located at the entrance of the village. We sit outside on the stoop, in the shade, and chat with a 14-year old boy helping out and the older owner (we never find out whether he’s the boy’s father or his granddad). There’s an old and very deaf grandma as well, and all three are willing subjects to have their photographs taken.
When we walk into the village, we don’t get very far - we’re almost immediately stopped by a woman who asks us to take her picture. She has a big smile with many gold teeth, and her husband, with a really beautiful old face, joins in the fun. We take many pictures of the couple. They even show us their passports (it seems they have to carry them!) with thumbprints and much younger pictures. Although we don’t share a word in any language, we manage to find out the couple have seven sons. They’re very nice and companionable together — I hope that will somehow be visible in the photographs!
Ten meters on we’re invited into a house where men are building an annexe — for the eldest daughter, it turns out later, who’s married to one of the men doing the building; she just had her first baby. Inside, we’re invited to drink tea, and watch the three daughters work on knotting a carpet stretched on a huge loom. It must take very long to make a carpet as big and intricate as they are making, even with three working on it. A little later, the men take a break from their building to have an early lunch (early for us, that is, but they probably started early in the day). We get a taste as well: flat, tasty bread, butter, yogurt, three kinds of cheese, all locally produced. And a little riddle is solved: we’d already often been served tea, with sugar for those who wanted is, but without a spoon to stir. That’s not the way they take their sugar here: the men take a sugar lump into their mouth, pour some of the tea from the glass into the dish, and drink it from there, ‘around’ the sugar. We also take many photographs of the family at their work.
Then the bus is hooting: it’s still a long way to Sanandaj; we never make it farther into the village.
Friday 2004-05-28 - Sanandaj, Iran
“You are more precious than my eyes”
We head for the mosque first, of which we had a glimpse when we walked through Sanandaj last night to watch the people shopping: the streets were busy on a Thursday evening. But today it’s Friday so naturally most stores are closed and it’s very quiet. Behind the old mosque a new prayer hall is being built; Carla and I aren’t allowed in there (Thom tells us later it’s very beautiful), so the two of us head for the women’s prayer hall to the side. Since it’s Friday, prayers are in progress — one woman praying aloud for a group, all in a row closely together. Normally non-muslims aren’t allowed in during prayers but we’re welcomed warmly all the same: we’re waved in, smiled at, and several women bring one or two hands to their eyes: a symbolic greeting we later find out means something like “you are more precious than my eyes.” We sit down at the side for a while, and watch and listen to the proceedings quietly. After a while, one of the women spots Thom waiting outside and points to him; after we take our leave, several women even wave us goodbye from behind the windows.
A learning experience
Because most of Iran is taken up by deserts and otherwise dry areas, greenery and parks are very precious to the Iranians. Everywhere we see little parks and green strips of well-tended grass along the road sides (or in the middle between lanes) where people sit with their study books or play a game of chess. Especially on a Friday evening, the many parks here in Sanandaj are alive with young people strolling, old people sitting and watching, families picnicking, barbecuing and playing, and sellers of corn roasted on charcoal doing good business.
We sit down at a table with an Iranian ‘beer’ (a non-alcoholic drink not really tasting like beer, but refreshing and not sweet like fresh drinks) and watch it all. A man and his daughter come crossing the road, heading for the kiosk where we bought our drinks; the girl stops and stays behind to watch us while her father goes on to buy a snack. She tries to talk to us, but of course we don’t understand Farsi — something that obviously amazes her. She never met people like that before. The girl, at a guess about 12 years old, keeps trying to make herself understood; when a few passing boys shout “Hello!” at us she picks up on that clue and tries “hello” as well — that works! Then she comes up with “I love you” which I answer with “I love you, too” — she’s a really lovable girl and trying so hard to communicate with more than just a smile! That exhausts her English though and she tries Farsi again. After some more failed attempts at communicating in that language she gives up and runs to her dad to tell of her experience. We see him listen to her, and obviously telling her to try some more but sensibly he stays in the background. The girl is still fascinated, and indeed comes back to us. Behind her big brown eyes her brain is visibly grinding … even the most simple sentences and words she tries, carefully enunciated for our benefit, are not understood. How can that be?
Suddenly I remember I happen to have a Lonely Planet in my bag so I take it out to see if it has something about Farsi. That works. Now she reads aloud the “common signs” written in Farsi, and together we can go over the counting words listed, and a few other words. As a result, one little girl in Iran has learned today that there are actually people who don’t understand Farsi (but can learn) and I have learned to say “goodbye” in Farsi. With a friendly (though not completely accurate) “Khodāfez!” we leave and walk back to our hotel.
Saturday 2004-05-29 - Kermānshāh, Iran
Modern history
While at the Taq-e Bostan site, we meet some unexpected foreign visitors: four Iraqis who are biding their time in Iran (fled “under the fire” as they say) until the situation in Iraq has quieted down; two are from Bagdad, two from Najaf. They’re quite explicit that the situation under Saddam Hussein was bad, but that now, under the Americans it’s still bad.
We chat with them for a few minutes - it’s remarkable how different they are from Iranian men: just as friendly, but very open and direct. When one remarks he hopes to be able to return to Iraq in two months, and I reply “Inshallah!” he says: “You’re my friend!” and gives me a hand — something an Iranian man wouldn’t dare (or even think of) — and Carla makes friends with another man who’s a teacher, like her. Before we leave they have to make pictures of all of us together and each with their newly-made friends.
Sunday 2004-05-30 - Qom, Iran
Shrine of Fatima
Through a beautiful landscape of rounded mountains with wide, fertile plains and valleys in-between and snow-capped mountains far to the south, we ride to Qom, a holy city for Shi’ite Muslims. Surprisingly, there are very few trees in this fertile area; the ones we see are clearly planted: some poplars (construction wood), and orchards with nuts and fruit trees. After we pass Arāk the landscape changes and becomes less fertile but now there are more trees — strange.
