Chewin' The Qat

A casual visitor to Yemen may be forgiven for thinking there is a horrible cheek tumour epidemic going around amongst the male population (possibly also the female one, but due to the almost universal wearing of the veil it's hard to tell) of the country. Many men, and even some young boys, can be seen with sizeable lumps in one of their cheeks. If one were to look more closely - and I wouldn't recommend it - one would realise that the protrusions are produced by a mashed bolus of vegetable matter. This, is qat. The leaf of the qat plant contains a mild stimulant and is the drug of choice here in Yemen (and, from what I hear, in Ethiopia and Somalia too) where everybody walks around clutching a small plastic bag of qat sprigs wherever they go. For many men the afternoon is given over to chewing qat, during which time they make even less sense than usual. But that's OK because you probably don't want to be talking to somebody who's chewing qat. Not because of the psychological effects of the drug, but what with the flecks of bilious green spittle around their mouths (and in their beards) and gobs of ectoplasm churning behind their teeth, qat chewers are not a pretty sight. They continue to give me flashbacks of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. In the mornings as you walk the quiet streets of the city you can also spot the tell tale little mounds of used qat on the pavement, looking like neat piles of composted grass clippings.

Qat is huge in Yemen. You can find it being sold everywhere on the streets, you don't even need to get out of your car to buy it as street urchins man most busy traffic junctions with bundles of the stuff. As much as half of all agricultural land is given over to growing it, a statistic that can easily be believed when one ventures out into the outskirts of Sana'a where qat plantations abound. It's not hard to understand either when a kilo of qat can sell for $10 whereas the same quantity of oranges, for example, will get you only a tenth of that. It has become something of a social problem as well since some users are spending over 25% of their income on qat alone, not something that people in this relatively poor country can afford.

It is impossible to spend any amount of time here without being offered some, and in the spirit of exploration and discovery I felt obliged to give it a try to see what all the fuss is about. My dalliance with the plant didn't last long as I found the taste far too bitter for my sensitive taste buds and so I spat the leaves out before getting the desired effect. Such seems to be the way with me, be it peyote in Mexico, coca in Peru, paan in the Subcontinent or opium in Iran (I could also mention cigarettes), the unpleasantness just doesn't seem to be worth it. I think I'll just stick to beer.

P.S. For those of you who are keen Scrabble players qat is also a very useful way of getting rid of that pesky Q when there are no U's available.

Gem Of A City

I wish I knew more about architecture so that I could write something meaningful and erudite about the old town centre of Sana'a and its houses rather than the trite platitudes that will invariably follow. As opposed to most of the rest of the Arabian peninsula where the population has historically been nomadic the mild climate of much of Yemen (due to the mountains) led to a more sedentary lifestyle which allowed for the various cultural accouterments that go with it such as architecture and ... other stuff. Anyway, architecture. The buildings in Sana'a, though tall, are not as tall as those in Shibam but more than make for it in style and refinement. Solid brick facades decorated with plasterwork in simple, yet graceful, geometric designs and, the adorning cherry on the cake, the beautiful stained-glass windows. The entire historical centre is remarkably well-preserved (one of the success stories of the UNESCO world heritage programme). In fact the only city of comparable size I have seen with such a stunning historical core is Prague. What particularly pleases me is the fact that even new buildings are built in the traditional style (if not using old methods then at least to look like traditional houses).

Luckily it's also a not too unpleasant place to while away a few days as I have bureaucratic hoops to jump through: more tasirehs, visas and tours to organise (because this time I'm not going to get away with trying to take public transport to restricted areas), and of course Sod's Law is making its appearance by making this a long weekend (it was New Year's day today apparently). At least it gives me time to read, fool around on the internet and watch some TV. Apparently satellite TVs are mandatory hotel furniture, even for really cheap dives, although for some reasons decent ablution facilities aren't. Ah well, different people have different priorities I suppose.

