Sunday, July 20, 2008
I have now completed a full week here in Sanaa and slightly less than 24 hours of sleep. Generally speaking, I am awake until the morning prayer (the adhans for which begin around 2:30-3:00 and do not cease until 4:00 or so, due to the large number of sects in the city). Those of you who have had the privilege of hearing the call to prayer will know that it can be quite beautiful and soothing in the right mouths. Unfortunately, Sanaa, apart from being cursed with the worst muezzins in the entire Muslim world, is home to a man known to the world only under the name of The Shrieker.
The Shrieker usually comes on around 3:30 or so. While the other muezzins attempt to summon the faithful to pray with the standard Zaydi formulation of the call ("God is the greatest, God is the greatest, come to prayer, prayer is better than sleep," etc etc etc), The Shrieker's approach is much more direct. Each morning, he walks up to the microphone, clears his throat, and lets loose the most God-awful, bloodcurdling shriek you will ever hear, this side of a death metal concert. Not to be contented with rudely awakening all two million of Sanaa's residents, he then proceeds to simulate the horrors of the Day of Reckoning by continuing his shriek for the following thirty minutes, at a minimum. How he manages to do this every morning is beyond my capacity to imagine. In any case, sleep during this time is utterly impossible unless you are as deaf as my friend the Osama bin Laden Lighter Salesman or have somehow managed to acquire a man-sized safe from the same source as Dick Cheney and are currently using it as your own personal hideaway.
It was after just such a rude awakening that I arose, showered, and prepared for the trip to one of the hammams here in town, just south of the South Gate (Bab el-Yemen). The hammam was a somewhat sinister hole in the wall, located down a slippery flight of stairs in the bowels of the earth. Word has it that the hammams of Yemen are the single most likely place to acquire a scorching case of athlete's foot in the entire country. This one was considerably more filthy than any of the hammams I visited in Turkey. At the bottom of the flight of stairs, an old man yelled at our guide Umar, telling him that he couldn't bring tourists into this hammam. Umar asked me to produce a card identifying me as a student of the Yemeni College, and almost immediately the old man's demeanor changed. He graciously ushered all of us deeper into the changing room, where I disrobed and hitched a sarong around my private parts (nudity being strictly forbidden in Yemeni hammams).
In the steam room, we were forced into an impromptu round of calisthenics, dancing around the room in a circle (something like a congo-line) chanting and kicking our right foot into the circle every fourth beat. After we had built up a good sweat, we were herded into another room, where the dirty old men that were hanging around the bathhouse offered to scrub our bodies with a scouring glove for 400 YR (about 2 USD). This has the effect of removing a ton of dead skin, which the Sanaanis call bu'lili. While they were scrubbing us down, they asked me where all of us came. I indicated one Hungarian, a Dutchman, a Lebanese guy from France, and a few Americans. When they learned that some of us were American, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and chanted, at the top of their lungs, OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!!, all the while pumping the air with their fists. At that point it was time to wash all the dead skin off and take a cold shower.
Having been cleaned (to the best extent that one can be said to be "clean" in Yemen), I returned to the guest house to don my new apparel and prepare for the qat chew.
Qat comes in the form of branches covered with leaves, most of which are discarded because the older ones lack the effects associated with qat. The youngest leaves are edible, as are the tender shoots at the end of the branch, which have the consistency of asparagus and impart more of the drugs than the leaves themselves. Champion qat chewers will start by chewing on some of the older leaves and stems to create a ball in their mouths, to which they can then add the younger shoots. The larger pieces of stem and leaves, which remain only partially chewed, prevents the ball from dissolving during the duration of the event, which can last up to eight hours or longer. After many years of chewing qat, users develop a callus on the side of the mouth that they use (usually opposite their functional hand - in my case, the left side of the mouth) that allows them to build an impressive wad of qat the size of a tennis ball or larger. I had to content myself with a golf ball-sized wad of qat.
Qat has a very bitter taste that leaves the user with a desire to drink water or, better yet, soft drinks, which help remove the bitter taste. Qat also increases the urge to smoke, and it is said that smoking while chewing qat hastens the onset of its effects. These take anywhere from three to five hours to arrive, which makes qat an ideal drug for those who enjoy lounging around, but somewhat less than desirable for Americans and other Westerners, most of whom lack the patience to chew on a wad of bitter leaves for hours in an effort to see what effects it might have.
Starting around hour four, the chewer becomes increasingly talkative, and his life becomes an open book. This eventually develops into a very mellow feeling, during which the chewer will not desire to move around very much. In later hours the scalp and extremities may begin to tingle, and users become prone to flights of fancy. Among the side effects during this time are a loss of appetite and an inability to sleep. Workers here will often use qat while working late in much the same way that students and investment bankers abuse amphetamines.
The college hired a local band to perform at the chew, and the Yemenis who attended began singing and dancing while chewing (I still haven't figured out how they managed to sing; it is difficult enough to speak while chewing a massive ball of leaves in your mouth). The college also provided plenty of water and soft drinks, although we had to bring our own cigarettes. We sampled two types of qat: Ansi and Hamdani, both of which are made in the environs of Sanaa, and both of which are considered to be relatively good quality. Ansi qat has larger and more succulent leaves than Hamdani qat, but both have much the same effect.
That evening, I was up until 4 AM chewing and shooting the breeze with a Somali immigrant and some of his friends. After a short cat-nap, I showered and got ready to board a bus for Kawkaban (a mountain city that is so inaccessible it functioned as an independent state during the Ottoman occupation, and which is served by only one massive gate, which the residents close and lock every night. They do this to ward off any remaining Turks that might be in the vicinity, or so they say).
The Shrieker usually comes on around 3:30 or so. While the other muezzins attempt to summon the faithful to pray with the standard Zaydi formulation of the call ("God is the greatest, God is the greatest, come to prayer, prayer is better than sleep," etc etc etc), The Shrieker's approach is much more direct. Each morning, he walks up to the microphone, clears his throat, and lets loose the most God-awful, bloodcurdling shriek you will ever hear, this side of a death metal concert. Not to be contented with rudely awakening all two million of Sanaa's residents, he then proceeds to simulate the horrors of the Day of Reckoning by continuing his shriek for the following thirty minutes, at a minimum. How he manages to do this every morning is beyond my capacity to imagine. In any case, sleep during this time is utterly impossible unless you are as deaf as my friend the Osama bin Laden Lighter Salesman or have somehow managed to acquire a man-sized safe from the same source as Dick Cheney and are currently using it as your own personal hideaway.
It was after just such a rude awakening that I arose, showered, and prepared for the trip to one of the hammams here in town, just south of the South Gate (Bab el-Yemen). The hammam was a somewhat sinister hole in the wall, located down a slippery flight of stairs in the bowels of the earth. Word has it that the hammams of Yemen are the single most likely place to acquire a scorching case of athlete's foot in the entire country. This one was considerably more filthy than any of the hammams I visited in Turkey. At the bottom of the flight of stairs, an old man yelled at our guide Umar, telling him that he couldn't bring tourists into this hammam. Umar asked me to produce a card identifying me as a student of the Yemeni College, and almost immediately the old man's demeanor changed. He graciously ushered all of us deeper into the changing room, where I disrobed and hitched a sarong around my private parts (nudity being strictly forbidden in Yemeni hammams).
