Aden, Yemen

12 47 N, 44 59 E

Posted May 24, 2010


After a hard run along the coast from Oman, we turn the corner from the Gulf of Aden into the Port of Aden.

An on-line travel guide extols Yemen as a “tourist’s country” that “holds so many treasures that appeal to any open-minded visitor. The sights are amazing, the people are friendly, their culture is unique, and their food is tasty.”

The guide also provides the following “WARNING: Travel to Yemen at this time is not recommended because of the very high threat of terrorist attacks, kidnappings, tribal violence, and general lawlessness.”

These two descriptions are not mutually exclusive, and we found a little bit of both here. The people in this ancient home of the Queen of Sheba are friendly, the sights amazing, and the food delicious. The locals have had some time to practice — this is one of the oldest inhabited places on earth.

But al-Qaeda is also here. Tourists visiting the northern part of the country were targeted and killed recently. And two bombs were set off mere blocks away from us while we were in Aden, prolonging the image that the country suffers from a “general lawlessness.”

But we get ahead of ourselves.

We continue to be moving through Pirate Alley, and so have been more concerned with the Somalian Pirates than the Yemeni al-Qaeda.  We have our hearts in our throats any time we venture out to sea around here.  The Yemeni naval presence has proved itself to be somewhat effete, and the pirates have taken huge tankers at the very mouth of Aden’s harbor.

So entering Aden Harbor was dramatic in more ways than one.  The buildings of the city are nestled among a series of jagged, dry, tan-colored hills that rise from the sea.  The center of the city is itself an enormous dormant volcano, aptly known in Arabic as the “Crater.” As we sailed around the headland and moved toward the city, a huge Yemeni flag – red, white, and black in horizontal bands, trimmed in gold- came into view, waving in the wind atop a flagpole that was sky-scraper tall, Aden’s hills waving in the background behind a smoldering heat.


The high-flying Yemeni flag that greeted us upon our entry.

We called Aden Port Control on the VHF radio. We’ve spoken to port officials throughout the world now, and they tend to fit within a certain mold – a bit like airplane pilots – nothing but the facts, ma’am, in calm and unexcitable voices, exuding confidence and control, if not a bit of smugness and detachment.

Aden’s Port Control didn’t fit this mold.

“Welcome, welcome to Aden!” the official bubbled. “We are so happy to have you here! We hope that you have had a pleasant passage.” We provided our vitals in response to his queries.

And then, “Are there any questions that you might have of me?” For real?!

Well, actually, there were. We asked some questions about the anchorage and clearing in, which were readily answered.

“Anything else? Is there anything I can do for you? Please, it is no trouble.”

Oh, come on now.

It struck us that not only were we probably the first American-flagged sailboat to hazard Aden in some time, we might well be the only foreign-flagged sailboat that these folks had seen in many months.

We couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

“Well, then, welcome, welcome! If you think of anything else, please just call. And please come visit me!”

Oh, are we obligated to come to Port Control?

“No, no! I would just like to meet you!”

Never ones to turn down a warm invitation, we did go to meet Ilyas (named changed to protect his identity) soon after we anchored.  It was a treat. He was not shy. He talked about his marriage. It was arranged, he said. He didn’t see his wife before he married, but he was in love nonetheless. “Our parents had chosen wisely.”  He pressed us about our relationship, how we’d met, and whether we were planning for a family.

We liked Ilyas, and soon discovered that his outgoing and friendly demeanor was typical of Aden.


A local boy, in the traditional colors of the Saudi National soccer team, gleefully waves us into the Port of Aden.

Well, for the most part anyway. When we stepped ashore, we were greeted (or assaulted, actually) as we always are by a handful of would-be drivers/on-shore agents.  We eventually chose to work with a fellow named Waleed. Sima is going home for a week, we explained.  Waleed was to help run interference with respect to her visa application. But after a day of Waleed inventing a series of baksheesh-collecting hoops for us to jump through, we’d had enough, and subsequently managed Sima’s visa by ourselves.

Qat is the drug of choice here in Yemen. (A muslim country, means no alcohol, but mild narcotics are OK!)

Qat is a green plant with small, shrubbery-sized leaves. One breaks off a few leaves and chews them, tucking the mulch between the teeth and cheeks, much like chewing tobacco. And like chewing tobacco, the wad can grow to good-sized portions. If you’ve seen photos of Louis Armstrong blowing on the trumpet, his cheeks expanded as if he had a cue ball in each, then you can easily visualize a single cheek-full of qat, with the added effect that the teeth on the side of your mouth on which you’re chewing are green tinted and mulch covered. So, no, it’s not attractive.

Qat provides an endorphin-like calmness, if that can be called a high. Everyone chewed. And I mean everyone.  Teachers, mechanics, shopkeepers, taxi-drivers, policemen, and government officials alike all often had a good-sized chew going as they went about their business.

Having separated ourselves from Waleed, we then found Salem, who has served as our driver and guide here. He has good skills, and repeatedly grabs gruff officials by the smooth handle, eliminating hoops where Waleed had been creating them. He provides exceptional, honest, and friendly service.


We came to trust and love Salem (“Saleem.”)

Regarding the visa that we sought, Salem set up a meeting between Paul and the Immigration Officer for the port, a fellow named Hamoud.  Upon entering the office, Hamoud set up cushions for Paul, of them, showed Paul how to chew. The two of them sat there, stuffing one side of their cheeks like chipmunks, not a word between them, sharing a part of an afternoon together. Sima got her visa, Hamoud got his tip, and we all got a cultural exchange.


Paul chewing Qat with the Port Captain, Hamoud. Salem took this picture. Sima, as a woman, was not permitted entry.