Dam That Was Great

As the road from Wadi Hadramawt runs westwards and the mountains fall away and the landscape gets progressively more arid until all you can see is desert in all directions with occasional dust-devils appearing and disappearing in the distance. It had taken a bit of running around in Sayun (the major town close to Shibam) to get on the bus. Not because the bus company was hard to find - it was right next door to my hotel - but because of the tasireh (travel permit) that I needed to get from the police. Upon arriving at Ma'rib, my destination, I was bundled into a police car and carted off to a hotel which was out of my budget and I refused to stay there. This had the police completely stumped as, theoretically, I wasn't even supposed to have been allowed to travel by bus there. Foreigners are only allowed to visit Ma'rib by tour. This is apparently for their own protection as this area of Yemen is notorious for foreigner kidnappings. Not that anything bad usually happens, generally it is seen as a quick way by locals of getting money and expressing grievances with the government and the victims are usually released unharmed, and often well treated, once the ransom is paid. (Regarding ransoms I heard a funny story, possibly apocryphal, about how a couple of years ago a Chinese deputy ambassador was kidnapped. Neither the Yemeni nor Chinese government seemed to care and after 40 days of being pampered by his hosts the man was released. However he had enjoyed himself so much with his captors that the man returned to them and they had to forcibly remove him, twice, before leaving an advert in the papers saying that they would never kidnap Chinese people again.) Eventually the tourist liaison department was called and I crashed at their office for free.

So why come to Ma'rib if it is such a dodgy place where you're not even allowed to walk the streets after dark? Well the area around Ma'rib used to be the capital of the Sabaean empire some 3000 years ago and home to the legendary Queen of Sheba. The Sabaean empire grew wealthy on the spice trade and the commerce in frankincense and myrrh. Now we've all learnt about frankincense, but what about myrrh? Brian's mum thought it was "a dangerous animal" and although that's blatantly not true, very few of us know what it really is. In fact it is very much like myrrh: a resin from a tree used to make ointments and also burned as incense. But anyway, not much is left from the Sabaeans except for a few ruined temples and palaces, innumerable shops called Saba something or other or Bilqis that (Bilqis was apparently the name of the Queen of Sheba) and the remains of one of the ancient world's greatest engineering feats: the Great Dam of Ma'rib. At its peak the dam was over half a kilometre wide and 7m high and allowed for the irrigation of a vast area. Unfortunately in the 6th century the dam was destroyed by a flood and poor upkeep. It is still possible though to see the sluice gate and the edges of the formidable dam on either side of the wide valley. It's just a pity that modernday Ma'rib doesn't live up to its pedigree.

Sandscrapers

The great Empty Quarter stretches across from Oman into eastern Yemen meaning that connections aren't particularly frequent. I had just missed the bus from Salalah on Friday and would have had to have waited until Monday for the next one into Yemen. No way was I waiting on my ass that long and so I found the road to the border and sat myself down to wait for a ride. I was surprised to see I wasn't the only one with the same idea. A Yemeni on his way back home from a 10-day spending binge in Dubai (as far as I could understand he had spent $3500 and had a flat-pack computer desk and a TV in tow - somehow I think most of his money had been spent on hookers) was already squatting by the turn-off. A lucky thing for me as there wasn't much traffic and my companion managed to sweet talk our passage to the border with a passing Omani, something I probably wouldn't have been able to do. Once on the other side of the border I had to stay 10 hours in the sleazy border town (it seems a universal trait of border towns that they are grimy, seedy, unwelcoming places) before the next bus would leave. Luckily I didn't have to wait that long before a friendly Pakistani truck driver gave me a lift out of that hellhole. But not only did he give me a lift, he bought me dinner, let me sleep in his cab, gave me breakfast the next morning and insisted on paying for my onward bus fare. And all I asked for was a lift...

So I got to Shibam, a place I had been dying to see for some time though I hadn't really expected getting here on this trip. Though not particularly well known the small town of Shibam is situated in Wadi Hadramawt, the largest wadi in Arabia (at over 200km long). It's a sort of "Land that Time Forgot" as the walls of the wadi are some 300m tall and very sheer with only 4 roads connecting it to the rest of the country and with a (relative) profusion of plant life and intensive agriculture, a stark contrast to the dry, lifeless landscape outside its protective walls. The town of Shibam is roughly in the middle of the wadi and with a population of less than 10,000 it would be rather forgettable; if it wasn't for its unique architecture. The adobe houses are tightly packed together to conserve precious agricultural ground and many date back some 500 years, oh yes, and they are usually 6-8 stories tall. Yep, they were building skyscrapers here in Yemen 400 years before the Yanks got in on the act. Sure you won't see sleek Cadillacs cruising the streets of Shibam, instead it's packs of goats that rule the roads, but I certainly felt the same way walking down the narrow alleys as when I first visited downtown Manhattan. And you certainly don't have to be a connoisseur of architecture to be blown away by the elegantly tapering buildings (slightly reminiscent of Tibetan houses I saw in western Yunnan and Sichuan) with their intricately carved wooden doors and windows. A true gem of a town and a delight to just contemplate from a nearby hilltop as the sun sets, giving the town a warm, reddish glow.

