Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [109]
Pearl disappears and comes back with a straw hat for me. “Are you going to make it?” she asks. “There’s a plane out on Monday.”
I am appalled that my discomfort is so apparent.
“I’ll be okay,” I reassure Pearl. I’m determined to stick this out.
In the late afternoon, Rasheed comes to fetch me for another adventure. Our second trip is to Diksam, a cooler, mountainous region in the center of the island. The mountains are barer than I had expected, save for the fantastical dragon’s blood trees, which look like giant stalks of broccoli standing on end. Rasheed shows me the red resin in the trunk that Soqotri women use for makeup.
On our way up into the mountains, we pick up several men, including one of his uncles. There are always men on the road needing a ride, and Rasheed always picks them up. They stand in the back of the truck or crouch low. Occasionally, one shouts at Rasheed to slow down. Because Soqotra has had a road for only a few years, every driver on the island is a novice.
When we reach the top of one mountain, we pull over next to two tiny stone huts, to have tea at Rasheed’s uncle’s home. The inside of the house is cool and welcoming. We sit on the floor, which is covered with thin woven mats and uncluttered by any furnishings. A woman brings us sweet tea made with goat milk and fresh flatbread that we dip into our mugs. Children, dirty and half-dressed, with enormous brown eyes, gather around me to stare.
The women question me, wanting to know (of course) if I am married and have children. In my lonely, travel-weary state, it makes me sadder to have to lie about having a husband and to tell the truth about the absence of a child. A young woman, in her early twenties and newly married, is the most interested in me and aggressive in her questioning. She wants me to stay the night. But we peel ourselves away close to sunset and drive home mostly in silence, picking up men along the way.
I LOOK FORWARD MOST to my afternoons with Rasheed. It is fun to travel with him, to listen to his stories and not have to talk. The next afternoon, he drives me to a protected lagoon near Qalansiyah. It takes an hour or so to get there. As we approach the rocky cliffs above the sea, he slows down and tells me to close my eyes. The truck lurches forward.
“Now open.”
Framed between two walls of rock is a vast expanse of pristine white sand and a lagoon of clear, aquamarine water, sparkling in the sun.
“Jamil,” I say. Beautiful.
Our last and best adventure is the Hoq cave. I’ve been dying to see it, but Rasheed initially resists, saying that it is too late to set out. “It’s an hour-and-a-half hike,” he says. “To tell you the truth, I am feeling lazy about hiking.”
Well, I am not feeling lazy about hiking, so I put my foot down. We drive along the northeastern shore until we come to the fishing village closest to the cave. Soqotri law holds that cave visitors must take a guide, so that locals benefit from the tourism. We pick up a man who says he is afraid to go into the cave himself, but he can show us the way. He doesn’t have a flashlight but assures us that a group has gone up before us and that they will have one.
The three of us set off up the mountain. It is a steep, difficult climb, and our guide sets a breakneck pace, which is all the more impressive given that he does it in purple plastic flip-flops. Still, I manage to keep up. I am happy to be getting some real exercise. I even have to prod Rasheed along at one point. “I’m stepping on your heels,” I tease him. “Pick up the pace.”
We make our way past dozens of the pulpy fat-trunked desert rose trees. They are so adorable that every time we pass a