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It was a bright and breezy Friday afternoonin Sanaa. Having only recently arrived to the Sheba Hotel, I decidedto forego experiencing the haute cuisine available in my roomor at poolside for a Lebanese repast at the "Bostan Restaurant". This Levantine oasis in Yemen is located only a stone's throw awayfrom the great wall of the Chinese Embassy on the road that parallelsZubeiri Street. On the sign outside you are welcomed to the "BostanTourism Restaurant", although the astute diner will note that on themenu cover this metamorphoses into "Boustan". (Perhaps the menu cover was printed in Paris? The French seem to love adding theletter "u" to words that can be perfectly well pronounced without: when I see "Bilquis" my tongue utterly fails).
The Bostan or Boustan is in fact a renderingof the Arabic term for garden (Did you ever wonder why Arabs smile atmention of the Celtics playing in the "Boston Garden"?), which isquite appropriate in this case. There is a lovely arbor-embellishedgarden dining area, which is definitely the place to head for. Ifyou enter in the main dining room, which is usually empty except forunknowing tourists with a lack of curiosity to explore inside, keepon going out the door in the back left. You have a choice ofentering another dining area or bearing left of this to the gardendining area. (The rest rooms, by the way, are off the garden areapast the falcon cage...).
The tables are set with clean whitetablecloths. Bright red napkins folded accordian style are placed inglasses at each setting. The waiters, clad in matching red jackets,are most courteous, although difficult to find when there are morethan a few customers. The cuisine is more-or-less Lebanese with avariety of mezza hors d'oeuvres, includingtabouleh, hummus, babaghanuj and lahmbi-'ajin. The standard meat fare is there, accompanied withchips or rice. For a drink you have the range, but I suggest thefresh lime juice (sweetened to your taste) to avoid tasting somethingout of a can.
It was June 1991, but the last time Ivisited the Bostan was in February 1990. At that point the masterchef was Monsieur Sherbil, who has since moved to Rabat where he hasopened up a seaside Lebanese restaurant. Sherbil had been associatedwith several restaurant ventures in Sanaa since the early 1980s. Ifirst met him at "Candles" (Shumu'), which lasted only a short whilearound 1984; this restaurant was located near the junction of theMinistry of Agriculture Road (now Kuwait Street) and the Wadi DhahrRoad (also known as the Ministry of Justice Road). After this hemoved on to more meager quarters in the "Ghadir Tourism Restaurant"on a street behind the tea garden diagonally across from the ShebaHotel. It was a bit cramped (to say the least), but the food wasquite good in those days. And there was, unfortunately, littlecompetition in the genre. Later came "Le Baron" which transmutedinto "Abu Nuwas" (not to be confused with the night club at theMövenpick Hotel in Aden or the banquet room in the Sheba Hoteland whatever other locality Abu Nuwas might have slept in); my onlymemory of "Le Baron" is that of ill-trained waiters serving "Ma Ling"canned peas from a far too dainty-looking serving plate.
On this particular Friday I was relativelyearly and so I had the pick of the place. I chose a table underneathan arbor of green raziqi grapes. My table was on a raisedterrace next to a long row of trees and flowers. It appeared to methat this area had not been watered in recent memory as several ofthe flowers looked a bit parched. I almost ordered water just togive them a bit of a drink. What amazed me was that someone hadplanted three lightbulbs in the soil. I stared at these for severalminutes wondering what would eventually sprout up. The wattage wasnot clear, nor the place of manufacture. It is altogether possible,at least in my mind, that some of the bulbs imported to Yemen fromeastern Europe may in fact contain seeds and be capable of producingflowers. Perhaps the same thought occurred to one of the waiters. Having just arrived, I did not yet have the courage to ask.