Jinns And Indians

Between Muscat and the Hajar mountains in the east and Salalah in the far southwest conrner of the country there is pretty much nothing. I admit I'm just assuming that because I was sleeping on the bus as it skirted the infamous Rub Al Khali (the Empty Quarter) which, on the maps at least, is exactly that. A place once favoured by ancient cartographers as it allowed them to be lazy and let their imaginations run riot with proclamations of "Here be Dragons!!" But the region of Dhofar, of which Salalah is the capital, is certainly very different from the east. For a start it's much greener because it gets brushed by India's Summer monsoon with a misty drizzle (locally called the khareef) allowing a greater profusion of flora. One could almost imagine being in southern India (except that here instead of having to watch out for stray cows on the road it is the camels you have to keep an eye out for), an impression reinforced by the large number of expatriate, mainly Keralan, workers. (I had an interesting chat with one such worker whilst waiting for a museum to open. He had been working here for the past 10 years and has a wife and two young children back in India who he sees only once a year. Yet he is happy with his lot as his children are going to good schools and he is saving for their higher education, something he, as a relatively unskilled worker, would not be able to do back home. In fact he seems to be slightly mocking of the Omanis who, according to him, are obly interested in eating, sex and having an easy life, but who will get a rude awakening when the oil runs out and they find out that they are not qualified to do anything. A point of view I am am prone to agree with from the little I have seen here. But enough of that, back to my rivetting description of Dhofar!) The place isn't just different because of its ecology, but also its people who are more likely to betray Oman's colonial past when they ruled over parts of the east African coast.

The Dhofari coast had been a rich and prosperous region even in classical times, mainly due to a single tree, Boswellia sacra, that only grows in the particular climatic conditions found in the southern Arabian peninsula and the Horn of Africa. The gnarly, unassuming tree lacks the physical presence that its fame would demand. The sap of Boswellia was used by many pagan religions in their rituals and its value was comparable to that of gold. When brought back to Europe by the crusading Franks it was named after them and called frankincense. Funnily enough, despite frankincense being one of the gifts brought to Jesus by the three kings it was the rise of Christianity that dealt the greatest blow to the frankincense trade as its use was frowned upon by the church because of its pagan associations. There are several ancient sites connected with the frankincense trade dotted around Dhofar such as Wubar (which I didn't visit as it's too out of the way), Al Baleed and Khor Rouri. I particularly enjoyed the latter, not because of the ruins (your standard low walls) but because of its site by a brackish lagoon separated from the sea by a narrow sandbar between two cliffs. As soon as I saw it I decided to spend the night there on the beach. It was a glorious place to just watch the waves breaking, or to read a book (which at the moment is The First Circle by Aleksander Solzhenitsyn that I have been carrying around with me since Islamabad), or to watch the abundant bird life supported by the lagoon: terns, gulls, herons, egrets, storks, ospreys, flamingos and plenty I don't know the names of. At one point three local youths came down to the beach for a bit of horsing around and I got to talking with them. When they discovered that I was planning to spend the night there they became alarmed and worried for my safety, not because of thieves, murderers or tsunamis, but because of jinn. At first I thought they were having me on but they were in fact very serious. Here in Oman jinn are not the kind portrayed in Disney cartoons and are still very much feared for the harm and mischief they can cause (Bahla is the jinn capital of Oman and apparently I was dicing with death by free-camping there). The only way I could get them not to forcibly carry me off was to convince them that I was on good terms with jinns and that ajnabi (foreigner) flesh isn't very tasty to local jinns.

