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Wednesday 2007-04-11 - Al Mukalla, Yemen
“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.
