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[Yemen Update 35(1994):17-21]
[The author is Atlanta bureau chieffor American Banker, a financial services newspaper. He travelled toNorth Yemen in 1983 under a journalism fellowship from the Instituteof Current World Affairs.. The photographs in this article and onthe cover were taken by the author.]
It's been ten years since I visited Yemen,but the country and its people are still vivid for me.
I think first of the Mudahars and theirvillage. This family of seven, which included the eldest son's wifeand baby, lived in a one-story house in the Qa' al-Bawn, a valleynorth of Amran. This is not Yemen of the picture post cards. Thereare no green, terraced mountains in the Qa' al-Bawn. Slopes here aremore gradual, the colors muted. The eastern range consists of blackvolcanic rock, the western resembles piled-up sand. Only a fewpatches of yellow and green, marking the cultivated areas, disruptthe hazy whiteness of the valley floor.
It's a dry place. With only about eightinches of rain a year, coming in two installments during the biannualmonsoons, most of the agriculture is dependent on diesel-poweredwater pumps. These can be heard all day long, chugging away fromdistant fields. Miniature twisters spot the valley floor in theafternoons, whipping funnels of dust into an empty blue sky. In someareas, the soil is such a fine powder that each footstep raises apuff like smoke.
In the Qa' al-Bawn, water pumps equalwealth. And by that standard, the Mudahars qualified as probably thewealthiest family in Bayt al Rabu'i, a village of about 25 homesclustered on the valley's eastern slope. They owned part shares intwo pumps, which they used to irrigate their wheat, potatoes andvegetables. They were one of only three families in the village withan electric generator to light their home and the only one to be ableto afford enough diesel fuel to run it every night. When the otherhouses went dark, neighbors &emdash; mostly children &emdash; wouldtroop over to the Mudahars' mafraj, or living room, to watch Egyptianmovies on their color television. The Mudahars also had a Toyota LandCruiser for getting around the valley and hauling their crops intoAmran.
Their wealth came from Saudi Arabia ratherthan Yemen. During the period I visited with them, the Mudahars hadtwo sons working in the Saudi construction industry. The money theseyoung men sent home, combined with contributions from the eldest son,Muhammad, who had returned the previous year, had lifted the Mudaharsout of the 19th century lifestyle that is still the lot of many ruralYemenis.
The house itself was modest: a one-story,concrete block structure that featured two rooms: the mafraj and acombination dining area and storeroom. The kitchen was located in asmall, windowless building attached to the main structure. There wasonly one bed, in the mafraj, which was used by Abdullah, thehead of the family. The others slept on cushions in the other room. The Quran was the only book in the house. In the mornings, I wouldawake to find Abdullah sitting on his bed with the Quran open beforehim, softly mouthing verses. I always thought this odd. As far as Iknew, Abdullah couldn't read much more than his name.
Fifteen year-old Yahya was the only''educated'' family member. He attended primary school in aneighboring village, which like most Yemeni schools operated withEgyptian teachers. Thinking I might broaden his horizons, I oncebrought Yahya an Arabic translation of Treasure Island. Surely, Ithought, this tale of pirates and buried treasure would haveuniversal appeal. I even told him, when I presented it, that thisbook was particularly good. Yahya seemed interested as he leafedthrough the pages. But then he came to an illustration of a piratesitting at a table with a bottle of rum. Haram, hadha haram,''Forbidden, it is forbidden,'' he scolded me, handing the bookback.
Yahya, like boys everywhere, could bemischievous. He liked to race the Toyota around the valley's dirttracks. Once we passed a dark, bearded man behind the wheel ofanother Land Cruiser, whom Yahya identified as a sheikh, or triballeader. Yahya grinned at me as we enveloped the fellow in great,gagging billows of dust. Some weeks later, I was sitting in theMudahar mafraj when I heard a metallic thunk in the yard. Theentire household rushed out to find the front end of the Toyotalodged in a stone wall, and Yahya, paralyzed with dismay, in thedriver's seat. Abdullah stormed at the boy, who reluctantly emergedfrom the vehicle. Abdullah, who always reminded me of an Arab RingoStarr with his bulbous nose and heavy whiskers, slapped his sonaround the head for good measure.