In the steam room, we were forced into an impromptu round of calisthenics, dancing around the room in a circle (something like a congo-line) chanting and kicking our right foot into the circle every fourth beat. After we had built up a good sweat, we were herded into another room, where the dirty old men that were hanging around the bathhouse offered to scrub our bodies with a scouring glove for 400 YR (about 2 USD). This has the effect of removing a ton of dead skin, which the Sanaanis call bu'lili. While they were scrubbing us down, they asked me where all of us came. I indicated one Hungarian, a Dutchman, a Lebanese guy from France, and a few Americans. When they learned that some of us were American, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and chanted, at the top of their lungs, OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!!, all the while pumping the air with their fists. At that point it was time to wash all the dead skin off and take a cold shower.
Having been cleaned (to the best extent that one can be said to be "clean" in Yemen), I returned to the guest house to don my new apparel and prepare for the qat chew.
Qat comes in the form of branches covered with leaves, most of which are discarded because the older ones lack the effects associated with qat. The youngest leaves are edible, as are the tender shoots at the end of the branch, which have the consistency of asparagus and impart more of the drugs than the leaves themselves. Champion qat chewers will start by chewing on some of the older leaves and stems to create a ball in their mouths, to which they can then add the younger shoots. The larger pieces of stem and leaves, which remain only partially chewed, prevents the ball from dissolving during the duration of the event, which can last up to eight hours or longer. After many years of chewing qat, users develop a callus on the side of the mouth that they use (usually opposite their functional hand - in my case, the left side of the mouth) that allows them to build an impressive wad of qat the size of a tennis ball or larger. I had to content myself with a golf ball-sized wad of qat.
Qat has a very bitter taste that leaves the user with a desire to drink water or, better yet, soft drinks, which help remove the bitter taste. Qat also increases the urge to smoke, and it is said that smoking while chewing qat hastens the onset of its effects. These take anywhere from three to five hours to arrive, which makes qat an ideal drug for those who enjoy lounging around, but somewhat less than desirable for Americans and other Westerners, most of whom lack the patience to chew on a wad of bitter leaves for hours in an effort to see what effects it might have.
Starting around hour four, the chewer becomes increasingly talkative, and his life becomes an open book. This eventually develops into a very mellow feeling, during which the chewer will not desire to move around very much. In later hours the scalp and extremities may begin to tingle, and users become prone to flights of fancy. Among the side effects during this time are a loss of appetite and an inability to sleep. Workers here will often use qat while working late in much the same way that students and investment bankers abuse amphetamines.
The college hired a local band to perform at the chew, and the Yemenis who attended began singing and dancing while chewing (I still haven't figured out how they managed to sing; it is difficult enough to speak while chewing a massive ball of leaves in your mouth). The college also provided plenty of water and soft drinks, although we had to bring our own cigarettes. We sampled two types of qat: Ansi and Hamdani, both of which are made in the environs of Sanaa, and both of which are considered to be relatively good quality. Ansi qat has larger and more succulent leaves than Hamdani qat, but both have much the same effect.
That evening, I was up until 4 AM chewing and shooting the breeze with a Somali immigrant and some of his friends. After a short cat-nap, I showered and got ready to board a bus for Kawkaban (a mountain city that is so inaccessible it functioned as an independent state during the Ottoman occupation, and which is served by only one massive gate, which the residents close and lock every night. They do this to ward off any remaining Turks that might be in the vicinity, or so they say).
I have now completed a full week here in Sanaa and slightly less than 24 hours of sleep. Generally speaking, I am awake until the morning prayer (the adhans for which begin around 2:30-3:00 and do not cease until 4:00 or so, due to the large number of sects in the city). Those of you who have had the privilege of hearing the call to prayer will know that it can be quite beautiful and soothing in the right mouths. Unfortunately, Sanaa, apart from being cursed with the worst muezzins in the entire Muslim world, is home to a man known to the world only under the name of The Shrieker.
The Shrieker usually comes on around 3:30 or so. While the other muezzins attempt to summon the faithful to pray with the standard Zaydi formulation of the call ("God is the greatest, God is the greatest, come to prayer, prayer is better than sleep," etc etc etc), The Shrieker's approach is much more direct. Each morning, he walks up to the microphone, clears his throat, and lets loose the most God-awful, bloodcurdling shriek you will ever hear, this side of a death metal concert. Not to be contented with rudely awakening all two million of Sanaa's residents, he then proceeds to simulate the horrors of the Day of Reckoning by continuing his shriek for the following thirty minutes, at a minimum. How he manages to do this every morning is beyond my capacity to imagine. In any case, sleep during this time is utterly impossible unless you are as deaf as my friend the Osama bin Laden Lighter Salesman or have somehow managed to acquire a man-sized safe from the same source as Dick Cheney and are currently using it as your own personal hideaway.
It was after just such a rude awakening that I arose, showered, and prepared for the trip to one of the hammams here in town, just south of the South Gate (Bab el-Yemen). The hammam was a somewhat sinister hole in the wall, located down a slippery flight of stairs in the bowels of the earth. Word has it that the hammams of Yemen are the single most likely place to acquire a scorching case of athlete's foot in the entire country. This one was considerably more filthy than any of the hammams I visited in Turkey. At the bottom of the flight of stairs, an old man yelled at our guide Umar, telling him that he couldn't bring tourists into this hammam. Umar asked me to produce a card identifying me as a student of the Yemeni College, and almost immediately the old man's demeanor changed. He graciously ushered all of us deeper into the changing room, where I disrobed and hitched a sarong around my private parts (nudity being strictly forbidden in Yemeni hammams).
In the steam room, we were forced into an impromptu round of calisthenics, dancing around the room in a circle (something like a congo-line) chanting and kicking our right foot into the circle every fourth beat. After we had built up a good sweat, we were herded into another room, where the dirty old men that were hanging around the bathhouse offered to scrub our bodies with a scouring glove for 400 YR (about 2 USD). This has the effect of removing a ton of dead skin, which the Sanaanis call bu'lili. While they were scrubbing us down, they asked me where all of us came. I indicated one Hungarian, a Dutchman, a Lebanese guy from France, and a few Americans. When they learned that some of us were American, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and chanted, at the top of their lungs, OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!!, all the while pumping the air with their fists. At that point it was time to wash all the dead skin off and take a cold shower.
Having been cleaned (to the best extent that one can be said to be "clean" in Yemen), I returned to the guest house to don my new apparel and prepare for the qat chew.
Qat comes in the form of branches covered with leaves, most of which are discarded because the older ones lack the effects associated with qat. The youngest leaves are edible, as are the tender shoots at the end of the branch, which have the consistency of asparagus and impart more of the drugs than the leaves themselves. Champion qat chewers will start by chewing on some of the older leaves and stems to create a ball in their mouths, to which they can then add the younger shoots. The larger pieces of stem and leaves, which remain only partially chewed, prevents the ball from dissolving during the duration of the event, which can last up to eight hours or longer. After many years of chewing qat, users develop a callus on the side of the mouth that they use (usually opposite their functional hand - in my case, the left side of the mouth) that allows them to build an impressive wad of qat the size of a tennis ball or larger. I had to content myself with a golf ball-sized wad of qat.
Qat has a very bitter taste that leaves the user with a desire to drink water or, better yet, soft drinks, which help remove the bitter taste. Qat also increases the urge to smoke, and it is said that smoking while chewing qat hastens the onset of its effects. These take anywhere from three to five hours to arrive, which makes qat an ideal drug for those who enjoy lounging around, but somewhat less than desirable for Americans and other Westerners, most of whom lack the patience to chew on a wad of bitter leaves for hours in an effort to see what effects it might have.
