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Yemeni history is at times bewilderingly complex. Although in Chapter 2 I have tried to sketch in the general lines of pre-Islamic history, I have avoided doing so for later periods so as not to overload the reader with dates and dynasties. To compensate, the Glossary includes brief notes on some of the more important rulers of Yemen; also, the Bibliography is fuller than is usual in a book of this nature. It is a book which, I admit, treads the thin line between seriousness and frivolity. In transliterating Arabic words, I have followed the most commonly accepted system but minus the macrons and subscript dots; I have omitted initial ayns and hamzahs but have retained final ayns; the two letters are not distinguished when they occur within a word. A few readers may find this annoying, but it makes for clearer typography. Thus, the capital city of Yemen,? As for my rendering of Suqutri words, I apologize in advance to the half dozen or so scholars of that language for any deficiencies they may find. Horns rasped against the door: a sheep trying to get in. An easterly gale was whistling across the Sound from Skye and flinging sackfuls of hail at the tin roof of the croft house. The noise was deafening. You have to be somewhere quiet like Harris in the early stages of learning Arabic, somewhere you can walk around unheard, muttering strange, strangulated syllables, limbering up minute and never-used muscles of tongue and glottis. I got up to make tea. The fire let out a rich belch of smoke. I threw on another sod of peat and drew up a chair. At the bottom of the pile, as yet untouched, was a dictionary. I reached for it and looked at the title page. As I turned its foxed pages, I broke through the wall of words into a wilderness of idea. It was another world, a surreal lexical landscape whose inhabitants lived in a state of relentless metamorphosis. That, at least, showed a clear semantic link. Somebody once said that every Arabic word means itself, its opposite or a camel. Now, out of these pages, the exotic beckoned once more, and I was hooked. The door opened. I turned round, expecting to see a black woolly face, or a Person from Porlock; but it was Roddy, the person from next door. He had been out gathering his flock and was soaked. The vision was not shattered — just temporarily blurred. Time and again in the years that followed, some verbal curiosity or weirdness of phrase would sidetrack me out of the corridors of the Oxford Oriental Institute and back into Dictionary Land. They taught us abstruse and arcane mysteries, how to compound the base elements of syntax into glittering and highly wrought prose. We were apprentices in a linguistic alchemy. And, like alchemy, Arabic seemed to be half science and two-thirds magic. The Arabs themselves are spellbound by their language. It did not need to become flesh. You can be preacher, poet, raconteur and fishwife in a single sentence. You can, with the Arabic of official reports, say next to nothing in a great many words and with enormous elegance. You can compose a work of literature on the two lateral extremities of the wrist-bone. You can even be cured of certain ailments by procuring a magic chit, infusing the ink out of it, and drinking the water: word-power at its most literal. It must have been a shock. Usually only a truly major disaster, a wrong case-ending or a misplaced definite article, would unstick him from his corpus of Andalusian erotic verse. Amman, I had been told, was the most boring city in the Arab world. But I felt that my tutor would find the true reason for my demanding a sabbatical in Yemen even less palatable. Yards from Piccadilly was a secret, labyrinthine microcosm of the suq. Even its sounds and smells were reproduced. My reading revealed that others, too, had been bewitched by Yemen. Yemen was seen as at best a backwater, more usually as backward. You were drowned by a rat and ruled by a woman, and people had never even heard of Yemen until a hoopoe told them about it! My first glimpse of Yemen had been at far too impressionable an age. Besides, Yemen — the Yemen I was seeing at second hand — had something of Dictionary Land about it: as well as the talking hoopoes and dambusting rodents, men chewed leaves and camels lived on fish; they the men wore pinstriped lounge-suit jackets on top, skirts below, and wicked curved daggers in the middle; the cities seemed to have been baked, not built, of iced gingerbread; Yemen was part of Arabia but the landscape looked like … well, nowhere else on Earth, and definitely not Arabia. In the end my tutor relented, even gave me his blessing — though he warned me not to be away too long. So I set out to explore Dictionary Land on the ground; and perhaps, eventually, to understand the people who lived