Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [106]
The next morning, I head out for a walk before the heat becomes insufferable. In my new cotton shift, I trek up into the shrub-covered mountains. From a distance, the area looks bare and unpopulated. But every few minutes, I am surprised to stumble upon a house that blends so closely into the rocks around it that I haven’t seen it. Every time I think I am alone, a child bursts from a bush and runs across my path.
I hurry back to shower because I’m going to a workshop conducted by U.S. veterinarians, here to teach Soqotri women how to care for their livestock. When we arrive at the training, held at the small, filthy local hospital, we are quizzed by Jennifer, a testy woman working for the U.S. embassy. She won’t let men into the training, because it’s full of Soqotri women, but says I may watch if I promise not to be disruptive.
In a small, airless room that reeks of feet, some thirty-five women, all in black abayas, hijabs, and niqabs, are gathered. A blond U.S. military veterinarian sits at her computer flipping through the slides of her PowerPoint presentation, while a male Soqotri veterinarian reads them out loud. They have been translated into Arabic. Occasionally there are English subtitles, such as “Disease History,” “Prophylaxis,” “Defecation,” “Urination,” “Gait,” and “Voice.”
“The goal is to teach women basic care, not to make them vets,” Jennifer says.
I ask why only women are being trained, and Jennifer explains that women do most of the work on the island, particularly the herding. The women come from villages all over the island, handpicked by their local councils for their ability to speak and read Arabic. Soqotris have their own language, the origin of which is still debated. The women are dressed in their fanciest abayas, with spangled sleeves and embroidered trim, their feet shod in high heels. It is difficult to imagine an outfit less suited to examining livestock. Their fingers are stained with henna and nagsh.
I struggle to breathe in the stale air, and sweat runs down my spine, soaking my cotton dress. The heat and the stench are overwhelming. The women flip through handouts of the presentation, without taking notes, while the Soqotri vet explains how to examine animals for disease.
During breaks, the staff and I race outside for a breath of fresh air, but the Soqotri women do not leave the room. They are encouraged several times to go outside, but evidently neither the heat nor the funk bothers them.
By the end of the second lecture, I am drooping and in need of escape. I sneak out into the relentless midday glare, heading for the Tourist Information Office, as Pearl has suggested it might help me find things to do here.
At the office there are posters on the wall but nothing else, save a few DVDs locked in a display case. I ask the young man there—in Arabic, mime, and English—if he has any brochures. He shakes his head.
“We have no information.”
“No information?” I am incredulous.
“Mafeesh.” (Nothing.)
Well, if the Tourist Information Office is out of information, I doubt I will find it anywhere else, so I head home.
We lunch at the same little restaurant with the friendly French/Lebanese beekeepers. We laugh at the décor, as the walls are plastered with photos of luxury travel destinations, mostly featuring pools of deep blue water and palm trees—places landscaped within an inch of their lives that could not possibly be mistaken for wild Soqotra. Rasheed helps me draw up a list of things to do and see. He’s far more informative than the Tourist Information Office.
After lunch, he drives me in his pickup truck to Wadi Ayeft while Marvin and Pearl stay behind to work. The wadi (valley) is about a forty-minute ride away, and only the first quarter is on pavement. The rest is on rocky trails so bumpy that I get blisters on my back from bouncing against the seat. There is a handle on my side of the car (and no seat belt, natch),