I travelled to the Yemen in 2006 since then there have been killings which have included tourists. Nevertheless I would still recommend that anyone who has the daring should go there.

What follows is a diary of the trip that I wrote for my family, children and friends. I share it with you in that spirit as a glimpse into the country and our inefficient travel arrangements

 

A YEMEN DIARY

 

This is madness – I am about to set off to the Yemen, a land of kidnap, guns and knives. Even the Gods are telling me not to go.  

I will travel for 48 hours and meet up with Richard who has asked me in true travel literature tradition to be his companion as he researches a book on the stories behind spices, his advance will cover most of our expenses so I will be a kept man – hurrah! 

 *                                  *                                  *

 

Emirates to Dubai on an empty flight. As usual I am in the seats where the films don’t work. Arrive Dubai 3.45 in the morning  – it is an almost hallucinatory experience, the terminal is disorientating. There is nowhere to sit and everywhere I look there are people in full Arab dress squatting on the floor or sleeping. It is as though I have stumbled into a huge caravan of Bedouin, I  expect to come across a goat being spit roasted by Gate 23. It is a huge culture clash, this encampment above and below us all the duty free shops are open and doing business.

I get to Sana’a airport at 9a.m. (on the go now for 20 hours). It takes an hour to get an entry visa which for some reason costs less than it ought to and I stumble through immigration to find my bag. Then spend another hour in the Yemenia Airline ticket office trying to book an onward flight to Riyan in the south. The office is like a throw back to the fifties. It is shoddy and neglected with battered chip board desks and ageing HP computer monitors. The two guys sat behind the desks have a haunted look about them. The manager tells me the flight is full so I will have to go on the waiting list. “But” I say “we reserved it in London”. I am told to take a seat and do so in a benign and patient mood. Time passes. I work out that the real problem is that their phone is not working. This is not all together a surprise as its flex rises up through the air into a hole in a glass window through which they can see into another office and then in midair it is attached to a small junction box. This in turn is attached to a thicker flex that rises up and disappears into the ceiling. They cant get a line and every so often tug aimlessly at the cord hoping to spring the phone into life. The next bit of my journey is therefore literally hanging by a thread. Then surprisingly they get a line and the ticket is secured. The flight is at 7 tomorrow morning, be here by 5.30 they insist.

 After changing money in a bank that offers no exchange rate or paper work but a huge pile of notes (I work out later that I actually got a good rate) I lash out on a Yellow Cab driven by a man in a yellow suit – 2000 ryals -  a lot in Yemeni terms but $10 western style – I am driven at speed to the Hotel Mercure.

In my jet lagged and sleep deprived state Sana’a flashes by in a welter of dust and half built blocks. There is activity everywhere; it is I think as Palestine should look if only the Israelis would let them get on with it. I crash out for the rest of the day, have room service, and lie down to sleep at 9pm setting the alarm for 4am (gulp).

 

*                                  *                                  *

Three days in and still travelling.  Riyan International Airport is essentially a large shack. I stumble out into 34 degrees and a scene of chaos. I struggle to find a taxi, and am helped out by an airport worker (the helpfulness and friendliness of the Yemenis is to be a feature of our trip) and am bundled into a Mercedes that has seen better days.

A note on Yemeni taxis: with the exception of the yellow cabs at Sana’a airport all Yemeni taxis are decrepit. They have been driven into the ground elsewhere (Saudi or Oman probably) and rather like Donkeys have been put out to pasture in the Yemen to decline into old age. But rather than grazing they are immediately pressed into frenzied service. The wheels rotate and the steering works but everything else is basically f*****. The only reassuring thing is that in the various suqs there are shops that specialise in car springs and radiators so spares are to hand.

We drive into Al Mukalla along the coast road. I see lots and lots of camels and desert. Why are we westerners so fascinated by camels? They are ludicrous looking bad tempered beasts. I arrive at the Ryboon City Hotel which is basic but friendly. The manager is a bit sleepy – “Oh yes you’re the people who booked from London” and he takes out a battered diary which appears to be the hotel’s booking system. I am again asked to sit and wait and half an hour later I am told that the suites we were promised wont be available until the afternoon but I can stay for now in a room with a big bed. Its on the 8^th floor and as I approach the door I notice the corridor window has been removed and there is an eight floor drop in its place. On the laminated greeting card in the room it describes itself as the Ribbon Hotel complete with 24hr COOF shop and the opportunity to do LANUDRY. It also has “Naf” soap in the bathroom.

The Ryboon City Hotel is out of the way so there is nowhere to wander. My window has a good view of the Al Mukalla Shopping Centre which is a small mall, but it is firmly shut and remains so throughout the morning so I am stuck in the room with the big bed. I read. After a while I decide to brave the COOF shop. As I enter there is the thrill that it contains a genuine espresso machine followed by the grim realisation that it is completely in bits. In fact the whole place looks like a motorcycle repair shop. I am hustled off by the concerned staff to their restaurant which has a bizarre empty anti room with nothing in it but a dirty sink. I then have a surreal lunch where I could have had a cheese and jam sandwich, I decline the jam. The cheese (Kraft) is OK and the orange juice is a triumph.