in it. But for the moment it was a clean start, the world an empty stage. Enter Sam. Sam ibn Nuh, or Shem the son of Noah, knew that the future of humanity lay in his loins and in those of his brothers Ham and Yafith. This was the spot. Sam bounded down the mountain and pegged out a foundation trench, only to have his guideline stolen by a bird. The bird flew off with the line and dropped it on the east side of the plain. To Sam, this was a clear sign. To the west and south the mountains ended abruptly in jagged escarpments overlooking plains; the plains lay just above sea-level and were hot and sticky but more fertile still. All this, some say, is nonsense. Archaeology has hardly begun to come up with solid facts. Early Yemeni historians, though, produced their own interpretation using genealogy. At the base of the family tree comes Sam. In the process, the names of people and places have become inextricably intertwined: the family tree has grown luxuriantly, fed by the genealogists on a rich mulch of eponyms and toponyms. To get to know Yemen as the Yemenis see it means clambering around this tree, one which spreads vertically through time and horizontally through space. History and geography, people and land, are inseparable. The new school of historians are doing a hatchet-job on the family tree, questioning the very existence of the traditional ancestors. But in the end it hardly matters who is right. Whether Qahtan — the central figure, the South Arabian progenitor — was an actual person or not, he represents a people who share a distinctive culture, one which has lasted for at least three thousand years. The Ethiopian Boeing lurched and creaked its way down through layers of turbulence. For the last couple of minutes before landing, the plane circled over the city. It was not as I had expected. Now you arrived along roads of half-finished buildings. The statement of entry had been upstaged by a preamble of petrol stations. The mistake had been to think of it as a museum. Today, the ribbons of building have joined into an all-but seamless urban weave. It suffers from traffic jams and lack of planning. What I had imagined to be the timeless calm of an ancient walled city was stagnation, a comatose sleep ended by the brute kiss of revolution. In the Old City the heart still beats. And last Ramadan, every day before the sunset prayer, a fettered man would call for alms beneath my window; a taxi driver who had crashed, he was in gaol until he could collect the blood-money for his dead passengers. His insurance policy had been with God; now, coin by coin, the Faithful were paying out his claim. The sounds all float up from four floors below, a distraction to writing. Over there is the place where Sam first began building, and through the other window is Jabal Nuqum, near the base of which the bird dropped his guideline. Even this is hardly the best place to be writing, this belvedere on the roof; it is too easy to get carried away by the skyline of which you are a part. But up here, among the birds and the occasional flying plastic bag, street noises are far away, and you could be sitting in a jewelled casket — the room is tiny, eight feet by five, and lit by coloured glass windows. Only yards away a man is putting the final cursive plaster frieze on to a similar room, hanging on a swing above the chasm of the street. Behind him the dust is beginning to obscure Jabal Ayban and the road to the sea. A west wind is blowing up, banging the shutters. I must go down and pick up some more cigarettes, down the seventy-seven I think steps into the dark entrance hall. I slide back the bolt of the massive door and light and noise and piles of alfalfa tumble in — my neighbour sells the plant for fodder, alongside jars of marigolds, roses, basil and rue. She is veiled and wrapped in a sitarah, a large blue and red cloak like a tablecloth. In front of them is a line of barrows, some with oranges, some with plastic shoes, some with knives, razors, nailclippers, torches and mechanical drumming monkeys. Across the street are the secondhand clothes sellers. The secondhand clothes sellers are a long way from the subfusc mustiness of an Oxfam shop. They are lost in a maelstrom of flying cloth and brown forearms thrusting from under sitarahs, glinting with gold bangles. Only the man selling platform shoes is alone. Another find was a smart barathea tailcoat. One day I saw on the street something that stopped me dead. It was a piece of clothing as familiar to me as my own body, but translated into another sartorial idiom. A boy was wearing it over a zannah, an ankle-length shirt, and a miniature jambiyah, a curved dagger. He was scuffing a deflated football along. I called him to stop. There it was, grey flannel with navy piping and a fleur-de-lis on the breast pocket: my prep-school