Yemeni Hospitality by Eamonn Gearon

Yemen enjoys a certain notoriety for lawlessness and banditry. There are not many capital cities that boast a public market where one can shop for an AK-47 and similar weaponry. Only becoming a single country in 1990, when the Communist, southern People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen united with the northern Yemen Arab Republic, the country is famous in the West today, if it is famous for anything at all, as the ancestral home of the bin Laden family. Among those who travelled here in the good old days before unification, the locals were always said to demonstrate the most elaborate hospitality to anyone they kidnapped. This was in my mind as I set off with friends for a walk without aim one morning in January.

Traditionally, kidnapping in Yemen has tended to involve the taking of foreigners (preferably wealthy Westerners) and holding them at some remote mountain hideout, i.e. the family home, for a relatively short period of time until the kidnappers’ demands have been heard and the authorities offer some guarantees. The demands themselves are often rather parochial; perhaps insisting that improvements be made to local roads or questioning the whereabouts of some long ago promised government money required to finish construction of the village school or health clinic.

A largely mountainous country boasting wonderfully rugged landscapes, the various tribes who inhabit these places are fiercely independent. If this sounds like something of a cliché, it does not mean that the description is wholly without merit. My own thinking on the subject of “fiercely independent” tribes leads me to believe that people bred in mountain regions often appear to share certain attributes. Being “fiercely independent” just happens to be one of them. Think of the characteristically troubled history of resistance to outside interference in Afghanistan or Chechnya. Consider the Highland Scots.

Yemenis are no different. They are thoroughly welcoming towards the strange traveller who comes quietly and in peace, exhibiting empathy with the individual who has endured the hardships that are part of tramping across such harsh terrain. At the same time, they are equally unforgiving towards outsiders who attempt to interfere in their world. Heaven help any foreign forces that would tell them how to live or, more importantly, to whom they must pay tribute. For the tribal denizens of Yemen’s mountains, central government remains an alien affectation, known and understood in principal but something for other people to listen to.

The great thing to avoid when engaged in hiking in the mountains is walking up the wrong side of a spur and so, while following some goat track or another, suddenly turning a corner to find oneself committed to moving in a direction that is the polar opposite to that which one was hoping for. For the second time that day, I was busy processing this valuable lesson while our party attempted to redirect its’ feet in the direction we should have been heading. Unlike walking in Africa, where it is almost impossible to walk alone, these mountain paths allowed one glimpses of lone farmsteads situated on adjacent peaks, perhaps an hour or two away on foot, but rarely did one’s soles cross the path of another soul.

The winter sun was now directly overhead and competing favourably with the sort of temperatures that break British summertime records. Despair had by no means set in but we had greeted tiredness a little while earlier. Knowing that Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance doesn’t help when recriminations begin, and as I wondered when and where we might find some more water and what a pity it was to have forgotten one’s hat, a smiling young goatherd appeared as if by magic and bidding peace upon our small party: “Salaam ’alaykum.”
“Wa ’alaykum salaam,” I responded in kind.

Without further ado, he told us we would follow him home where we could rest for a while. Home turned out to be a walled fortress atop a hill that commanded a 360-degree view of the country thereabouts. By the time we reached the outer walls, a small wooden gate had been opened and the women hidden away so that we could gain entry, taking care not to make contact with the low lintel. Once inside, one realised that there wasn’t a single house behind the walls but numerous properties that accommodated the extended family.

We were led to the castle-like residence that dominated the centre of the compound and to a room at the top of two flights of tightly wound stone stairs that went up through the centre of the building. So far were we from any natural light that we stumbled up the thirty or so steps in complete darkness, feeling the wall for stability as we went. Suddenly seeing the daylight once more, we entered a salon that was obviously set aside for guests. How many people they could possibly expect just to drop in is impossible to say. The room was deliciously cool and the floor underfoot warm, covered as it was by brightly coloured rugs in red and orange and green and yellow. The painted walls were the same colour as the dust that came off our shoes as we removed them, setting them down to wait on the threshold.

There was little by way of decoration, but what there was carried meaning beyond itself. Two studio-posed photographs, like icons in their alcove, stood out brightly against the dun walls, portraits of family members working in Saudi Arabia whose monthly remittances made life easier for everyone whose domicile was within these family walls. The only other objects on the wall were three Kalashnikovs hanging in a row, like flying ducks from another time and place. The head of the house noticed my interest and invited me to inspect the weapons, which I discovered had full magazines attached. These 600 round-per-minute prêt a porter weapons were ready for action.

“Do you have much trouble around here?” I asked.
“No. Everybody has a gun,” the smiling patriarch replied.
“What about kidnappings? Do they still take place?” I asked now with genuine interest.
“No one will harm you while you are my guest. Some more tea?”