“I’m a Nigga Forever”
“I’m a nigga forever,” said Yasser, introducing himself. He looked more like a buff Arab in a homeboy costume: big jeans, Nike trainers, and a revolver in his back pocket. Yasser was incongruous with the provincial city of Rada, Yemen. Most people around him were scrawny men in the traditional chequered keffiyah, proudly wearing dangling jambiyaa knives as a crotch-level accessory.
Getting to this town had been a hassle. The last police checkpoint involved a 20-minute interrogation in Arabic, to which I replied with baffled shrugs. I don’t think they were supposed to let me through, but they didn’t really know how to send me back. Yemen is not used to independent travelers. When I arrived in town, I had nothing but a two-line description in my guidebook to go from, but heaved a sigh of relief when I found a local hotel. I was far from the relative comforts of the capital, Sana’a. My 20-word vocabulary in Arabic, consisting mostly of words like “hummus” and “kebab”, wasn’t getting me very far with the locals. It was nice to come across a local English-speaker at a local juice bar.
“I lived in America for many years,” explained Yasser, “New York City. But I am from Rada. My family is here. Do you like American black people?”
“I like all kinds of people,” I answered, unsure where this was going.
“That’s right my maaan!” he exclaimed, giving me a homeboy handshake. I retorted with a homeboy fist bang, adding to the absurdity. “Yeaaah! That’s right! Let me get you some TEA, man!”
As we sat drinking sweet milky cardamom tea, Yasser told me he worked as a qat farmer in the region. Qat is the national addiction, but Yasser did not partake. He was one of many straight-edge youth rebelling against the leaf-chewing habits of their forebears. “I don’t chew qat. I don’t drink beer, whiskey, or energy drinks. I don’t smoke,” said Yasser, “I am a good Muslim.” Despite this, Yasser seemed to be reaping a handsome profit on his un-Muslim farming activities.
“In America I was nothing,” he explained, “Here I am like a sheikh. Ask anyone in town for Yasser and they know who I am.” He pointed out his old scratched Shimano bike and claimed it was the best in town. “I am a rich man here.”
I was interested in knowing more about his American experience. “America is very difficult,” he said. “It is racist and violent, mostly violent, very violent. Life in Yemen is so much easier, but people here are less reliable. They never do what they say they’ll do, never show up to meetings. The qat doesn’t help.”
I was getting hungry. The small juice bar didn’t have much to offer: croissant-like sesame rolls, deep-fried triangles filled with lentils, and stacks of laughing cow cheese. I asked Yasser to point me toward a good kebab restaurant.
“You are hungry?” he said, “There is no kebab here but I will find you something no problem.” Hospitality to all travelers in enshrined in Islam, so Yasser bought two rolls, some cheese, and made a kind of sandwich. I felt somewhat embarrassed, offered to pay, but he would have none of it. “I am your host. This is my town. I am at your service,” he said, echoing a standard formula I have heard from Egypt to Pakistan. The flaky roll was good, and would have met the approval of even the most discriminating Parisian. I was surprised.
“Come on let’s go!” he said, “I will walk you to your hotel.” Yasser grabbed his bike. I followed him through the streets of Rada.
Al-Amhariya Mosque, built in 1504
Rada was beautiful. The white domes and ornate minaret of Al-Amhariya mosque stood out against the night sky. All around was a dense maze of tapered mud-brick buildings with transluscent alabaster windows topped by stained-glass half-moons. The local mud was grey and claylike, quite different from the ochre or brown buildings in other Yemeni cities. A more solid red-brick fortress seemed to grow out of a rocky outcrop in the background.
Fortress in Rada
Looking closer, lowering your gaze, the poverty of Yemen is nevertheless plain. The romance fades. Ragged clothing, trash-laden streets, trees with pink plastic bags growing off the branches, cracked windows, black leaden smoke… this was ghetto for real. Homeboy Yasser looked very first-world in his “ghetto” gear. Most Yemenis don’t have enough money to even think of Air Jordan.
“Canada is a good place,” said Yasser, walking his bike, “It makes no difference what colour you are. There’s no violence. America is crazy. My brother lived in Niagara Falls, Canada. Then he moved to New York. He’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, taken aback, “What happened?”
“America is violent,” he reiterated. Yasser looked up, raising his hand to the sky. “It is God’s will. It will happen to us all. He is in a better place, insh’allah.”
We seemed to be getting farther away from my hotel, and the streets were getting quieter. It dawned on me that I was following an Arab homeboy with a revolver in his back pocket. My instincts told me Yasser was kosher (or, rather, Halal), but I thought it wise to call attention to the situation.
“I am alone at home,” Yasser explained. “It is a nice place next to a big qat field, much nicer than your hotel. You can come.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, “but I can’t.” I made up an excuse.
He stopped, put his hand on my shoulder affectionately, “It is okay, really. Do you want to sleep in my bed?”
I was stunned. I wasn’t sure whether this was a pick-up line or self-sacrificing Arab hospitality. In either case, the answer was no. I wanted to free myself from his sense of obligation, but he still insisted on accompanying me back to my hotel.
At the front door, the clerk was waiting for me with a paper in hand. He waved it with urgency. He spoke no English, but had made the effort to write out the hotel’s name in English and Arabic, his phone number, and the words “at your service.” People here were clearly concerned about my well-being.
Yasser asked for permission to let me go, now that I was in the caring hands of my hotel. “If you need anything, I am at your service,” he echoed, before leaving. Despite the Westernized exterior, his entire manner showed his Yemeni virtues.
Tags: Exploring the City, Rada, Yemen
Christopher DeWolf says:
So did you ever see Yasser again?
March 22nd, 2007 at 7:26 pm
Patrick Donovan says:
I only spent one night in Rada, so I didn’t see Yasser again. There wasn’t enough to see and do in town to warrant staying longer and a surprising dearth of interesting places to hang out.
March 24th, 2007 at 11:32 am
abbas says:
My name is Abbas from this town my family has migrated to Saudi Arabia because of the republican government, and I’ve missed this beautiful town and I hope the visits Parvguetk my friend and I offer you an invitation on my own as well as the visit to Saudi Arabia
I hope to communicate on email
Friend
Abbas
October 5th, 2010 at 6:02 am