From Souk to Souk Page 8
After twice ending up in one particular ‘square’, I realise that the city has got the better of me after all, despite my careful step-counting. A group of small boys, slight in build and wearing grubby T-shirts and shiny football shorts, ask, in surprisingly good English, if I am lost. I do not want to admit it, partly through pride, and partly because I think they might lead me to some dead-end alley and then produce that most Yemeni of accessories, a jambiya or dagger, even at their tender age, although I reckon they are older than their small stature suggests.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I am not lost, just looking for the Tawashi mosque.’
Without hesitation, a chorus of competing voices explains how to get there, but I am unconvinced by the direction in which they point me. I set off, pretending to believe them, cheerfully waving goodbye, but take a different path as soon as I am out of sight. A couple of minutes later, to my embarrassment, I find myself back where I started and staring at the same group of boys who now look at me as if I am a few camels short of a caravan for not having been capable of following their simple directions. This time, wondering if I am not taking my life in my hands, I agree to let them show me the way, which they do with an air of excitement and satisfied authority. A taller boy in the group takes hold of my forearm with his slender hand and begins to lead me along the dusty street, clearly eager to impress. His friends follow enthusiastically, watching my every move. In just a few years, I reflect, his willowy child’s fingers will probably be used to holding a gun, innocence lost forever as they curl around the trigger.
‘First time in Yemen?’ he asks, his brown eyes glinting with enthusiasm. Clearly, this seems to be a standard question to put to foreigners.
‘Yes,’ I smile.
‘You like Yemen?’
‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ I nod, realising that my concerns for my personal safety are little short of delusional.
He grins at the answer. Some of the other boys whisper to each other and giggle. After a few turns down narrow streets and deep alleys, we are suddenly in front of the mosque. I thank my young guides, wondering whether to give a few rials’ reward or whether to do so would simply encourage a begging mentality. They seem not to expect anything, however, and, without lingering, cheerfully scamper off in the direction from where we came, laughing and shouting to each other as they go.
From the mosque, it is just a few minutes’ walk to the souk with its eclectic mix of dried fruit, shining brassware, spices, plastic household items, clothing, and, rather bizarrely, Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup, a clear favourite in Yemen; tins of a size one normally associates with emulsion paint are stacked pyramid-style at one stall after the other. A left-over from colonial times under the British, I wonder? Goods are piled high, but there are few shoppers. Here, life seems to be at a slower, almost meditative, pace. The men running the stores look at me with curiosity, their dark eyes shining. Occasionally, a flash of bright blue or green sparkles incongruously from one of the many tanned faces, a reminder of the importance of trade in Yemen’s long history as part of the spice and incense routes. Every now and then, strange but friendly words float through the aromatic air, inviting me to taste a date or slice of fruit proffered between bony, chestnut-coloured fingers. In the afternoon heat, they flick their wares clean with grey feather dusters, chat with each other, or sit and chew qat.
I had read about qat before arriving, but the first time I see a man walk past me with a mouthful of it I assume he has some dreadful tumour, such is the bulge in the side of his cheek. Only when I see several more men with the same feature do I realise that the lump is not some widespread carcinoma, but the usual way to take the drug. Yet, if it is not a physical affliction, it is certainly a socio-economic one. Banned in neighbouring Saudi Arabia, qat is the drug of choice in Yemen. Its use is both traditional and extensive, although more men than women chew it. Looking somewhat like privet, the leaves produce a stimulant when chewed. The qat ‘industry’ employs four million Yemenis and turns the afternoons of millions more, including the police, into a mild, drug-induced state of euphoria as they chew the leaves for hours on end before spitting out the dark green pulp where it lies drying on the street, looking like boiled spinach. Vast areas of precious agricultural land and huge amounts of scarce water are dedicated to the production of this drug in a country that has to import most of its food. While it is a useful cash crop for farmers, qat represents a serious drain on the country’s resources with many Yemenis spending between a quarter and a third of their income on it.