But fortunately, this was only a fenderbender. When Hassina, Yahya's mother mentioned the incident to me thenext day, she made a show of scolding Yahya for being a ''bad boy.''He looked sheepish, but then she gave the game away &emdash; shewinked at me and made playful slapping motions at her own cheeks.This was typical of her gentle, good-natured ways.
To help compensate the Mudahars for theirgenerous hospitality, I brought them oranges when I arrived fromSanaa and also tried to assist their efforts to procure a water tankfor Bayt al Rabu'i. I took Muhammad, the eldest son, to the capitalto enlist USAID in the cause. We began our journey on the Sa'da-Sanaaroad waiting for a taxi. While we were standing there, Muhammad madea display of rummaging through his pockets only to announce,haplessly, that all his money was fi'l bayt, ''at the house.'' I tookthis as an obvious cue to pay for the ride. Since I would beremaining in Sanaa while Muhammad planned to return the next day, Ialso gave him enough money for the return journey. It came to 200riyals in all, then worth about $40.
Muhammad never said another word about themoney. But the debt seemed to unsettle the rest of the family. Fromtime to time, Hassina would wrinkle her eyebrows at me and inquire ifMuhammad had repaid the money. I had to say no, but always tried toassure her this was not a problem as far as I wasconcerned.
The morning of my last day with theMudahars, both Hassina and Abdullah came up to me in the house whileMuhammad was outside feeding the cow. When I again had to tell them,no, Muhammad hadn't given me any money, Abdullah pulled a roll ofbills out of his pocket and began peeling off 50 riyal notes. La,la, ''No, no,'' I protested, malesh, mush mushkilla, ''Itdoesn't matter; no problem.''
Hassina took the notes from her husband andpressed them firmly into my hand. Ayb, ''Shame,'' sheexclaimed, startling me with her vehemence. The Arab rules ofhospitality mystified me at times, but I knew that sometimes you gavemore offense by not accepting. I took the money.
As for the petition, the Americans werehelpful, but the project had to be approved by the government. Ourrequest for a water tank disappeared into the labyrinth of the Yemenibureaucracy, never to be heard from again.
I had gone to see a linguist friend,Wolfgang Werbeck, in Manakha, where he was studying the localdialect. One morning, we decided to walk to the village of Hutayb,about three miles away, to see the shrine of a 12th century Ismailisaint. Devotees of that religion routinely make the pilgrimage by thebusload, but Wolfgang and I managed to get lost in the mountains.Convinced by some villagers that a short cut was possible, we leftthe main road, and followed a path up the slopes past crevices ofyellow wild flowers. Eventually we emerged at a place aptly namedal-Jabal, ''the mountain.'' As the late afternoon fog rolled in fromthe Red Sea, this walled village floated on the clouds like somemagic kingdom lost in time, a Yemeni Brigadoon.
We ventured through the gate to be greetedby dead silence. The migration of young men to the Gulf had beendraining the highland villages since the late 1970s, and al-Jabalseemed clear evidence of that. Many of the houses had collapsed fromneglect. A few old men sitting around outside the mosque constitutedthe only sign of life. Wolfgang, who thought he'd do a little workwhile he was there, pulled out his tape recorder and sat down. Heintroduced himself and said he was collecting Yemeni folk tales andstories for a book. Did they know any good ones?
Mafish, ''There are none,'' came onegraybeard's terse reply.
Well, Wolfgang continued gamely, how's thefarming been lately? Any rain? ''There is no rain; there is no God,''the elder said, squinting skyward.
Wolfgang gave it one last try, although thegrim fatalism of these men foreordained the result. ''What's the nameof the tribe in these parts?'' Mafish qabayl, ''There are notribes.''