Richard eventually arrives and we are both given suites which are just larger versions of the basic room – mine smells of sex and excreta, it is described as the “Bridal Suite” – I lie on the thin hard mattress and uninvited an image of a Yemeni bride surrendering herself on her wedding night enters my head.

Richard is a bit stir crazy after Iran and Oman and is suggesting we alter our schedule and escape to Cairo. In the end we decide not to go to the island of Socotra which we had planned as it is where Dragon’s Blood comes from but to spend more time in and around Sana’a as at present we only have a day and a half there. I discover later that Richard has been put off by the number of mosquitoes in Socotra, he is allergic to their bites and they normally find him very tasty - the trip might have done him in. 

In the evening we venture out into Al Mukalla proper. It has a river running through the centre and lots of bridges which are old railway style constructions and make it look a bit like Newcastle. We cant find a restaurant and stumble into the suq where we are accosted by two handsome youths (Richards ability to attract the best of Yemen male youth will be a feature of the trip). They are 18 year old students who want to test their English. One, Riyad is unbelievably handsome and turns out to be an Imam in his village near Seyun. They take us to a restaurant that I doubt tourists ever enter and we have a fine meal of fresh Yemeni bread (a sort of buttered paratta served in newspaper) and goat stew. We learn that the Arabic word for Orange juice is “Portugal”. The meal is good and the boys tell us they are hoping to come and study in London, Riyad hopes to work in the media. Later back at the hotel Richard tells me about his travels in Iran and Oman – I get to sample Frankincense – I eat it (it is used as chewing gum) and get to smell like it as well. Richard lies full out on his bed and like Scheherazade tells tales of Saffron, Dragon’s Blood and Myrrh and the mystery of how camels smuggle opium in their humps.

 

 *                                 *                                  *

The Ryboon City Hotel has been too squalid for Richard (oh all right for me too) so he transfers us to the “Holiday Inn” out on the beach. As we drive out we discover that Al Mukalla has a rather fine Corniche and someone has spent a lot of money tarting up the sea front which is very similar to the sea front of Izmir in Turkey. Our new hotel is surrounded by walls and has two sleepy policemen with guns at the gate. We sweep in and up a ramp to the reception on the first floor. We are met by the manager Ameen who boldly shows us his price list which begins at $180 a night for a single. “These are our prices” he intones “How much you want to pay?” Richard hazards “$90?” And the deal is struck. The rooms have been lifted straight from Central Park South in New York. Huge beds and every comfort.

 

The Holiday Inn faces the sea and has a large pool with a beach beyond and a false harbour with two long moles, it is reminiscent of Mousehole in Cornwall. I go for a walk along one of them, stepping over large piles of rubble and when I get to the end I find two plastic chairs and a large dead fish. I look back at the hotel, it is all an empty paradise. Later Richard emerges and insists I show him the fish (there is not much excitement here) and as we walk out we pass two families in the garden, the women fully veiled and the men kneeling and praying as the children romp in the undergrowth. They stay all day with a picnic.

 *                                  *                                  *

I finally have a good nights sleep and get up late to discover Richard already at the Breakfast buffet. We discuss our plans for the day: Pool, then more pool, then lunch by pool, then a bit more pool, then more pool, then siesta, then dinner. And that I am ashamed to say is exactly what we did – very satisfying. During our strenuous pool day we are hailed by two Yemeni men. They are cartographers, of all things, and have hired a Lear jet from South Africa so they can map the south of their country which apparently has not historically been accurately done. Their camera has broken so they are having a day at the pool instead.

After the siesta Richard summons me down for a drink. He has news. The young boy Riyad who we met yesterday is coming to join us for dinner. I raise my eyebrows. “Really?” yes – he is going to be our guide tomorrow on our drive through the desert and the wadis to Seyun and our two night stay in the Al Hawta Palace hotel. “Why?” I murmur hesitantly. Richard tells me that we are to visit both Riyad’s home in the wadis and his granny who is an expert on spices and their modern uses. “Oh that’s all right then…and he’s coming to dinner?” “With his friends” “Ah, wonderful ” I reply and become quiet. Before they arrive Richard starts discussing frankincense and its uses. He has established that it is used for women who have just given birth but quite how he hasn’t pinned down. At this moment our two Yemeni cartographer friends arrive and Richard asks them. They are very forthcoming. They tell us that after a woman has given birth they prepare a box of frankincense and ignite the stuff which then gives off smoke. They then put a cover over the box which has a hole in its centre. The woman hitches up her skirts and squats over it – it is supposed to help tighten the woman’s vagina after childbirth. Richard asks if the Yemeni’s wives have done this. “Yes” replies one. “Did you notice a difference?” rejoins Richard “Yes indeed” the cartographer replies with enthusiasm.

Riyad arrives with two friends and after a few minutes we have a positive lake of hangers on. As we talk a film cameraman erupts into the hotel and starts filming the arrival of about thirty people. This apparently is the group headed by the fearsome female academic who will decide on Saturday whether the boys get their scholarship to go to the UK or not. The group are all dressed in full Arab fig and look very grand, but the woman professor is hatchet faced and rather scary, I hope the boys survive her.