I take another swig from my bottle of water and continue my walk through the fortified city. The street begins sloping downhill slightly and I suddenly find myself overlooking a walled patch of vibrant green, one of the communal vegetable gardens that still remain in the densely built old town. It is easy to see why, in the parched lands of the Middle East, green should be the holy colour of Islam, symbolising as it does the triumph of life in what is often an inhospitable environment. A couple of palms and a few other trees stand guard over the carefully planted rows of what look like herbs and salad. Between them sway a few wild flowers as if put there by nature herself as a token gift to those who have so little.
I am one of those old-fashioned people who still send postcards when travelling and immediately bought a handful at the little shop in my hotel. Now, I need to buy stamps and so head to the main post office at Tahiya Square, the site of recent demonstrations. From the historic centre, it is a five-minute walk across a bridge spanning the moat-like As Sallah Street and along a couple of roads where, in comparison to the old city, the shops look modern with their displays of fake designer T-shirts, jeans and a lurid assortment of glittery tops and pullovers. Choking on exhaust fumes, I negotiate my way over a busy street, half of which is taken up by cars parked with an abandon that is in abject contrast to the neatness of those in the square next to my hotel. I make my way past the half-dozen or so policemen in blue uniforms, who are leaning nonchalantly against the metal barricades at the roadside watching the world go by. Eventually, I reach the post office with its distinctive bright yellow hoarding and walk in front of a tight row of men, young and old, sitting on the ground with their backs against the wall of the building. As if transported from the pictures in my guidebook, in their traditional long white thobes and with scarves tied round their heads, the men present a typical Yemeni image as they chew qat and casually chat to each other.
‘Welcome to Yemen!’ says one of the younger men, raising a hand as I walk past. He adjusts the red and white chequered scarf draped round his neck as if he is cold, a near impossibility given the temperature, and beams a smile that could get him a job advertising toothpaste.
‘Thank you!’ I nod, still a little surprised by the friendliness I encounter everywhere.
It is difficult to see much of Tahiya Square itself as demonstrators have set up a series of large tents from which loudspeakers blast out a mixture of music and political speeches. For now, the atmosphere is relaxed, almost festive, but I know that as and when things heat up this unremarkable square could end up being the crucible of a bloody revolution. Inside, the post office, its canary-yellow corporate colours now tempered with sombre grey, is surprisingly quiet. About half of the ten or so counters seem to be designated exclusively for pay-outs to the few men huddling round them or filling out forms; the rest are closed. Disorderly piles of papers lie on a couple of tables, other sheets and stubs, crumpled and discarded, litter the floor. I spot the stamp counter to my left; it is unmanned, but after a few moments a silver-haired official appears. His dark eyes look at me solemnly from behind his improbably large nose as he waits for me to say what I want. Not knowing how much English he speaks, I show him my six postcards and say ‘Europe’. Outside, a voice bellows through the loudspeakers in declaratory but not aggressive style, the volume only partly muffled by the post office walls and windows. Whatever the orator is saying, the glum man in front of me pays no attention. Instead, opening a large bound book with the de
ference one might normally reserve for a medieval Koran, he carefully takes out a strip of stamps and with long fingers slips them under the security window that separates us. Bordered by a thick band of yellow, the stamps show a photographic view of old Sana’a; their modern and utilitarian appearance pales in contrast to the almost artistic beauty of my boyhood specimen. I pay my 600 rials; and as I stick the stamps on my postcards, I recall briefly the child I once was and sense a momentary flicker of satisfaction at having finally made this journey, even if the country’s philatelic production is not what it used to be. I hand the postcards to the official, who promptly throws them into a cardboard box on the floor before returning to the backroom area of the post office. I wonder whether my greetings will ever arrive at their destinations.