In Qom we stop to visit the Hazrat-e Masumeh complex: a very large complex around the holy shrine of Fatima (Fatima al-Masumeh, sister of Emām Reza (789-816AD), who died and was buried here in 816 AD. The first buildings date back to the Safavid era, started in the early 17th century under Shah Abbas I (1587-1629) and extended during later rulers. The complex comprises a large mosque with three inner courtyards, each in its own style, and many other buildings, most dating back to the 17th century but new ones are still being added.
Usually non-Muslims aren’t allowed in, and all women have to wear a chador but we’re very lucky today: our guide Showān manages to arrange that we’re allowed in anyway and (after a short inspection of us ladies to see if we’re decently clothed, which we are!) even without a chador. To promote international relationships, we’re received in the office of the Mullah, an obviously very intelligent and sympathetic man who welcomes us warmly, tells us something about the complex (we all get a picture and a brochure as well), asks some questions of us (like what’s the most surprising or new thing we’ve seen in Iran — veiled women —, what made us decide to visit Iran, etc.) and invites us to ask questions of our own. The complex is being restored at the moment, and he tells us it will take several more years to complete; when I remark that I hope to once come back to Iran and see it again in its full glory, he answers he wishes that for me, too. If we make a wish here, he says, no matter if we are Muslim or not, the wish will come true. He answers our questions subtly and politely; clearly a deeply religious man without being extremist — a man who commands respect.
Part of the complex is a school where people from all over the world come to study to become a mullah: a basic study of 6 years, and another 10 years to become fully qualified (10 years in all if you study very, very hard); there are 92,000 students per year, 18,000 of them from foreign countries, including from Europe. Also part of the complex is a kitchen, normally catering to the personnel but on Wednesday and Friday evenings food is distributed to the poor; there’s a small hospital as well for those who are sick and clearly too poor to pay for medical help.
After the visit to the Mullah, we’re allowed to walk around for 20 minutes in the courtyards (but not enter the buildings); from the third courtyard we can actually see a glimpse of the shrine though. Today is a special day — the anniversary of the death of Fatima, I think — and we see Pilgrims from many countries, Arabs and Pakistani clearly recognizable by their clothes, Shi’ites pounding their breast as a sign of mourning. I feel really privileged to be allowed to witness all this and experience the deeply religious atmosphere — something we have mostly lost in the Western world. I won’t be able to share my photographs though: they’re all just pictures in my head since (understandably) photography is not allowed here.
Sunday 2004-05-30 - Kāshān, Iran
Culinary pleasures
After arrival in Kāshān we go out for dinner in the Delpazir restaurant, which to our surprise is run by Jane, an English woman. She married an Iranian 12 years ago and came to live here. When we ask how she likes it here, she says: “I love it! I’m well respected.” Seeing her at work, it’s obvious she enjoys it, too. The restaurant serves traditional Iranian dishes; I try fesenjan, rice with chicken in an absolutely delicious sauce made of ground walnuts and (slightly sweetened) pomegranate; Jane tells us that in the Caspian Sea region the sauce is more sour than here.
Dinner solves a misunderstanding
Unusually, our Iranian guide Showān had accompanied us for dinner in the Delpazir restaurant in Kāshān. After dinner, a conversation between him and our travel companion Marie Josee ensues (with Thom and me listening and sometimes prompting). Marie Josee, a very independent woman and capable travel companion, and Showān, a well-educated Iranian (but maybe raised somewhat traditionally) working as a guide to help finance his studies, had had a personality clash right from the first moment they met; now, they’re really talking for the first time, and Showān tells us what he’d wanted not to bother us with at first.
Just before we arrived in Iran, new rules set by the government required each group to be accompanied by a guide (we certainly hadn’t asked for one, and Marie Josee had actually wanted to “fire” him). His brief was that he was responsible for us, for our safety, and that we didn’t take any photographs of military objects. The problem is that we’re independent travellers, travelling ‘with’ a group rather than ‘in’ a group — something Showān had never encountered before, but the standard for the trips organized by Koning Aap Reizen (Monkey King Travels). It was already clear to us he always tried to stay with us and keep us together; at one time the group actually decided to get rid of him for once by splitting up and all go in different directions at the same time — unwittingly making Showān’s job very difficult for him. He actually had clear instructions (from the government, by proxy of his travel agency) to keep us together. Already on the very first evening, in Tabriz, he found this was impossible to do.
On the third day, so he tells us now, he’d called his boss to explain it was impossible to keep us together, but also that he found us really interested travellers and would like to stay with us. That evening, a meeting took place in Tehrān at the highest level: the minister of tourism, a man from the tourism bureau, and someone from the travel agency (Showān’s employer); the meeting lasted three hours. Finally, Showān did get ‘permission’ to ‘let us loose’ (not that he had any choice, but at least they’d acknowledged that); but he was told he’s still responsible for us not to photograph any military objects and for our safety (how is he going to handle that when we spread out over each city and town we visit?). The decision eased the situation for him only partly, and he’s still in a conundrum; if anything goes wrong, that will likely destroy his chance to go to abroad next year to continue his studies as he’s hoping to do: it’s not just his job on the line but his future as well.
On the other hand, not having encountered people before who travel like we do, he had decided to try an experiment to find out what it’s like: walk around a strange city, without help, without speaking the language, without even a map. In Sanandaj we’d encountered him together with driver Mohammed and assistant Ali, proudly telling us: “We do what you do!” We had no clue what he meant then but now it’s suddenly clear — and he confesses he actually didn’t manage to find the way back without help. Of course, that’s something you have to learn through practice but we’re impressed he actually tried this to get a feel for how we travel.