Riyad and his two friends join us for dinner, they have never eaten with knives an forks before and hate the spicy and bitter food. Richard starts to train them all in the phrases of greeting they must use on Saturday “How do you do” “I am very pleased to meet you” “What Hotel are you staying in?” as this is all very much at the vicar’s tea party level I worry the fearsome professor may smell a rat.

Riyad announces that they will all join us on the drive tomorrow. I sigh inwardly. Richard draws the line at two and I recover a little. The conversation ranges widely and turns to the subject of religion. “Is Richard a Christian?” Ah we are entering dangerous territory. Richard feints with the “I believe in God but not necessarily a Christian God” routine and the boys are unsettled as I think this is the first time they have met an atheist. But they then move in for the kill. “Are you married?” With three behind me and children to match I am pretty bomb proof, but Richard is in difficulties “You are not married?” concern sets on their faces “No. No. Great freedom, and no children to worry about”…… “But Islam maintains you must marry” and so on – definitely their first Gay Atheist. It begins to dawn on the boys that perhaps Richard’s tastes lie elsewhere and an awkward silence develops. I decide to leave for my room and let Richard work it out as best he can. Later he rings me thanking me for my forbearance and putting up with it all. I say think nothing of it…..

*                                  *                                  *

 

Hurrah off to Shibam and Seyun. 5 hours in a Toyota 4x4 driven by a tall (unusual here) and handsome Yemeni. We pick up Riyad and one friend whose name I never get and set off for the mountains. Riyad announces that his sister has given birth this very morning so there will be celebrations when we get to his village.

 

We climb and climb and the roads are alpine in their twists and turns but eventually we are at the top gazing at the Wadis below us. We take a diversion to be shown a half built hotel, fashioned from mud and surrounded by bee hives made out of old oil drums. It is situated at the edge of one of the cliffs of the Wadis and as we approach the precipice below us we see a timeless Eden. A long verdant valley with palms and grass and clinging to the opposite side of the valley on a huge high outcrop an ancient village. Even at this distance we can see women working in the fields. It is the first moment of the trip when we seem to step back far into time.

 

We drive on and enter Wadi Diwan. It is time for prayer and as the boys and the driver scamper off to Mosque we are left outside an extraordinary hotel that is a Harlequinade. Every window section is a different colour and it is the jolliest architectural sight I have seen. When prayers are over the owner takes us round. The rooms are equally jolly with painted ceilings and ancient wood work. It is a great place to stay but there are no guests. We are served ginger tea which is so spicy it makes the eyes water and decide to press on. When we get into the car Riyad announces he has some bad news. His 25 year old cousin has died of a heart attack in Al Mukalla this morning so we will not be able to meet his family as they will be in mourning. A birth and a death in the same day. We take him home but do get to meet his 101 year old grandmother who is four foot three and a force of nature. She talks non stop in Arabic but Richard assures me that she has confirmed the traditional and current uses of frankincense and myrrh to him.

 

We press on. In the fields for the only time in the tip we see women wearing the trade mark conical hats made of straw, they look like witches. We arrive at the Al Hawta Palace hotel. It is delightful and we settle in. Built of mud and clay it is an oasis in the desert. The rooms surround courtyards, have traditional Hadrawmat doors, stone floors and are simply but comfortably furnished. After a siesta we descend to dinner to find ourselves surrounded by tourists. French, Italian and German and an awful western style buffet with no local dishes except a fish stew which is delicious. The desserts are disaster, all jelly and blancmange, kiddy food. The tourists are also all visually appalling, they are our visual penance.

 

Omar runs the G-Shop (sic) in the hotel which is full of gifts which he quietly admits are all shit. He does however promise Dragons Blood, the incense from Socotra, for tomorrow, but it sadly never appears.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

Its hot and dusty. Breakfast is a buffet – a disaster again. We take a taxi into Seyun waving the tourists goodbye. We are dropped of at the suq and immediately we get out of the car I am accosted by a woman who is begging. This is so strange because for a week women have been almost invisible to us. They scuttle around fully hidden in their chadors. They are like the aliens from the café scene in Star Wars, background action of no account. You expect them at any moment to go “beedly, beedly, beedly” like R2D2. Yet I suppose this a typical western reaction. Later we read a piece by a western journalist who has finally taken the full veil. She says they are very liberating, you don’t have to worry about makeup or whether your shoes are clean and you can look and see without being seen. It occurs to me suddenly that here as in a lot of Islam it is a peacock culture where the men are all on display and the women can carefully sum them up and decide their worth, as opposed to the West where the women are on display, scantily clothed and the lecherous men fade into the background. Having said all that any approach to a woman here is a form of lucky dip, who knows what lies under their black covering.

 

We amble round the suq which is a working market and not really for tourists. It has a big fruit market and lots of shops for bits and pieces, room fans, car springs that sort of thing. On the corner is the baker preparing the dough balls for Yemen’s flat bread which they cook on a huge round hot plate. We wander in and out of antique shops that are clearly selling new stuff masquerading as old and see lots of silver coins with the Empress Marie Theresa on them that we found were the currency of South Yemen in the 1870’s.