In the evening, back at the hotel, there is a wonderful view over the old town from the rooftop terrace. The 14,000 or so mud-brick buildings are packed so closely together that many of the city’s narrow streets are in shadow for at least part of the day. I can see places that at street level are hidden from sight and surprisingly many patches of derelict land where children play and tired washing hangs out to dry. And, nestling on the rooftops, are dozens of satellite dishes through which is served a diet of images from the astonishingly different worlds of the Gulf states on the other side of the peninsula, and which act as a reminder that, beyond the city’s ancient façades, the modern world is seeping into Sana’a.
As the Arabian sun sinks below the mountains that surround the city, darkness floats down on the parched jumble of buildings spread out before me and silhouettes of clouds begin slipping ominously across the dimming sky. Lights start to come on like fireflies and in the distance the recently completed Al-Saleh mosque, all $68 million worth of it, glows an unholy white under the glare of its illuminations, its six 100-metre-high minarets looking like the chimneys of some fantastic factory. All looks peaceful, yet I can still hear the declarations of the protestors just a few minutes’ walk away in Tahiya Square, their words drifting through the warm evening air. The winds that are sweeping across the Arab world are coming to Yemen too: to the stout women I saw carrying their grocery bags, to the moustachioed shopkeeper who sold me my bottle of water, to the children who showed me the way, to the men sitting outside the post office. Presidential decrees will not hold back the current of change for much longer. The tide is coming in, but, in this country starved of water, it will be a dry one.
***
The stamp with the hoopoe is now but a memory, lost somewhere in the course of moves from one country to another. As for the bird itself, I never saw one during my visit to Yemen, but I did, after many years of waiting, experience the country. Yes, it is indeed poor, but it is also a beautiful place and its people disarmingly friendly. It is with pride that I can now add my voice to those who sing its praises. Sadly, though, Arabia Felix, I feel, is about to face unhappy times.
The Whore and the Potter
So, you want to know about Beirut? I shall tell you. And I shall tell you about Joseph.
Beirut is an assault on the senses: noisy, brash, chaotic, glossy, dusty, chic. You could fill a treasure chest with all the adjectives that apply to the Lebanese capital and still be left with your arms full: no description could ever really capture the nature or the spirit of this most vibrant of cities. It oozes sensuality, it tempts you with its materialism, it pulsates with oriental beats, and it makes you breathe a heady mix of perfume, sweat, shisha smoke and exhaust fumes, a concoction potent enough to cloud even the clearest of heads. I first visited Beirut a few years ago and was quickly swept up by its siren promises of all the desires and cravings we were always told to avoid.
It is easy to see why Beirut has been dubbed the ‘whore of the East’. The city positively reeks of five of the seven deadly sins – lust, greed, pride, envy, and gluttony – with only wrath and sloth not immediately evident, the first simmering just below the thin veneer that has, so far, prevented a new outbreak of sectarian fighting and the latter reclining behind screens in luxurious apartments. Despite the profusion of religious buildings, there is scant evidence of Catholicism’s seven virtues or Islam’s even longer list of desirable qualities. Maybe, deep inside the cool shadows of the immaculate Maronite churches, one might find some traces of humility, but, outside their doors, fabulous jewellery and shiny black SUVs flash and glisten in the Mediterranean sunlight and the conversation is about money, not morals. Beirut is a whore and proud of it.
It is to this city that I now return for the second time. I find familiarity mutes the excitement I felt on previous visits: having already slept with the whore, I know what to expect and have developed immunity to her lures. Today, I am in search of art or, more precisely, the artist.
On my first visit to Beirut, I saw a large earthenware bowl decorated with fish displayed in the window of a disused shop. A small, hand-drawn map next to the dish indicated that the artist’s workshop was just around the corner and I visited him to ask how much it was. The artist’s name was Joseph.