Starting around hour four, the chewer becomes increasingly talkative, and his life becomes an open book. This eventually develops into a very mellow feeling, during which the chewer will not desire to move around very much. In later hours the scalp and extremities may begin to tingle, and users become prone to flights of fancy. Among the side effects during this time are a loss of appetite and an inability to sleep. Workers here will often use qat while working late in much the same way that students and investment bankers abuse amphetamines.
The college hired a local band to perform at the chew, and the Yemenis who attended began singing and dancing while chewing (I still haven't figured out how they managed to sing; it is difficult enough to speak while chewing a massive ball of leaves in your mouth). The college also provided plenty of water and soft drinks, although we had to bring our own cigarettes. We sampled two types of qat: Ansi and Hamdani, both of which are made in the environs of Sanaa, and both of which are considered to be relatively good quality. Ansi qat has larger and more succulent leaves than Hamdani qat, but both have much the same effect.
That evening, I was up until 4 AM chewing and shooting the breeze with a Somali immigrant and some of his friends. After a short cat-nap, I showered and got ready to board a bus for Kawkaban (a mountain city that is so inaccessible it functioned as an independent state during the Ottoman occupation, and which is served by only one massive gate, which the residents close and lock every night. They do this to ward off any remaining Turks that might be in the vicinity, or so they say).
The Shrieker usually comes on around 3:30 or so. While the other muezzins attempt to summon the faithful to pray with the standard Zaydi formulation of the call ("God is the greatest, God is the greatest, come to prayer, prayer is better than sleep," etc etc etc), The Shrieker's approach is much more direct. Each morning, he walks up to the microphone, clears his throat, and lets loose the most God-awful, bloodcurdling shriek you will ever hear, this side of a death metal concert. Not to be contented with rudely awakening all two million of Sanaa's residents, he then proceeds to simulate the horrors of the Day of Reckoning by continuing his shriek for the following thirty minutes, at a minimum. How he manages to do this every morning is beyond my capacity to imagine. In any case, sleep during this time is utterly impossible unless you are as deaf as my friend the Osama bin Laden Lighter Salesman or have somehow managed to acquire a man-sized safe from the same source as Dick Cheney and are currently using it as your own personal hideaway.
It was after just such a rude awakening that I arose, showered, and prepared for the trip to one of the hammams here in town, just south of the South Gate (Bab el-Yemen). The hammam was a somewhat sinister hole in the wall, located down a slippery flight of stairs in the bowels of the earth. Word has it that the hammams of Yemen are the single most likely place to acquire a scorching case of athlete's foot in the entire country. This one was considerably more filthy than any of the hammams I visited in Turkey. At the bottom of the flight of stairs, an old man yelled at our guide Umar, telling him that he couldn't bring tourists into this hammam. Umar asked me to produce a card identifying me as a student of the Yemeni College, and almost immediately the old man's demeanor changed. He graciously ushered all of us deeper into the changing room, where I disrobed and hitched a sarong around my private parts (nudity being strictly forbidden in Yemeni hammams).
In the steam room, we were forced into an impromptu round of calisthenics, dancing around the room in a circle (something like a congo-line) chanting and kicking our right foot into the circle every fourth beat. After we had built up a good sweat, we were herded into another room, where the dirty old men that were hanging around the bathhouse offered to scrub our bodies with a scouring glove for 400 YR (about 2 USD). This has the effect of removing a ton of dead skin, which the Sanaanis call bu'lili. While they were scrubbing us down, they asked me where all of us came. I indicated one Hungarian, a Dutchman, a Lebanese guy from France, and a few Americans. When they learned that some of us were American, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and chanted, at the top of their lungs, OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!! OBAMA!!!, all the while pumping the air with their fists. At that point it was time to wash all the dead skin off and take a cold shower.
Having been cleaned (to the best extent that one can be said to be "clean" in Yemen), I returned to the guest house to don my new apparel and prepare for the qat chew.
Qat comes in the form of branches covered with leaves, most of which are discarded because the older ones lack the effects associated with qat. The youngest leaves are edible, as are the tender shoots at the end of the branch, which have the consistency of asparagus and impart more of the drugs than the leaves themselves. Champion qat chewers will start by chewing on some of the older leaves and stems to create a ball in their mouths, to which they can then add the younger shoots. The larger pieces of stem and leaves, which remain only partially chewed, prevents the ball from dissolving during the duration of the event, which can last up to eight hours or longer. After many years of chewing qat, users develop a callus on the side of the mouth that they use (usually opposite their functional hand - in my case, the left side of the mouth) that allows them to build an impressive wad of qat the size of a tennis ball or larger. I had to content myself with a golf ball-sized wad of qat.
Qat has a very bitter taste that leaves the user with a desire to drink water or, better yet, soft drinks, which help remove the bitter taste. Qat also increases the urge to smoke, and it is said that smoking while chewing qat hastens the onset of its effects. These take anywhere from three to five hours to arrive, which makes qat an ideal drug for those who enjoy lounging around, but somewhat less than desirable for Americans and other Westerners, most of whom lack the patience to chew on a wad of bitter leaves for hours in an effort to see what effects it might have.
Starting around hour four, the chewer becomes increasingly talkative, and his life becomes an open book. This eventually develops into a very mellow feeling, during which the chewer will not desire to move around very much. In later hours the scalp and extremities may begin to tingle, and users become prone to flights of fancy. Among the side effects during this time are a loss of appetite and an inability to sleep. Workers here will often use qat while working late in much the same way that students and investment bankers abuse amphetamines.
The college hired a local band to perform at the chew, and the Yemenis who attended began singing and dancing while chewing (I still haven't figured out how they managed to sing; it is difficult enough to speak while chewing a massive ball of leaves in your mouth). The college also provided plenty of water and soft drinks, although we had to bring our own cigarettes. We sampled two types of qat: Ansi and Hamdani, both of which are made in the environs of Sanaa, and both of which are considered to be relatively good quality. Ansi qat has larger and more succulent leaves than Hamdani qat, but both have much the same effect.
That evening, I was up until 4 AM chewing and shooting the breeze with a Somali immigrant and some of his friends. After a short cat-nap, I showered and got ready to board a bus for Kawkaban (a mountain city that is so inaccessible it functioned as an independent state during the Ottoman occupation, and which is served by only one massive gate, which the residents close and lock every night. They do this to ward off any remaining Turks that might be in the vicinity, or so they say).
I found Osama!
Well, not exactly, but something nearly as cool.
On Wednesday I was walking along 26 September Street through Liberation Square to the Morning Gate of the Old City. As I emerged from the underpass, I found myself in the little Morning Gate (Bab es-Sabah) qat souk where they sell all kinds of qat for relatively cheap prices. There was a deaf mute man sitting there with a bunch of lighters. He motioned to me to come over and look at his wares.
I happened to be in the market for a lighter, so I walked over. He pulled my hand over and held the lighter next to it. He then proceeded to flip a switch on the bottom of the lighter.
[...]
No, no, it's not what you're thinking. There was a magic lantern inside the lighter, which projected a round circle with the face of Osama bin Ladin against a blue background onto my hand. He then made a gesture with his hand in the shape of a beard, and grabbed another lighter. This one projected a picture of Saddam Hussein on my hand, and he held his fist up to his neck and rolled his head back (as if he were hanging from an imaginary noose) to indicate the Saddam lighter (remember, he's deaf-mute). He then looked at me and waited for my response.
I made the beard gesture (it felt a little ridiculous to do so) and he held his index finger up to indicate "one," which in this case was 100 YR (about 50 cents). So I picked up the Osama lighter. Later, back at the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies, I delighted my fellow students by singing the Batman theme and sending off an Osama signal to the ceiling of the classroom:
Na na na na na na na na,
Na na na na na na na na,
OSAMA!