Showān also still has to report back where we are each day, and what we do — we have no problem with that — and Marie Josee has a solution: she’ll just give him the same photocopies with city information she gives us: that way he can ‘report’ without even trying to baby-sit us.
Of course in one conversation personalities and personal backgrounds don’t change. But at least now there’s a truce and mutual understanding. Showān has a difficult job to do, and his future is at stake as well…
Sunday 2004-06-06 - Shirāz, Iran
Meeting in the mosque
The bazaar in Shirāz is nice and roomy, with vaulted brick ceilings much as we’ve seen elsewhere but wider and higher (so it’s cool); shops are larger, too. The effect is quite pleasant and relaxed, though it’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth of streets and alleys. Inside the bazaar is the Vakil mosque where Carla and I go first. It’s not in use at the moment, seemingly having been neglected for a long time: we see the brick and tile work is quite dilapidated in places, and plants grow between the stones in the courtyard. But (of course) they’re hard at work with the restoration. The building dates from 1773 but most of the present tile work was added in 1820 — the strange result can best be seen in the courtyard with two styles mixed together but alas not quite in harmony: styles and colors clash. At the back of the courtyard is a large open prayer hall that’s quite nice though with its many thick and spiraled stone pillars.
When we stand looking around in the prayer hall, suddenly a man approaches us asking whether we speak German (we do) and then if we speak English (as well); his son speaks better English, he explains, but actually his English is quite good. It turns out the family (father, mother and son) are back in Iran for a visit after having fled the country 16 years ago, first to Germany where they lived for many years, then on to Canada where they live now and where the son is studying tourism. Part of the reason for the visit is a study trip for the son: he may be wanting to take tour groups here. Their view of Iran, after 16 years outside the country, forms an interesting contrast with that of other Iranians we spoke to: many people here mention the lack of information and a move back lately from earlier more relaxed rules while this family (father and mother) takes a longer-time view and note that people actually have it better than when they left; there’s more and better food and other goods, and it’s more relaxed now than it was then.
Hopefully this longer-term trend, even though it’s three steps forward, two steps back, will continue.
Thursday 2004-06-10 - Esfahān, Iran
Poetry under the bridge
We want to continue our Esfahān bridge tour along the southern shore of the Zāyande river by passing under the Sī-o-se bridge and discover there’s a chaikhana (tea house) here. So we order a pot of tea and sit down on a small bench under one of the arches. After a little while, a young man sits down across from us and starts talking to us. He’s a writer, he tells us, and has written five books but can’t get them published here (why, remains unclear). He offers us a little poem which he writes down in Carla’s notebook - I can put it on my website, he says. So here it is:
Windows
People tell me
That windows
Don’t have feelings or a heart
But when the glass of a window
Is steamed up
And I’m writing with my finger on it
The words “I love you”
Then the window panes
Start to cry!
Sepāhān
(Moghpoet[at]yahoo.com)
Sunday 2004-06-13 - Aşgabat, Turkmenistan
Delivering photographs - with a laugh and a tear
After the animal market outside the walls we head for the market enclosure of the Talkoetsjka bazaar. Aşgabat’s famous tapestry market occupies a big section of it and around here I have some portraits to deliver: photographs I took last time I was here, two years ago. Although I fear I may not find people back, it goes surprisingly well, though not always cheerfully.
The picture of the cheerful young boy soon finds his father, who we see half an hour later still sitting in the same spot, still holding the photograph. Later, I go to the outside of the enclosure where there are some small shops built into the wall, one of them of a friendly instrument maker I took a picture of. The location is easy to find - some half-finished instruments are lying on a low table to prove it — but I don’t see the friendly man on my picture. I show it to the woman sitting behind the table: the result is a loud cry of — surprise? and something else, but I can’t understand her. (I miss our guide Bava, he could have helped by translating but we soon lost him in the crowd.) She calls a younger man over, probably her son, who explains with gestures that the man died last year as a result of a car crash. When I give the picture to the woman she’s obviously both glad and sad at the same time, while the young man can barely control his tears.
Old grandma with her toothless smile is found with the help of a colleague of her: after I’d already given up and given the picture to the woman who obviously recognized her, asking her to deliver it. No need, she suddenly comes back and beckons us: grandma is found, her smile still exactly the same, her surprise even bigger than her smile. One younger woman translates: grandma wants to know what it costs - nothing of course! That earns me two bigs hugs and kisses. It’s a good antidote for the sadness of not finding the friendly instrument maker back. Even the last two pictures ultimately find their respective owners — amidst a score of jealous colleagues.
In the afternoon we tour a number of sites in the city itself, among them the beautiful “Blue Mosque” (built with Turkish financial help and m modeled after the Blue Mosque in Istanbul). Here I took pictures of a Turkmen couple; I’m hoping someone in the mosque or a caretaker will recognize them and be able to deliver the pictures. Not only is there indeed a caretaker who recognizes them — he even remembers our group sitting and chatting with them two years ago! He promises he’ll do his best to deliver the pictures to them: they come here regularly, he says. (I’m glad Bava is with me this time to translate!) Two people in Aşgabat have a little surprise waiting for them…
Alas, our planned visit to the Carpet Museum can’t take place: when we arrive it appears that opening times have changed a short while ago, now it’s closed on Sundays. I’m very disappointed — I had so looked forward to it!
Wednesday 2004-06-16 - Bukhara, Uzbekistan
Delivering photographs
On the way to Chor Minor we come past the bread sellers’ spot; the women are back now! My pictures are a great success, and very welcome. Carla takes a few pictures of the whole scene, and the oldest women poses together with me. We also get a delicious bread, still warm. Bukhara bread is the best in all of Central Asia!
