From Souk to Souk (7 page)

I found a low wall, mercifully in shade, and, sitting down, sought refuge from the heat and a respite for my feet, weary from traipsing round all day. After many years wondering what the country was like, my curiosity had finally been satisfied. I was glad to have been able to visit Qatar, whatever it was like. It was not the exotic land of my boyhood fantasies, but, since I first learnt of the place, both it and I had moved on, grown and developed. The path and the destination were not separate, I realised: they were two parts of the same adventure.

‘You look tired,' said a voice.

I looked up. It was Michel.

I was just seven years old when I first heard of Yemen and, like Qatar, it was a stamp that introduced me to the country. The name, together with a colourful picture of a hoopoe, was on an unfranked one I acquired for my collection. The strange, fan-like crown, fawn plumage and striped wings of the bird were as unfamiliar to a young boy in the drab North West of England as the name of the country. In the atlas I discovered it was next to Arabia. Arabia – the very word made the juvenile pulse race as it conjured up images of the exotic and the exciting, fuelled no doubt by the illustrations in a large book we had containing a selection of
Tales from the Thousand and One Nights,
specially adapted for children. Yemen must be a beautiful place to have such lovely stamps, I smiled, admiring my prize philatelic specimen held carefully between my small fingers. No, I was told, fancy stamps were just something poor countries sold to try to make money: it was probably horrible.

Despite the discouragement, I retained, somewhere at the back of my mind, a fascination with Yemen. Years later, when the opportunity to visit the country arose, I was again confronted with cold water being poured on my interest, this time by friends who, ensconced in their armchairs, hand-wringingly cautioned of the dangers that lurked there, of Al Qaeda and of the perils of kidnapping. Yet their well-meant warnings, informed by lurid newspaper articles, contrasted diametrically with the views of those people I knew who had actually visited the country: without exception, they thought it wonderful and acclaimed its people among the friendliest they had ever met. I was determined to go. Perhaps I would even see a hoopoe.

***

Now I am finally on a plane for Sana'a. It is March 2011; the Arab spring that is blowing across Tunisia and Egypt like a
simoom
is spreading to Libya and Yemen. Perhaps it is not the best time for visiting the erstwhile Land of the Queen of Sheba, but in an area as volatile as the Middle East, putting plans on hold until things calm down is like waiting for Godot; besides, the way events are going, I know this could be the last chance to visit the country for some time. To be honest, despite all the praise from those familiar with Yemen, against the background of growing civil unrest, it is not without some trepidation that I find myself travelling to a country renowned for tribal strife and widespread gun ownership where the Kalashnikov is the weapon of choice.

During my plane's descent over the capital of Arabia Felix – or ‘Happy Arabia', as the Romans and, later, geographers used to call Yemen – I am struck by the size of the sprawling city. Extending far beyond the ancient centre of Sana'a is a mass of ugly, modern constructions. Low, sandy-coloured buildings stretch to the mountains in one direction and as far as the eye can see in the other. The monotony is broken only by the occasional tuft of dark green, scrub-like vegetation. Not here the vivid emerald hues of those cities where money is no object when it comes to making the desert bloom: Sana'a's penury of water reflects Yemen's broader poverty and its unenviable position as the Arab world's poorest country.

There is no motorway from the airport to the centre of this, one of the planet's oldest continuously inhabited cities. Instead, my taciturn driver, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his cigarette just outside the open window, races and swerves along a chaotic network of roads. At one point, we career off
piste
to bounce along undulating and potholed back streets. The way seems so unlikely to be the main route from the airport to the heart of the city that I wonder if I am already being kidnapped, destined to be delivered to my captors only minutes after arriving in the country. The tight feeling in my chest subsides, however, as, to my relief, we emerge from the desolate neighbourhood to rejoin a paved road. I cannot help thinking how much more difficult, not to say perilous, the circuitous route back to the airport would be if matters were to take a sudden turn for the worse. The hurried, haphazard nature of Sana'a's growth is evident everywhere: town planning is clearly a concept yet to arrive in Yemen. As I look at the dilapidated monochrome buildings, I reckon that if Eskimos have a hundred words for white, Yemenis must surely have at least as many for shades of beige. Dust is ubiquitous in this desiccated city, settling like some malevolent enchanted powder designed to keep the population under a spell of passivity. Yet, as we pass groups of soldiers and the occasional military vehicle, I wonder for how long the regime will be able to retain its grasp on power or whether the president's attempts to stand his ground will be about as effective as King Canute's commands to the sea.