One of the older women here, a US Army veteran who is currently working as a schoolteacher, accused me of behaving like one of her 8th graders. In response I quoted Mencius, "The great man is he who does not lose his child's heart."
I've also purchased a set of Yemeni duds. I have a mushadda (that's the local word for the keffiyeh that you wear on your head; when you drape it around your shoulders, it's called a shawl, which is allegedly an Arabic loanword in English), a Hadhrami mawaz, which is something like a kilt or a sarong, but embroidered in the style of the Hadhramawt, and a cheap, ill-fitting polyester and dacron blazer, made in China (but read the tag: MADE IN FRANCE IN ITALY), which has become a well-near obligatory part of the outfit, every bit as much as these other things. All together, the outfit cost me about 30 dollars, but (apart from the cheap Chinese blazer, which accounted for nearly half the cost) it's made from the best materials. I could have purchased a cheaper outfit at the same stall for 20 bucks. Later, after a trip to the mountains out west, I added a handmade belt and a jambiyya (a kind of big ass tribal knife that you wear right over your crotch to demonstrate your status; I leave you to consider the Freudian implications of this tradition) to complete the outfit. My knife originated with one of the Jewish tribes because:
Unlike other jambiyyas, this jambiyya is trimmed with silver. All the silversmiths in Yemen were Jewish, and nearly all of them left in 1949 or so;
It is slightly smaller than the other jambiyyas, indicating the status of the Jews in Yemeni tribal society (again, see under Freud, Sigmund);
It has a Star of David on the hilt.
Now, obviously, I look like an immense poseur in such an outfit (photos to follow), but the Yemenis (who actually dress like this, even in Sanaa) didn't even bat an eyelash at me. Plus, we were attending a qat chew, at which even the most western-oriented Yemenis exchange their business suits for tribal garb.
Yesterday, I hit the Yemeni hammams, which were not nearly as clean as the Turkish ones, and attended the qat chew. More to follow.
Well, not exactly, but something nearly as cool.
On Wednesday I was walking along 26 September Street through Liberation Square to the Morning Gate of the Old City. As I emerged from the underpass, I found myself in the little Morning Gate (Bab es-Sabah) qat souk where they sell all kinds of qat for relatively cheap prices. There was a deaf mute man sitting there with a bunch of lighters. He motioned to me to come over and look at his wares.
I happened to be in the market for a lighter, so I walked over. He pulled my hand over and held the lighter next to it. He then proceeded to flip a switch on the bottom of the lighter.
[...]
No, no, it's not what you're thinking. There was a magic lantern inside the lighter, which projected a round circle with the face of Osama bin Ladin against a blue background onto my hand. He then made a gesture with his hand in the shape of a beard, and grabbed another lighter. This one projected a picture of Saddam Hussein on my hand, and he held his fist up to his neck and rolled his head back (as if he were hanging from an imaginary noose) to indicate the Saddam lighter (remember, he's deaf-mute). He then looked at me and waited for my response.
I made the beard gesture (it felt a little ridiculous to do so) and he held his index finger up to indicate "one," which in this case was 100 YR (about 50 cents). So I picked up the Osama lighter. Later, back at the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies, I delighted my fellow students by singing the Batman theme and sending off an Osama signal to the ceiling of the classroom:
Na na na na na na na na,
Na na na na na na na na,
OSAMA!
One of the older women here, a US Army veteran who is currently working as a schoolteacher, accused me of behaving like one of her 8th graders. In response I quoted Mencius, "The great man is he who does not lose his child's heart."
I've also purchased a set of Yemeni duds. I have a mushadda (that's the local word for the keffiyeh that you wear on your head; when you drape it around your shoulders, it's called a shawl, which is allegedly an Arabic loanword in English), a Hadhrami mawaz, which is something like a kilt or a sarong, but embroidered in the style of the Hadhramawt, and a cheap, ill-fitting polyester and dacron blazer, made in China (but read the tag: MADE IN FRANCE IN ITALY), which has become a well-near obligatory part of the outfit, every bit as much as these other things. All together, the outfit cost me about 30 dollars, but (apart from the cheap Chinese blazer, which accounted for nearly half the cost) it's made from the best materials. I could have purchased a cheaper outfit at the same stall for 20 bucks. Later, after a trip to the mountains out west, I added a handmade belt and a jambiyya (a kind of big ass tribal knife that you wear right over your crotch to demonstrate your status; I leave you to consider the Freudian implications of this tradition) to complete the outfit. My knife originated with one of the Jewish tribes because:
Unlike other jambiyyas, this jambiyya is trimmed with silver. All the silversmiths in Yemen were Jewish, and nearly all of them left in 1949 or so;
It is slightly smaller than the other jambiyyas, indicating the status of the Jews in Yemeni tribal society (again, see under Freud, Sigmund);
It has a Star of David on the hilt.
Now, obviously, I look like an immense poseur in such an outfit (photos to follow), but the Yemenis (who actually dress like this, even in Sanaa) didn't even bat an eyelash at me. Plus, we were attending a qat chew, at which even the most western-oriented Yemenis exchange their business suits for tribal garb.
Yesterday, I hit the Yemeni hammams, which were not nearly as clean as the Turkish ones, and attended the qat chew. More to follow.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Apparently a pickpocket is at large.
An artist's sketch of a large man with a beard was featured in the local papers. Earlier this week he stole the purse of a British lady travelling in Sanaa. The authorities suspect him of being Egyptian, or at any rate from somewhere else, because no true Yemeni would ever stoop to stealing from a tourist.
One of the local street urchins has told me that the police have informed them in no uncertain terms to cease accosting tourists until the culprit is caught.
I bring this up only to note that the same papers refuse to make any mention of the ongoing civil war in the north, even though a pickpocketing apparently warrants front page news.
The urchin was serving me bread at one of the local restaurant. This restaurant was different from the rest, in that you would purchase the kebabs from one man (who would fish the kebabs out of hot coals with his bare fingers and dump them unceremoniously upon your plate), the bread from another vendor, and tea (if you were so inclined) from a third. Coffee, unfortunately, is not normally available in Yemen, which came as quite a shock to me. The Yemenis prefer tea, but a minority drink something called bunn, which resembles a kind of cloudy brown tea or infusion made from bits and pieces of rejected coffee beans. Those who have the means to do so will buy Nescafe. The whole meal came to about 120 riyals, which is something like 60 cents.
Hygiene is, to put it mildly, not a high priority for Yemenis. I saw one of the workers here bite into a filthy apple the other day and asked him if he minded the filth. "It's ok," he said, "I said bismilla (in the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate) over it." The water used for cleaning isn't terribly sanitary, anyway, because Sanaa, despite being a capital city home to over two million souls, lacks anything answering to the description of a hydraulic infrastructure (unless you count the Wadi Saila that runs through the center of town). Water is delivered house to house by trucks, which are usually pretty filthy, and pumped into rusting tanks, which are often themselves filthy as well. Despite all this, I fortunately haven't succumbed to any diseases ("Queen of Sheba's Revenge") yet.
I've been invited to a qat chew on Thursday. Qat is a powerful stimulant something like coffee on steroids, or methamphetamines. Chewing qat is the Yemeni national pastime - 80% of Yemeni men chew qat, and most spend up to half their income on it. They usually start chewing qat in the early afternoon and continue until the evening, chatting, drinking, and smoking cigarettes. Especially proficient qat chewers will cultivate a large ball on one side of their cheek, upwards of the size of a tennis ball, all the while chatting out of the other and spitting out of a mysterious third side of the mouth that Allah apparently did not see fit to endow infidels such as yours truly with. You can buy a bag of cheap qat for 300 riyals (about $1.50 US) but there is a wide range to choose from, the best quality fetching up to 10,000 riyals a bag (about $50 US). I've refrained from chewing qat up until now, but this event has been officially sanctioned by YCMES.