blazer. I looked inside. There was the ghost of an inkstain on the pocket, where my birthday Parker had sprung a leak in The space for the name-tape was empty. As he kicked the ball away a wave of nostalgia flooded over me. It passed, leaving behind a strange, deep stillness of spirit. It was the calm of completeness, of the wheel turning full circle, of being in the right place at the right time. The place is a vast metal box, echoing with cries of supplication — owners begging for the redemption of their goods. Inside the shed I found the crate containing my motor cycle. It had come here via Addis Ababa and appeared to be in one piece. To get in I waved a piece of paper, the central portion of which was a typewritten request to import the machine into Yemen, addressed to the Director of Customs. Over the weeks it had sprouted marginalia, each ending with the enigmatic squiggle which in Arabic passes for a signature. On my first visit to the Customs Authority I had buttonholed the Director as he was getting out of his car. For the attention of the Secretariat. The Head of the Secretariat had no objection either and with a second marginalium — written with a less costly but still desirable pen — passed the matter on to the Head of External Affairs. In External Affairs it was the same story: no objection, refer to another department. I noticed that the lower the position in the hierarchy, the more complex the signature became. At the same time the pens decreased in quality until, in a nameless department where bottom-drawer bureaucrats sat reading the newspaper or practising their signatures, someone was persuaded to write something with a chewed and leaking biro. By now, time was beginning to distort: I had been in Customs for a good part of each working day for a fortnight. Where could they refer the case to now? I looked at the latest addition to the document. For the attention of Director of Customs. Like the Buddhist soul, it had described a complete circle while the officials were reincarnated in ever lowlier forms. I entered the sanctum sanctorum, the eye of the storm. The few people in the room addressed the Director in hushed voices. The costly pen glided. Everyone else called it a mutur, even if fiery bicycle was what you used in written Arabic. The Director leaned back and stroked his moustache. I recited to myself the mantra of a British Resident Adviser to one of the sultans of Hadramawt in colonial days: Never get angry, be quiet, very quiet, speak and act softly. I beg to be allowed the honour of contributing to the exchequer by paying duty. Indeed, I came here today on a fiery bicycle taxi. No sign of softening. The Director snorted. I looked at him and saw he was laughing. Refer to Airport Customs Department. Calculate sum due. At Airport Customs, I watched the responsible concerned make his calculations. The process seemed to be based not on simple addition but on logarithms and exponentiality. The sum due was thirty thousand riyals. I said I was most grateful, but it still seemed a lot for two wheels. He scrubbed out the whole figure and wrote fifteen thousand. I said I was delighted and left, clutching the papers. My lunch was the same as that described by Ibn al-Mujawir in the thirteenth century: wheat bread, hulbah —fenugreek flour whisked to a froth with water — and meat. Ali himself stands in a cloud of smoke on a platform high above the ground, ladling beef broth, eggs, rice and peppers into a row of stone bowls. In front of him is a rank of cauldrons, each one big enough to boil a missionary. Below him minions tend gas cylinders that send great blasts of flame shooting up. Conversations are impossible in the roar; explosions are not unknown. The bowl of saltah, as they call the mixture, is brought to you red-hot, carried with a pair of pliers and topped with a seething yellowish-green dollop of hulbah. Men squat on the floor, on benches, on tables the ones in suits and ties are from the Foreign Ministry across the road. Ya Alayyy! The lucky ones who have been served eat with the saltah spitting in their faces, sweat pouring from their brows. The walls are covered with a huge photographic mural of the gardens at Versailles: parterres, statues of nymphs, cooling fountains. It is the first step on the way to kayf. The meaning of the term has been discussed by Sir Richard Burton. Lexicographers, who cannot be so realistic, have described it as a mood, humour or frame of mind. I, who chew the leaf of the qat tree, shall attempt a definition. Blood, phlegm, yellow and black bile must be in balance to ensure perfect health and to enable the qat chewer to attain his goal of kayf, since qat excites the cold and dry black bile, prophylaxis against its ill effects means that the blood, which is hot and wet, must be stimulated. Hence the heat, the sweat, the