From Manakha, I took the blue GeneralTransport Corporation bus to the coast, and spent a pleasant hourchatting with Ahmad. This young man, who was wearing a striped shirtand light brown jacket with his kilt-like futah, had learned Englishentirely from self-study books and films. ''It is my hobby,'' hesaid. ''Some people like to collect stamps. I like to studyEnglish.''
Ahmad was also a student of Yemeni society.His countrymen, he complained, ''do not think of the future,'' andonly work enough to buy their q¡t, which is a mildly narcoticweed that Yemenis like to chew in the afternoons. He also talkedabout the dafa'a, or bride price. In Yemen, this could range from$10,000 to $30,000, depending on region and family status. Wasn'tthat outrageous? he asked me. I thought it might make him feel betterto know that alimony and child support can make divorce an expensiveproposition for the American male.
He nodded, delighted with the comparison.''That's the difference between your country and mine,'' he said.''In Yemen, we pay everything at the beginning and nothing at theend, while your situation is the opposite.''
During my stay in the Tihama, I thought tovisit the coastal town of Loheya, north of Hodeidah. The guidebookdescribed it as a charming little port known for its 18th century and19th century architecture, most notably wooden doors embossed withIslamic geometric patterns. The American ambassador was reputed tohave bought one of these doors during a visit.
The ambassador, I suspect, hadn't tried toget to Loheya by taxi. I spent an hour or so hanging around the taxistation on the main highway linking Hodeidah with Saudi Arabia beforea young man with a motorcycle offered to take me to Zohra, abouthalfway to Loheya, for $10. We arrived after a bumpy excursionthrough the Tihama outback to find Zohra prostrate in the noondayheat. Among the thatched conical huts I found a brick building, whichhoused a government irrigation project. John Pavey, a Britishengineer who had been working there six months, informed me thatLoheya ''is not the kind of place you want to visit unless you have agood reason for going there.'' He recalled how a German man had comethrough town several months before inquiring about the road toLoheya. After hanging around Zohra all day waiting for a taxi, theGerman finally gave up and returned to Hodeidah.
After absorbing this bad news, I decided Iwould at least wander around Zohra and snap a few photos of a''typical Tihama village.'' My progress through town soon attractedthe attention of a pack of small boys, who raised the dreaded cry,sura, sura, roughly ''Take my picture!'' This is a not uncommonexperience for foreign visitors in Yemen. It happened to me twice ineight months. Some American archaeologists I met labelled thisphenomenon ''The Revenge of the Walids,'' a play on the Arabic wordfor ''boy.'' After an initial period of good humored pantomime aboutphoto taking, the boys' mood darkened. I found myself being pursuedthrough Zohra under a hail of rocks and jeers. It was only luck thatmy retreat took me past a middle-aged black woman who objected tothis kind of misbehavior. Wheeling around, she scolded the boys soseverely that they dispersed to other mischief. Thanking the woman, Iwas on my way back to the safety of Pavey's compound when a voicecalled to me, in English, ''Come here!''
Four young men were gathered on the porch ofan official-looking building. The one who spoke English, wearingslacks and a white shirt, demanded to know if I had a permit to takepictures in Zohra. ''And who are you?'' I snapped back, my nervesstill raw from the walid attack. When he said he belonged to thegovernment, I insisted that he show me his papers first. Fine. Hesaid he'd go back to his house and retrieve the documents. As weawaited his return, the other men commiserated with me about theheat, which must have been close to 100 degrees. The patriot returneda few minutes later with a laminated card identifying him asbelonging to some department of the bureaucracy. ''We go to theoffice now,'' he said. At that point, I flourished my ownSanaa-issued press card. Asif, ''Sorry,'' he said. ''Noproblem,'' I said, and we all shook hands.
Returning to the water project, I saidgoodbye to Pavey and flagged down a jeep heading back to the Hodeidahroad. I asked one of the two men in the Toyota where he was from.''Loheya,'' he said. I paused, overcome with irony. I told him I hadheard this was a madina kwayyis, a ''nice town.''
