A Journey through the Yemen and some General Remarks Upon that Country by Walter Harris

SANAA TO MENAKHA.

As long as I live I shall never forget my departure from Sanaa. In the cold grey dawn, the temperature little if anything above freezing, worn out with a night of raging fever that still throbbed in my veins, I was lifted on to my mule at the door of the _conàk_, and, with a couple of soldiers to accompany me, sent upon my way. Weird and wretched everything looked. The houses, that only the day before had struck me as beautiful in their strange oriental architecture, now looked like pallid ruins, depressing in the extreme; while the few hurrying persons we passed seemed but shadows in the grey light of dawn.

On through the bazaars with their closed shops; on by narrow streets and byways, over which the tall houses seemed verily to hang suspended; across the bridge that spans what is at times a roaring torrent but was now but a dry bed; across a wide open space and through the dirty Jews' quarter, and the garden suburb of Bir el-Azab; then out under the great town gateway with its strange towers, on which a shivering sentry or two kept guard, into the open country. A long level road leads one from the city across the surrounding plain, a road as good as one could expect to find in England. Then a range of bare hills seems to block the way, and one begins to climb up and up by the winding twisting track, until the summit is reached. Looking back, a fine view of Sanaa was obtained, lying on the spur of Jibel Negoum, backed by still higher mountains. To right and left extended the valley, until some way off to the north one could see the town of Raudha, where not a month before the rebels had blown up the Turkish barracks and some twenty-five soldiers with gunpowder. From this spot one could obtain a better idea than we had as yet been able to do of the size of Sanaa, as it lay mapped out below us, a great flat-roofed city, dull yellow and white, upon still yellower and whiter plains, the only break in which were the gardens at Bir el-Azab.

At the summit of the ascent a plateau is reached scattered with villages, now all more or less knocked down by the Turkish artillery, after the road from Hodaidah had been forced, and the Arab Shereef, Sid esh-Sheraï, dislodged from Hajarat el-Mehedi, a spot a few miles farther on. Over the plateau the road proceeded tolerably straight, though the going was by no means good, in spite of the fact that the track was a wide one. But its repair had evidently been neglected for a time, and it was strewn with stones.

After the sun had risen it became very warm, but it was a change for the better from the miserable cold of the early morning, and, weak as I was from fever, I was glad to get off my mule for a time and stretch my limbs by walking.

At the _café_ of Metneh we stopped for our mid-day meal. A large, low, stone building forms the caravanserai, both for man and beast. The place is roughly built, one storey in height, the roof being supported on arches and stone columns, round the bases of which are little raised platforms, on one of which we spread our carpet and rested for a time. The _café_ was nearly full of Turkish troops, poor, ill-fed, and ill-clothed fellows, but the very acme of good-humour. It was amusing to hear them discussing my presence with some Arab merchants who happened to be there at the same time. The conclusion they arrived at was that the presence of a Christian in the country foretold the downfall of the Yemen, and the sooner they, the Moslems, cleared out of it the better. It was flattering certainty to hear one's self considered of such vital importance to a country the size of the Yemen; nor did the fact that I was a prisoner in the hands of a Turkish guard seem to lessen their opinion of me. On discovering at length that I spoke Arabic, we joined parties and lunched together, and very polite they all were. The group was a strange one, representing in the Arabs the rebel party, in the Turks the conquerors and oppressors, and last, but not least, in my humble self the future of the Yemen (for so they deemed my presence to foretell). Yet we were a merry band, and shared the same hubble-bubble of peace, and parted with protestations of profound respect and friendship for one another.

One of the pleasantest recollections of the Yemen that I bore away with me is, and always will be, the hours spent in these wayside _cafés_. Then more than at any other time one saw the people as they really are. Then all restraint was thrown aside; there was exhibited none of the suspicion we habitually show to fellow-travellers; and often we unburdened our aims and ideas to one another, the Arabs and I. As I write of it I long once more to go back, to sit cross-legged on the floor and sip the beverage of coffee-husks from the tiny Japanese and Chinese cups the Yemenis love so much, and listen to the patient murmur of the hubble-bubble amongst a group of half-naked Arabs.