bubbling saltah. Hence also the visits to the public baths before chewing qat, the insistence on keeping windows and doors shut during chewing, the elaborate precautions to avoid the dreadedshanini — a piercing and potentially fatal draught of cold air. An old joke illustrates this obsession with heat. The angels, it is said, periodically visit Hell to make sure the fires are turned up. One day a group of them are detailed to check on the really wicked sinners, who spend eternity in individual ovens. Inside the first oven is a Saudi. He screams to be let out. Roasting nicely, they think, and slam the door on him. In the next oven is an Englishman; then come an American, an Egyptian and so on. All beg to be let out, but the angels show them no mercy. Eventually they open the last door. Inside sits a Yemeni, chewing qat and apparently oblivious of the flames around him. I argued. A present. Wrangling over the price is part of the business of working up a sweat. It was half past two and I was ready to start. My molar, as they say, was hot. Perhaps I should make the point here, if it needs to be made, that this is a very male book. As a man I am excluded from the society of women, as they are from that of men. Outsiders tend to see this dual, parallel system as a form of repression. The idea never occurs to most Yemeni women. They know that they wield power in many spheres, notably in the choice of marriage partners which, given an endogamous system, is a major influence on the distribution of wealth. Women play only a small role in the public domain, as they did in the West until quite recently; at least in Yemen, in contrast to Saudi Arabia, women are able to drive cars, enter Parliament, become top-ranking civil servants. But it is in the private realm of the home that the woman dominates, in practice if not in theory; men often gather to chew qattogether because their homes have been taken over by visiting women. The veil, so overlaid with symbolic meaning for Westerners, is for Yemeni women just another item of dress. If it is not essential as protection against the cold, then neither are stockings, bras or neckties. Casual Western observers, for whom the black sharshaf is a dehumanizer and who equate the veil with a gag, are allowing an obsession with symbolism to pull the wool over their own eyes. Underlying the use of hair- or face-coverings there are, of course, Arab-Islamic concepts of honour and modesty which the West does not share or has lost. The question of what to conceal — face, breasts, ankles, the legs of a grand piano — is not a question of sense but of sensibilities. His message has yet to get across. The veil is indeed a potent symbol, but a symbol of the unwillingness or inability of the West to understand the Arab world. The Iron Curtain has been and gone; the muslin curtain still hangs, and probably always will. Panting from the ascent, I slipped off my shoes and entered the room. It was rectangular, with windows on all sides which began a foot above the floor. Above them were semicircular fanlights of coloured glass. Into the tracery of the fanlights, and in the plaster of the walls and shelf-brackets, were worked the names of God and the Prophet, and verses of a pious nature — it was a very legible room. Polished brass gleamed everywhere: rosewater sprinklers, incense-burners, spittoons with little crocheted covers, the great circular tray with its three water-pipes. Low mattresses covered with Afghan runners lined the walls. About a dozen men were sitting on them, leaning on armrests topped with little cloth-of-gold cushions. I greeted the chewers, interrupting their zabj, the rapid banter, the swordplay of insults that starts all the best qat sessions. And, do you know, he looked just like you. You could have been twins! Jewish Yemenis are required to advertise their religion by cultivating a pair of long corkscrew ringlets. You could have been twins. After half an hour of this verbal fencing, the zabj lost its momentum and devolved into solo joke telling. No one wants you. By chance she fell into a lorry carrying bananas and was knocked unconscious. The lorry drove on. Ten minutes later she came to. Ah, she thought, I am dead. Please, take your turn! And many more in the same vein. Weightier matters are discussed at qat chews, and they are a major forum for the transaction of business and for religious and political debate. Many people also chew to aid concentration on study or work, and qat is the inevitable accompaniment to all important occasions from weddings to funerals. My qat was good, a Hamdani from Tuzan. Qat is a dicotyledon known to science as Catha edulis. Unremarkable though it appears, chewers recognize a huge variety of types and are fascinated by its origin: when one buys qat one first establishes its pedigree. Quality