''Yes,'' he agreed, ''it is a nicetown.''
In the arid Wadi Jubah I went looking forNagia. Not by myself, this time, but in the company of a team ofAmerican archaeologists.
Nagia was a South Arabian city mentioned byPliny the Elder in the 1st century. He described it as an importantstop on the spice caravan route connecting Timna (or Qataban) insouth Yemen with Marib (most likely Saba, or Sheba) just across theborder in north Yemen. From Marib, the caravans continued on acrossthe Saudi desert to Palestine. The archaeologists were hoping to findNagia in the Wadi Jubah, which is located about 20 miles south ofMarib. I spent a couple of weeks with them to lend an extra hand witha shovel.
The archaeologists never could determine ifthe tell they were excavating outside Wadi Jubah's main town actuallywas Nagia. They found clear evidence of a walled city existing therein pre-Roman times, but the construction was minor league compared tothe great dam at Marib. Jubah, then as now, was a provincialbackwater. Bill Glanzman, the team's pottery expert, once said to me,only partly tongue in cheek, ''We're here to find out how the commonpeople lived while the Queen of Sheba was visitingSolomon.''
Jubah's common people today make theirliving off smuggling. Just as their ancient ancestors carriedfrankincense and myrrh to Palestine on camel-back, so the modern dayJubans traverse the Saudi desert in Toyota jeeps, returning ladenwith duty-free Japanese electronics, American wheat and Saudigasoline. Every morning, we awoke to the sound of murmuring enginesas these vehicles filtered back into the wadi through the passesfollowing their all-night odysseys.
Wadi Jubah is a frontier area, Wyatt Earpland, where young men check their Kalashnikovs at the schoolhousedoor. Since foreigners don't venture here without protection, thearchaeologists were lucky to win the patronage of the the localgovernor, Abdullah al-Bahri. A graduate of the military academy inSanaa, al-Bahri displayed a bit more worldly sophistication than wascommon in the wadi. He quickly smoothed over any disputes that arosewith the locals, a necessary task since, as team member Mike Toplynremarked, ''These people could shut us down.''
When one man complained about thearchaeologists digging on his property, al-Bahri explained that thevisitors had received permission from the government in Sanaa.Anyway, he said, the Americans would leave the site as they found itafter finishing their work. The old man continued to sputter protest,so al-Bahri shut him up by declaring, ''I'd throw you in jail if youweren't so old!''
The governor led us up a mountain one day toview some ancient inscriptions. He was accompanied by three armedretainers carrying thermos bottles of tea and bundles of qat.At the summit, the Americans examined the ancient lettering while theYemenis relaxed for what can best be described as a qatpicnic. I took a photo of al-Bahri, his cheeks bulging withqat, as one of his retainers squatted just behind him,automatic rifle at the ready.
The Wild West flavor of Wadi Jubah followedme back to Marib. After emerging from the wadi's northern pass, someof the passengers in my pickup truck taxi leaned out the window tofire off a few bursts. They had spied a vehicle ahead of us. Ourdriver immediately hit the gas to catch up. So there we were, racingacross the desert, guns popping like Indians attacking a wagon train,with me having no idea what was going on. Was I about to witness areal life display of tribal conflict?
Not quite. When we reached the other jeep,which had pulled over upon hearing our shots, it turned out that myfellow passengers just wanted to have a little chat with theirfriends.
Some months later, I found myself in Ankara,Turkey. I dropped in at the U.S. embassy to interview the politicalofficer about recent events in that country. After a while, he askedme for my own impressions of Turkey, probably thinking that I wouldfind it rather ''undeveloped'' by American standards. This was acountry, after all, where many homes still lack indoor plumbing orelectricity.
The diplomat seemed puzzled when I describedhow modern and thoroughly European Turkey appeared to me. I hadarrived from Istanbul in a comfortable, fast train and was stillmarvelling at the stylish department stores and boutiques alongAnkara's Ataturk Boulevard. He finally asked me, a note of wonder inhis voice, ''Where have you been?''
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