TV in Yemen

SUNDAY INDEPENDENT, 13 MAY 2001

SALAAM ALEIKUM, my friends. You will notice that I begin this column with a common Arabic expression. That is because I have just returned from Yemen (or, as some would have it, the Yemen), where common Arabic expressions are even more common than they are elsewhere.

That particular expression either means “Peace be upon you”, or is a way of ordering extra salami and cucumber on your pizza. I am rather inclined to the first interpretation, because I frequently said salaam aleikum in my travels through the wadis and highlands of southern Arabia, and not once did anyone point me in the direction of the nearest Italian trattoria.

Of course, when you are in the Yemen, the nearest Italian trattoria is a continent away. There is a Pizza Hut in Aden, mind you, but no one really knows what its purpose might be. Locals stand outside and giggle at its architecture. The only customers are CIA investigators probing the sinking of USS Cole last year.

You can tell the CIA investigators a mile away. They have tattoos of mountain lions and biceps the size of a Yemeni waist and are always eating pizza out of cardboard Pizza Hut boxes. I shared a lift with one in an Aden hotel, and as the doors closed I asked how the investigation was going. He raised his head from the Pizza Hut box and adjusted his black plastic earpiece. “How do you know who I am?” he demanded. I smiled cryptically and tapped the side of my nose. He had to restrain himself visibly from throwing me in a headlock.

Western foods haven’t made much impact in Yemen. I ate a camel-meat kebab somewhere in the Hadhramawt, the lush, palm-filled valley on the fringes of the endless sandy wastes of the desert the locals call Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter. It was tasty. It tasted like chicken. No, it didn’t – it tasted like beef, but leaner. I suppose you might say it tasted like ostrich. Most of the time I ate chicken. That, I am pleased to say, did taste like chicken.

Yemen has shunned most of the eyesores of Western consumerism, but I have yet to visit the country that doesn’t boast more satellite dishes than a man on horseback can count in a hundred days of galloping, as the old Yemeni saying goes. In Al-Hudaydah, on the Red Sea coast, I lay back under a spinning ceiling fan, draped myself in a swatch of muslin and settled in for an evening of television.

The greatest hazard to anyone thus approaching the intriguing and often opaque Arabian culture is the ubiquitous Arabic music video, in which, without exception, a portly fellow wearing loose shirts and immodestly snug-fitting trousers dances around a foxy lass with handmade eyebrows. He tries unsuccessfully to plight his troth for two minutes, 25 seconds of the song, while the foxy lass jangles her jewellery and looks unavailable.

How depressing, you might think, but fear not: you can tell by the waggle of the gentleman’s eyebrows and the suave way he ruffles his moustache that he knows how the song ends. Finally, in the last five seconds, the foxy lass smiles and melts and accepts his troth and the pair scamper off screen, presumably en route to a good plighting.

Fortunately, the satellite service offered a full bouquet of channels from around the Arabic-speaking world. I tuned in to a Moroccan channel, or was it from Dubai? It was a live broadcast of a stage play. Two Moroccans in chinos and bowling shirts stood on stage, just outside the spotlights. Every time the spotlights tried to settle on them, they sidled away again. The spots danced around on stage trying to find them, a delicate pattern of loops and squiggles, as though the lighting guy were spelling out swear words in Arabic. In the foreground, a dwarf was speaking on a phone.

I couldn’t follow what they were saying, of course, but apparently it was a comedy, because the two Moroccans kept slapping each other on the back and yelling their lines in unison, which is something they also do on e.tv sitcoms to signify a punchline. Ah, the universal language of comedy.

You could also tell it was funny because the 17 people in the audience kept chuckling. You could tell there were 17 people because a camera kept panning over them. Every time they noticed the camera, the audience members would wave and pull faces and try to pull their friends’ jerseys up over their heads. It must have been a little puzzling for the performers. It was puzzling for me, but perhaps it was an innovative scheme for luring audiences back to live theatre: “Come to our play – you could be on television!”

I tried to tune in to the Saudi Arabian channel, but the service wasn’t operational. What an opportunity lost. I lay there a long time, trying to imagine the wonders of Saudi television. A curtain draped over the screen, perhaps, with low voices in the background discussing the price of oil and laughing. (“Tell me, how much oil actually goes into a barrel, Sheik Ahmed?”

“Hmmm, not entirely sure, Ali. As much as we feel like, I suppose. Don’t tell the Americans, heh heh heh.”

“Heh heh heh.”)

There are many reasons to visit Yemen, the land of Sheba and Sheherazade and the Arabian Nights, but television is not among them. I left the hotel and took a walk along the seafront, where groups of men sat and smoked and played dominos and drank strong, sweet coffee. Everyone invites a stranger to sit with them.

I chose a table that spoke English. “How you like Yemen?” someone asked.

“I like it better than Jerry Springer,” I said, which is my way of giving a strong compliment.

“Who is Jerry Springer?” they said. Suddenly I realised all over again what a beautiful country I was visiting.