Asia and Africa 2004-2005 travel blog

Tippy Top Rock Palace

Shibom Madonna

Woman of Old Ibb

Al Hajjarah Donks

Child Prodigy

Tea Man in Old Ibb

Super Salesman in Hebrew

Kid from Old Ibb

Friends with Kalishnikovs

Which is my driver Hassan?

Philosophy of Yemen

Sisters from Old Ibb


Qat Market

Copyright 2005

David Rich 1200 Words


Lonely Planet's Guide to The Arabian Peninsula describes Yemen as safer than where you come from and perhaps it is because Yemen has had none of its formerly famous kidnappings since 9/11/01. When terrorism swept the world it apparently left Yemen. Now European and Japanese tourists are flocking to ancient Arabia Felix, Yemen's name in antiquity when Solomon and the Queen of Sheba ruled the world and Yemen's incredible desert palaces and hilltop towns began sprouting like topsy.

Yemen is eye candy where tourists snap photos with abandon. Start in the capitol of Sana'a, its Old City with gingerbread-like condos liberally sprinkled with fancy white frosting in intricate patterns. On the edge of Sana'a sits an ancient castle stacked high on a skyscraper red rock, the most popularized symbol of Yemen seen on posters and in magazines. Don't miss the old Turkish fortresses built high on mountains such as over Thula, or tiny-mesa topped Kawkaban, a miniature town propped high above Shibom with its primordial cave homes. Al Hajjarah is a perfect postcard town while Old Ibb spreads over a precipitously craggy mountain. See the stunning mosques of Jiblah, the view from high on the mountain over Ta'izz or the white powder beaches of the Red Sea. Yemen is tourist excitement central.

Another exciting thing about Yemen is at first it doesn't look so safe. My initial impression was that everyone wore a wicked looking dagger, either pea green or yellow, a big monstrosity stuck in a golden belt worn over white djallabahs under turban tablecloths seemingly pinched from Italian restaurants. After the initial shock of a populace armed to the teeth wore off I realized the daggers were all ceremonial. During my weeks in Yemen I only saw daggers unsheathed twice: the first time at the traditional Yemen dance exhibition where the guys sashay arm in arm while brandishing their daggers like candles. These pussycats, from schoolboys and merchants to military and cops, habitually stroll down the boulevard holding hands. The second time I saw daggers unsheathed was when the driver of an eighteen-wheeler cut another one off and they zoomed down the highway waving daggers at each other while fiercely scowling over bristly mustaches; far more comical than the .347 magnums wielded in road rage where I come from.

Eastern Yemen takes a little more getting used to. There you learn the lessons of the desert. The first is to always give a man a ride who's hitchhiking with a Kalishnikov. But then the residents of eastern Yemen all tote Kalishnikovs, trusty Russian machine guns that make a de rigor fashion statement on the road to Mareb. The wild wild east looks like a lawless part of Yemen but is also a land of pussy cats. Not a single shot was fired during my journey to the east and many of those carrying Kalishnikovs looked suspiciously like a mustachoed Woody Allen in a slightly soiled lavender dress, hardly formidable. However, I also learned the second rule of the desert. Always ask first before taking a photo of a guy with a Kalishnikov. Whew. Heart be still.

Security is tight in Yemen with military roadblocks outside many towns and at one point near Mareb, three in three miles. My strategy for safety was telling everyone I was from Canada, sweet safe Canada that's never invaded another country in its entire history. We'd roll up to a roadblock with my driver shouting, "Kennedy, kennedy," as he handed over a copy of my tourist travel authorization. I'd do a double-take, thinking my cover was being compromised by reference to last Century's U.S. President. Arabic accented English takes getting used to.

More dangerous than the ever-present military with their Kalishnikovs and a populace with daggers is Yemeni multi-tasking. I'd cower in the back seat of the Land Cruiser-for-hire while my driver passed on blind curves above sheer cliffs, dipped into his plastic bag to chew narcotic Qat (pronounced 'kot'), puffed on a cigarette and chatted on a cell phone, simultaneously as we were serenaded by an Arabic 'music' tape on full blast. I learned to prefer Kalishnikovs and daggers.

My driver carefully explained that multi-tasking is no big deal. "Qat makes me strong," he said.

Qat is the drug of choice for all Yemeni males, from cops directing traffic and the military at checkpoints to every man on the street and likely the imams in mosques. Qat leaves that look like shrunken basil leaves are sold literally everywhere, in bundles or still fresh on branch, in every town on every block. Starting about noon everyone's in the market for buying, inspecting, sampling and literally stuffing their faces with Qat leaves for hours until the wad in the cheek is the size of a softball or grapefruit, pouched out like four-inch mumps.

So I had to try Qat. After the first time I said never again. But I finally tried it twice because it's the principal hobby of Yemen's entire population. Qat is nasty stuff like chewing hay. It takes hours of pinching leaves off stems, stuffing them in the mouth, chomping them to soup while desperately trying to form a wad of green goopy flourescent mash that sticks to the inside of cheeks, lips and gums while oozing out the mouth in an unseemly grasshopper-like drool. Qat didn't do a thing for me unless you count exasperation.

Then I ran into a fellow ex-pat who was in the middle of a considerable Qat cudd and asked him, "What's the point? It doesn't seem to do anything for me."

He said, "You have to chew it six or seven times to get anything out of it."

I just looked at him because that adds up to eighteen or twenty hours of chomping hay. I said, "That's an awful lot of work," but he was too busy chomping, happily flashing a sloppy green grin.

I never saw women chewing Qat, but then except for European tourists I never saw women during weeks in Yemen. I did see coteries of penguins floating down the street, big penguins covered from tip to toenail in flowing black dresses that someone said were actually women. You couldn't prove it by me. Penguins go Qat-less but do exude their own mysterious spice.

Home sweet Yemen. Safer than staying home. After chewing an entire Qat tree about the sixth or seventh try you may never want to leave.

When You Go: London, Amsterdam, Paris and Rome offer direct flights to Sana'a for under 1000 Euros roundtrip. For a tour guide agency in Sana'a hook up with Abdul al Fatah Alrefue, tel 00967-1-287270, MOB 00967-73756155, email or and for a super deal say I sent you. Abdul's prices are approximately 70% that of other tour companies (of which there are dozens) and his service is superb. However, all Yemeni drivers can be iffy. Abdul will find you a topnotch hotel with a normal rack rate of $50 for $16 and will customize any tour from one to 24 days. A quaint old hotel worth checking out at the edge of Old Town Sana'a is the Arabia Felix at $22 per night double. All hotels include a breakfast buffet. Yemeni food is uniformly tasty and inexpensive, from miniature baguettes better than French bread to roast chicken with salsa.

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