is judged by region, by the district within a region, even by the field where the individual tree is grown and by the position of the leaf on it. The product of a tree planted inadvertently on a grave is to be avoided — it brings sorrow. Qat can be any colour from lettuce-green to bruise-purple. It comes long or short, bound into bundles or loose, packed in plastic, alfalfa or banana leaves. Just as in the West there are wine snobs, in Yemen there are qat snobs. I once found myself opposite one. Fastidiously, he broke the heads off his yard-long branches and wrapped them in a dampened towel. It was almost an act of consecration. When he had finished, he drew on his water-pipe and appraised my bag of qatalwith a look that threatened to wither it. Qatal is the pubic hair of qat. Besides, dogs cock their legs over it. It was as thick as asparagus, its leaves edged with a delicate russet, and it tasted nutty, with the patrician bitter-sweetness of an almond. There was a tactile pleasure too, like that of eating pomegranates — a slight resistance between the teeth followed by a burst of juice. I chased it with a slurp of water infused with the smoke of incense made from sandalwood, eagle-wood, mastic and cloves. Qat does not alter your perception. It simply enhances it by rooting you in one place. There is a story in The Arabian Nights about a prince who sat and sat in his palace. Sentient from the waist up, his lower half had been turned to porphyry. They usually are, to some extent. After the zabj and the jokes, conversations took place in smaller groups, then pairs, then, towards the end of the afternoon, ceased. I looked out of the windows at the city. An Iraqi visitor earlier this century eulogized the city in verse:. They are mountains to be contemplated, like Fuji, if never so geometrical although I once saw Nuqum, just after dawn, with a circle of cloud hovering over it, so precise that it might have been drawn by a compass. The climate, too, is perfect, if a bit dusty. Foxes come and bite the heads off. The event causes a certain linguistic complication, as Yemenis have no word for snow. The stuff that falls slowly and looks like cotton. Exaggeration is to be expected: its shadow reached the lip of Wadi Dahr, ten miles to the north-west; its lights could be seen in the holy city of al-Madinah, miles away. Ghumdan, to judge by more sober descriptions, rose ten storeys, to a height of around feet — miraculously tall for its period. Built of variegated stone, it had hollow bronze lions and eagles on its parapet that roared and screeched when the wind blew. All that is left of the palace now is a hillock to the east of the Great Mosque, covered with later building. Since the city burst its walls after the Revolution of , space has not been at a premium. But people still build upwards, subconsciously imitating the Sabaean builders of Ghumdan. Every upper room is a memory of that alabaster belvedere, a place of luxury and refinement implicit in the word mafraj. The mafraj is not always on the roof. CNN offers even more distant prospects than Ghumdan. I find myself looking towards the place where the sun must have just disappeared. This high above sea-level we are spared the more vulgar sort of sunset. The afterglow is dusty, the sky above the city like the inside of a shell. A man that looks on glass, on it may stay his eye. At the Hour of Solomon time refracts, as if bent by a prism. No one speaks. Introspection has replaced conviviality. Somewhere, my fingers are working at the qat, polishing, plucking. When it was still light I found a fat horned caterpillar. Were there a singer here, this would be his time. But the songs of the Hour of Solomon are as perilous as they are beautiful. Earlier this century in the days of Imam Yahya, singers could only perform in locked rooms, their windows stuffed with cushions. Lasting we thought it, yet it did not last. It is now quite dark. The coloured windows of neighbouring houses are lighting up, like Advent calendars. We qat chewers, if we are to believe everything that is said about us, are at best profligates, at worst irretrievable sinners. In Saudi Arabia we would be punished more severely than alcohol drinkers; in Syria blue-eyed Muhammad would be swinging on the end of a rope. Yemenis themselves, while admitting that their habit is expensive, defend it on the grounds that it stimulates mental activity and concentration; they point out that at least the money spent on it remains within the national economy. Qat has inspired a substantial body of literature. As well as poetry, there is a weighty corpus of scholarly literature on the legality of qat in Islam. It has been unable to find any analogy between the effects of the leaf and those of the prohibited narcotics. In the end, though, the question of its desirability and