 

We move onto Seyun’s museum which is housed in what used to be the local Sultan’s palace, a beautiful and imposing high building that dominates the town. By chance we run into our guide for this afternoon who is going to show us Shibam. Obviously two large English tourists are easily identifiable to the locals as they are so scarce. He seems a driven man and we fear he could be tiresome but its too late now. He is the only local freelance guide and we will have him.

 

The museum is “well thin”. It is laid out a la 1940 style, dusty cabinets of bits of pottery and photos which we have seen before (they obviously don’t have a lot), bizarre exhibits to do with agriculture and weddings and all very very tatty. The view from the top of the museum is though spectacular with the whole of Seyun laid out at our feet, I particularly liked the grave yard which looked like a small version of Mecca.

 

A curious incident happens in the archaeological section. We are stopped by one of the museum guards and asked to wait. Are we finally being kidnapped? I hear the hospitality is good if you are. A haunted fellow in military style dress approaches us clutching an old style British Passport. He gives it to Richard. It expired in 1970. The holder is dead but we are asked does it entitle his son who is still alive to be a British passport holder in turn? This desire to come to the UK or to cuddle up to Britishness we have already met with Riyad and his friends. It is as though our country is still a modern Nirvana, America without the shit and Bush (little do they know). For ten minutes Richard becomes the local junior British Consul for affairs in the Hadramauth. The Passport is indeed British but he points out that the holder was Indian and the passport merely gave him the right to live in the British protectorate of Aden. Sadly it conferred residency not citizenship. It is unlikely the son would be given a passport as successive British governments have altered the basis for citizenship – a notable casualty being Spike Milligan because he was born in India. So no, no passport sadly. The man is crestfallen – we have destroyed someone’s small dream. We move on.

 

A coffee maybe? But there is a pneumatic drill and chaos all around, we beat a retreat to the hotel. As we drive back we enter a dust storm and the cabs windows are open so sand whistles in one side and out the other – we are truly riding in a motorised Camel.

 

Pool time but sadly no pool boy. I go in search of a towel. Shortly after the manager appears with a shamed faced young man who now glares at me every time he passes, I have obviously dropped him in it.

 

The afternoon and it is now time to go to Shibam, the Manhattan of Arabia. Freya Stark called it the Manhattan of the Desert which seems more poetic. It is a town of twelve story buildings built of mud. And Shibam is “astonishing”. It truly does rise like New York out of the desert and there is the same thrill as the first glimpse of the Empire State when you drive in over the Triborough Bridge from JFK. The buildings are high and so close together the residents leap from roof to roof to visit rather than clambering all the way down and then up again. The town is walled, a square kilometre in size and has only one gate in. A huge portrait of the President looms over it. His portrait is literally everywhere even stuck to the back of the wing mirror of the 4x4 that drove us here.

 

Our guide turns out not to be tiresome but a very nice man and very knowledgeable. He takes us round the amazing mud buildings and we visit a typical house that is laid out as a museum, though the town is by and large still inhabited. The house again suffers from Yemeni Museum-itis. Bits and tatty bobs, a cushion here, a pot there, a display of medicines with some missing, that make your bowels loosen or solidify, your manhood rise quicker or stuff for the back. A particular favourite is the bed in the top room which has nothing but broken rusty springs. They clearly couldn’t get it out so they have left it where it lies. It promises little in the way of sleep, beside it is an equally delapidated crib which our guide says is identical to the one he was put in by his mother.

 

At the top of the house on the roof there are spy holes looking vertically down. From here all these storeys up anxious mothers can look down on their kids in the street, unobserved and unveiled and tick them off if they are being naughty “George Don’t do that” I hear them cry. I feel the Yemenis are a very practical people. We leave Shibam via the many tourist shops all of them displaying new antiques, they are not particularly keen to sell us anything which is a relief. Richard spots a young boy in a three piece Saville Row suit; he takes his photograph, the boy looks like an extra from “Bugsy Malone” and is off to a wedding.

 

We take wonderful GV’s of Shibam at sunset, the last picture of the main gate with a camel resting in the foreground is very satisfactory.

 

Another dreadful Buffet dinner at the hotel and the Japanese have arrived, They don’t want the buffet but a la carte. A scene ensues. We are sat at a table for two in a narrow corridor of uncertainty. 24 Italians to our left, 24 French to the right and 30 Japanese far right. The Japanese all leave together and do synchronised chair tipping up to show they have finished. We retire to our rooms where surreally I watch “Ronin” on MBC2.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

Woken at 6 by alarm call for next door. 6.10 and furious banging on door other side of the courtyard. Shouts in Japanese of “get up you lazy sod”. We saw a discarded timetable for this tour last night, everything timed to the minute: 6.55 Breakfast, 7.37 Taxi, 10.58 Coffee and so on. Regimentation gone mad and a soulless way to travel. In the corner of the sheet was a small sketch of a veiled Yemeni woman with exclamation marks and we can only presume snide mocking in Japanese – honestly why do they bother coming?

