Imagine for a moment an ocean of soft,yellow-tan sand stretching from horizon to horizon: the famed EmptyQuarter of Arabia, Al-Rub' Al-Khali. This great desert'sgeomorphology consists of flat plains, dotted with tough vegetationon which an occasional camel browses; or of wave upon wave of rollingdunes, broken-faced or intact, created and made dynamic by theomnipresent winds, forming both random and linear patterns in whosetroughs root the same hardy vegetation as on the plains. Theseplants are able to eke out a living from the sterile sands, drawingmoisture from who knows where in a region where rainfall isconsiderably less than 50 mm per year and summertime temperatures canreach 50 degrees Celsius. It was hot even in November, when Ivisited.
Three-hundred-and-thirty kilometers along awell-maintained highway from Najran, Saudi Arabia, once the last stopon the frankincense trail before it split into its western andeastern branches - and deep in the Empty Quarter - lies the obvioussign of an oasis: greenery. Trees, flowers, even basil grow. Yetwhat an oasis, for it is entirely anthropogenic: Sharourah dependsfor its existence on $10 million's worth of wells, reaching intofossilized water reserves 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 km deep. The water thatgushes from the pipes at the surface is hot - around 70 degreesCelsius, and slightly brackish. In a paradox that isn't quite so oddconsidering Sharourah's location, the water must be cooled prior touse. Everything must be trucked-in the 330 km from Najran, includingoil for the electric-generating plant that runs the water pumps,food, fodder for the Bedouins' camels (now permanently penned on thecity's outskirts), and the ubiquitous foreign workers for menialjobs. One finds a hospital, a separate (and larger) militaryhospital, a pitiable zoo with a handful of sorry-looking animals,gelato ice-cream, a municipal swimming pool, a five-star hotel in themaking, and 40,000 civilians who service the large military presencethere, some 80 km north of the "undemarcated" Saudi-Yemeni border. For Sharourah is a strategic city, its costs borne by the Saudigovernment and a willing private sector to assure a strong Saudipresence in the region, a disincentive for Yemen to attempt to regainterritory it surrendered at the end of the 1934 Saudi-Yemeniwar.
Back toward Najran, but 70 km prior toreaching that natural oasis, is another anomaly - an official bordercrossing, in the middle of absolutely nowhere. (The old bordercrossing at Najran itself is closed.) Once on the Yemeni side, thepavement ends abruptly. A four-wheel drive vehicle becomesessential, for the first section of the onward "road" transits thesands of the Empty Quarter. Gradually, seared hills appear in thedistance, looking no more inviting up close.
A camel at a military checkpointdisconsolately chewed on a cardboard box, apparently the mostpalatable food in its vicinity. The four-wheel drive Toyota pickuptruck in which I hitched a ride (YR400) was driven by Husayn, a25-year old Yemeni with prematurely graying hair, a sweet temperament(for he endured without complaint my repeated calls for photo stops),and not a word of English. "Kwayess" and "shway-shway"was just about all I could manage in my rudimentary Arabic that madeany sense to him. We bumped and ground our way up into the mountainsover what are justifiably named "desert tracks" on the maps, arrivingeventually at al-Buqa, the official passport control.
My arrival was cause for considerableconsternation on the part of the Yemenis (I can't help but wonderwhether I was perhaps the first foreigner to come through in a longtime). After politely refusing their offer to tarry for a day, mypassport was requested and subsequently disappeared. An hour later,following several cups of tea and my first exposure to chewing qat,my passport miraculously reappeared complete with entry stamp, andHusayn and I were on our way, immediately entering a town of meanshacks and garbage-lined streets that signaled "Third World." Iquickly, and gratefully, made the transition from the mirage-likesterility of Saudi Arabia to the hubbub of real life.
Husayn indicated the shack where I couldchange money. Two men sat on the floor, behind a couple of makeshifttables on which were stacked sheaves of bills. There was anunopened, shrink-film wrapped package of YR20 notes, weighing perhaps1 kg. I pantomimed, smiling, that I was going to put the packageinto my pack. Equally smiling, the moneychanger drew his fingeracross his throat, a globally unmistakable gesture. I changed money,and gave my fare to Husayn, who left to buy a bag ofqat.