On we go, very, very slowly, to Chor Minor. The woman who has a little souvenir shop in the building comes out to open the gate but we gesture we’re not interested and walk on. On the corner, where the family on my pictures (little girl, father the truck driver and grandma) lived, I don’t recognize the home, only the steps in front of where it was. Disappointed, we go to ask the shop lady who takes us back to the corner: the door to the house is now somewhere else, but the mother (the truck driver’s husband) lives there and is very happy with the pictures though a little shy. Carla and I go and sit on a little wall in the shade — mainly to rest my foot: it’s getting very thick now, swelling up over my sandal straps. Just when we decide to go back to the hotel, and maybe have my foot examined, mother comes out again, accompanied by an older girl. The girl turns out to speak English quite well; she is the small girl’s older sister, she explains, and invites us in again. This time, we get tea and delicious home-made sour cherries on syrup. The charming girl is 16, just finished secondary school, and will go to college (“the institute”) in September to become a teacher, she tells. Mathematics is her favorite subject.
Jewish Quarter
When we arrive near the Synagogue, just one street further off Laby Hauz, a young man approaches us. It’s closed now, he explains (we can see the big lock on the door), but if we can wait a bit he’ll ask the rabbi to open up for us. While it’s new for Carla, I’d like to see it again: last time I was here they were busy restoring it so I’m curious what it’s like now. A few minutes later the young man comes back; the rabbi will be here in 20 minutes, he says, would we like to see the old synagogue in the mean time? I didn’t know there was another one here! So yes. On the way through the labyrinthine streets of the old Jewish quarter he tells us he’s a Jew himself and while his relatives would like to emigrate to the US (not Israel), he wants to stay here and work as a guide. We pass a small market (empty now) with stone benches to displaying the wares, where kosher meat is traded, and a small kindergarten where we’re allowed a peek inside. The children are just having a bite and a drink, and are quite curious to suddenly see a pair of strangers. The elementary school nearby is empty now (the kids have vacation from June through August) but we can have a look there, too: they’re busy restoring it but it will be ready for the new school year in September. 600 Jewish families still live in Bukhara, our guide tells us. He speaks Tadjik with friends he meets on the street, so he could be qualified as a ‘Jewish Tadjik Uzbek.’
At the Synagogue we can look inside; downstairs, there’s a row of chairs for older women, otherwise the men sit here; younger women sit upstairs om the balcony. There’s a homely atmosphere, it looks and feels very much like a religious home for a small close-knit community — an atmosphere very similar to the Armenian churches we’ve seen in Turkey and Iran. When, after a short visit to the young man’s home where we get a cup of tea and I buy an old book, we finally get back to the ‘new’ Synagogue, it’s closed again: the rabbi must have gotten tired of waiting since our tour (with me walking very slowly and much farther than I’d planned) took a lot longer than 20 minutes.
In the city, it’s hot (“it’s cool now,” says our guide) but the smell of hot dust is relieved here and there by the aroma of freshly baked bread — the best bread in all of Central Asia — somehow the combination is typical Bukhara. After a cool beer at Laby Hauz we go back to the hotel so I can rest my foot and put more ice on it. I’m a bit less worried about it now: it’ll be very uncomfortable for a while and I’ll be slow but at least I’m mobile. It’ll heal.
Thursday 2004-06-17 - Samarkand, Uzbekistan
Evening light
At 4:30 we arrive in Samarkand, in Mr. Furkat’s pleasant family hotel: a shaded courtyard with fruit trees and seats with fresh fruit (small apples, apricots and prunes all from their own trees) and nuts on the tables — a real Uzbek tradition — and free coffee and tea. And it’s at a very short walking distance from the Registan complex making it an ideal location to stay in Samarkand. Carla and I first walk to the Chorsu cafe, on the corner of Tashkent street and just around the corner from the hotel, for a (draft) beer on the terrace: this is my favorite place to sit and watch people in Samarkand where mainly locals come to eat, drink and sometimes play a game of chess, and many people walk by on the way to and from the bazaar.
After that, we stroll to the Registan complex, just now basking in beautiful evening sunlight, where we enter (without buying a ticket) through one of the ‘secret’ back entrances to make pictures. A watchman approaches us — not to chase us away but to tell us we should climb the minaret (we decline) and feel free to take pictures now; and if we want, we can come back early in the morning (between 5 and 6) and will get in for free, too, he assures us, so we can take pictures in the morning light. Like last time, I take a lot of pictures, it’s very beautiful in this warm evening light.
Tuesday 2004-06-22 - Ala Bel, Kyrgyzstan
Photographs not delivered
We have to make an early start today for a long trip: up at 5, breakfast at 6, departure at 7. First we round Lake Toktogul around the eastern tip and switch back along the northern side; then gradually north and up toward Ala Bel (the Ala pass) at 3175 m where I photographed a nomad family in the snow three years ago. On the way to the pass I notice how at this time of the year there are indeed a lot more flowers than later in summer. The mountains look ‘painted’ with brush strokes of bright colors - most striking is the bright orange of a type of Ranunculus with fairly large flowers, usually just a bit higher up the mountains than the related warm-yellow buttercup which is also abundant now.
At the pass, we stop at the first yurt. Although there’s no snow this time, it’s still pretty cold this high up. With the help of our interpreter Bolot the friendly family that lives there in the summer tells me the friendly old Kirghiz on his horse in the snow in one of my pictures has died; his wife (in the other picture) still lives though and is in a yurt “2 kilometers” farther on. That turns out to be too vague: at that distance there are actually a lot of families in yurts; we don’t have time to stop at all of them to search for her. I’m very disappointed, knowing she is here while there is no way to deliver the photographs.