 

Breakfast is another disaster and Richard is getting stir crazy again, this time for a cup of real espresso. So far we have only drunk a brown liquid that is made from stuff that looks like coffee dust, but the good news is all the tourists have left. We are increasingly regarded as eccentric as we prefer the pool to going off and being surrounded by dust.

 

So the pool it is and we have it all to ourselves. It is a very beautiful spot with a waterfall at the back and a canopied terrace. As I lie idly watching a dragon fly skip along the edge of the water there is a long call to prayer from a nearby Muezzin. I reflect that Westerners are indulged shamelessly in a country where people go to mosque five times a day.

 

Time to go to the airport. We drive along a very straight wide empty highway with street lights every ten yards. They are like metal flowers stretching into the distance. The road is empty. We wonder if they ever turn the lights on at night. Perhaps for the president?

 

Arrive Seyun airport to find it shut. Closed. Bolted. The cab leaves and we are abandoned in the equivalent of the Yemen’s mid west. Marooned. But half an hour later people start to arrive - ours is obviously the only flight of the day. A door is unlocked and the chaos of check-in begins. Huge cardboard boxes and the biggest suitcase I have ever seen, so much flotsam and jetsam. We get through to departures where two giggly girls in full chador enter our details into a huge hand written ledger. This is an ancient way to record the rite of passage but also very comforting. One of the girls is wearing high fashion sling backs and the other doc martins. I realise that the feet are the seat of feminine rebellion. It is here at the nether end that they can express themselves and titillate you as to what lies beneath. Foot fetishist’s paradise I would say.

 

Plane is a 737 which is reassuring though after take off the pilot suddenly levels off at two thousand feet (oh no, I pray, not this flight!?) he then gives us a low fly past over the town of Shibam before gunning the engines and taking us up to cruising height. Truly flying in the face of ‘Health and Safety’ but what the hell.

 

Sana’a airport and another yellow cab (Richard is impressed by my local knowledge). We are to stay in the Mövenpick which is a 5 star monstrosity  and which is built like a fortress. We drive through security the like of which I haven’t seen since the Europa Hotel in Belfast in the 1980’s. The Mövenpick is ostentation run riot. It has the biggest everything – atrium, pool, rooms you name it. It is full of paranoid, security stricken Americans. As fabulous as the hotel is it seems out of place and disconcerting in the Yemen. Good Buffet though and I have my first taste of Om Ali a delicious sweet desert that is like bread and butter pudding with sultanas and pistachios, it’s the best sort of comfort food.

 

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

Real espresso and croissant for breakfast, Richard almost bursts with pleasure at this and then off to the suq. The Sana’a Suq is the best, a working market with 99% locals. We are quickly appropriated by a young boy in a Beenie. This is Saleem and he is 12 years old. He is clearly going to be our guide but his English is not the best. He takes us through the stalls. We see lots of Jambayirs (the knife all Yemeni men wear) and spice and come across and old man who has sat in the same stall for 29 years surrounded by photographs from the past – an old Yemeni King, Mussolini even Hitler, I am not sure he has ever sold any. We then stumble across an impromptu dance in front of one of the stalls. Three old men are dancing in a circle waving their Jambayirs above their heads. Round and round in one direction then turn and off in the other all to the rhythmic beat of drums (we learn later that this is a traditional “bara”). There is a small crowd around them, all locals, the dance ends and they all depart in different directions – spontaneous and ancient.

 

We penetrate the world of the Jambayir, it is worn over the mans navel on a belt and is curved like a small scymitar. Saleem has been usurped by an older boy who becomes our co-guide his English is good and he is called Mohammed Ali. He takes us past the rubbish the tourists buy deep into the suq to a genuine knife shop which sells and repairs Jambayirs. They cost anything from $20 to $1million. The best have handles made from rhino horn the next most expensive from the horn of giraffe. Chiefs have Jambayirs worth $50,000 and up. The chief Imam’s is worth the $1million. We are then taken to another shop where people are talking and arguing. It’s a sort of Jambayir bank where people buy and sell their old ones. Apparently as a knife ages it increases in value – so the knife then is essentially an investment, where a man can put his money and it will earn him interest over time. He can cash it in when he wants or buy a more valuable one when he gets rich. We see giraffe and even rhino horn handles in this shop. It is set up a flight of steps, a deterrent to tourists and setting this bank above the other shops. A young man reclines on the floor, he is the knife valuer and he obviously knows his stuff, he is in an argument with an old Chief who wants $3000 for a knife, the valuer says $2000 and the chief stomps off. “Is that the end of it?” we ask “No, he’ll accept $2000 but not until tomorrow”

 

We make our way out of the suq marvelling at Sana'a’s architecture and seeing people and sights that are centuries old. Some of the ancient Bedouin who pass us seem to have stepped out of the time of the prophets.