On The Road Again

I have finally managed to get my Yemen visa (once the embassy opened the process was quite straightforward) and am heading west to the border. Welcome news for Michael's mum I am sure as I am probably beginning to eat them out of house and home; and for me too, in a way, as the Pidgeons are far too healthy, regularly going on 6km jogs and roping me in to participate in a couple of "fun runs" (surely a contradiction in terms if ever there was one). As Henry Ford once famously said: "Exercise is bunk. If you are healthy, you don't need it. If you are sick, you shouldn't take it?" (Though perhaps he was trying to sell more cars with that statement.)

But before travelling through the wide, empty expanse of Oman's interior a bit of pottering closer to Muscat was required. Over three quarters of Oman's population lives in a narrow strip of land, perhaps only 100km wide, along its northern coast. And although the coastal areas, especially around Muscat, have modernised dramatically, only an hour's drive inland, through the Hejar mountains, the towns maintain a more traditional falvour. Every settlement is built arounda life-giving falaj - a traditional network of cannals, often dug underground to prevent evaporation, that channels water from perennial springs in the mountains and whose use and maintenance are equitably shared amongst the community - thereby allowing the cultivation of lush banana and palm plantations and even the occasional paddy field in the middle of such seemingly inhospitable conditions. And every larger settlement has its own fort, usually made of baked clay bricks and adobe, dating back to times of petty feudal squabbles and banditry. Sometimes, huddled around the forts, one can also find traditional houses, also made of adobe, with high walls and imposing doorways to keep out prying eyes. Though many of these houses have been abandoned and are falling into disrepair as people forsake the constant work that is needed to maintain adobe for modern, concrete houses with air conditioning. Sad, perhaps, but then I'm sure most people would do the same given the choice.

Oman also has an abundance of of natural beauty, from rocky mountains to deserted beaches, and green wadis (seasonal river beds) to bone-dry desert. Not surprising really, given a population of just over 2.5 million in a country the size of Poland. Unfortunately, again given the small population, public transport is infrequent and the best places are only accessible by 4WD, so I haven't seen as much as I would have liked. I did, however, make up for this last night when I did a spot of camping in a twon called Bahla. I don't know if I've already mentioned how expensive things are here in Oman, but there was no way I was paying for a hotel, so when I arrived in town after dark I started looking for a place to pitch my tent. I didn't need to look long as I found a lovely spot under the main bridge across a wadi not 500m from the centre of town. But nobody seemed to notice as it was well hidden. OK, I didn't have a great night's sleep, but I believe that had more to do with the fact that I've been pampered these past couple of months with beds, en suite bathrooms, sit down toilets and TV. Something that will have to change as I tighten my belt for the home straight.

Like A Sunday Morning

Oman is a strange country. Like its other Arab brethren in the Gulf its wealth comes its substantial reserves of oil. In the past 35 years the country has been transformed from a rural backwater to a thriving, developed country with all the latest mod-cons including swanky shopping centres, sports clubs and even traffic that obeys road rules (more or less), a very rare thing indeed. Apart from these exterior signs of affluence the first thing a visitor to Oman will notice is the number of non-Omanis. Expats are used to do the majority of the work in the country, from the Westerners who are brought in for their technical expertise; educated Indians for administrative roles; various south Asians (mainly Sri Lankans and Tamils) for manual work; and Chinese women as prostitutes.

Life with the Pidgeons (for that is Michael's surname) has been shamelessly relaxing and full of luxuries that have been unknown to me on the road: daily hot showers, fantastic food, playing recreational sports (Michael, his brother Steven and I have often gone down to the local sports complex to play squash, pool and even use the gym), having lie-ins, playing chess on the terrace, and getting driven around everywhere (thankfully, as public transport isn't very well developed here and Muscat is sprawled out over 40km of coast). I am therefore very grateful to them for inviting me over and giving me a holiday from my trip (it's surprisingly hard work fleeing a "meaningful" job for two years) to recharge my batteries, restock my belly and, not least, for making me feel part of the family. But, as they say, all good things must come to an end and soon I will have to leave my munificent hosts, though first I will have to get my Yemeni visa as soon as the holiday period is over (Christmas, New Year, the weekend and Eid al Adha have combined this year to make the embassy perpetually closed).

