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Saturday 2007-04-07 - Hawra’, Yemen
A tasteless tourist lunch
Even now after we’ve turned off, we see range of mountains on our left. One has patterns that look like eyes: it’s like a big face in the mountain watching us. Farther on, on our right, a sandy hill is capped with a stone formation that has been eroded in the form of a sphinx. A little later we arrive at a T-junction at Hawra’; the road sign tells us that from here it’s 66km (left) to Sey’un, and 239km (right) to Al Mukalla. It’s an important junction, and there’s just one restaurant where of course it’s busy: we’re out of luck, downstairs, where the locals eat, it’s full, so we have to go to the room upstairs (where the tourists eat, and which we’d have preferred to avoid). The food isn’t bad, but seems to be “adapted” to tourists, too: all spices seem to have been left out and especially the vegetable stew tastes quite bland. That’s made up for by a side dish new to us: yogurt, with some spicy tomato sauce on top; I find it delicious and eat quite a lot of that.
Wednesday 2007-04-11 - As Sirrayn, Yemen
Shared riches
According to my map (copyright 2003), the road into Wadi Do’an stops in Al Khuraybah but it doesn’t — not anymore: A nice asphalt road leads us up and out of the wadi and it looks brand new.
Every little village here belongs to one family and it’s visible people here are wealthier than in other areas: the houses are more richly decorated, and the decorations are more colorful. Of every family here, one or two members work in Saudi Arabia, where they earn well, and send money home. As our driver Hussein tells us, just like the rich Al Kaff family financed the road from Wadi Hadramawt to the coast (and much else) in the 1930s, one man named Abdullah Boshan who got extremely wealthy in Saudi Arabia finances a lot of development project in this area. The new road we’re now following, which ultimately connects to the main road from Sey’un to Al Mukalla, is just one example of those projects. He also finances schools, drink water supply, and things like all the food during the Eid ul-Fitr celebration at the end of the Ramadan month. Also, if a couple wants to marry but doesn’t have the money for the wedding, he pays it for them.
We make a short stop at the fork in the road from where we can look down on his village, As Sirrayn; his house clearly stands out: an enormous family house, whitewashed with parts of walls painted in various cheerful pastel colors. Below us the road continues along the Wadi Do’an river to the village, while we just to the left fork which takes us up and out of the wadi.
Once out, after a steep climb, we’re on the high plain of the desert, the jol. Suddenly the landscape is totally different: the jol is almost flat, arid, with only very sparse vegetation — the green and fertile wadis with their rich palm groves completely hidden from view. You can see gullies eroded by water (when it rains, a lot of water flows, and there can be dangerous flash floods), but nowhere is there a view straight down. Yet, if you’d follow such a gully down, eventually you’d end up in a green wadi. For the early travelers in this area, the difference must have been astounding. During a short stop I take a few pictures of typical plants found on the jol.
The first part of this road probably follows the track indicated on my map, but farther on we dive down another steep pass at a point where there is not even a track; a sign says we’re at Mount Aballa Arib. Many hairpins later, we end up on the wide plateau along the south coast. Now we’re going down slowly, and after a while we can see the Arabian Sea in the distance. Along the road we stop for tea in Ladouas, a small village not found on our maps. The we join the main road from Wadi Hadramawt to the coast, and later turn right to Al Mukalla.
Wednesday 2007-04-11 - Al Mukalla, Yemen
Fresh fish for lunch
Having arrived on the main road along the south coast, suddenly we’re in a different world again; it’s a wide road with street lights, a strip of greenery, later even grass (obviously daily watered), in the middle: it’s clear we’re nearing a major city again.
Al Mukalla’s fish market is (logically) near the coast, in the new city; between it and the sea is a popular restaurant with a view of the sea. We’re going to have fresh fish for lunch here — as fresh as possible, but the procedure is new to me: first you go to the fish market, and select and buy your own fish, which is chopped or filleted to order; it’s packed in a little plastic bag (the ubiquitous plastic bag), and take it to the restaurant where they prepare it for you, and it’s served with bread or rice, drinks, or whatever you order. You can eat your fish with a nice view of the sea, seagulls, and camels roaming a little sandy land tongue, a surprising combination. My fish — I have no idea what it is, I selected it on sight because it looked interesting: beautiful slate gray with sines on its belly, and yellow eyes — turns out to be delicious, nicely prepared with some spices and served with a delicately seasoned sauce.
Bath slippers
I have a nice room in the Corniche hotel along the boulevard in old Al Mukalla — alas not with a sea view, but instead a view of the nearby mosque from my own little balcony — and I have three beds to choose from.
Most hotels in Yemen provide bath slippers, and so does the Corniche, but they clearly have their own ideas about this service here: in front of my bathroom I find two differently-colored right-foot slippers of two different sizes.
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 niqab, revealing a friendly face with very beautiful brown eyes. The light on her face is just right. When I show her the portrait, she’s quite happy, and thanks me with her hand on her heart — quickly flipping her niqab back again: a man is approaching us.
Sometimes I wonder: why are people asking to have their picture taken while not asking to have it sent to them? With children, it must be the excitement of the procedure and of seeing their own face on the magic little box. But grown-ups — just so they’ll know they’ll be remembered? I’ll certainly remember this friendly young woman with the beautiful eyes in Al Mukalla. Such a pity we can’t chat.