An artist's sketch of a large man with a beard was featured in the local papers. Earlier this week he stole the purse of a British lady travelling in Sanaa. The authorities suspect him of being Egyptian, or at any rate from somewhere else, because no true Yemeni would ever stoop to stealing from a tourist.
One of the local street urchins has told me that the police have informed them in no uncertain terms to cease accosting tourists until the culprit is caught.
I bring this up only to note that the same papers refuse to make any mention of the ongoing civil war in the north, even though a pickpocketing apparently warrants front page news.
The urchin was serving me bread at one of the local restaurant. This restaurant was different from the rest, in that you would purchase the kebabs from one man (who would fish the kebabs out of hot coals with his bare fingers and dump them unceremoniously upon your plate), the bread from another vendor, and tea (if you were so inclined) from a third. Coffee, unfortunately, is not normally available in Yemen, which came as quite a shock to me. The Yemenis prefer tea, but a minority drink something called bunn, which resembles a kind of cloudy brown tea or infusion made from bits and pieces of rejected coffee beans. Those who have the means to do so will buy Nescafe. The whole meal came to about 120 riyals, which is something like 60 cents.
Hygiene is, to put it mildly, not a high priority for Yemenis. I saw one of the workers here bite into a filthy apple the other day and asked him if he minded the filth. "It's ok," he said, "I said bismilla (in the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate) over it." The water used for cleaning isn't terribly sanitary, anyway, because Sanaa, despite being a capital city home to over two million souls, lacks anything answering to the description of a hydraulic infrastructure (unless you count the Wadi Saila that runs through the center of town). Water is delivered house to house by trucks, which are usually pretty filthy, and pumped into rusting tanks, which are often themselves filthy as well. Despite all this, I fortunately haven't succumbed to any diseases ("Queen of Sheba's Revenge") yet.
I've been invited to a qat chew on Thursday. Qat is a powerful stimulant something like coffee on steroids, or methamphetamines. Chewing qat is the Yemeni national pastime - 80% of Yemeni men chew qat, and most spend up to half their income on it. They usually start chewing qat in the early afternoon and continue until the evening, chatting, drinking, and smoking cigarettes. Especially proficient qat chewers will cultivate a large ball on one side of their cheek, upwards of the size of a tennis ball, all the while chatting out of the other and spitting out of a mysterious third side of the mouth that Allah apparently did not see fit to endow infidels such as yours truly with. You can buy a bag of cheap qat for 300 riyals (about $1.50 US) but there is a wide range to choose from, the best quality fetching up to 10,000 riyals a bag (about $50 US). I've refrained from chewing qat up until now, but this event has been officially sanctioned by YCMES.
Sleepless in Sanaa
I was unable to sleep a wink. At any rate, I didn't have to wait very long, as the first item on the agenda was breakfast at 7 (6 short hours after we arrived) followed by a battery of entrance exams and an orientation session.
The orientation session proved to be interesting, if only due to the explosions that could be heard over the Assistant to the Dean's voice. As it happens, the rebels had seized the town of Beni Hasheish, a scant 30 km from the capital. I'm told that this latest rebellion has been going on since 2004 and that it really is the second phase of a war that has been going on for much longer. So far the rebels had not made it to the capital... yet. I don't know if I find that comforting or disturbing.
The government tends to downplay any troublesome news for fear that it might prejudice tourists against Yemen, thereby depriving the country (the poorest in the Arab world and one of the poorest, period) of an important source of revenue. When an explosion killed a few people outside the American embassy earlier this year, the Ministry of the Interior announced that the target was NOT, in fact, the American embassy, as there is emphatically NO anti-Americanism in Yemen whatsoever, and that the embassy had unfortunately got caught in the crossfire between the teachers at a girls' school in the vicinity and the parents of the students. It would seem that, according to the Yemen government, it's not uncommon for parents to express their disapproval with the grades teachers have been giving their "little angels" by shelling the school with mortars. I will never complain about teaching in the United States ever again. Yemeni PTL meetings must be a real bitch.
For some reason, tourists have found this explanation less than convincing and have been NOT coming to Yemen in their customary droves.
I was unable to sleep a wink. At any rate, I didn't have to wait very long, as the first item on the agenda was breakfast at 7 (6 short hours after we arrived) followed by a battery of entrance exams and an orientation session.
The orientation session proved to be interesting, if only due to the explosions that could be heard over the Assistant to the Dean's voice. As it happens, the rebels had seized the town of Beni Hasheish, a scant 30 km from the capital. I'm told that this latest rebellion has been going on since 2004 and that it really is the second phase of a war that has been going on for much longer. So far the rebels had not made it to the capital... yet. I don't know if I find that comforting or disturbing.
The government tends to downplay any troublesome news for fear that it might prejudice tourists against Yemen, thereby depriving the country (the poorest in the Arab world and one of the poorest, period) of an important source of revenue. When an explosion killed a few people outside the American embassy earlier this year, the Ministry of the Interior announced that the target was NOT, in fact, the American embassy, as there is emphatically NO anti-Americanism in Yemen whatsoever, and that the embassy had unfortunately got caught in the crossfire between the teachers at a girls' school in the vicinity and the parents of the students. It would seem that, according to the Yemen government, it's not uncommon for parents to express their disapproval with the grades teachers have been giving their "little angels" by shelling the school with mortars. I will never complain about teaching in the United States ever again. Yemeni PTL meetings must be a real bitch.
For some reason, tourists have found this explanation less than convincing and have been NOT coming to Yemen in their customary droves.
Welcome to Yemen
As promised, the kind folks from the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies (YCMES for short) were waiting at the airport to facilitate our passage through customs and immigration. As Yemen is a staunchly conservative Islamic country, the customs agents were concerned first and foremost about alcohol and pornography. Westerners are permitted a certain amount of alcohol for their personal use, but pornography is strictly verboten. Poring through the books I had brought with me (which included Zelig Harris' A Grammar of the Phoenician Language and Daniel Lee Menkin's Neopunic Orthography) they were soon satisfied that I had not stashed away a copy of Jugs somewhere in my baggage and waived me through.
The Europeans did not fare so well. For some reason, according to our YCMES handlers, the authorities always give Europeans a much harder time than Americans. This included the gaggles of French and Italians who had joined us in Rome, and the Polish and Hungarians who boarded in Frankfurt. Eventually, we did get out of the airport, but almost immediately were stopped at a military checkpoint. The ongoing war with the Zaidi rebels in the north had made it necessary for the army to strictly control all roads leading into the capital. We did not arrive at our lodgings until well after midnight.
Our new digs are located in the old Ottoman portion of Sanaa, in a cluster of buildings that had belonged to the chief ministers and advisors of the late Imamate, which (some say) the rebels were aiming to reestablish. I requested a small room to myself on the fourth floor. The high altitude and the absence of any elevators made the climb to my room a greater ordeal than it would otherwise seem.
As promised, the kind folks from the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies (YCMES for short) were waiting at the airport to facilitate our passage through customs and immigration. As Yemen is a staunchly conservative Islamic country, the customs agents were concerned first and foremost about alcohol and pornography. Westerners are permitted a certain amount of alcohol for their personal use, but pornography is strictly verboten. Poring through the books I had brought with me (which included Zelig Harris' A Grammar of the Phoenician Language and Daniel Lee Menkin's Neopunic Orthography) they were soon satisfied that I had not stashed away a copy of Jugs somewhere in my baggage and waived me through.