Anyway, I wish everyone a happy new year and I hope you've all recovered from your hangovers and have made worthwhile resolutions. I, personally, have resolved to return home some time this year, something that will probably relieve my parents.

Unexpectedly Veering South

When I was in Iran this Summer I began looking into this stage of my trip, taking vague ideas and trying to see if they could work. My initial plan was to skirt the southern shores of the Mediterranean and cross into Europe at the Straights of Gibraltar. Further research quickly showed that option to be impossible due to visa restrictions in Libya and Algeria. Then I thought I'd cross Turkey and enter into Europe in Greece or Bulgaria, but the cold weather in Anatolia dissuaded me from European travel in Winter. So by default, and without much of a plan I headed south into Syria. Almost as soon as I arrived in Syria I received an e-mail from my oldest friend from my schooldays back in Scotland. Michael lives in London now but his mother is currently working in Oman and he invited me to spend Christmas with them out there. Initially I dismissed the idea as I had never considered the Arabian peninsula as part of my trip and it would entail a certain amount of "backtracking". However the more I thought about it the more the idea grew on me: I wouldn't be spending Christmas alone; I would get to see Michael again (I had last seen him in Melbourne) and hang out with him a bit; I would get to go to Yemen afterwards, a place I have wanted to visit for quite some time now; and it would mean that I could escape the cold Winter weather in Europe. So I started looking around for buses that would take me from Amman to Dubai, from where I could get a connection on to Muscat. I was glad to find there were departures every day and so set off for the Saudi embassy to get a transit visa ... and that's where I ran into trouble. They refused me point blank. They would give no reasons, they weren't prepared to discuss it, not even for a transit period of 24 hours, they just slammed the proverbial door in my face and no amount of pleading or grovelling would make them change their minds. That made me really angry as it forced me to have to fly, something I really didn't want to do (because of the increased damage to the environment, the increased cost and also because of the breaking of my principles) especially as there are buses. I've come to the conclusion that the harder it is for you to get into a country the more autocratic they are and the more they have to hide. If that is so then Saudi Arabia must be one of the most repressive in the world. But I have learned not to stay angry for too long, as it just gets in the way of things, and found myself a cheap flight to Sharjah from where it was possible to catch a bus to Oman. And so now I am writing to you from balmy Muscat where I have a view over the Gulf of Oman.

It is early morning on Christmas Day and I wish you all a very merry Christmas, surrounded by friends and family, wherever you may be.

Number 110

From Wadi Rum I dropped down to Aqaba, Jordan's one and only port, on the Red Sea. As their only access point to the seas Aqaba is incredibly important to Jordan's economy, so much so that in 1965 Jordan swapped a whopping 6000 square km of desert for just 12km of coastline (doubling the length they already had) with the Saudis so that they could built a decent container port. Though, along with the port area they gained some spectacular coral reefs that can be easily explored with only a mask and snorkel, or at least could if the northerly winds coming in from the desert didn't make swimming unbearably cold. So, with nothing to really do in Aqaba (it is a horribly soulless tourist trap) and it not being possible to continue further south I headed back towards Amman (I also desperately needed to change my trousers!).

I didn't, however, go straight back, and stopped off along the way, first at Petra. Why return to a place that I had already been? Well, first of all there are some beautiful treks that can be done outside of the main Petra area where you can walk through beautiful tomb-filled canyons completely alone, without another tourist in sight and no Bedouin offering donkey rides; and secondly I wanted to sneek into Petra without buying a ticket just to see whether it is possible, to do my little bit to fight oppressive exploitation of tourists. (Travellers of the world unite!) Anyway, for those of you on tight budgets who wish to see the fabulous ruins it is very easy to walk in from the desert (but don't say I told you). From Petra it was further north along the King's Highway, a route used since biblical times to connect Damascus to the Red Sea which, in places, contains remains of the old Roman road (Nova Via Traiana) and its milestones if you look hard enough, to the town of Kerak and its Crusader castle. Nice place to stop for an afternoon.