permissibility revolves around matters of politics, taste, ethnocentrism and sectarian prejudice. I can just make out my watch. Half past seven. Time, which had melted, is resolidifying. It is now that I sometimes wonder why I am sitting here in the dark with a huge green bolus in my cheek; why I, and millions of others, spend as much time buying and chewing qat as sleeping, and more money on it than on food. But to reduce it all to a neat theory — rumino ergo sum — is to over-simplify. It ignores the importance of the qat effect — something almost impossibly difficult to pin down, for it is as subtle and as hard to analyse as the alkaloids that cause it. It takes long practice to be able to recognize the effect consciously, and even then it sidesteps definition except in terms of metaphor, and by that untranslatable word,kayf. Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness. A country long regarded by classical geographers as a fabulous land where flying serpents guarded sacred incense groves, while medieval Arab visitors told tales of disappearing islands and menstruating mountains. Our current ideas of this country at the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula have been hijacked by images of the terrorist strongholds, drone attacks, and diplomatic tensions. But, as Mackintosh-Smith reminds us in this newly updated book, there is another Arabia. Yemen may be a part of Arabia, but it is like no place on earth. Report an issue with this product or seller. Previous slide of product details. Print length. Abrams Press. Publication date. March 20, See all details. Next slide of product details. Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Previous set of slides. Yemen: Travels in Dictionary Land. Tim Mackintosh-Smith. Yemen in Crisis: Road to War. Helen Lackner. Yemen: Dancing on the Heads of Snakes. Victoria Clark. A History of Modern Yemen. Paul Dresch. Next set of slides. He's lived there since , and this book--marketed as travel writing but more a blend of personal memoir and national history--is the result. There are certainly travel episodes, such as a trip to the remote island of Susqatra where the Gulf of Aden meets the Indian Ocean. Yet Yemen is more the product of a man gone native than a visitor with an itinerary. Indeed, Mackintosh-Smith offers a forthright defense of the country's lotus-like drug culture, which centers on qat , a leaf that produces a narcotic effect when chewed. Although international health officials have warned against the drug, Mackintosh-Smith assures us this is all 'quasi-scientific poppycock. Well-received upon its initial publication in the United Kingdom, Yemen may come to be recognized as a small classic. Against the advice of his Arabic teacher 'Why don't you go somewhere respectable? A latter-day Lawrence of Arabia without the military exploits, the author has taken up many of the customs of his adoptive land: he's become addicted to qat, a plant that is chewed, often in groups, for its calming effects. The book, a bestseller in Britain, takes the reader on Mackintosh-Smith's travels throughout this south Arabian land, introducing the reader to both wizened Yemenis and the perils of roughing it--even in the late 20th century--throughout a mainly unexplored land. Sleepless nights on rocky inclines mix with desert heat and scorpions on one trip through the countryside, while an odd visit to a Yemeni dancing club highlights his trip to the city of Aden. An engaging writer with a journalist's eye for detail, Mackintosh-Smith never loses his sense of humor: his description of his visit to an English class, where the teacher asks the students, 'How many noses does Professor Tim have? The book offers an opportunity for dedicated armchair travelers to delight in a land few Westerners will actually visit. One warning: the author intersperses some history and politics among his travels, but the lay reader is advised to keep a reference source handy. Etchings by Martin Yeoman. Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Mackintosh-Smith's book is a strange hybrid. On one hand, it is a travelogue, filled with descriptions of magnificent landscapes, stunning cities, and personal stories of the author's experiences. It is also a history book, albeit not a chronological one because Mackintosh-Smith jumps from time period to time period as his travels bring him to places of historical significance. These parts together make Yemen a very unique book indeed. Mackintosh-Smith is a talented writer and observer, and he skillfully conveys his sense of wonder to the reader. He states in the preface that the book 'treads the thin line between seriousness and frivolity,' but there is nothing frivolous about his narrative, which thoroughly draws the reader into the world of Yemen. This book is an excellent introduction