A Yemeni family was dining further inside. An added attraction for families is that there are several cages ofanimals on the side of the garden. In one is a peacock, although Idoubt there is room in the small space for it to fully display itsfeathers. Since I had been here before, the management had added afalcon and a mongoose. But the main attraction, verified by thegiggling children, was the pair of baboons. The chatter and play ofthe baboons focused my attention for the entire meal. It was obviousthat a proper (i.e., male and female) pair had been chosen for familyfare. The male was no more than two-and-one-half feet high, and thefemale slightly smaller. It appears that the Arabian variant ofPapio hamadryas is of smaller stature than his East Africancousins. Although, in this case I think the Bostan's apes are on thejuvenile side.
One of my first acts, even before ordering,was to walk over and greet this pair who were destined to be, throughno fault of their own, a major part of my dining experience. The cagewas a virtual prison cell: six feet high, barely six feet long andnot quite three feet wide. A couple of sticks propped at an anglebetween the sides and a couple of chain swings provided the fixedentertainment potential for the baboons. A rusty can of festeringwater (I could readily discern the algae) was placed inside the cage. No doubt my two friends would eventually feed on the remnants of mymeal and countless others. (In some ways, it was probably a betterset-up for them than a zoo.)
Despite the bleak reality of their cage, mysimian friends were making the best of it. But it seemed unsportingof a higher evolved form not to relate to their cousins by name. Iasked each of them, half suspecting a reply, but only a quizzicallook could be returned. So it seemed best to give them each a name,at least so I could talk about them on a more personal basis. Afterall, we were dining together in the broader sense. Somehow "Flo" and"Eddy" popped out of my mind, and so I dubbed them for this Fridayafternoon. Both Flo and Eddy were playful little devils and ratherwell accomplished acrobats for the limited space available (itreminded me of trying to dance on a very crowded dance floor). Weexchanged views on the weather (quite hot and dry this year),restaurant life and the like. At least I felt as if we had brokenthe ice.
As I sat coursing through my meal the gardenarea began to fill up with families. The enterprising owner had setup a swing for children near the cages; it was as close to MacDonaldsas one might get in Sanaa. This play area was quite a melting pot: Yemeni, German, Chinese children all oblivious to the linguisticBabel that separated them. One boy in particular had engineered aclever game with Eddy. He placed his foot near the cage andencouraged Eddy to untie the lace. Within ten minutes the deed hadbeen done by a resourceful Eddy. (To be honest, I was more amazed atseeing a seven-year old stand still for ten minutes than at thedexterity of Eddy.) It occurs to me that this may be the firstrecorded observation of an Arabian baboon untieing a boy's shoelace;perhaps this is a first in the whole field of primate studies. Asluck would have it, Flo immediately grabbed the lace and bounced off(not very far, as you might well imagine). She had been ignoringEddy most of the time, but clearly lace had been on her mind. Well,not exactly lace in the feminine sense. Flo spent the next twentyminutes trying to slurp up the lace like a strand of spaghetti. Idoubt if anything that day was more frustrating for Flo than thisuseless spaghetti look-alike that could not be chewed or swallowed(try as she might). The young boy stood by in admiration at his deedand was totally oblivious to the fact that his shoes now flappedclown-like as he walked back to his table. I wonder when the parentswould realized that the lace was missing.
What started out as a leisurely lunchobserving baboons was evolving more into a play in which the maincharacters were my fellow patrons. The behavior of Flo and Eddy,restricted as it was forced to be, made sense in the ultimate schemeof things. They were on the inside trying half-heartedly to get out. We, on the other hand, were already on the outside and presumablyable to know better (at least according to relative brainsize).
