I still smell like honey perfume. It is so lovely, so sweet that I indulgently bought myself a taste that could last me years. Whenever I wear it, it will bring me back to Yemen. It will take me back to a Thursday night in Sana'a, and that, my dear, is priceless.
The women came out in droves this evening. Just before the setting sun, cliques of them, all covered in black walked the streets, shopping for dresses, food and gold jewelry. They walked in groups of 2, 3 and 5. Some held hands. I watched their elaborate sandled feet, their closed-toed loafers, their delicate hands covered in gloves, black, gray and white moving through the old city, across the stone streets and under the crumbling fortresses. I smiled at them, not knowing if they were smiling back. Sometimes, I could have sworn that I could see their eyes crease just slightly under their burkhas. Sometimes, I might have been making it up.
Of course, when the sun faded, so did they.
Thursday evening, the night before the sacred day of prayer and the first day of the Yemeni weekend, is alive in Sana'a. Men of all ages sit around, running their wheelbarrows through the winding streets, filling their cheeks with quat. Some are on motorbikes, large and small, some are on foot and others drive small trucks filled with kids or bags of produce in the back. Some men stared at me, some gawked. Others paid little attention at all.
Kebabs, fresh bread, frankincense and chai wafted through the air.
One stout old man with a whitening beard invited us into his Mosque. I've never been inside a Mosque before, and I never imagined that I would be allowed in one, especially in Yemen, and especially without my head scarf on and my wrists showing. I let Bob enter first, then I hesitantly followed. I removed my shoes, and when the little old man seemed distressed by this, I moved toward the exit. Just as I thought. What am I doing wandering through a Mosque in Yemen?
No, my Arabic-speaking colleague said, don't leave, he is only worried that someone will take your shoes. Lucky for me, Tahir, our security detail, had that covered, ushering me back in through the stone arches.
An American woman walking barefoot and bare-headed through a Mosque in Yemen -- some misperceptions are meant to be broken. I didn't feel anything inside the Mosque, not that I thought I would. To me, it was like a church without the saints and the pews. It was slightly ornate, and a sweeping gold chandlier straddled the ceiling. "Allah," said the little old man, smiling from ear to ear, as he pointed to what looked like a large wardrobe at the front of the Mosque. Ok, I thought, as he moved from corner to corner, asking Bob to snap pictures of him.
As we moved away from the Mosque and through the city tonight, I saw some little boys, as well as little girls. They were out to earn some change. Some sold gum, others sold tissues, and most stood on bare feet with dust smeared across their faces. I enjoyed making eye contact with some of the little girls, wondering about them, and wondering what they were wondering about me. I loved them all. The little boys dressed like little men. One boy trying for a 1,000 rial, was wearing an oversized blazer with pants rolled up just slightly to showcase his spindly shins.
We had such a nice time in the city tonight that we wanted to see more, more of the city and more of Yemen. It would have been nice if the night, which ended with a large grilled fish and a taste of honey perfume, never had to come to an end.
"Gahyman -- can we go there to get some shots of a village?" asked Bob.
Tahir shook his head defiantly. Gayhman -- pronounced "gay man," only 13 kilometers outside of Sana'a, is too dangerous, he said. Gayhman is on the road to Marib, an area in conflict, like the majority of this poor country. Al Quaida operates on that road. Yikes, I thought, swallowing a baseball-sized nerve into my stomach. I then ran the images through my head:
The Landrover I saw yesterday with men in fatigues and white head wraps, and wild hair inside and on the roof, climbing one of the mountains inside Sana'a.
The car that was burning, totally engulfed in flames.
Although I am sure these images were nothing at all, just everyday life in Sana'a, they reminded me too much of what I see in the media, day in and day out.
And then the newspaper article in the Yemen Times today about how the young recruits have no discretion for who they kill, when, and how merciless they are. Although it seems hard to believe, wandering through the streets of Old City, Sana'a... I breathed in a gut rush of anxiety.
But I could still smell a touch of the lovely honey perfume. I used my next breath to inhale that instead.
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