I begin my walk to Joseph’s atelier at Place Sassine, a small hilltop roundabout surrounded by global brand coffee houses and an eclectic mix of little local shops selling everything from cakes to watches. As at most important junctions in Beirut, tanned policemen in grey camouflage uniforms and mirror sunglasses hang around, semi-automatic weapons slung casually over their shoulders. You can almost see the testosterone rising from them like heat haze on a hot day.
I head downhill past the landmark ABC Mall, a beige concrete colossus that occupies an entire city block and acts as a social focal point for affluent Beirutis. Here, well-coiffed ladies of a certain age stroll accompanied, for no other reason than to display status, by submissive Philippina maids, while groups of elegant teenage girls with bandages across their noses glide around to show off their plastic surgery, a highly-prized graduation gift from doting parents. If vanity had a nationality, it would be Lebanese, and not without reason, for the Phoenicians are a beautiful people.
‘Taxi?’ calls one of the middle-aged drivers milling around outside the mall entrance. ‘Taxi?’
Glancing across, I see his dark blue pullover stretched over a rotund gut and that, despite the sunshine, he is wearing a jacket that looks as tired as he does. Behind him, a beautiful woman with a diamond necklace looks down from a billboard above the words ‘My jewel, My right’.
I shake my head and the sales pitch stops. I carry on towards the narrow, shady streets of Achrafieh. Somewhere in this hillside warren is Joseph’s atelier. It is a messy place, as befits an artist’s studio.
***
I remember: he was standing shirtless at a washbasin shaving. I knocked on the glass door and he signalled for me to wait while he fetched the key. When I told him I was interested in the ‘dish with the fish’, his blue eyes lit up and he ushered me into the small work space, which was really a gutted empty shop with a mezzanine on top of which was a mattress where he slept. I recall that the place was overwhelmingly grey and that there were small stacks of plates and bowls, plus a few jugs, lying around. Their beauty was in their simplicity. I think the fish were blue; I remember they were $700.
***
Cars rush and roar their way past, their owners somehow managing to smoke, phone and drive all at the same time. Above the constant revving of engines and claxoning, though, are other, deeper noises: those of bulldozers, demolition balls, concrete mixers and cranes churning out a mechanical funeral dirge that comes at me from all directions. My heart sinks. Everywhere in Achrafieh, crumbling villas from the time of the French Mandate with magnificent mature trees in their gardens, rather like elderly aunts adorned with emeralds, are gradually being culled and replaced by brash, gleaming tower blocks, greenery trailing from their balconies and terraces like cheap costume jewellery.
***
Joseph was probably in his late thirties, but his skin bore the signs of an intensity of living that made him look at least a decade older. He was despondent abou
t what was happening to his city. Speculators were destroying it, he sighed, running his rough potter’s fingers through his hair. Soon there would be nothing left: no heritage, no culture; just glass, just shops. We talked more about the transformation of Achrafieh than about his art. The sparkle in his eyes when we talked about his work faded when we discussed what was happening to old Beirut.
‘The politicians and the real estate developers all belong to the same families,’ he shrugged, lighting a cigarette. ‘Besides, what would you do if you had an old villa in need of expensive repairs, but you could sell it for $25 million to a developer?’
Deep down, I knew the answer.
‘Beirut was once the ‘Paris of the East’,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts.
I compared this to its other epithet and realised such contradictions lay at the heart of the city.
***
I stop to look at a concrete skeleton that looms over the honey-coloured façade of a three-storey house, the front and side walls now all that remain of a once elegant residence. A picture of the finished result – a luxurious skyscraper incorporating a small, yellow corner – is posted on hoarding in front of the building site alongside a text that enthuses about the harmonious marriage of the old and the new. I wonder what the workers who are involved in this wholesale destruction of the city think, but then I see a trio of lean and dusty men from the subcontinent filing out from the site. One by one, they each buy a loaf of unleavened bread from a gaunt man with a hand-pushed cart and then sit on the kerb to eat this, their lunch. I realise their priorities and their world are very different from yours or mine.