The Europeans did not fare so well. For some reason, according to our YCMES handlers, the authorities always give Europeans a much harder time than Americans. This included the gaggles of French and Italians who had joined us in Rome, and the Polish and Hungarians who boarded in Frankfurt. Eventually, we did get out of the airport, but almost immediately were stopped at a military checkpoint. The ongoing war with the Zaidi rebels in the north had made it necessary for the army to strictly control all roads leading into the capital. We did not arrive at our lodgings until well after midnight.
Our new digs are located in the old Ottoman portion of Sanaa, in a cluster of buildings that had belonged to the chief ministers and advisors of the late Imamate, which (some say) the rebels were aiming to reestablish. I requested a small room to myself on the fourth floor. The high altitude and the absence of any elevators made the climb to my room a greater ordeal than it would otherwise seem.
Labels: customs, Imamate, immigration, travel, YCMES, Yemen, Zaidis
En route to Yemen
When I arrived at JFK, I immediately made my way over to the self-service kiosks. Swiping my passport through the scanner, I selected Sanaa, Yemen, as my final destination.
Surprise, surprise. Delta had no record of my reservation.
That can't be right, I thought to myself. I made my way over to the help desk, where a line stretched back to the front of the airport. After waiting for roughly half an hour or 45 minutes, the attendant (MAYROSE, her dull bronze name tag read) and asked me exactly what I wanted with her.
"Oh, you're going to YEMEN," she said. "Anyone who's going to Yemen has problems."
"Excuse me?"
"Problems," she repeated, pounding at her keyboard. "We had some other guy just here who was going the same place. Didn't have any record of his trip, either. Yemen," click, click, "anyone going to Yemen," click, CLICK, click, "they've got problems. How do you pronounce that?"
"Sanaa," I replied, giving my throat a good workout. A family of Arabs standing next to me looked up.
"Alright, take this and go through security." I checked my luggage and headed over to the line.
I ended up standing in line with a guy from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Sure enough, both of us were pulled over and thoroughly searched. By they point they released us, my plane was already boarding, and so I rushed on-board.
19 hours and two connections later, I landed in Sanaa.
Through some miracle, mine was the only bag of all the luggage that had been checked through to Sanaa to arrive. Everyone else from JFK was told that their luggage would arrive in 2-3 days.
When I arrived at JFK, I immediately made my way over to the self-service kiosks. Swiping my passport through the scanner, I selected Sanaa, Yemen, as my final destination.
Surprise, surprise. Delta had no record of my reservation.
That can't be right, I thought to myself. I made my way over to the help desk, where a line stretched back to the front of the airport. After waiting for roughly half an hour or 45 minutes, the attendant (MAYROSE, her dull bronze name tag read) and asked me exactly what I wanted with her.
"Oh, you're going to YEMEN," she said. "Anyone who's going to Yemen has problems."
"Excuse me?"
"Problems," she repeated, pounding at her keyboard. "We had some other guy just here who was going the same place. Didn't have any record of his trip, either. Yemen," click, click, "anyone going to Yemen," click, CLICK, click, "they've got problems. How do you pronounce that?"
"Sanaa," I replied, giving my throat a good workout. A family of Arabs standing next to me looked up.
"Alright, take this and go through security." I checked my luggage and headed over to the line.
I ended up standing in line with a guy from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Sure enough, both of us were pulled over and thoroughly searched. By they point they released us, my plane was already boarding, and so I rushed on-board.
19 hours and two connections later, I landed in Sanaa.
Through some miracle, mine was the only bag of all the luggage that had been checked through to Sanaa to arrive. Everyone else from JFK was told that their luggage would arrive in 2-3 days.
Friday, March 10, 2006
This must be my fifth or sixth attempt at restarting this weblog after a long absence (in this case, dictated by the demands of writing a dissertation). Judging from past experience, it will not be my last. It is, however, my first attempt at a weblog under my own name.
As of this week, I have finished The Neo-Mandaic Dialect of Khorramshahr (NMDK). I submitted it to my committee on the 1st and scheduled a defense for May 2nd. Things are proceeding right on schedule.
NMDK has:
530 + xxx pages (including a 110-page dictionary)
Five long stories, five short stories, all transcribed in a system of my own devising.
A history of 350+ years of scholarship.
300 pages of grammatical analysis.
948 different examples.
90 tables.
147 footnotes (yes, only 147 footnotes).
The table of contents alone is 18 pages. They will probably have to split it into two volumes.
I'm at a loss as to what my next project will be. I've got a few things on the back burner that I'd like to publish; as it happens, I had an article come out last month in BASOR on epigraphy, the Parthian chancery scripts, and the origins of Eastern Aramaic scripts such as the Mandaic script. I'm in the process of writing a paper on specific reference in Turkish, Persian, and Neo-Aramaic, to be delivered at NACAL this month, and a proposal for a paper on orality in the Aramaic-speaking Orient to be delivered at AAR this November. A friend of mine has suggested that I publish something comparing the Pahlavi Psalter to the Peshitta (Syriac Bible) just to break out of this linguistic rut I'm in. It would be nice to do something on a topic in literature.
As of this week, I have finished The Neo-Mandaic Dialect of Khorramshahr (NMDK). I submitted it to my committee on the 1st and scheduled a defense for May 2nd. Things are proceeding right on schedule.
NMDK has:
530 + xxx pages (including a 110-page dictionary)
Five long stories, five short stories, all transcribed in a system of my own devising.
A history of 350+ years of scholarship.
300 pages of grammatical analysis.
948 different examples.
90 tables.
147 footnotes (yes, only 147 footnotes).
The table of contents alone is 18 pages. They will probably have to split it into two volumes.
I'm at a loss as to what my next project will be. I've got a few things on the back burner that I'd like to publish; as it happens, I had an article come out last month in BASOR on epigraphy, the Parthian chancery scripts, and the origins of Eastern Aramaic scripts such as the Mandaic script. I'm in the process of writing a paper on specific reference in Turkish, Persian, and Neo-Aramaic, to be delivered at NACAL this month, and a proposal for a paper on orality in the Aramaic-speaking Orient to be delivered at AAR this November. A friend of mine has suggested that I publish something comparing the Pahlavi Psalter to the Peshitta (Syriac Bible) just to break out of this linguistic rut I'm in. It would be nice to do something on a topic in literature.
Among the stories in my text collection, one stands out. It's the story of a bridge in Shushtar, Iran. According to the legend, the people of Shushtar attempted to build a bridge; when the sun dawned on the community the day after its completion, the people discovered that their bridge had collapsed. This happened every time they rebuilt it. It occurred to them that the source of their trouble might be a demon or some other supernatural agency, and so they contacted the Mandaeans, who are known throughout the region for their knowledge of the occult, including the ability to trap demons.
I suddenly realized, only yesterday, that this legend was a version of a folktale that is told from the Balkans to India. In fact, it seems that this legend is associated with every bridge in the Balkans, including the eponymous Bridge over the River Drina, possibly the greatest work of modern Serbian literature, and Ismail Kadare's The Three-Arched Bridge, one of the most often translated works of Albanian literature. The legend is particularly well-represented in Greece, where even a Ladino (Djudeo-espanyol) version exists, and has been attested in Cappadocia and even Kurdistan, where a reference to it is made in a Jewish Neo-Aramaic folk ballad. This brings us somewhat closer to Shushtar, but there's still quite a bit of distance to cover - not to mention the fact that all of the other attested versions of the legend occur well within the territory of the late, great Ottoman Empire. Shushtar, the principle city of the Iranian province of Khuzestan, never fell under the rule of the Ottomans.
