Ever since Muscat, I keep on racing. I enjoyed crossing the desert, but later I fell into some kind of a depression: the road that was supposed to be relaxing is turning into a confinement between the beautiful beaches rippled by the gentle sand dunes and a fatigue caused by the continuous sitting behind the wheel on the one hand, and the forthcoming 22 February when I have to be in Jordan on the other, while, after hours and hours of driving, the pointer on my GPS has hardly moved on the map of the Arabian Peninsula.
The Muscat accident has knocked me down on two levels: on a time level and on the other time level. Therefore, I cannot cancel flatly the touring of Jordan that begins for me in the early morning on 23 February in Amman. I could fly from San’a’ to Amman and then return to pick up my “house”, but this would mean not only a considerable cost which I can avoid (not only the plane ticket), but also that I would be forced to hurry and hurry and hurry even later on. So I hope to arrive in Jordan on time by taking the road, this way, after Jordan, I can put down my watch and, what is more, forget about the calendar – a luxury I haven’t been able to afford since mid-January. Unfortunately, Yemen will fall victim to the Muscat traffic accident. But I’d rather sacrifice Yemen than be in a hurry afterwards.
Unfortunately, I forgot to take the map of Yemen out of David’s backpack pocket that I bought from Uroš before he went back to Slovenia, so my drive from Aden to San’a’ was more or less guesswork. True, I had a companion, but we didn’t communicate much. As early as the first checkpoint on our way from the Omani border, we were stopped by a police officer. Before we had time to open our mouths, two hitchhikers climbed onto the luggage compartment above the driver’s compartment, one on each side, and the police officer signalled departure. As they reached the desired goal, they simply knocked on my windscreen. Later on, we were given the obligatory police escort, first in the driver’s compartment and then with a vehicle. On the road to San’a’, I was pulled over by police officers again and a man carrying two large bags climbed into my compartment. There was no room for negotiation. So we spent the next six hours together, until, tired and starving, I stopped the truck 60 km before San’a to get some food. I explained to him that I had no intention of entering San’a’ that night anyway and that he was free to wait half an hour so that I can have dinner, but that I was surely to spend the night somewhere before the capital city of Yemen. He vanished into the night. He was good-natured and friendly, but I just don’t enjoy travelling this way. With the police escort, David and I drove by many places where we would otherwise have stopped, even if only for five minutes. And if this form of travelling is to be continued, which is to be expected, especially in the north, the area threatened by terrorists, it might be better to choose Yemen as the victim of the accident.
Saturday morning, in San’a’, I deposited my passport, 3 photographs, carnet de passages, certificate of registration, a copy of my driving licence, 3 forms and nothing else whatsoever! I still have my identity card, my KTM certificate of registration and my “Čebelica” video club membership card! Wish me good luck for my Saudi Arabian visa tomorrow, on Monday. Otherwise I will be needing not only Redbull (which, by the way, you can buy in every store here, in the Middle Ages) but also rocket propulsion. Especially because they have stolen my horn today in the city. Yes, they have stolen my horn. I leave the city centre and, as there wasn’t enough air to turn on the trumpets, I switch to the original horn. Nothing. Later, I look under the truck and find out that they have unscrewed the horn and torn the connectors. Bastards, they haven’t even bothered to isolate them and fasten them to the chassis!
Now, San’a’ is the right thing! The smell of donkey urine mixed with baked corn, dust and heat! We are at an altitude of 2,300 metres above sea level, so that yesterday morning we had the lowest temperature of 6º C, and during the day it doesn’t go beyond 30˚ C, but I am still hot. Already in the Omani desert, the humidity dropped to 15%, but today I was shocked to find 5% on the hygrometer! The sun is strong and despite the fact that the temperature is not high I feel hot and am getting tired. Thus, in one way, waiting for my visa comes in handy. At least I was able to slow down for a couple of days.
The commotion on the streets reminds me of the Moroccan Fes, only the streets are for the most part a bit wider here. Some of the children insist on having their picture taken, while others run away in terror as soon as I pick up my camera. Wagging his finger, a gloomy looking salesman informs me that I am not allowed to take his picture, and others join him, yelling ”mamnu”, meaning forbidden! His neighbour, however, poses for the camera wearing a wide smile.
Yesterday, I was walking through the streets in a jalabia I bought in Morocco a few years back and I was surprised to find that many people approached me asking if I was a Moroccan. When I’m wearing “civilian clothes” - if you can call combat trousers civilian clothes - they mostly take me for a Lebanese. A camera, sunglasses, and a funny accent. This time it’s the Moroccan jalabia, a camera, and a funny accent. OK, so I will be Moroccan. Today, I returned to the city wearing “civilian clothes”. Oh dear. "Hello, where are you from, what's your name, hello, hello, picture, picture, look, look." And I don’t even have my horn anymore. Darn it! I hope to go and see Mohammed tomorrow afternoon with a smiling face; he is al-mudir ar-raisi, the managing director of Nosoku, the Saudi Arabian Consular Division responsible for contacts with the people.
I’m not sure how many photos I will be able to attach to this article. Last night, I went to the embassy quarter to spend the night where it’s peaceful and the only noise disturbing your sleep is the neighbour muezzin’s morning singing. Namely, the city traffic is a disaster. Not only in the city; already on the way up from Aden I couldn’t stop wondering at the Yemeni drivers. Idiots would be a good word. Maybe cretins. I don’t know if grass has anything to do with it, but in a way I’m glad that I’m driving in a truck and not in a personal vehicle, let alone a motorcycle. The Yemeni drivers, spiced by the night (including bad road signalisation and anything but adjusted and functioning headlights of the opposite driving vehicles) and considerably bad roads, are an excellent recipe for an accident. Just as an example: I was driving on the right lane of a two-lane road. Blinding headlights in front of me. All of a sudden and without warning, the asphalt under the wheels goes missing, which is not unusual. Fortunately, there was another car driving behind me. The two-lane road turns into a one-way road, our two lanes disappear, and a two-way traffic continues on the two lanes that constituted the opposite two-lane road. Thanks to the local driving behind me, I found this out before arriving to the bridge next to which the “unasphalted road” tumbled into the pit.
Let’s go back to the embassies. I park for the night in front of a neatly arranged villa which turns out to be the Embassy of the Republic of Korea in the morning. At eight, I hear someone banging on the door. I peak out like a mouse out of a heap of flour and the security guard explains that I can’t stay there. I have no energy for Arabic, I can barely manage English. I ask for half an hour. Surprised, he inquires if I am a foreigner. I am. OK, no problem, no problem. Thus I was able to sleep until eleven. True friendship with Nabil, who is not a security guard but the Ambassador’s driver, began when I told him I was from Slovenia. Before he started working for the Koreans, he was driving a Mr. Bojan for the Tetra Pak company. And my status immediately increased in his eyes. Thank you, Bojan!
Why don’t I know if I can send the photos? Because I don’t feel like going into the city where all the Internet connections I discovered yesterday are poor. So I pirate from home on a Korean WLAN that closes down once in a while. If I don’t get back to you tomorrow, you can open the champagne. It means that your and my wishing good luck worked.
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