Saturday 2004-06-26 - Kashgar, Xinjiang (China)
Another portrait finds its subject
Farther on in the old town of Kashgar (there is at least some left) I deliver yet another photograph — the woman I pictured working on her embroidery is quickly found with the help of friendly and delighted neighbors; she herself is so surprised, at first she can’t do much more than giggle at seeing her picture!
Sunday 2004-06-27 - Kashgar, Xinjiang (China)
The drummer gets his portrait, too
I’ve gotten fidgety after sitting and writing all morning so after lunch I decide to go out for a little walk. I’m curious to see what’s left of the old town of Kashgar East of the Id Kah square, behind the department store building, so I head in that direction. Besides, last time I photographed two Uyghur musicians in that building — I’m hoping (vaguely) to find them back. And I’m lucky today: when I arrive at the building I hear drums, though the sound is coming from the other side of the street; I look over — and immediately recognize the drummer from my picture. Different doppa but on the same head, similar old-fashioned jacket, same way of moving and drumming — there’s no doubt in my mind: it’s him; he’s drumming together with a young boy. The department store has an underground floor which goes under the street and further below the Id Kah square, so I use it as an underpass and go to the musicians. Like last time, the old man is instructing the youngster at the large drum (good to see a bit of culture being passed on); I stand aside and smile at him, waiting for a break in the music. He smiles back, and plays on; and on. The young boy at the big drum is actually quite good and eager to practice but after a little while an older boy takes over from him — he constantly misses a beat. Finally, there’s a break, and I show my picture to the old man — his smile immediately widens into a big grin: Yes, that’s me! When I give him the picture, his delight is unmistakable and it’s carefully put away in an inner pocket. He then gestures that the zurna player from my other picture is around here somewhere (his instrument is leaning against the wall right here!) but I don’t see him anywhere; but when I want to walk away, the drummer waves me back: he’ll give it to him. This picture goes into a different pocket.
Behind the department store building I find to my delight that part of the old town is practically unchanged — but for the work going on to put new pavement on the street, and below that apparently new sewers and conduits for cables. Whether the Uyghur buildings will survive, I cannot tell, but (as we saw in another part of the old town) the new road simply follows the old street, curves and all.
When I get back to the hotel, I’m simply too tired to go to the hotel business center to go online - I walked much farther than I had planned but I’m glad to have seen a relatively untouched part of old Kashgar: in spite of the fast changes, and contrary to my initial fears, Kashgar is still a nice town, not in the least because of the very friendly inhabitants.
Saturday 2004-07-10 - Beijing, China
Day off
Once in Qianmen Dajie (Tianmen Avenue) I’m disappointed that what on the map looks like a straight line all the way up to the Forbidden City (this part of Beijing clearly was designed that way, with a long, clear line of sight) is not actually navigable in a straight line now. But after some detours and underpasses we finally arrive on Tien’anmen Square. It’s quite large and impressiive, and busy with lots of predominanty Chinese tourists, despite the dark, hazy weather today. We walk all around, feeling the space and watching the monumental buildings around it — but also the tourists, ranging from lines of children clothed in modern ‘red brigade’ T-shirts to gaping visitors from the provinces; watching the peddlers selling trinkets and kites (flying some to attract attention), and the little girl running and delighting in her graciously flying string of kites; having our pictures taken for a change and taking a picture of the girl and her mother in return; watching the Chinese snapping away with their cameras (no camera? you can buy them right here, and many do so).
On the way back a girl starts chatting to us (she’s not the first): a lot of students are approaching tourists trying to persuade them to go to their art exhibition. When she gathers we’re travelling with a group (but with no group or tour leader in sight) she asks: “Is this your day off?” It takes a few seconds before it registers what that implies; it’s a nice illustration of the Chinese way of tourism. Our explanation that every day is a “day off” because we’re always free to wander around whenever we stay somewhere meets with a blank stare…
On the corner of Qianmen Dajie we share one (large) portion of duck and one (large) beer: a delicious lunch in front of a window watching the crowd go by. Further on in the street we find a bookstore that has maps. I love maps and can’t resist a (bilingual) map of Beijing and a (Chinese) map of the world. Then we go to our hotel to drop our purchases and give my still-hurting foot a rest.
Wednesday 2004-12-01 - Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Another call from China
Another Skype phone call from China — from a young Dutch woman this time! She lives there, teaches English at a school and was glad to be able to talk Dutch for a change. We have a nice conversation, about life in China, travel in China (she’s been to a lot of places where I have been as well), and more.
I really should add a “Skype me!” link to the site. If I can find a way to display my status online, that is. Later…
Monday 2005-09-19 - Bejing, China
Sweeping a waterfall
A while later I note two young men standing outside, laughing, looking up: a waterfall is coming down right in front of the restaurant entrance but we can’t see what’s causing it. A girl from the restaurant goes outside with a mop and starts sweeping the water off the steps — rather futile since the water keeps coming down. Soon she’s joined by a colleague with a broom. Gradually the flood eases a bit and together they manage to sweep away most of the water from the entrance steps — only to have the waterfall start all over again. By the time we leave it’s almost stopped, but the steps are still slippery wet.
Tuesday 2005-09-20 - Beijing, China
Morning Activities
Many Chinese get up early in the morning and go outside for some gentle exercise. One favorite place in Beijing is the Tiantan Park with the Temple of Heaven, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1998. Although the main temple is closed at the moment and in scaffolding for restoration, we get up early to go to the park for some people-watching. It proves to be quite an experience, well worth getting up early for.
