bound book with the deference 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 Sanaâa; 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 countryâs 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 cityâs 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 cityâs ancient façades, the modern world is seeping into Sanaâa.
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 minutesâ 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
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 countryâs 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 cityâs 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 cityâs ancient façades, the modern world is seeping into Sanaâa.
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 minutesâ 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
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