to an often overlooked country. Kristine Huntley. A literate journey into exotic territory by a traveler with an unusual depth of knowledge. Yemen, whose Arabic name means the south, is a mystery even to its neighbors in the Arab world. Tribal, remote, and seemingly inhospitable, it seldom figures in the itineraries of even the most adventurous travelers. When Mackintosh-Smith, a student of Arabic at Oxford, announced to his tutor that he intended to live in Yemen because, he understood, its dialect was the closest living relative of classical Arabic, he was advised to go instead to the safer, and better known, confines of Cairo, Amman, or Tunis. He left in with the promise to return to his studies soon. Yemen, however, cast its spellor perhaps it was the qat, the mildly narcotic herbal stimulant whose consumption occupies him over much of his wandering. Mackintosh-Smith guides his readers through what he calls dictionary land, by which he means a land whose every expression can mean many thingswhere, for example, the word qarurah can mean either the apple of ones eye or urinal, depending on context and mood. He neither tries to make the exotic overly familiar nor the familiar overly exotic, in the way of so many British literary travelers to the legend-shrouded lands of Arabia Felix. His characters are not the mustachioed bandidos of old, but men who have worked oil rigs, fought civil wars, harvested frankincense and myrrh, and, in one instance, made a killing in Riyadh, running a juice bar. And the places he visits do not serve as mere backdrops for the authors ruminations on the ills of modern life; rather, they are celebrated and assessed for their specific qualities: hot, dusty, endlessly fascinating places with histories that cry out for attention. A vigorous, humorous debut that paints a delightful portrait of a distant land. All rights reserved. Tim Mackintosh-Smith has lived in Yemen since , earning the official title of Shaykh of Nazarenes. Prefatory Note Yemeni history is at times bewilderingly complex. Could you, er …? My tutor spun round from his computer screen. Why do you want to go there? My turn came. He saw my dumbstruck look, crossed out the three and wrote a two. Two, of course. The beauty of those other places is but embellishment and artifice; Your beauty is unaffected, the gift of your Creator. And as he chewed, his mouth resembled Pearls which have formed on carnelian and, between them, an emerald, melting. Read more. Brief content visible, double tap to read full content. Full content visible, double tap to read brief content. Help others learn more about this product by uploading a video! About the author Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations. Read more about this author Read less about this author. Customer reviews. How customer reviews and ratings work Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them. Learn more how customers reviews work on Amazon. Images in this review. Sort reviews by Top reviews Most recent Top reviews. Top reviews from the United States. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Verified Purchase. The author did an amazing job of allowing the reader to feel as though he as traveling along with him through this fascinating country. I enjoyed the historical grounding given to the narrative as well. I have read this book several times over the past ten years or so and enjoyed it every time. Mackintosh-Smith is an excellent writer who describes his view of Yemen very well, as one who has lived there and been immersed in its culture and the Arabic language. I enjoyed this work. The author spends time focusing on most areas of Yemen- the Hawdramat, Sana'a, Aden, the mountains, and Suqutra. It would have been nice to have more detail on the coastal areas and the writing at times isn't excellent, but it is a very serviceable text. MacKintosh-Smith writes from the perspective of someone who really got inside the culture- as much as a traveler can get. He retains an etic perspective, and does not live, grow, and die with the Yemeni. But this is one of the few travelogues where one can find information on qat, and even the author using it on a regular basis though it remains classified as a drug at the same level as cocaine by the U. It is also one of the few places where you can find a modern description of travels in Suqutra, which is worth getting the book by itself. The chapter on Suqutra describes a land isolated biologically for millions of years, displaying evidence of gigantisism as you find in Hawaii, where few predators have controlled the growth of fauna and especially flora. There are cucumber trees there, and others that look like upside-down umbrellas. Much of the flora and fauna are unique to the island. Further, severe storms six months of the year prevent access to