 

We have a coffee in the Taj Sheba hotel which seems much more relaxed than the Mövenpick and is just by the old city. We will come here tomorrow. At the Mövenpick we go to the huge infinity pool which dominates the gardens, it is far too cold to bathe in. The indoor pool is ladies only so with tails between out legs we adjourn to our rooms.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

News. Yesterday Mohammed Ali gave us his card and Richard has now rung him. He has asked him to find us Dragon’s Blood (Omar failed at the Al Hawta) and also to get us to Tim Mackintosh-Smith, the author of a book on Yemen who lives somewhere in Sana’a. First though a swim in the indoor pool now open to men. It is deserted, joyless and full of chlorine. It has two metal waterfalls which we turn on and off to amuse ourselves. The Mövenpick is a fine hotel but somehow lifeless. It is like being trapped in a departure lounge or the cruise from hell. Off to the Taj then. The Mövenpick staff are concerned that we are leaving, is there something wrong with their hotel? We are caught off guard by this and say no, no we want to be nearer the old city. In their consternation the staff offer us a free transfer to the Taj so we arrive there in the back of a van with “Mövenpick Courtesy Car” emblazoned all over it.

 

The Taj Sheba is everything the Mövenpick wasn’t, comfortable and cosy with splendidly over attentive staff. Why Sheba? Well the Yemen is supposed to be the country the Queen of Sheba had her palace in though at least one African country claims this as well.

 

We check in and go in search of scent and honey and find there are honey shops everywhere. The honey is brown, thick and gelatinous and the best comes from the Hadrawmaut where we have just been. We buy from a particularly obliging shop keeper in one of the many clearly franchised shops and move on walking down a long road that Richard describes as the Bond Street of Sana’a. We are foreigners in a foreign place, people look at us, say hello and move on.

 

Back at the hotel Mohammed turns up. He is 15 and why isn’t he at school? I go to get a book and bump into Carol in the lift. She is working for the US State department advising the Yemeni’s on the arms trade. Her first question to me is have I felt threatened in Yemen? To which the answer is no I haven’t, it is all very friendly and laid back. She is actually furious with the hysteria that surrounds this place which is being whipped up by the US and UK governments. Her particular beef is about the Australians whose advice to their travellers is DON’T GO to the Yemen – ridiculous paranoia says Carol.

 

Mohammed Ali is despatched to find Tim Mackintosh-Smith and we will see him later. We decide to walk to the Suq.

 

The Taj is opposite a new fly over so we clamber under this and head into the old city. We come across the Old Sana’a City Hotel which was where we might have stayed, it makes the Ryboon City Hotel look like the Ritz and we are both pleased it fell off the itinerary. The dining room was a particularly bizarre place open to the square with the look of a deserted Victorian school room.

 

Not long after we have penetrated the old city, Mohammed turns up with another boy. This is Walid, handsome and a little shifty we think. “This is my brother” says Mohammed, “he is 25 years old”. We walk on to buy scent. On the way we bump into Saleem who is furious that Mohammed and Walid have taken is over. He curses them roundly in Arabic but they bat him away.

 

The best scent shop in town is just inside the Suq gate. The owner is lying at the back chewing qat. This is the first time we have been out and about in mid-afternoon and with all the qat chewing the Yemeni men seem to have lost their zest. They go around in a sort of zombie daze, unthreatening but unfocussed. There is an air of “whatever..” Qat itself is tree leaves and is quite disgusting to chew at least that’s my opinion after masticating the stuff. It eats up 30% of this place’s GDP and is basically disrupting the Yemen economically but it is an entrenched social practice.

 

As we trade in the scent shop other boys come up and start chatting to Mohammed and Walid. Richard joins in telling them that Walid is Mohammed’s brother. A boy reacts angrily “but you’re not his brother”. Ahh…. It transpires that Walid is a brother only in so much that Mohammed is part of his suq family. The family of boys that guide the tourists and who Walid clearly runs – he is their Fagin so to speak at a very young age, by tomorrow he will be 20 not 25. We think word of our arrival and the call to Mohammed got around and Walid has decided that he wants a slice of our action.

 

Mohammed has done well though – he takes us to the Dragon’s Blood shop – the only one in the suq – it is small and narrow and run by a languid thin elegant young man. Before we start we watch a young man buy “Gripe Water” for his new born baby. I haven’t seen Gripe Water for years although I know I had it as a child myself. We see that it is made in Manchester.

 

The young stall seller is known as the “medicine man”. He knows his stuff and Richard is delighted for he has the Dragon’s Blood from Socotra (again sap from a tree) and a small box of the stuff is bought. As we are buying (it takes half an hour which is average for transactions here) a middle aged Chief comes by. He is purchasing Apple Jam, a medieval substance which is for indeterminate medicinal use. He chats to us. “Your English is good” says Richard “where did you learn it?”, “Beaconsfield” is the reply.

 

Our final task is to find a piece of Luban or frankincense and the boys take us from pillar to post – it is getting late and the shops are starting to shut. Eventually they take us across a huge bus terminus – this is New Street and it is packed with the most run down vans imaginable all of which seat fifteen inside and as many on top as safe. We end up at a Lubam wholesaler hidden away down a narrow alley. Surely the place for the best deal of the day? But the price is extortionate and Richard laughs; there is no sign of bargaining so we leave, though we did find out that most of the frankincense in Yemen is imported from Somalia. Richard is not amused. He ends up buying big bits of the stuff from the street sellers at the Suq gate. The boys Mohammed and Walid have organised a tour for us tomorrow which will take us thirty kilometres outside Sana’a to the towns of Kowkeban and Thulla so we wish them goodnight and will see them tomorrow.