The huge park itself is an oasis in the big city, with many trees and a chorus of chirping cicadas almost masking the music of the singing birds. Although the park itself, laid out in a formal geometrical style, and the buildings within it are quite interesting, it’s the people that really take our interest. People do all kinds of exercises such as Tai Chi (often with a teacher) but also other types of exercise, all gentle, such as a kind of dance with fans, or marching in figures with pompoms and fans as if it’ a band of cheerleaders — except most in the group are actually middle aged… We also see a group being taught western style dancing. Most of these activities are accompanied by music coming from loudspeakers placed at regular intervals but some (such as the cheerleader group) have live music.
Then there are all kinds of ball games, like badminton, or kicking around a kind of feather ball (people kick it at each other and it should stay in the air as long as possible, apparently). There’s also a ball game with a soft ball ans a round racket with which the ball is caught and thrown back (not hit) all in one fluid movement. Other people do stretching exercises, or walk backwards a long way, using a marble strip in the pavement as a guide.
Harmony is important for the Chinese, and one way or another all this is about harmony; exercise can become a kind of meditation, but we see other forms as well: some people are practicing calligraphy writing with big brushes and water on the pavement; I also note a man flying a kite, accompanied by soft music. His mind is clearly far away, too, and he doesn’t notice us watching. Even a choir is using the park for their practice sessions, accompanied by an accordionist.
Friday 2005-09-23 - Xi'an, China
Living in Xi’an
After a restless night with lots of coughing fits we arrive at exactly 7:00 in the morning in Xi’an. After dumping our luggage in two temporary rooms in the Jie Fang hotel, I go out with Carla and Gwendoline to walk to the old Muslim quarter.
For Carla and me it feels a bit like coming home: not only is the hotel familiar, but both Carla and I very much liked Xi’an last year and we immediately have the same feeling once we walk out. Clearly this city isn’t as rich as Beijing: while people mostly are well-dressed, they’re not as fashionable; there is also far less building activity here. But Xi’an is still a metropolis — and somehow a very relaxed one.
On the way to the center a sudden movement in the corner of my eye draws my eye to the right and I notice a man playing with a cat: Through an arch there seems to be a living quarter. Made curious, we want to walk through the gate, only to be stopped by the concierge. We gesture we just want to have a look around but he clearly misunderstands us and seems to think we’re coming to visit someone. At last he understands and waves us in with a welcoming smile. We find small tree-lined streets with low blocks of flats, potted plants; each building has a big number painted on the wall, and a row of chairs along the main street. Near the entrance are two groups of mailboxes. It all looks very organized but at the same time cozy with a fifties kind of atmosphere. The people, apart from some personnel and two vendors with stands of vegetables and herbs mostly elderly, all smile at us: it’s obvious they’ve never seen a tourist here but don’t mind us at all, on the contrary. We wonder if it’s maybe a pensioners’ complex or whether the younger people and children are simply at work and school. I take some pictures, but it’s hard to catch the atmosphere.
Fake violin
Our next stop is at the Bell Tower of Xi’an: last year it was closed because of restoration, and in scaffolding; this time we can see it in its full glory. We take some pictures but don’t go in: we’ve had quite enough steps yesterday on the Great Wall and our thighs are still hurting. Then we go into the ultra-modern shopping mall on the corner of the square hoping for a cup of coffee in the basement near the golden statue of the Monkey King but are sorely disappointed: not only has Monkey king disappeared to make place for a stand promoting a new cosmetics brand, but they’ve run out of coffee as well. I settle for a can of what I think is juice but turns out to be almond milk — delicious!
We sit, watching the goings-on at the cosmetics promotion. A girl appears, in a beautiful dark red dress, carrying a violin case. Then a microphone is set up on the stage, and there’s a lot of juggling and running around with some CDs. They try several CDs, with different types of music, including a violin concerto which makes place for other music again. Finally, the girl in the red dress climbs the stage, the music stops, and the violin concerto comes on again – false start. They start again, and now she seems to play along, but inaudible: maybe she’s just play backing. Someone gestures she should be closer to the microphone, she stops playing (while the violin on the CD plays on), steps closer, and starts playing again. All very weird, but no one seems to mind. But when she steps down from the stage she doesn’t look very happy either.
Hui quarter
Next we walk to the old Muslim quarter of Xi’an, where the Hui (Muslim Han Chinese) live and have their businesses and mosques. The part near the Drum Tower — the entrance gate to the quarter – is quite touristy, but that’s just a small part of the whole area. We head straight for the Great Mosque first (entrance 12Ұ) where you hear no more traffic, only twittering sparrows and cooing pigeons. The complex, with five consecutive courtyards full of greenery, is a beautiful mix of Chinese and Islamic architecture. At one point we also hear music, coming from a pair of speakers, but here and there some old Muslim men, here to pray, are singing along. It’s all very peaceful and relaxing.
Then out we go again, avoiding the tourists’ corner now, to roam around the quarter. It’s even larger than I expected; you can easily spend several hours roaming through the narrow crowded streets lined with local shops and workshops. Almost no tourist in sight: only once do we see a small group of Chinese tourists. It reminds us a little of the souks in the Middle East, with some streets dedicated to particular trades. We come through a butchers’ street, with piles of liver on the as well as stomachs and other animal parts we don’t recognize on display on the counters in the open air; butchers are art work in their workshops open to the street, flies buzzing around busily. It looks almost medieval. A customer comes to a store an asks about the liver; the butcher’s wife cuts off a slice and hands it to her, she takes a bite; apparently all the liver is cooked already. At a shop seemingly selling something else entirely, a little pile of raw kidneys is sitting on the counter. In another street we see lots of sweets ands pastries: they look very appetizing, at least.
