Every Man in This Village Is a Liar_ An Education in War - Megan K. Stack [73]
“I see.”
“Anyway, you know, people don’t really understand about Yemeni kidnappings.” His face muscles loosened; he had found his way back to more comfortable talking points. “It’s just what the tribes do if they want something from the government. They want a new water pump or a road. So they might kidnap a foreigner to try to get attention, to start negotiations. But it’s not a bad thing, to be kidnapped. Actually, under tribal tradition, you are a guest, so they treat you very well.”
“Except that you can’t leave.”
“Except that you can’t leave. But you may not want to. They prepare feasts, and everybody wants to meet you. You’re the guest of honor. There is a story, actually, about a tourist who was kidnapped by a tribe, and then the government finished negotiating with the tribe so they released him. But then the tribe got sad, you know, because they were planning a big feast for that night. So they went back out and kidnapped him again so he could come to the feast. Then afterward they released him again. That’s a true story!”
“Funny. Wow. Maybe I should get kidnapped.”
“One time—this is so funny—this guy came to Yemen and, you know, he really wanted to get kidnapped. He was wandering around all by himself on the roads, and nothing. He was so angry about it. He came down to the paper and said, ‘I’m trying to get kidnapped and nobody is picking me up! What does it take to get kidnapped around here?’ We wrote a story about him.”
Faris, armed with documents that made the checkpoint guards fall back respectfully, was a solicitous tour guide. We watched grooms prance to the rumble of drums on the craggy bluff traditionally visited by wedding parties, curved, phallic knives strapped to their bellies. At a rooftop café in the slumbering towers of Old Sanaa, we looked down at the spread of ancient walls, dark mountains rising on the horizon and stars smearing the sky. All the while, Faris dangled promises of exclusive interviews he was allegedly working to arrange. When pressed, he’d gloss into vagueness. “I have to call my friend,” he’d say.
“Why don’t you call him now?”
“Oh, I can’t right now because they have a meeting. Don’t worry. I’ll call him tonight.”
“You have to meet this woman,” he announced. It was Friday, my second day in town. “She’s incredible. Her family was poor so she started cooking for people, to support the men in her family. Now her place is famous. This one illiterate woman, and she started the most famous restaurant in Yemen. Can you imagine? Now the whole family works there.”
“That is interesting.”
“It’s a good story, don’t you think?” he said suggestively. “You should do a story. It’s interesting, how a woman can do that, even in a traditional society.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Anyway, you have to try her food. It’s amazing.”
Scratching chickens, bleating goats, and black-shrouded women picked their way through dust and trash at the squalid market in the provincial town of Shibaam Kawkaban. We slipped down an alley and into a courtyard. A silent girl smiled and led us up a sagging and shadowed staircase, and into a light-flooded lounge. Windows yawned open on all sides, to rocks and mountains and hawks dipping in air. We sat on pillows and the woman laid down a spread of meats, eggs, vegetables, and hot, rich bread. When the tea arrived, Faris pulled out a bundle of qat. “You said you were interested in qat,” he said, passing me a handful of branches.
“I am.”
“Well, it’s Friday. Everybody chews qat today. Break off the smallest leaves, the green, flexible leaves. Chew them but don’t swallow them. Push them over into your cheek and suck on the juices.”
This was the last day Faris would waste, I coaxed myself. The translator I’d hired the night before was already fixing appointments. It was Friday anyway, a futile time for work. I stuffed my mouth with qat, sucked on bitter juice, and watched the hawks rise and fall, suspended against a sky blasted white by sun.
“It’s very good for you to spend time with Faris,” Mohammed, the translator, had told me hesitantly.