While one might be tempted to accuse my informant of being a closet fan of Serbian and Albanian literature, the fact remains that an earlier version of the Mandaean legend was first collected in 1854 by J. Petermann, who recounted it in his book Travels in the Orient. This is long before any of the other versions legend were recorded, so the question remains as to how the legend traveled from the Balkans to the Persian Gulf, or vice versa.
Another feature distinguishes this variant of the folktale from the others: in most versions, the masons who are constructing the bridge learn that they must sacrifice a woman (usually a virgin daughter or a wife), often by immuring her within the bridge itself. Only then will the bridge remain standing. The Mandaeans turn this myth on its head; when the demon comes for the virgin daughter, she tricks the demon into revealing his true name. Her father, who is the chief priest of the Mandaeans, thereby learns the true name of the demon and uses it to submit him to his will. When the Muslims of Shushtar turn upon the Mandaeans, the chief priest commands the demon to carry them to safety, which he does by lifting the entire Mandaean quarter of the city, leaving behind nothing but a deep pit.
I suddenly realized, only yesterday, that this legend was a version of a folktale that is told from the Balkans to India. In fact, it seems that this legend is associated with every bridge in the Balkans, including the eponymous Bridge over the River Drina, possibly the greatest work of modern Serbian literature, and Ismail Kadare's The Three-Arched Bridge, one of the most often translated works of Albanian literature. The legend is particularly well-represented in Greece, where even a Ladino (Djudeo-espanyol) version exists, and has been attested in Cappadocia and even Kurdistan, where a reference to it is made in a Jewish Neo-Aramaic folk ballad. This brings us somewhat closer to Shushtar, but there's still quite a bit of distance to cover - not to mention the fact that all of the other attested versions of the legend occur well within the territory of the late, great Ottoman Empire. Shushtar, the principle city of the Iranian province of Khuzestan, never fell under the rule of the Ottomans.
While one might be tempted to accuse my informant of being a closet fan of Serbian and Albanian literature, the fact remains that an earlier version of the Mandaean legend was first collected in 1854 by J. Petermann, who recounted it in his book Travels in the Orient. This is long before any of the other versions legend were recorded, so the question remains as to how the legend traveled from the Balkans to the Persian Gulf, or vice versa.
Another feature distinguishes this variant of the folktale from the others: in most versions, the masons who are constructing the bridge learn that they must sacrifice a woman (usually a virgin daughter or a wife), often by immuring her within the bridge itself. Only then will the bridge remain standing. The Mandaeans turn this myth on its head; when the demon comes for the virgin daughter, she tricks the demon into revealing his true name. Her father, who is the chief priest of the Mandaeans, thereby learns the true name of the demon and uses it to submit him to his will. When the Muslims of Shushtar turn upon the Mandaeans, the chief priest commands the demon to carry them to safety, which he does by lifting the entire Mandaean quarter of the city, leaving behind nothing but a deep pit.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Mandaean Tales, Part Four
In conclusion,
They reported this back to their homeland, and the king of their country sent out seven ships loaded with white linen. Upon landing in Bejâdhije, the chief asked the people why they had returned once again in defiance of his request. They replied that they had landed here again only by coincidence. As an answer to his inquiries towards their cargo, they showed him more white canvas, even more beautiful than that which the first ship had borne. He took it and permitted the ships to load up with gold dust in return for it, but added a stern reminder never to return.
The gold aroused the greed of the Frankish king even more, and so he sent forth 40 ships loaded with 40,000 soldiers, to take possession of the country. They arrived and fired their cannons, causing Bejâdhije to fall into complete chaos. The chief asked them why they had come once again contrary to his wishes, and immediately saw their hostile intentions. He told them that they would never fulfill their intentions, and returned to shore. While praying, he pointed his finger at each of the ships, one after the other, as each one sunk to the bottom of the sea with their entire crew. He let only one ship survive, which carried the account of this disaster back to the homeland. Since then, no other attempt has been made to reach there.
Petermann adds, "I add to this this fable a few more marvelous narratives, which I have heard directly from the priest, even though they do not exactly belong here. They may serve, however, as proof for my statement above that the Mandaeans have adapted their legends partially to the Persian ones, and have borrowed from Persian myths as well."
In conclusion,
They reported this back to their homeland, and the king of their country sent out seven ships loaded with white linen. Upon landing in Bejâdhije, the chief asked the people why they had returned once again in defiance of his request. They replied that they had landed here again only by coincidence. As an answer to his inquiries towards their cargo, they showed him more white canvas, even more beautiful than that which the first ship had borne. He took it and permitted the ships to load up with gold dust in return for it, but added a stern reminder never to return.
The gold aroused the greed of the Frankish king even more, and so he sent forth 40 ships loaded with 40,000 soldiers, to take possession of the country. They arrived and fired their cannons, causing Bejâdhije to fall into complete chaos. The chief asked them why they had come once again contrary to his wishes, and immediately saw their hostile intentions. He told them that they would never fulfill their intentions, and returned to shore. While praying, he pointed his finger at each of the ships, one after the other, as each one sunk to the bottom of the sea with their entire crew. He let only one ship survive, which carried the account of this disaster back to the homeland. Since then, no other attempt has been made to reach there.
Petermann adds, "I add to this this fable a few more marvelous narratives, which I have heard directly from the priest, even though they do not exactly belong here. They may serve, however, as proof for my statement above that the Mandaeans have adapted their legends partially to the Persian ones, and have borrowed from Persian myths as well."
Monday, August 16, 2004
Mandaean Tales, Part Three
Afterwards the people (the Ethiopians) let them free, but they remained behind for a year to teach them, and help them set up a workshop.
Thereupon they went forth and continued on, and at last came to a place where there was no livestock, even though they saw many lambs' tails. They asked a man, "how is it that there are so many lamb tails, but no lambs?" He laughed at them, and informed them that these "lamb tails" were actually fruits from a tree. When they went outside of the city, they saw many trees bearing these fruits. They bought a ripe fruit, from which the juice flowed, resembling fat. They peeled off the rind, which was black, and put the fruit within, which was completely white, into a pot to cook it. Upon heating it dissolved completely into fat, which nonetheless was of the most exquisite taste.
Then they went forth according to the instructions from country to country, from place to place, until they finally came to the country of a muslim ruler, who held the title of Môla, and who annually sent a tribute to the country of Bejâdhije, from which he received gold dust. They asked where the country of Bejâdhije was, and were told that it is very close, but the way there had been closed for a year. Previously a ship had gone there annually, and when the last Môla died, he had left behind twelve sons, who had each loaded a ship with gifts, and so twelve ships were sent there all at once. The local inhabitants believed that these men had come to wage war against them, and a man (the chief) caused the crews of all the ships to become blinded by his prayers. After seven days, he opened their eyes for them again, and they became aware that a mountain had arisen between them reaching up to the sky, so high that it became impossible for them to pass.
In response to the travelers, who had asked if there was not another way to get there, the Môla answered that there was, but that it was populated with black cannibals, who devoured all men that set foot in their land. Likewise, there were ants the size of goats, who would do the same. When they heard this, they lost all hope, and set back on the path home. From the group, only one returned to Qurna (or Basra), and spent a full seven nights and seven days without pause telling the tale of his journey, which from there and back had taken him a full 14 years. In the meanwhile, his wife, believing him to be long dead, had remarried. This distressed him so much that he wished to truly be dead, and passed away shortly thereafter.