When we are tired of walking around, we take a taxi back to the hotel — with the help of a girl that hastily comes to our help to translate: the very friendly driver doesn’t speak any English. He lets us out on the taxi stand near the station: with gestures he explains that he’s not allowed to drop us off right in front of the hotel — and they’re being watched with cameras: they’ll get a big fine if they’re caught.
Monday 2005-09-26 - Xiahe, China
Fun with my camera
There is supposed to be an English-language guided tour through the Labrang monastery complex at Xiahe (which some of the group did in the morning) but when I set out after another hour typing up my blog in the hotel lobby I fail to find the entrance. Instead, I just roam around on my own, walking along the little streets and peeking into the smaller temples instead of the big ones. Again, people are very friendly and in these mostly narrow streets between the monks’ homes I see very few tourists. I’m taking lots of pictures, going into courtyards where I’m allowed (or beating a hasty retreat when I stumble into ones where I’m not).
At one temple courtyard I momentarily step outside into the shade of the gate to put a new film in my camera. An old man, having just delivered something, steps out just behind me to get on his bike parked in front of the steps but suddenly stops when he notices my camera and wants to hold it, almost grabbing it out of my hands. “Wait,” I say, I still have to finish putting the film in; then I hold the camera in front of his eyes. He peers through it, grumbling a bit — it takes a while for me to realize the lens cap is still on. When I take it off, a big smile appears on his face. Now his fingers are looking for the button: he actually wants to take a picture! Well, why not, I think, and gently guide his finger; he aims carefully, and presses. Now he’s laughing aloud of pure pleasure, pointing into the street where a motorbike is parked, two men beside it: that’s what he took a picture of! The men never noticed the little scene on the steps of the temple. Still chuckling, the old man thanks me, we laugh together and I thank him in turn, and he rides away on his bike. Then a young girl, having watched the whole scene from the side steps up to me and asks if she can have a look, too. Of course. That gains me another big smile; she thanks me politely, and disappears into the temple courtyard.
Thursday 2007-04-05 - Sana’a, Yemen
The wedding
When we arrived at our Sana’a hotel last night, we noted a big tent on a field across from the hotel; it’s for a wedding, they told us: men and women celebrate separately, and it lasts three days. A big wedding like this one also costs a lot of money.
Today is the third day of the wedding, and Marie Josee heard the men would do the special Jambiya dance. After a copious dinner with lots of local dishes, all delicious, we head to the big tent — which turns out to be completely empty! A man nearby spots our intention and points us into a street, at the end of which we see a crowd, and white stuff curving through the air (rice?); there’s music coming from that direction, too, we can’t miss it. When we get close, we see men and boys dancing to music coming from loudspeakers, a big crowd around then watching, boys even sitting on walls to get the best view; unless it’s the women we note on one of the roofs looking over the parapet who have an even better view from above. In the middle is a man with a video camera, and lots of people are also taking pictures with compact cameras and with their mobile phones.
We conclude it’s OK to take pictures then, and try to find a place on some piles of stone against a wall. Soon one man spots us, takes Thom by the hand, and thus leads us through the crowd until we have a place at the front! In one corner of the dancing floor the groom is sitting, behind a little decorative tree with candles; he’s only watching the proceedings, in beautiful clothes, a flower garland around his neck, holding a big sword in a golden sheath. I think he looks a little stoned, maybe he had a lot of qat, or maybe he’s just tired after three days of celebrations — or both. One by one, some of us are invited to sit down next to him, and get photographed and videoed together with the groom as if we are special guests — me included. That gives me occasion to take a close-up portrait of him, which he likes very much. Someone offers to take a picture of us both with my camera, which after some fiddling and advice from bystanders he manages to do: a nice memento of a special first evening in Yemen.
Sunday 2007-04-08 - Sey’un, Yemen
Tea at the neighbor’s
In the evening we go into town with a small group in search of dinner. Just before the Sey’un market square we find a small restaurant; it looks clean, several people sit and eat there, so we decide to try it. The friendly black-bearded owner requests two customers to move to another table (which they do willingly and with a smile), so we can all sit together. He has a problem though: he doesn’t speak a word of English, and our Arabic isn’t up to scratch yet.
Presently, a young man appears, and offers to help us order our food. His English is excellent and he explains he isn’t an employee here but the owner of the restaurant next door (apparently he owner had gone to fetch help!). We ask for several dishes; some are not available — he does have them in his own restaurant, he says, but since we have already chosen to sit here… We can’t honestly say that next time we’ll go to him: we’re leaving tomorrow, but he has a brilliant idea: Maybe, he suggests, we can come for tea at his restaurant after our meal. We have a delicious dinner with rice, chicken, bread, vegetable stew, and extra (free) side dishes appear with chopped red onions, a spicy tomato sauce, and a plate with green peppers (spicy, but not terribly hot). We simply drink mineral water with it.
The owner asks us where we come from, and beams. The whole meal costs us less than 350 YR per person with change to spare (no tip accepted).
Then we go to the neighbor’s restaurant for tea. Henk asks, carefully, if maybe he has some sweets with it? No, the owner says, but he can get some for us, no problem. He disappears and presently returns with three plastic bags, and starts to unload them onto plates. First, a plate with four (big) croissants. Next, a plate with a pile of small cakes. The third bag contains something like egg cakes, but we convince him this is already more than enough. No problem, he says, we’ll only pay for what we eat. All of us eat from the little cakes, so fresh they’re still warm, with a crispy crust on the outside, soft on the inside — they’re delicious. I’m not a cake person, but even I have one of them, they’re so good! And all of this can still be paid from the change we got back from our dinner.
