Did you like this article?

• Subscribe and get the latest
• Print it
• Leave a comment

WEB EXCLUSIVE

The bohemian sat on a cliff contemplating the interlocking craggy mountains west of Sana’a; the road to Hodeida snaked downward along their sides. Their magnificence reduced man and woman to a speck. Crows paraglided above on the soft, cool air. The silence was only occasionally interrupted by the birds’ calls and the infrequent traffic. She couldn’t resist the spirituality.

A Jeep of Yemenis parked nearby on the cliff. The family of three men – one old – and an elderly woman walked to the dirt side of the road. One of the men, the younger one, stepped onto a protruding volcanic rock leaning dangerously forward. He crouched, like an eagle about to fly. The bohemian feared that his thawb or his sandals would betray him. He became very still. Man and nature were one.

The young man walked back and joined his family. He took the crescent of watermelon from the old woman, who had sliced the pieces there on the cliff. The woman sat with legs crossed, the men crouching down. They ate and quietly observed the mountains surrounding them, which remained mysterious and obstinately silent. Mountains bestowed no answers, only more questions. The old man approached the bohemian’s group. He gave them each a melon crescent. Refusal was an insult; he insisted. The bohemian accepted the gift. These same men who might have harassed her on the streets of Sanaa. No answers, only more questions.

Soon, the Jeep sped away toward Hodeida. Crows hovered in the space over the family’s now-empty spot. She’d had nothing to offer them in return at that moment in time. She was just thankful, and thankful for this, all of this. She had little of value to offer in return, except, perhaps, for a tribute to their generosity and to the magic of their land.

Related Posts

• Baby Bulbuls