 

At dinner they both arrive unannounced at our table to the total consternation of the Indian Maitre D. He is furious and they are bundled out into reception. They need to get permits for us so they have come for our details. Richard calms it all down and sends them off to the tour operator armed with the bumph that will keep the bureaucrats and more importantly the police happy.

 

The Restaurant staff are super attentive tonight. We meet the General Manager who gives us his card and as we leave a diminutive but beautiful Indian waitress escorts us to the lift and presses the button for our floor. As I remark to Richard for one giddy moment I though she was going to come up with us and tuck us both in.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

A battered 4x4 driven by a magnificent Bedouin driver turns up and we’re off into the unknown. First stop is to be Wadi Dhahr where there is a Palace built atop a vertiginous rock. As we near our first destination we are thwarted by road works and have to take a diversion over the worst tracks outside an army driving range, but we get there and the sight is breathtaking. Quite how they built this thing is a mystery, it is literally dropped on top of a 100 foot high rock and then rises several stories above it in the architectural style that seems unique to Yemen – dark stone, a use of white around the windows and beautiful baroque window shapes. It was the home of the Imam of Yemen who died 60 years ago and used to be a seat of power and influence. At the bottom we are accosted by a group of giggly girls. They have head scarves but are not veiled and their smiling beautiful faces are a sight for sore eyes, the first female smiles we have seen for simply ages. They demand Richard takes their picture for them. Their outing is a birthday treat for a friend. “Happy Birthday” we chorus. Oh no it was two months ago. Richard expresses surprise that the trip is so late. It took us that long to save up for it they reply.

 

Wadi Dhahr is well curated and a treat to go round. Mohammed Ali knows his stuff and is telling us a catalogue of facts, he clearly wants us to get our money’s worth. Walid on the other hand is a little bored and distracted – serve him right really. The palace is surrounded by hills on all sides which used to have armed police stationed on them. The view at the top is stunning, down below in the café we are served by a man with a hawk on his shoulder. He offers the bird to Richard who gracefully declines.

 

After Wadi Dhahr we are off to Shibam (there are art least four Shibams in Yemen we think it means ‘city of men’) where we are to have lunch. We protest that we are not hungry but Mohammed, Walid and the driver insist. We arrive and ascend into tourist hell. The building is surrounded by 4x4s and every room is full of them squatting on the floor and being served a Yemeni lunch. It is cooked by a man who sits high up behind a group of circular roaring braziers – he looks and sounds like a demonic drummer. Our crew dive in and eventually we do too, the bread is delicious particularly the one that is dripping with honey. We try to avoid fraternising but Richard is drawn in by the French tour to our left. They are surprised we are travelling alone and have only been here a couple of days. They seem fascinated by Richard so I sink quietly into the background and doze. Lunch over we drive on and up to Kowkeban.

 

Kowkeban is built in the sky above Shibam. It is on the flat top of a mountain. There is an alpine road up and the town is walled so we drive in through a narrow gate. This apparently is firmly closed at 6pm and if you are inside the walls you stay and if you haven’t made it well tough you sleep outside. Our driver takes up to the edge of the precipice and we gaze down on Shibam below. Suddenly there is the sound of running feet and three boys pushing wheel barrows arrive. They are souvenir sellers with their display on top and their stock underneath, they run around the town hunting down the tourists that make it here. We are not buying and they are disappointed. We’ve seen these wheel barrows in the suq in Sana’a. One had its bottom covered in carpet and was being hawked as a “Taxi”.

 

Off now to Thulla at the other end of the valley. It is one of the most beautiful towns architecturally I have ever seen. Its stone blends in with the high rock behind and it is wrapped in the landscape. The fortress that is raised behind it has the distinction of having never been stormed or conquered. The buildings are different to those in Sana’a. They have figure eight windows, all still picked out with white or lighter brick, and they are different shapes and sizes but are harmonious and restful, it is laid out frankly like an imaginative film set; there are no cars as the streets are too narrow.

 

There are also many, many tourist shops and from the moment we enter the town through its walled gate we are set upon. The guide book has warned us about this: ‘the sellers of Thulla are the most persistent in the Yemen but they will leave you alone once they know you will not buy’. Well not true. We are relentlessly pursued. ‘Not buying today’ we intone but they are not to be swayed. We meet a girl shop keeper who speaks 7 languages. “You should be an interpreter” we advise though she probably speaks the same 50 words in all the languages so she can secure a sale from the various varieties of tourists that make it to Thulla. Eventually rather than leaving this beautiful town we escape in a cloud of dust from the wheels of the 4x4, the people look at us disconsolately “The Japanese will be here soon – they will buy” we cry.