Some time later a Frankish ship undertook a seven-year journey to Bejâdhije via the sea. The crew saw many gardens bursting with flowers and filled with golden tools; the chief of the country boarded the ship, to learn about their travels, and satisfy his curiosity as to their interests. When they brought forth white linens, he took them, and gave some gold dust for them in return, but insisted that they ought not return.
To be continued...
Afterwards the people (the Ethiopians) let them free, but they remained behind for a year to teach them, and help them set up a workshop.
Thereupon they went forth and continued on, and at last came to a place where there was no livestock, even though they saw many lambs' tails. They asked a man, "how is it that there are so many lamb tails, but no lambs?" He laughed at them, and informed them that these "lamb tails" were actually fruits from a tree. When they went outside of the city, they saw many trees bearing these fruits. They bought a ripe fruit, from which the juice flowed, resembling fat. They peeled off the rind, which was black, and put the fruit within, which was completely white, into a pot to cook it. Upon heating it dissolved completely into fat, which nonetheless was of the most exquisite taste.
Then they went forth according to the instructions from country to country, from place to place, until they finally came to the country of a muslim ruler, who held the title of Môla, and who annually sent a tribute to the country of Bejâdhije, from which he received gold dust. They asked where the country of Bejâdhije was, and were told that it is very close, but the way there had been closed for a year. Previously a ship had gone there annually, and when the last Môla died, he had left behind twelve sons, who had each loaded a ship with gifts, and so twelve ships were sent there all at once. The local inhabitants believed that these men had come to wage war against them, and a man (the chief) caused the crews of all the ships to become blinded by his prayers. After seven days, he opened their eyes for them again, and they became aware that a mountain had arisen between them reaching up to the sky, so high that it became impossible for them to pass.
In response to the travelers, who had asked if there was not another way to get there, the Môla answered that there was, but that it was populated with black cannibals, who devoured all men that set foot in their land. Likewise, there were ants the size of goats, who would do the same. When they heard this, they lost all hope, and set back on the path home. From the group, only one returned to Qurna (or Basra), and spent a full seven nights and seven days without pause telling the tale of his journey, which from there and back had taken him a full 14 years. In the meanwhile, his wife, believing him to be long dead, had remarried. This distressed him so much that he wished to truly be dead, and passed away shortly thereafter.
Some time later a Frankish ship undertook a seven-year journey to Bejâdhije via the sea. The crew saw many gardens bursting with flowers and filled with golden tools; the chief of the country boarded the ship, to learn about their travels, and satisfy his curiosity as to their interests. When they brought forth white linens, he took them, and gave some gold dust for them in return, but insisted that they ought not return.
To be continued...
Friday, August 06, 2004
NYT Addresses Mandaean Refugee Situation
Many Christians Flee Iraq, With Syria the Haven of Choice
Regrettably, Katherine Zoepf (who is the author of this piece) strongly suggests that the Mandaeans are Christians, even if she does not actually make the equation at any point. She describes them as followers of John the Baptist. Nonetheless, her mistake, while misleading, is not as egregious as some mistakes I've seen elsewhere - in on Australian source, the head of the Mandaean community is described as "a priest called the Ginza Rabbi."
Syria is a natural place of refuge for members of Iraqi minority religious communities, as it has typically been very supportive of its own minority communites, and viciously brutal towards to Islamic fundamentalists.
Many Christians Flee Iraq, With Syria the Haven of Choice
Regrettably, Katherine Zoepf (who is the author of this piece) strongly suggests that the Mandaeans are Christians, even if she does not actually make the equation at any point. She describes them as followers of John the Baptist. Nonetheless, her mistake, while misleading, is not as egregious as some mistakes I've seen elsewhere - in on Australian source, the head of the Mandaean community is described as "a priest called the Ginza Rabbi."
Syria is a natural place of refuge for members of Iraqi minority religious communities, as it has typically been very supportive of its own minority communites, and viciously brutal towards to Islamic fundamentalists.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Mandaean Tales, Part Two
J. Petermann continues,
There is a country which no stranger has ever been permitted to enter. The Dervish came to stay with a widow, in a stone house on the border of this country, and she spread out a white silk carpet and set out food and water in golden bowls. She lifted the food with two chopsticks and fed it to him, so that he wouldn't contaminate their bowls. It was their New Year's Day. On this day they may not take water from a flowing source, and must content themselves with water collected beforehand.
They lived communally, and allowed their cattle to range free. Since they never went further than their own fields, and the surrounding bedouin were fully aware of this fact, they made use of this knowledge to make off with their cattle (which were fine in every regard). The people of the city noticed this from a distance. All at once their leader, who was their both their religious and their secular head, went up to a high place within the city with his white staff, and drew a circle with it in the air. Immediately the Arabs were imprisoned. The following day, the people of the city came out, loosened the Arabs' chains, and impressed upon them that they should never attempt to rob them again, which they promised. Since they had not permitted the Dervish to enter the city, and they had not told him anything either, he did not know which religion they practiced.
The Mandaeans in Basra said to him that they wanted to go back with him to that country; however, he responded that he was making a pilgrimage, and for that reason could not go back, but only further. After much pleading, he finally said to them, "I will tell you the way that you must take to get there. Go past Baghdad and Damascus all the way to Egypt, and then through Algiers, Tunis, Morocco, Abyssinia, and so forth." Four deacons (that is, assistant priests) went on the way by themselves, and came to Abyssinia. There they rested, and presented the King of Abyssinia with a vessel made of gold and silver and inscribed with figures, which they themselves (being goldsmiths) had made. The king said to them, "You must stay here with me, since there are none in this country who know how to do such work." They did not want to stick around, and insisted that they had to travel onwards, but he still managed to hold them back for six years.
[To be continued...]
J. Petermann continues,
There is a country which no stranger has ever been permitted to enter. The Dervish came to stay with a widow, in a stone house on the border of this country, and she spread out a white silk carpet and set out food and water in golden bowls. She lifted the food with two chopsticks and fed it to him, so that he wouldn't contaminate their bowls. It was their New Year's Day. On this day they may not take water from a flowing source, and must content themselves with water collected beforehand.
They lived communally, and allowed their cattle to range free. Since they never went further than their own fields, and the surrounding bedouin were fully aware of this fact, they made use of this knowledge to make off with their cattle (which were fine in every regard). The people of the city noticed this from a distance. All at once their leader, who was their both their religious and their secular head, went up to a high place within the city with his white staff, and drew a circle with it in the air. Immediately the Arabs were imprisoned. The following day, the people of the city came out, loosened the Arabs' chains, and impressed upon them that they should never attempt to rob them again, which they promised. Since they had not permitted the Dervish to enter the city, and they had not told him anything either, he did not know which religion they practiced.
The Mandaeans in Basra said to him that they wanted to go back with him to that country; however, he responded that he was making a pilgrimage, and for that reason could not go back, but only further. After much pleading, he finally said to them, "I will tell you the way that you must take to get there. Go past Baghdad and Damascus all the way to Egypt, and then through Algiers, Tunis, Morocco, Abyssinia, and so forth." Four deacons (that is, assistant priests) went on the way by themselves, and came to Abyssinia. There they rested, and presented the King of Abyssinia with a vessel made of gold and silver and inscribed with figures, which they themselves (being goldsmiths) had made. The king said to them, "You must stay here with me, since there are none in this country who know how to do such work." They did not want to stick around, and insisted that they had to travel onwards, but he still managed to hold them back for six years.
[To be continued...]