Wednesday 2007-04-11 - Al Mukalla, Yemen
School girls
The center of the old city of Al Mukalla lies on a little land tongue, not far from our hotel: First a little walk along the boulevard, with a view of the harbor with lots of little fishing boats anchored there; then into the the narrow little streets of the old city. I roam around, planning to come around at the other side and then round the city along the sea. Suddenly I see a group of girls near a doorway who cheerfully greet me, obviously wanting a chat. They’re all school girls, just home from school. It’s still a little hard for me to estimate ages here, especially since some of the girls wear a niqab, but they must be teenagers, going to secondary school.
We chat, they haltingly, suddenly remembering phrases they learned at school, their English popping up in bursts. Two girls are sisters, they tell me (they do have similar eyes). They also point out the fact that some of them wear a niqab while others don’t (yes, I had noticed that already) but when I ask why, I get no answer; maybe they just don’t know how to answer that question, or their English isn’t up to it. What do they learn at school? English (obviously), Arabic, Islam — they mention at least two other subjects which I don’t catch since they mention it in Arabic. “What are you doing here?” they ask; when I grab my camera to show them some things they suddenly shy away. “No, no,” I say, “I won’t take your picture, I just want to show you.” That proves a great success: they all crowd around me while I go through the pictures I took today. Happy sounds when they recognize a wall painting nearby. The picture of the two different right-foot bath slippers in my hotel room causes a lot of hilarity.
Then I walk on, regretting I could not talk with them more, but their English isn’t up to it yet. At least these girls get a good education, a good thing since the illiteracy rate in this country is still very high, especially among women. They happily wave me goodbye.
“Five minutes”
On my way to the old city of Al Mukalla I had already spotted an Internet shop (you can’t call these places Internet cafe here, there are just computers with Internet access, no drinks or food is sold) but now after my walk I find it closed. A man standing outside his shop next door tells me “five minutes, just wait”. Ah, now it dawns on me: on my way here I heard the Muezzin calling for prayer, so it’s prayer time — many shops temporary close then. So I stand and wait patiently, just watching people. Other people come and feel at the door, finding it closed; some leave, some also stand around to wait. Finally, at least 15 minutes later, a young man walks straight up to the door, unlocks it and turns on more lights. I walk in and ask how much Internet costs. “Internet?” he asks, “next door”. Soon the source of my confusion becomes clear: there’s a single sign advertising both Internet and international phone service, a common combination here, over two doors; except in this case there are two separate shops under the sign, each with their own door. The blue metal doors next to the telephone service are firmly closed.
Meanwhile, at the other side of the telecom business, a group of men has gathered, like men gather here after prayer time. “Sit down, five minutes,” says the owner of the shop in front of which they’re sitting on plastic chairs. He points to a chair which is still free. I thank him and sit down, knowing full well by now that these “five minutes” probably won’t be five minutes either. The men chat, I watch them and passers-by, passers-by look at me curiously, but no one bothers me. Some 10 minutes later, the shop owner orders tea from the restaurant across the street; when it arrives, there’s one cup for me too. So I sit, contentedly sipping my tea, and waiting some more. No movement at the blue doors hiding the Internet shop.
Finally, tea long finished, I give up. “Is there any chance it will still open tonight?” I ask my host. He raises his shoulders and arms in a “no idea” gesture. When I get up he tells me there’s another place and points across the street. He also gestures to the man sitting next to me, saying something to him in Arabic. Should he go get someone? Take me there? I’m confused, so I just thank my host, take my leave, and cross the street — where I only see a restaurant. I walk in, and ask for Internet; predictably they point across the street. “Finished,” I say, using the English word Yemenis often use for “closed”, accompanied by the appropriate hand sign. Then I see the man who was sitting next to me crossing the street, laughing and beckoning me. He takes me through a covered little street, crowded with restaurants on both sides; we end up at a little square. Sure enough, across the square is another Internet shop, only Arabic text on its sign but the machines have the usual Arabic-and-English keyboards and I have no problem updating my blog from here.
Thursday 2007-04-12 - Al Mukalla, Yemen
“Mumkin?”
I’m getting up early today: after visiting the old town of Al Mukalla yesterday, I want to see some more of the new town today before we leave - we only had a glimpse yesterday when we arrived. As soon as it gets light I go out and walk along the sea-side boulevard in the direction of the new town. Sooner than expected, I see the old Sultan’s Palace which marks the end of the old town. A little farther on, the road goes over a bridge across a sea arm that goes right into the town; a nice boulevard is on each side, and there are several pedestrian bridges across it. There is even a fountain (spouting sea water!) in the middle. I go and sit on one of the benches that for now are still in the shade, and just watch — it’s a very pleasant area — enjoying one of the few moments of relaxation during this trip.
I’ve been picking up some useful phrases of Yemeni Arabic (partly with the help of my little language guide) — simple things like la (no), aiwa (yes), shukran (thank you), some greetings. Another useful phrase is mumkin sura? (may I take a picture?) — sura means picture, mumkin? a general “may I…?”: one doesn’t just take a picture of people here in Yemen — especially not of women — but asking politely often gets permission, at least from men and small children. With women it’s more complicated: even if they give permission (rarely), the husband may not allow it and you can’t take the picture anyway or the woman may get into trouble with her husband; the other way round happens, too: a woman saying no while her husband say yes — in which case of course you respect the woman’s wishes.
Now, while I sit on the bench watching the fountain and the pedestrian bridge a little farther away, in the sun by now, as the sun slowly rises above the mountain, two women come walking along the boulevard, cheerfully saying “Hello!” to me (in English). When they’re 30m past me, they suddenly stop; one of them makes a “photo” gesture in front of her eyes and asks: “Mumkin?” It takes a second or two before it sinks in that she is asking me to have her picture taken. But of course! Quickly, they come walking back, and the woman crouches half in front of me and quickly takes off her