The next day I made my way to the remains of Kastron Mefa'a (known locally as Umm Ar-Rassas). Not a name that is known to many people (even in Jordan), but I have given myself a little mission whilst on this trip to try and visit as many UNESCO world heritage sites as possible. And so I had to pay a visit to Umm Ar-Rassas as well (seeing as it was on the way as well). The only problem is that, although it was on my route, the old saying that the shortest route is not always the quickest proved to be very true here. The King's Highway is bisected by the giant Wadi Mujib gorge (think Grand Canyon but only slightly smaller) which means that all public transport goes either via the Dead Sea to the west or the desert to the east. I persisted nevertheless (because I'm a stubborn bastard) and 50km (as the crow flies) and 4 hours later I was there ... and decidedly underwhelmed. The site is just a huge pile of rubble stretching out for about one square kilometre. As I scrambled around the site I was wandering why on earth this is part of my heritage. Then I saw a largeish tin shed off to the side and decided to investigate (as it was mildly more interesting than the rubble). Outside was a sign reading "Church of St Stephanos 785AD". If it was a church it didn't look too impressive. Upon entering you walk along metal gangways and as my eyes accustomed to the darker interior I noticed the reason for the raised walkways: below me was a giant and immaculate mosaic, larger and in better condition than anything I have ever seen. And all of this beside a forgotten, windswept village in the middle of nowhere. When I found the guard (who was sleeping in a little hut, huddled under a blanket from the cold) to ask about onward transport he seemed surprised to see me and said that I was the first visitor in three days and that I would have to leave the way I came (i.e. hitching). In the end Umm Ar-Rassas proved to be a memorable stopover, despite dodgy first impressions, for the remoteness, the challenge of getting there (a record of 8 different vehicles in a day) and the phenomenal mosaics. Plus it became UNESCO site 110, although I'm still a little way off my target of one every week. ;-)

Rum Job

Mum and I parted company the other day as she headed back to Amman to catch her plane home. Gone are the restaurants, gone are the taxis and gone are the nice hotels as I revert to my routine of ultra-cheapness. Actually Mum didn't have much luck with the hotels, all of which invariably suffered from some problem or another: no hot water, no heating, no satellite (despite all of these being selling points), dodgy food and incompetent staff. It's as if Basil Fawlty is running the Jordan school of hoteliery. It has made me come to the conclusion that it's often preferable to go for the cheapest option because at least then your expectations are lower and you lose less when everything goes pear-shaped.

Our last day together was spent in Wadi Rum, which probably has the most beautiful landscapes that I've seen in my entire trip, or at least the most photogenic. Situated in the south of the country close to the Saudi border the place is all about colour: blood red sand, intense blue sky and sandwiched between the two sheer, craggy sandstone mountains, ranging from pale yellow to dark grey, sculpted into fantastical shapes (they remind me particularly of candle-wax dribblings) by the windborne sand. If this is what deserts are like then bring on the global warming!

The area is home to the semi-nomadic bedouin, many of whom still herd goats and livein large, rectangular tents, though the camels have largely been replaced by battered old Toyota Landcruisers which are slightly less temperamental and prone to running off for no reason. They're also handy for carting tourists around. There are of course various sites that you are shown on a Wadi Rum excursion, such as a couple of rock bridges, a spring, a big sand dune, some rock inscriptions, and the ruins of what was once (supposedly) T.E. Lawrence's house, but they are just an excuse to ride through the desert on the back of a 4x4. The night was spent in a bedouin tent huddled under thick blankets cowering from the excruciatingly chill northerly winds. The next day Mum left but I stayed for another day to explore the mountains on foot. In the morning I duly struck off to try and find my way through a mountain via a series of canyons that I had been told about by other travellers. It was nice to get away from everything else and be surrounded by complete and utter silence. However the route was more like actual rock-climbing than a scramble and half-way along I had, what Ms. Jackson would call, a severe wardrobe malfunction, whereby one of the soles of my shoes half came off and I got an inconveniently-placed, largish tear in my trousers (luckily my boxer shorts are a similar colour, otherwise I might have outraged the rather conservative bedouins). Because I left my big backpack in Amman I have only one change of everything ... except shoes and trousers, and so I had to call time on my mountaineering exertions and return to a more sedate mode of travel that would be more forgiving on my apparel.