Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [126]
“I like the sea,” he says. “I grew up close to the sea. I wanted to protect the environment in some way, in my way.”
Using only natural, local materials, he followed the traditional building methods of the Tihama region, the western coastal area, to build the huts. The resort is isolated from the rest of the island, where some thirty-five hundred Yemenis make their living from the sea.
There are two reasons the island is called Kamaran, says Mohammed. First, if you sit at the very tip of this spit of land, just as the full moon rises in the sky, you can see its reflection on either side of you. Qamaran is a transliteration of the Arabic word for “two moons.” Second, for two weeks a month it is possible to see the moon shining in one side of the sky while the sun is shining in the other.
The forty-two-square-mile desert island is fringed with white sand beaches and surrounded by coral reefs. I’m eager to see these reefs but have never snorkeled, so Mohammed teaches me. I have seen coral before only off Soqotra. In flippers and masks, we drift over what looks like heads of cabbage. Tiny silver fish dart in and out of them. Beside these are the labyrinthine shapes of coral folded in upon itself to resemble the cerebellum of a sea monster. Spiky sea urchins abound. Branch coral reaches purple-tipped fingers toward the sky. A rainbow-colored fish swims by, flapping tiny wings, and an enormous mussel (which Mohammed calls a “murder shell”) opens and closes its rippled blue lips. A shoal of long, cylindrical fish—the kind served for dinner the night before—dashes quickly away as if suspecting the fate of their missing brethren.
As we swim, Mohammed silently points to things and I gurgle my awe. After an hour of exploring, I head to shore and trek across the dunes, thick with crushed white shells, to join the others on a distant beach.
It is early evening when we all return. I take some photos of the sunset and join the others for a riotous cocktail hour. Florens and Xander amuse us by covering their sunburned bodies with yogurt. We trade our Yemeni adventure stories and laugh and then eat another fish and vegetable feast.
Afterward, we move outside to celebrate Floor’s birthday with more drinks, dancing, and even a fireworks display. We crank up the stereo. I lift my arms to the starry desert sky, relishing the tickle of my loose hair across my spine, and feel happier than I have felt in months. Festivity, food, and, finally, some nonwork friends.
Close to midnight, boats arrive to take us to the mangroves. We climb into two fishing boats, clutching bottles of whiskey and beer, and zoom off into the dark sea, the moon our only light. Drenched by the sea spray, we toss beers from boat to boat, teasing each other. At a spit of sand near the entrance to the mangroves, we all strip down for a moonlight swim.
When we grow chilly, we climb into the boats and race each other back, drinking and egging each other on. By the time we get to sleep, there are no moons left on Kamaran Island.
The trip to Kamaran throws open doors to the outside world. I return with a host of new friends, who will introduce me to still more new friends, and at long last, a social whirl begins. I still have to work six days a week. I am still the first to leave parties on Wednesday nights, because my staff and I are among the few people in Sana’a who work Thursdays. I still have moments of impatience and exhaustion. But now, I have learned to walk out the door in time for dinner. I have learned to leave things undone on my desk. After all, as I am always telling my reporters, the great thing about the news business is that there is always a next issue.
EIGHTEEN
dragging designers from the qat shed and other drug problems
Whenever I leave the newsroom for too long in the afternoon, my men disappear. Initially, I have no idea where they go and send other reporters to find them. But it doesn’t take long for me to discover their