After bumping and battling our way through the newer parts of Sana'a, we finally arrive at the historic centre. We approach it along As Sallah Street, a paved and walled
wadi
, or seasonal riverbed, that lies a few metres below the level of the surrounding land and that in the long dry period functions as a road. The taxi slows down and then turns on to a short but steep rise that leads back up to ground level and into the old town. The driver's cigarette has, I notice, disappeared somewhere along the way. The streets look too narrow to drive down, but somehow we squeeze through the rough-walled gullies without scraping the sides of the car. With resignation, the few pedestrians there are – sinewy, dusty figures – step into doorways to avoid being crushed against the walls as we push our way past. We almost come to a halt while the driver negotiates his way over an angled row of collapsible metal teeth that stick up out of the road to prevent vehicles from driving the wrong way down the street, something the lawless Yemenis would surely otherwise do. Suddenly, the road opens out into a sort of misshapen plaza to the left of which stands my hotel. I peer out of the taxi window at the mud-brick building towering above me and try to count how many storeys it has.

A couple of hours later after a quick breakfast, I am out on the street, seeking refuge from the glare of the sun and staying, as much as possible, in the relative cool of the shadows that jut out from the high walls. In the modest square near the hotel, several vehicles, mostly light-coloured Toyotas and Suzukis, are parked with surprising orderliness. Plump women waddle slowly between the shops set in the base of the tower houses, so emblematic of Sana'a, later emerging from the shade of the tiny retail grottos with plastic bags bulging with vegetables and packets. Covered from head to foot in sombre black
sharshafs
, the typical outfits made up of cape, veil and pleated skirt, or occasionally draped in brightly patterned
sitaras
, the flowing robes unique to Sana'anis, they go about their business at a leisurely pace.

I set off to wander round the labyrinth of dusty streets to discover what is at 2,300 metres one of the world's highest capitals. Old Sana'a has the reputation of being a maze in which one can easily get lost. I am confident this will not happen to me, however: not only do I pride myself on my sense of direction, I am armed with two guidebook maps and a proposed walking tour in German that takes in the highlights of the old city. Yet cartographers, even German ones, are challenged by Sana'a with its irregular streets – one moment comprising broad paved areas, the next narrowing to become rough, sandy alleys – and its unevenly shaped buildings that defy anyone to describe them as city blocks. The more I look at them the more medieval and mystical the maps appear. In the absence of almost any street names the walking tour is based on footsteps: after 58 paces turn right, then 23 paces later go left, and so on, making my stroll round the city feel like a hunt for hidden treasure.

Before long, thirst catches up with me as the sun burns relentlessly in the clear sky. I spy a small shop selling a variety of groceries – cooking oil, bags of rice, and various other dry goods in sacks and packets. I head towards it to buy a bottle of water. On the wall next to the entrance a besuited President Saleh backed by a Yemeni flag stares out from a fresh poster. Inside, it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark and for my nose to recognise the aromas of tea, coffee, turmeric and cloves. The middle-aged shopkeeper is chatting to a thin man seated on a wooden box, who is eating his way through a handful of pistachio nuts. I glance at their traditional Yemeni
ma'awazes
, a sort of striped sarong, and their grey, Western-style suit jackets that have seen better days. Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt as I enter and pick up a small bottle of water from a stack half a dozen bottles high. I turn to face the shopkeeper, of heavier build than his friend, and hold up my purchase.

‘First time in Yemen?' he asks, as I hand over my
rials
. In the half-light he appears to be about my age, although in Yemen, as in many developing countries, looks can be deceptive: wrinkled, weather-beaten complexions tell of harsh living and life-long toil, a world removed from our own easy existences. As I often do, I find myself considering for a moment how his life will have differed from my own as, over the years, we have each walked this earth before finally coming together for this fleeting encounter. And I wonder what he was doing at the exact moment I first held that Yemeni stamp with its picture of the hoopoe and became aware of the existence of his country. Was he playing barefoot in the dry dirt? Or was he already working, perhaps labouring in a field under the hot Arabian sun, or peddling shoe laces on a crowded street in order to help the family budget? I would never know.