 

We return to Sana’a crossing over the two police road blocks we hazarded on our way out here – our permissions secured by Mohammed and Walid had worked efficiently. Our driver is by now chewing away contentedly on his qat and his previous cautious driving style is now replaced by a certain swaying joie de vivre. No wonder there are so many traffic accidents here. We get back to the city at dusk – the last hour of daylight here when the sun dips below the mountains produces beautiful tones of pink, a wonderful soft light that is the perpetual end to Sana'a's day.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

The suq day when we buy incense burners, a Jambayir and other knick knacks. We have asked Walid and Mohammed to leave us alone and spookily we walk through the suq unmolested and without boys trying to be our guides. Walid has obviously put the word out and as the only pair of large Englishmen in the city we are easy to spot. The Jambayir shop is a riot, they seem to know we were coming and it’s like a party. The bargaining is ridiculously easy “$50” “no” we say “$30” “oh - ok” then deal struck. Richard is slightly upset by this as he likes a good long bargain and this isn’t it. We have a group photo at the end and everyone wants to be in it. As we start to leave the suq Walid appears. He is very smartly dressed in traditional Yemeni style. No headgear but a sumptuous white shawl with a single Arabic design on the back. A sharp jacket and beautifully laundered shirt. He also sports the best of his Jambayirs at the centre of his belly. As we exit the suq we bump into Saleem again. All seems forgiven as he has a female Japanese tourist in tow. She looks on in bewilderment as we greet Saleem as a long lost friend. Walid moves us on and slowly ushers us out of the suq gate.

 

In the evening we decide to be brave and venture out into the backstreets of Sana’a which are noticeably full of locals and no tourists. We find an outdoor restaurant that is heaving with business. All around are flat hot plates on which men are preparing bread and eggs. Everywhere is the sound of the great burners that roar away like mythical beasts. We are immediately befriended by other diners and told what’s good and dine on flat bread and a liver stir fry (twice). The locals look at us with amusement and then get on with stuffing their faces.

 

When we finish Richard suggests an ice cream as there was a bright café near the hotel. It is festooned with garish pictures and bundles of oranges. We have the Yemeni equivalent of a Knickerbocker Glory and a pint of fresh orange juice which we are assured is not cut with water (our digestions survive the whole trip so they were probably telling the truth). The décor in its gaudy gay way was a signal and Richard is cruised twice, this is obviously a gay joint. When we leave a boy runs after us and asks Richard for his phone number. Richard gently lets him down. He is flattered I think but being gay in an Islamic country is just too difficult. We saunter off to the one hour photo shop and pick up the films we took in the suq today. We will distribute them to the stall holders tomorrow.

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

Final day. Richard doesn’t believe me but Sana’a is 2000 metres above sea level, over a mile high (Denver eat your heart out) no wonder I feel a little breathless occasionally. We sit slightly woozily at Breakfast then meander off to distribute the photos in the suq. Everyone is very pleased with them and snatches them out of Richards hands, almost immediately Mohammed appears another example of the fine bush telegraph here. He is joined by Walid who today is even more finely dressed with a magnificent head scarf and a very fine light tweed jacket. They takes us off to meet Tim Mackintosh Smith and we arrive early. Tim is unfazed. His book “Travels in Dictionary Land” is the only current travel book on the Yemen and has been a good adjunct to the trip. Tim lives in a narrow tall building by “the square of the suq of the cow”. On top he has built an eerie to gaze out over the city and where he probably goes to chew qat with his mates. He is a charming man and the boys Mohammed and Walid are very impressed by his fluent Arabic. We talk of TV and far off places, Richard asks him to consider being part of the spice series on TV, he says he will think about it but he has a book that is overdue (all writers seem to have this problem). We will see him in London this December and we part on good terms. We exit the suq for the last time. Mohammed is sad to see us go, Walid less so, we have been good for business but he has bigger fish to fry now as the head of the kids travel guide mafia.

 

At the hotel Richard makes a mess in the foyer chopping up his pieces of gold myrrh to put in boxes for his friends and we examine all our treasures. We adjourn for the forensic task of packing. Later we sally out into the Sana’a evening. In the town square we have our pictures taken which are then matted into an absurd montage which makes us hover over a picture of the city. We walk the streets as dusk falls and find new shops and new alleys, at the end we stumble on a sudden eruption of Gold Shops. We eat early at the same restaurant as last night and have ice cream but this time Richard is unmolested. Tomorrow we fly home separately so we say our good byes and go on about how extraordinary sharing this trip has been.

 

Richard waves me off next morning as I am condemned to a day of flights and taxis. I am sad to leave the Yemen but wont miss the dust. It is I think a country where you can go back in time as far as is humanly possible. The sights and the architecture are unlike anything I have seen elsewhere. It is poor but ambitious and the people have been universally friendly and engaging. My only regret is that we weren’t kidnapped. 

 

The Weary Travellers

Christopher & Richard in a ridiculous photo montage

 

Richard with our Suq Guides

Mohammed Ali and the boss of bosses Walid

I buy a traditional Yemeni Knife at the Jambayir Shop

It attracts a lot of attention

 

"The Manhattan of Arabia"

The City Of Shibam - built of mud and clay