Let me introduce you to the other guestsbesides myself, Flo and Eddy. At the table in front of me sat twoEgyptian men who were soon joined by two Frenchmen. There was arather abrupt shift from Cairene Arabic to French (or at least a formof French). What struck me was not the Egyptian or the Frenchdialects, but the visual message on the back of a t-shirt worn by oneof the French diners. This might have been purchased anywhere, ofcourse, since all these designs are mumbo-jumbled internationally. First of all the color of the t-shirt was that of over-ripe bananapulp (it really was). Emblazoned on the back were four figures, eachof them a replica of the racist "Black Sambo" image of Blacks inAmerica during the "Amos 'n Andy" era. One of these caricatures wasboxing, another surfing, and so on. I suppose it was supposed tocommunicate nothing significant and for the most part it did here inYemen. But I was somewhat appalled and was tempted to ask thefellow, whose back was a billboard for my face, to take off his shirtand wear it backwards (assuming only the over-ripe banana exuded onthe front).
A Yemeni child, perhaps about three or fouryears old, walked by in a far more palatable t-shirt. It simply said"Gator Beach" and showed a Florida style beach with palm trees and asailboat. This I could take with a smile, even though I rememberreading in one of the super-market tabloids that killer gators wereescaping the Everglades and would soon be the death of us all.
The t-shirt billboard is a social customthat to my knowledge has not been given serious attention. Do peoplereally want to advertize the products named on the shirt orcommunicate the gross messages flashed on front or back? There is awealth of t-shirt types in Sanaa. The one that really struck me thistime was made in Indonesia. It shows a shark named "Mr. Mako" andpeddles a fictitious (I hope) "Shark Bite Beer". Of course this beerhas a "smooth predatory taste". (The designer label, by the way,shows an American Indian head in full headdress.) One of thet-shirts making the rounds in Sanaa shows Saddam and reads "Allahuakbar," surely a collector's item for the wayward tourist if everthere was one.
The way people dress always amazes me. Mostforeigners in Yemen try to respect local custom, expecially those whoare resident for a period of time. But it seems that a trip onFriday afternoon to the Bostan allows for a bit of relaxation. Theskirts on the European women are shorter and the men sport t-shirts. What intrigues me is how it is virtually impossible to identify thenationality of children from the clothing. There may be a Yemenifamily with the women in sharshaf, but the children dress likechildren anywhere, mostly t-shirts and shorts. Yet there willprobably come a point when the clothes will mean something and bechosen for a more blatantly social purpose. But if the children canmix and play as one, will they not want to do so when they grow up?
The Bostan highlights a number of anomaliesin modern Yemen, the mixing of traditions, the merging of the oldwith the new. I saw a family with a Yemeni man married to a Europeanwife. There are the lonely Lebanese and Syrian workers, the foreignconsultants escaping from claustrophobic hotels, a few strugglingstudents. The melting pot which this Lebanese restaurant hosts goesbeyond the children's swings, t-shirts, and caged baboons. One ofthe most poignant metaphors of change is the presence of rows ofMousy non-alcoholic beer in a cooler near the garden area. It lookslike a regular beer can, but of course the liquid inside does nottaste like it. Now, to my mind the taste of non-alcoholic can beeris a Madison Avenue nightmare. I have never actually met anyone whoadmits to drinking it, unless by mistake or just for an initialtrial. It's presence here is ultimately a joke, because a Muslimwould hardly be tempted to try it (even if it is non-alcoholic) andany true beer drinker would rather go without. Could these be thesame cans I saw a year ago, or even seven years ago at the "Candles"restaurant? What is the half-life of non-alcoholic beer, anyway?
Back to Flo and Eddy. As I finished thelast of my coffee (Do you ask for Arabic or Turkish coffee inYemen?), I turned the cup over as though my fortune could be readfrom it. It no doubt annoys the waiters, but I like looking for theridges and guessing if I have a long journey ahead of me. Of course,it never works to tell your own future. I left the Bostan moreconcerned about the future of Flo and Eddy. No doubt there will betwo baboons in the cage when I return to Sanaa the next time, butwill I recognize Flo (still wondering about that odd unediblespaghetti) and Eddy or whatever else other travelers might name them? If you happen to get to Sanaa before I do, please do me a favor. Drop by the Bostan for lunch and say hello to Flo and Eddy. Also,please let me know if any of the lightbulbs have sproutedyet.
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