‘Yes,' I nod, ‘first time.'

‘Welcome to Yemen!' he smiles, flashing a couple of gold teeth beneath his thick, slightly greying moustache. ‘You like it here?'

His friend looks at me with an expression of mild curiosity on his chiselled face and cracks open a pistachio with a deftness that comes from years of practice. He has a lazy eye and I have the strange sensation that half his attention is focused on my ear. ‘Yes, I do,' I say, deciding to keep my response simple.

‘Yemen very safe!' declares the shopkeeper, as he hands me my change. ‘But not many tourists now. Very bad!'

I do not know what to say: neither sympathy nor indifference seem appropriate.

‘It's a pity,' I nod, after a slight pause, ‘because Sana'a is very beautiful.'

‘Ah, yes, it is a beautiful city,' he agrees, his eyebrows floating momentarily upwards.

A short silence follows, broken by the crack of another pistachio. I put my change away, thank him and then smile goodbye to the two men.

Back out on the street, I take a swig of my precious water, a rare commodity in this increasingly arid country. I know that Sana'a is drying out, and quickly. Its water table, once just fifty metres below ground, has now plummeted to a depth of over six hundred metres. And it is sinking by a further six to eight metres a year like water down a plug hole as the city's mushrooming population draws on it for its daily needs. I look at the plastic bottle in my hand: a quick-fix solution for drinking water, but what about supplying all the other needs such as water for washing? Experts forecast that by 2020 there will be no water left at all in Sana'a. The city, it is said, could be the first capital in the world to run dry, an ironic fate for a town reputedly founded by Noah's son Shem. Herein lies a challenge on such a scale that no street protest or change of government will be able to provide an easy remedy. Once again, it is like the sort of seemingly unsolvable problem that a sultan in one of the
Tales from the Thousand and One Nights
might have given to a suitor seeking his daughter's hand in marriage, but, whereas in such stories the hero is able to come up with a clever answer, the harsh reality facing Yemen is that a happy ending is unlikely. Here, it will take much more than a bejewelled bird to resolve the country's problems.

Wandering past stalls selling misshapen vegetables – carrots, potatoes, tomatoes – and limp herbs, their leaves withering in the sun, I look at the wizened men and hopeful boys sitting or standing patiently by their wares. I reflect on the paltry displays of goods, often not even enough to cover the wooden table or cloth on which they are set out, knowing that entire families will depend on their sale.

I continue to follow my maps and try to remember to count my paces, keeping an eye out for landmarks such as mosques and minarets that might help me find my way. Here and there, bougainvillea hangs over high walls, hinting at hidden or perhaps merely imagined gardens on the other side, while carved wooden doors tempt one to wonder what lies beyond.

Arriving at a small plaza, I pause to look at the tower houses. Leaning against each other at strange angles, it seems as if only mutual support is preventing them from collapsing and as though the slightest tremor would in an instant reduce their weary walls to dust and rubble. Up to eight or nine storeys high, they resemble ever smaller boxes stacked one on top of the other. The geometric patterns of whitewashed brickwork that transect the sandy-coloured buildings look like icing sugar decoration and the effect is such that, from a distance, one could be forgiven for thinking that the old city is made entirely of gingerbread. Rows of
qamariya
, the traditional windows with tiny, coloured glass panes squeezed between ornate patterned frames, also whitewashed with gypsum, look, from down at street level, like lacework. These, together with the elaborately crenellated walls around the flat roofs, serve to lighten the overall impression of this overtly vertical city. And between all these buildings hangs a cat's cradle of generations of power lines and wires. As a young boy living in a low-rise 1960s suburb under leaden skies, I could never have imagined such places, such buildings, existed, and that people actually lived in them. A beige bird flies in front of me and alights on the branch of a tree. For a moment, I think it is a hoopoe, but it is merely a dove. Its gentle cooing makes me realise I have no idea as to the song or call of the strange fowl on my childhood stamp.