I started at 5 AM today to catch a 10:45 AM flight from Riyan to Sanaa. One needs to pass through three security check posts before one can reach the airport. At every check post I carried my heavy bags through a panel of x-ray machines, which apparently had a malfunctioning. At least I thought so. Because the security guards seemed not to take any notice of them, as they opened my bags and went through all the contents one by one.
“Hindi?” “Aiwa!”
“Muslim?” ” Laa, maafi!”
They let me pass with a cynical smile.
I reached airport at 9:30 AM after collecting my tickets midway. And now I am here waiting all alone. The security guard at the airport entrance doesn’t let me in. The flight is at 3:30 PM and I am early he says. I curse my travel agent. I call him and my manager one after another. They apologize and say that they’ll do something about it. But I know it’s over. I would have to stay here at the Mukalla International Airport, one of the four (or is it five?) airports of Yemen, stranded, all alone, for almost 6 hours.
It’s the first hour and I have another five hours to kill. I can’t even get into the airport, because unlike other airports, I am not allowed inside until two hours before the flight time. But the airport has its advantages. I do not need to get my bags screened some times. I wonder why? With three check posts along the road, where they literally make you feel ashamed by taking out everything you own, they probably do not need another one at the airport.
My driver has left. So going to some place is ruled out. I look for a coffee shop around. I try and ask the guards with the little Arabic I have learnt. But, nothing! It’s a vain attempt. I put my bags along the wall and sit on one of them. I keep the other two bags close to me, touching me, reassuring me that they are here with me.
A local comes strolling towards me. He knows I am Hindi (Indian). He surprises me by speaking Hindi. He had been to Hyderabad to learn English, he says. He ended up learning English as well as Hindi. Good for me I think. He wants to know how is India, since he left. And he talks about Hyderabadi Biryani. I offer him a Davidoff, which he declines. We sit and chat for a while. I like his enthusiasm about India and her people. He wonders how I ended up here at the Mukalla airport. I too wonder. I want him to stay another couple of hours, but he has to leave. We part ways, with a promise that I’ll call him if and when I am back. He’ll take me to his home then.
I am alone once again. People around me, wondering what am I doing? You don’t find many passengers sitting outside this airport, unlike the Indian ones, where you have hoards of people outside the airport, anytime of the day. It’s more of a why rather than a what on their faces. And I too wonder again.
A security guard approaches me with hesitant steps. I try to give him a welcoming smile. He thinks I am from Pakistan. I correct him. He seems to know a lot about India, her cities, Bombay, Calcutta, Madras….With my Berlitz Arabic Phrase dictionary in my hand, I somehow manage to communicate with him. He speaks English, better than most of his country men. India is big and beautiful he says. I feel the need to reciprocate. I praise Yemen and her people. He is happy. He has heard that women pay money during marriage in India. Is it true? It’s an illegal practice I say. But he wishes to go to India to marry four women. He would not have to pay them, and might even end up earning some. He can marry four women according to Islamic laws, but with his meager pay of 100 USD per month he could barely get married once. He had to pay 1000USD for his marriage.
Am I a Muslim he asks? I say god made everyone a Muslim and in that sense probably yes I am one. There are two kinds of Muslims I say, good Muslims and not so good Muslims. I fall in the second category. I am sure he doesn’t understand me. But somehow it makes him happy. I offer him a cigarette. He refuses. And then reluctantly takes one. He doesn’t smoke that often, not the usual ones. He likes hashish and offers me some. I overcome my desire of trying some and refuse.
Another guy joins him and then a couple of more. They are amused with my Berlitz dictionary and some of them help me pronounce some of the Arabic phrases. They like when I make an effort to speak in Arabic. They laugh occasionally. I keep up a smile on my face continuously.
A guy asks me about cinema and homosexuality. I do not know the relationship though. It makes me laugh. I ask them about Amitabh Bachchan and most of them know him. They love his movies, but they seldom get a chance to watch him on screen. What about Indian women? What about them, I ask. Why are they so pretty on screen but not so pretty otherwise? I try and tell them about reel and real life but again I fall short of right words.
All of them, but one, have gone. Their amusement, in talking to me, subsiding after a while.
I ask the guy who still sticks with me about coffee shop. No coffee shop he says. But there is a restaurant nearby. I can get tea there. I invite him for a cup of tea. He declines. He doesn’t have money. I would treat him but he doesn’t agree. He is willing to accompany me to the restaurant though.
We have tea at the restaurant. I managed to convince him that he should have tea with me, for my sake. He tells me about a beach nearby. He can take me there. But I am reluctant. After tea I ask him to order lunch for both of us. He orders tuna and some bread. Another of his friend joins us for lunch. Total cost: 450 YER, which is around 3 USD. At the airport! It’s cheap! He offers me to take me to his home, which I again refuse. He has to go as his family is waiting for him. He would leave for Sanaa in a couple of days time to resume his duty as a constable. I give him my number. Call me when you are in Sanaa. He thanks me for lunch, and I am embarrassed.
He has left, Mohammed. I sit and revise all the Arabic phrases I used during our almost one way conversation.
I still wait…