the island. So, while over the years there have been invasions on the coast of the island by different parties, it has largely grown up unscathed into modern times. The language diverged from South Arabian in about BC, and the people seem to be a mixture of Arabic, Greek, Portuguese, and Indian- but no one knows for sure. While they do now have cars of them , the cigarette lighter is still an unknown machine. And since the government severely limits non-Yemeni visitors to the island, this is a rare and exciting bit of a story of what the people are like. I only wish there was more about the island. I've given up my long-held dream of traveling in Yemen. Once I thought I might even study Arabic and try to do some anthropological research there on the shrines visited by Indian Muslims. But my fate was always centered in India. I'd collected as many books about Yemen as I could and now, since I won't be living those travels or doing that work, I've started reading them all. They are gathered around two poles: academic and travel writing. These books give you a solid, more 'professional' view of Yemen, though Caton's 'Yemen Chronicle' is as far from 'dry academic' as you can get and still be serious. Now I've just finished Mackintosh-Smith's travel opus. I must say that taken together, this is a most impressive body of work for a country that on a world scale does not loom large. Mackintosh-Smith seems to be a man who found another part of himself in a faraway land and never went home. There must be something in the UK that drives or attracts certain men to take up life in the Arab world. The author had lived in Yemen many years by the time he wrote this book and spoke fluent Arabic. Like Kevin Rushby, who frequently 'ate the flowers of paradise', Mackintosh-Smith adapted to all facets of Yemeni life and walked through the mountains and deserts of his adopted homeland as well as through the crowded streets of San'a and the various villages and small towns he came across. In the book he goes to the north, through the mountains and down to the Tihama coastal plain, to Aden where he views the strange debris of British occupation crossed with Marxist government overthrown , to the far reaches of the Hadramawt, and finally to the remote, but fascinating island of Socotra. He may not have been the only one to do this, but he has certainly written the most poetic, literary book to come out about Yemen so far. This is a romantic work. I think there is room for romantic works in this world. In fact, a world without them would be awful. Mackintosh-Smith does not pretend to write a scholarly tome, but still, historical and political information does flesh out his personal experiences together with legends, tall tales, and weird details. All in all, this is a wonderful book; a must-read for anyone interested in Yemen. It does not intimate anything of what has unfolded in and it does not present Yemen as a Third World country in need of health care, education, and population control, not to mention a solution to serious water problems. I wonder what has happened to the author. Perhaps the Yemen he has described so well will persist, but I fear not in the same form. For him, this may be a tragedy, but I'm not so sure Yemenis would entirely agree. The drawings scattered throughout the book are as insipid and uninteresting as the text is vivid and interesting. I cannot understand why he didn't use photographs or at least some more finished work. One person found this helpful. See more reviews. Top reviews from other countries. A most enjoyable read. The author really knows the country and its people well. Excellent read. Somewhere between travel book, history lessons, love letter to a country and humorous story you tell at a campfire. Very recommended. As gizmondo pointed out, this is the same book at Yemen: Travels in Dictionary Land. It's not unnatural to assume from Amazon's recommendation that 'People who bought' this book also bought 'Dictionary Land', that they were different books. Silly me. No offence to the author of this good book, shame on Amazon. Your recently viewed items and featured recommendations. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Make Money with Us. Amazon Payment Products. Let Us Help You. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. Amazon Ads Reach customers wherever they spend their time. Sell on Amazon Start a Selling Account. Veeqo Shipping Software Inventory Management. AmazonGlobal Ship Orders Internationally. Shopbop Designer Fashion Brands. Deals and Shenanigans. Ring Smart Home Security Systems. Blink Smart Security for Every Home. Amazon Subscription Boxes Top subscription boxes — right to your door. PillPack Pharmacy Simplified. Amazon Renewed Like-new products you can trust.
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