As we travelled about in Yemen, we saw that many people had a fairly good picture of American life and culture, at least far more complete than our picture of their country. They get a host of American TV shows, including such gems as Oprah! and The Dr. Phil Show, subtitled in Arabic. Say what you will about these programs, but we in America get no “Fatma!” or “Dr. Muhammad.” So most of us don’t know much about Yemen.

We have come to learn, in our travels, that when U.S.-based news outlets sort through information filtering in from around the world, they generally latch on to stories that involve either (1) two-headed llamas, (2) celebrities and their diets, (3) sports, (4) natural disasters, or (5) violence. Not much of the first four happen here in Yemen, so we in the U.S. only here about Yemen when there is violence. This place IS very different from other places that we’ve visited, and there is a fair amount of social strife, but to dismiss it as “lawless” is incomplete.


Showing surprise at the moment that this flash photo was taken, this group became exceptionally belligerent a moment later, demanding to know who we were and why we we were taking pictures.

Certainly, there were some bad apples, the following story being illustrative.  We needed to have a package delivered from the U.S., with some paperwork related to our taxes, a couple of credit cards, and some parts to fix the radio. Paul’s sister Patricia helped to put that together, and it couldn’t have weighed more than a pound.

If we’ve learned anything in our travels, it is that the agents who service yachts throughout this part of the world tend to being untrustworthy.

So, when we needed to find out about the logistics of getting the package, we did what comes naturally: We contacted an agent!

But in our defense, we’d previously heard good things about this company, Gulf Agency Shipping, or GAC. So we sought them out.

We met with a fellow named Godson Joseph, whose name we will not change because he is about as far from innocent as you get. We didn’t need to have the package delivered to Yemen, but we could choose to have it routed here, we explained to Mr. Joseph, if it could be done relatively quickly and without too much bribe-taking enroute.

“It is very easy here,” said Mr. Joseph, in his polished English with a slight Indian accent. “It will be sent to Aden airport, and it is just a matter of us going over and picking it up.” How much will it cost, we asked, as the total value of the package was not more than about $250. “A very small amount,” he assured us.

How much is a “very small amount” we persisted. “I can’t say exactly, but very little. Don’t worry. We do this all the time. It is easy here.”

So we had the package shipped. When it arrived at GAC’s offices, we called Godson to ask how much it would cost. “$600,” he said flatly. “It would have been $800, but fortunately for you, I managed to save a courier fee in having it delivered from the airport to here.”

We refused to pay, in no uncertain terms, and it took two meetings with others in GAC’s office before we were able to pry our package from their hands, for an amount far less than $600 but still more than the “small amount” that had been promised.

But Mr. Joseph was not a native Yemini, and perhaps his lawlessness should not be counted against Yemen.

We have spent a good amount of time at the local mall, where there is Internet, a food store, and ice cream for child-carrying Sima.  Boy, is the mall the place to be! A bit like American malls, with the boys sporting tight-fitting jeans and mod shirts and the girls sporting, well, black sacks.

But there was more than that. If you wandered off the beaten path, upstairs at the pizza joint or into the food court, some veils came down, and the conversation came more easily.

Once, Paul went searching for a seat in the crowded food court, while Sima picked up the rest of our lunch. Suddenly, from among a crowd of young women gathered around three collected tables, a table and chair were pushed out. “Hey, you, sit here!” came a cheerful voice in clear English.

This is how we met Joharra, and her several outgoing dental student friends. Did we have Facebook? We did, and when Joharra “Friended” us the next day, we saw her Facebook profile pictures. Gone was the headscarf, replaced by flowing black locks and a bright, smiling, unencumbered face. Or so we initially thought!  It turned out that Joharra was using stock photos of someone else as she was not, alas, permitted to show her face on social media either.  One wonders how electronic communications will impact Yemen.

The mall was modern and huge, and its second floor was a shock to the system. Row after row of women’s fashion stores, including many selling skimpy negligees that would make a Victoria’s Secret model blush. It was more over the top than we see back home, and the bawdy mannequins in the windows contrasted so starkly with the featureless women we saw in public.


The fashions on view upstairs at the mall – where we saw hardly any patrons — were much different than what we saw on the streets of Aden.


This was the more common street fashion worn by all women past puberty. Lest there be any confusion, that is phone she is holding, and not a glass of wine.


Sunset out to sea, over the Gulf.


Aden’s Clock Tower, known as “Big Ben of the East,” modeled after London’s Big Ben, and built by British engineers during the colonial period in the 1890s.

We also met some young men, and noted a curious convention – same-sex hand holding. We were assured that this was a common thing, and had nothing to do with romantic involvement. Maybe, but we also met men at the mall who were outwardly and affectedly gay. But homosexuality in Yemen is supposedly punishable by death. We wondered what life must be like for such people and whether and what punishments were actually meted out.


This fellow regularly kept the area around the marina free of garbage and debris, which he carefully and concientiously swept into the sea on a daily basis.

The food was delicious and not expensive. Meat and shrimp in succulent sauces served with piping hot thin-breads that were two and a half feet in diameter. And a lime-based juice to die for! With the heat of Aden, many shops and corner vendors sold lime juice.  It is a bit like our lemonade, with some salt to moderate the tang and replenish electrolytes.  Think Margarita without the alcohol.


It was not uncommon to see cars, like this taxi, kept on the road long after their expiration date.

On the day we are leaving, the Yemini President is coming to town. The military is out in force, with troopers posted at intervals on the street, jeeps with mounted machine guns manning intersections, and camouflage colored helicopters buzzing the sky. The streets are quiet, and the pier is completely deserted. Certainly not a peaceful scene, but not quite lawless either.


At the entry to the secure marina where we were staying, an armed guard patrols the streets in advance of the President’s visit.

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