Thousand Cups Of Coffee

Jibal Nugum raped in mist and clouds. The sounds of laziness rose from the sleepy city. In the ochre dusk of a walled garden there was a growing crowd. Those flaking walls and under those dancing lights. Sometimes in Sanaa, in the evening of slow day, city dwellers would come to while the time away at the spice market, accompanied by the thousand sights of the waning day. The sweet pleasure of surveying an unknown. In the midst of an unruly crowd, a muleteer stopped near a fountain, let the cool water run in the hollow formed by two palms, then bent and drunk. His thirst slaked, he ran wet palms over his face and mumbled thanks to God. It is practice to supply oneself with raisins to munch on the way, a practice much imitated by those around. The street finally deserted, the country silent, the sky cloudless. A cold spell. And sound of silence.

The world is a wheel. One day up, and tomorrow at the bottom. We live in the age of secret and of fear. All violence is form of fear. Our faith is being attacked from all sides. The sky was thick, making patters in the sky. Peace is here…a peace before upheaval? Absorbed in defeat and later on in prayer. Talk is about war, inside outside. Across the sea. A year of humiliation and degradation.

The delegates from Mahra Governorate at the General Peoples Congress wore long robes, their heads raped in white turbans, quiet majestic. Endless tributes. An elaborate lunch with tasteful dishes. Rare joys of the present moment. I speak to them with an open heart. The farmers do not have Missisippi river, but rain water for irrigation. Pipelines for water instead of oil. The world, so full of anticipation and possibilities. Everything was open to re-evaluation, regions, countries. New states rose, suddenly and other vanished. Countries were divided along their latitudes and longitudes. We are pawns, and heaven is the player. This is plain truth. We move about the chessboard of the world, then drop into the casket of the void. Pray tell the purpose of a sinless life.

Pray tell what is the difference between you and me?

Flowers blooming and unblooming. Sounds of a journey. Bumping up the road. The drive across the mountains was good and we arrived late night to Faza, at the Red Sea. But you do not arrive only at your destination. At every stage of journey you arrive somewhere and with every step one discovers a hidden facet of the land. A hundred time, and a hundred different ways. Summer and winter. The tantalizing price of this fertile plain with abundant ground water near shore as well as in the foot hills.

Between two worlds.

The evening begun at the sunset. Ancient port for the medieval city of Zabid. Beautiful sandy beaches. Tall palm trees. The wind blew lightly and for hours on end one could contemplate over the some piece of coast. The same dune. There was no one on the beach and I immersed in my day dreams. A slight breeze, and the sand started to swirl. Tales told at night, songs of home. Dreams of childhood and fertility of the union of the sea and the shore. The remnants of an ancient site Ghulayfiqah. There are treasures and secrets under ground, but the surface is a pasture. One day it will have to be opened up. One day Ghulayfiqah will be able to tell us its history.

Wadi Tuhaita with its well cultivated cotton fields and palm groves shimmers almost unreal in its intensity of green. The afternoon was still. The man stood alone on an empty filed, turning his face to the heavens and recited the prayer. He prayed hundred of times each day. A little flake of tobacco that had stayed behind on the tongue. Towers, domes, gateways and high walls of Zabid. The ancient seat of learning retained its majesty. The towers were leaning, the facades were crumbling, ravaged by time, wind and centuries of neglect. An imposing backdrop, covered by layers of sand. The sun had already set and in half an hour it would be pitched dark. A bazaar swarming with camels, mules, gaudy materials. Shawls from India, fine pearls, carpets, tobacco, silks. Colors of the present and the shades of the past.

The past is the homeland now!

Whose smoke was gradually displacing the thousand smells of the day. At the dawn the next day are more cultivated fields, tombs of saints, white minarets. The dust was hot, and glittered in the sunlight. An eternal aspect of Yemeni soil.

Am writing from the end of the word. The sea was wild Hodeidah. To the south the Sea bursts into wide lanes of the Indian Ocean. Into wide open spaces. A women, a coffee merchant, gave this city its name. She wore flowers in her hair. A lush beautiful women with golden brown skin. Her long frizzy hair hung loose down her back. Her hair was parted into two halves. The sea pulsed through the darkness, shimmering like wild silk. Wafting through the night. The Red sea shells come in an amazing variety. Even the shells are RED. They are like people, each of them is different.

Beginning of the monsoon season. The grass looked wet green. Trees bent. With the onset of the first fresh days, it has become warmer and the sky is covered with low clouds. Unreal days of a sweltering Yemeni spring. Hope is in the air. Geometric terraces awaiting rain over the land over which lay scattered Sabean ruins. A homage of dreams. I live in the rhythm of awakening and rhythm of condolence. If the flood had come and gone, there would be nothing to say about. A moment of intense emotion, enthusiasm and doubt.

Path to water. Path to life.

There is time for everything. A time to plant, a time for things to grow and become fat, a time to harvest, a time for things to be cut back or lie fallow. Rebirth into better time, bringing in the harvest, clear away the remains of the last cycle. To shed old identifies in order to be able to express new ones. Like a snake shedding its kin. To make room for a highest manifestation to emerge. Beginning of NEW.

The stars are singing. The earth is singing.
Then laugh, laugh.
Summer and winter.

Some things in life a constant. The sun, the rain. Other happen unpredictably, like children, thunderstorms, love and death. The apricots in full blossom. A fine pinkish blossoms against the back drop of dusty brown mountains. Like snow balls on branches. I simply mumbled a few words – of eyes which met mine and a smile. A fine silk kerchief. Eyes like fountains of cool water. A homage of dreams. A long narrow robe with patches on it in the color of white as snow. Snow and white. White as snow. He wore wild perfume. I can still smell it at times. It marked his presence. A hundred times, and a hundred different ways. Summer and winter. He would say later triumphantly that the apricots are again in full blossom. That they are like snow balls. And I would reply that snow does not hurt.
One never knows, our paths might meet!

A hundred times.
Summer and winter.

*From Rubayat of Omar Khayam

Artwork by Yemeni artist Hani Ali Muhammed AlAkbari