Motoring with Mohammed

Article

Before coming to Yemen, I visited several libraries looking for books on Yemen. My findings were a dismal few. But in just about every library I found a copy of Motoring with Mohammed. Judging by the card catalog information, the book appeared to be more about a far-fetched adventure tale than an accurate book based on real life. Boy was I wrong.

Motoring with Mohammed is a great book to introduce people to the nuances of life in Yemen. While the book begins off the topic of Yemen, the real beauty of the story is Hansen’s attention to documenting little details about his interactions with Yemenis and foreigners living in Yemen. It can be especially enjoyable to read after living in Yemen as one is compelled to say things like: “I’ve been to the exact same shop!” or “Hey, I think I know that guy!”

Brief summary

The story begins in 1978 with a shipwreck on an island off the coast of Yemen. Hansen and his shipmates are stranded on Uqban Island and eventually are taken to the mainland by Eritrean goat smugglers. When they finally reach a military post, they are put under house arrest until their story could be confirmed. Returning to the island by military escort, Hansen retrieved his buried belongings but forgot to take his treasured journals. Once they were granted permission to leave, Hansen finally made his way back to America. But the nagging desire to return to Uqban island and retrieve his journals eventually drove him to return to Yemen to find them. The bulk of the book is Hansen’s meandering around Yemen trying to get clearance to visit the island.

Along the way, Hansen fluctuates from enthusiastic love for the culture, and his constant frustrations of the same. He portrays perfectly what it is like to live in a land that is so enchanting, while at the same time…frustrating. But despite the frustrations, the reader is compelled to agree with Hansen that Yemen, despite it’s debilitating red tape and disorganization, absolutely MUST be seen.

Quotes from the book

To diverge from my normal book reviews, I’d like to let the book just speak for itself and give you a better idea of what it is like to live here in Yemen. So many quotes from the book deserve to be mentioned, but I’ll just list a few below. I hope I don’t break some sort of copyright law by putting this content here. [Eric, if you don’t like me quoting from your book, please email me before you call your attorney. I’ll be happy to take them down.]

I asked Carolyn where I could find a local restaurant that served typical Yemeni food. “Something authentic?” she inquired.

“Yes, a place that doesn’t cater to Western visitors,” I requested.

“I don’t know how traditional you are willing to get, but there is a place nearby […]”

I went in search of the place and fifteen minutes later arrived in front of a Yemeni restaurant. Colorfully veiled women were in the street, selling stacks of steaming, crusty flatbread from baskets balanced on their heads. Male customers, with the warm bread already folded under their arms like newspapers, were clustered outside a blue, wood-framed doorway set into a mud-brick wall. I bought my bread and waited with the others. A dozen disheveled men were suddenly disgorged from the doorway, the waiting crowd surged forward, and I was carried into darkness by the momentum of the surrounding bodies.

Blinded by the rising heat and smoke billowing up the stairway, I descended slick, foot-worn stone steps and entered an inferno. It was difficult to move freely in the crush of bodies, and I was immediately damp with sweat. Flames from ferociously hot earthen ovens shot into the main room and illuminated a writhing throng of lunch guests and kitchen staff. Following the example of those around me, I climbed over the tables and steaming ceramic dishes until finally I managed to wedge myself between two heavily armed strangers. With hand gestures these men instructed me in the technique of throwing wads of paper at the waiter to attract his attention. The floor was littered with little balls of paper. I struck the man between the shoulder blades on my second throw, and he nodded vaguely in my direction. He was soon at my table, yelling something in Arabic.

[Hansen goes on to describe ordering and eating Saltah, the only food available.]

There wasn’t room for everyone to be seated, and many men were squatting on the tables with their shoes on as they helped themselves from large, steaming communal pots. [More descriptions of Saltah.]

I was charged with energy by the time I finished. This was partly due to the high concentration of chilis in the saltah, but also the result of the excited conversations and pandemonium around me. Uneaten bread was left on the table or handed to fellow diners. After finishing my lunch, I staggered back over the table and washed my hands in a basin next to the stairs. A soiled terry-cloth hand towel hung on the wall, but I preferred to wipe my hands on the seat of my pants. I paid the equivalent of two American dollars before allowing myself to be carried by the rising tide of bodies up the stairs and back to daylight, air, and the relative calm of the traffic-jammed streets. If that was a typical Yemeni meal, I told myself, I could well understand why people chewed qat in the afternoon. It seemed reasonable to resort to euphoric substances in order to quiet the mind and body after such an experience.

My first impression was that during the night I had fallen back in time and awakened in the midst of a fairy-tale world from my childhood. I looked out at a gingerbread fantasy in which every surface was adorned with mad geometric designs, covered in squiggles of white cake icing. [More descriptions…]

The splendor of San’a could not be taken in at a glance. Each visual morsel deserved careful attention. [More descriptions…] I had been unprepared for this sensation of attachment. No one had warned me about the allure of San’a, and in my surprise, I was caught off balance—seduced without a struggle. The magical, otherworldly beauty of the city took hold of me, and I didn’t resist.

I had wanted to inspect a rare twelfth-century minbar (pulpit) in the Asha’ir Mosque that had been specially made for readings of the Hadith (Traditions of the Prophet). More than twelve hundred years of history lay waiting for me in Zabid, but I found myself helping Mohammed force the reluctant rear end of a sheep into the back seat of his car. I reminded him that we would not be returning to San’a for another two days.

“What is two days to a sheep?” he replied.

The doctor helped position the man face down on the ground, then with a felt-tipped pen, marked the area where the heart was located. The executioner stepped forward with an assault rifle, stood over the prostrate man for a long moment, then fired a short burst through the man’s back. It was over in an instant. The doctors had watched the execution as if it had been a normal medical procedure. A stretcher and an ambulance were about ten yards away, to take the dead man immediately to the hospital, and a group of women from his family waited with a white shroud and perfumes, with which they would prepare the body for burial.

Time was compressed; voices vibrated through my body, humming, pulsating, soothing and intrusive at the same time. The air pressure in the room seemed to increase as the bodies all about me rocked in time to the rhythm of the words. I relaxed and let the vibrations of the voices pass through me without resisting. Kevin had slumped into a corner, speechless, unblinking, stunned. I was alarmed by his chalky complexion but realized that I couldn’t look much better. The windows were fogged up with condensation, and rivulets of water ran down the insides of the small windowpanes. At one point during the chanting I lost control of my hearing: words and syllables expanded and contracted as if distorted by the Doppler effect. I cleared my ears repeatedly by holding my nose and blowing until my ears popped. As the sweat streamed down my chest, I tried to focus on the sayyid’s fingers. One by one he squeezed the beads between his thumb and index finger, counting the verses and controlling the tempo and energy level in the room. I concentrated on my breathing.

[a spontaneous poem written by a Yemeni villager when he met Hansen and his friends on a trail:]

I ask you, merciful Allah, creator of heaven and earth,

You who keep the moon and stars traveling by night, and the sun by day,

To protect Toyota Land Cruisers and foreign strangers who climb to the mountaintops.

And I conclude my prayer with a blessing on Mohammed, who is honored in all the lands.

This is not a children’s book

Unfortunately Hansen uses coarse language and graphic descriptions in a few places in the book. For that reason I don’t recommend the book to be read to children. But I would say it is still worth reading despite these interruptions.

The ending…

I’ll refrain from telling you the outcome of Hansen’s quest. It would spoil the surprise when you read it yourself!

For those of you who have never visited Yemen, I would encourage you to read the book. When you come to some parts that just seem too off-the-wall to be true, believe it. After that, book a ticket and come visit me!