Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [125]
It takes us twenty minutes to cross the water. As our boats push up against the rocks of Kamaran, which is still invisible in the dark, a voice booms from above.
“Welcome to Kamaran!” It is a Yemeni voice speaking warmly in English. As I clamber across the other boats and up the rocks, a strong hand grips mine and hauls me to the top. Mohammed al-Zubairy’s round brown face appears in the dark, glistening. He introduces himself and turns to the next guest. “Zana! You made it!” He remembers the name of everyone who has been there before, particularly the women.
From the top of the cliff, I see the modest buildings of the Two Moon Tourist Resort silhouetted in the moonlight. Those on land are already scurrying to pick out their round, pointy-roofed, thatched Tihama huts. These are scattered across the sandy plain around a circular, stone main building that houses the dining room, kitchen, and bathrooms.
I follow the group slowly, wondering who might let me share their hut. All the seventh-grade anxieties about not fitting in with the popular crowd surge up from my unconsciousness. Everyone else already knows each other. Anne is the only person I really know, and she is sharing a hut with Florens.
“Jennifer!” calls Floor. “Do you want to be in our hut?”
Rescued from social rejection! Floor is the ringleader of this group, and I am grateful for her warmth. I hurry to join her and Serena.
By the time we’ve dropped our things and run into the main building, everyone is lounging in wood and rope chairs, sipping their first cold beers. Floor announces that she is going for a swim, followed by Anne. I waver long enough that they head out without me. (Alcohol or swimming? It’s a tough call.) But I finally decide I want nothing more than to be underwater, and Mohammed leads me across the sand in the dark.
He remembers having seen me before, somewhere in Sana’a.
“I was attracted to your face,” he says. “And here you are, on my island!” I am flattered.
We walk across a dune, passing the dripping Floor and Anne on their return trip, to a small square building. Not until we get there can I make out the outline of the shore. I start for my swimsuit, but Mohammed tells me I don’t need it here. “Just swim! Be free!” he says. “It is night. There is no one to care.”
These are magic words to a girl who has been swaddled from head to toe for months. Euphorically, I strip off my long skirts and walk naked across the sand. Mohammed has gone discreetly ahead and is already out in the water, wearing his boxers, far from me.
The water is deliciously cool. We swim out, Mohammed (staying a respectful distance ahead) guiding me away from underwater hazards. I flip onto my back to see how the moon looks from the Red Sea. It looks fuzzy. My worries about the paper dissolve and float out to sea. I follow Mohammed’s instructions and feel free. I am tempted to float out here all night, but I remind myself that I didn’t come here to be alone.
I join the others for a beer before dinner. We’ve all shucked our Yemeni drapery—even Yemeni Lama has stripped down to a tiny pair of shorts. It feels like the first day of summer vacation. Mohammed and his staff have whipped up a vast feast of seafood and salads, which we boisterously inhale before heading outside to relax under the stars and fuzzy moon. Nina passes me a joint, and I take a couple of hits. I never smoke hashish, and the drug immediately blows me sideways. I fall asleep in my chair, and when I open my eyes Anne is watching me. “You look tired,” she laughs. I stumble over to our hut, curl up on my rope cot, and am instantly asleep.
We wake early to find crepes and mango juice already waiting for us. After breakfast, everyone heads in different directions—some to swim, some to take a boat to a nearby island, some to read in the shade. I linger in the main lodge with Mohammed, curious to know more about his resort. “I wanted to create a place where people could be free,” he says. “This is why I came