We drove another 200 m, and stopped again. Husayn entered one of the shacks, and exited wearing his jambiya andholding his rifle, which he gave to me to safeguard. I immediatelyfelt less safe, not having any idea as to whether there was a bulletin the chamber or whether the safety was on or off. I kept itpointing away from either of us as much as possible, not always aneasy task since we were bouncing and lurching up into the mountains. We picked up another passenger along the way, an elderly man, fromsome unmarked crossroad (actually, all the tracks - in their vastprofusion - are unmarked, but Husayn clearly had made the trip beforeand showed no doubt over the en route choices). I invited him totake the center seat; Husayn passed his rifle to him, which he heldwith his own weapon, an AK-47. A flood of Arabic conversationensued, aided no doubt by the copious quantities of qatchewed.
A passing vehicle pointed out that our reartire was flat. We stopped, shifted Husayn's cargo around some, andhauled out the spare. Mobile again, within a minute the spare hadtotally deflated. We stopped again, in the gathering dusk under acrescent moon ("gamar," I learn). Off came the spare, on went theoriginal flat, to my puzzlement. While I was looking around for arelatively level, rock-free site to spend the night, Husayn appearedwith our redemptive tool - a length of tubing on either end of anair-pressure gauge. He opened the hood, removed a spark plug,screwed in a converter, attached one end of the tubing to theconverter and the other end to the tire valve, and started theengine. Old and decrepit as his truck seemed, there was nothingwrong with the motor's compression. Ten minutes later, we were onour way, bouncing and lurching our way in the dark.
By this time, my coccyx had started to feela little battered. The road seemed to be never ending. My murderingof Arabic in trying to ascertain when we'd arrive in Sa'da elicitedtwo responses: the current time and 30. The second answer madeabsolutely no sense to me. After a while, lights appeared - a smallvillage. We stopped at the "restaurant." People stared at me. Husayn explained that he picked me up at the Saudi border, that I'm astudent of deserts (it seems that my attempts to communicate hadn'tbeen entirely in vain), and that I was in Yemen to study agriculture. He ordered a plate of bread, a bowl of lentils, and two teas. Ourold man had vanished, this village presumably having been hisdestination. We ate, Husayn went to pay, and started arguing withthe proprietor. Husayn, sounding disgusted, came to me and asked forYR100. Apparently, we'd been "taken."
We proceeded onward, but only for a minuteor two, stopping beside a mud-brick wall in which two large metalgates are embedded. Husayn leaned on the horn, and a man came out. We untied some ropes and an electrical extension-cord, offloaded aheavy sack of dates, and tied everything back on. We left theextension cord, which was evidently part of the transaction. The manspoke broken English, and explained that since Husayn lived nearby,we would spend the night there and proceed to Sa'da in the morning. I willingly accepted this suggestion.
Back in the truck, "nearby" was 30 minutesdownhill on an even rougher side road. We pulled up in front of ahouse, and offloaded the truck - more sacks of dates as well as sacksof rice. Husayn threw down three wheeless tires, and we rolled thetwo 55-gallon drums off onto these. Husayn asked whether I wanted tosleep outside or in the house. Bedazzled by the billions of stars inthe sky, I chose the "outside" option. Husayn fetched a mattress,pillow, and large, thick blanket. The pillow was a typical Yemenipillow, only about 5 cm thick, so I put my canteen under it for extraheight. I lay under the starry canopy, searched for English news onmy shortwave (Radio Australia is usually clear even when the VOA andBBC are fuzzy), and watched sporadic meteors. Husayn bedded downalongside the cargo, rifle beside him. I'm uncertain whether he wasguarding the cargo or me. The air began to chill, then became quitecold. I doubled the blanket, pulled it over my head, andslept.
The thin, reedy call of the muezzin woke mean hour before first light. I listened to it, and marveled that itwas the first unamplified call to prayer that I'd heard - certainly awelcome change. I fell asleep again, having arranged my blanket sothat a minimum of cold air seeped in, regretting that I had nothauled out my three-season sleeping bag at night's start. I reawokeas the sun crept up, and took a look at the world. Straight ahead ofme were two four-story mud towers. To my right, a fairytale sightfor a person who'd never been in Yemen before - a village that lookedlike an amalgam of 1,001 Arabian Nights and Native American Pueblos. Walt Disney could not possibly have done better. What a welcome toYemen!
[The author subsequently stayed amonth in Yemen, visiting agricultural areas around Sa'da, Sanaa,al-Hudayda, Ta'izz, Wadi Hadramawt, and Ma'rib.]