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Tag Archives: arabia
VIDEO ART: Islam – Peace be Upon You
I have had the pleasure of travelling across much of the Islamic world – these images are from Iraq (1989) & Yemen (2005).
>>> ENTER art exhibition here (or click image)
Acquitted … 6 injections in the butt solved what 3 courses of pills had failed to do – relieve my swollen and infected gums around my left wisdom tooth.
The very real possibility of a pulled tooth wasn’t something to excite me – what when they have to smash it from the jaw bone. I have to say that the pain was the worst I have ever experienced in my entire life: from my throat to my ears shrieking tearing that could only be dulled by a week on 24/7 super painkillers (forget aspirin or paracetamol; ineffective). But the best drug of them all was the celebratory beers I consumed that last night in Aden.
Young girl with her version of Barbie
Went to the ’sailors club’ in the old British port on the other side of the Aden volcano. It was discreet. Could buy beer and spirits inside … and there were women there !!! Without veil !!! Somalis mostly, some drinking in the smoky, worn surrounds looking out to the harbour and a supertanker gliding out in the sunset seen from where I sat at front table alone in this empty-ish place. Two Russian sailors, a few Arabs, a barmen, several women – a couple of young black babes and a few very worn out ones milling around, drawing closer to me after my 3rd can of beer.
Then entered a black-draped Yemeni – wow, look at her – eyes smiling and she sat down next to me as the English speaking Somali, Sonia – her in jeans, introduced me to Arwa. Sure she was Yemeni, from Sanaa and once married (probably to an old guy who died – because she was only 16). Anyway, I assumed they were all hostesses serving drinks and smiling at men’s jokes for a tip … but that was not the case.
Jibla: Queen Arwa’s tomb is housed in the (left) mosque
Back in the 11th century in the southern central mountain town of Jibla there was a great and benevolent queen called Arwa, who ruled wisely and justly, built schools, roads, bridges, mosques, made last peace and ushered in a period of great prosperity for her people and even today, she is still spoken of very highly; I know this cos I visited her city and tomb within the mosque some weeks back and now I had this young beauty of her namesake next to me and offering her body.What was I to do; the oblivious.
The Arabian Nights fantasy was not disappointing; mutually ecstatic, one of the highlights of my entire sex life … watching her flip off her black cloth to reveal her skimpy nightie and our embrace of tight-hugged dancing to Arabic music on the TV before we got bed-bound … but I will leave the rest of the encounter to your imagination as it will get too-beautifully pornographic.
It was a very weird situation: a secret taxi in the club grounds left for a secret hotel, checking into the hotel while busting for a piss and her secreted in the side door, her riding veiled in the taxi backseat as me in the front rode across our hot, humid night.
With this steamy incident in mind – theoretically, I could be tried under Sharia Law – as I had joked about earlier but it was not meant to be. Insha Allah.
Ancient mud-skyscapers of Shibam, Wadi Hadramawt
… I am now in the searing desert in Sayun, in the great Wadi Hadramawt – the longest canyon in Arabia where villages of mud-brick tower houses and mosque minarets cluster amid palms and fertile fields running along the vast desert floor, a few miles either side the endless, mighty, canyon cliffs of hard rock guarding against the hostile plateau above and all around.
I came here in a shared taxi – crammed with two women and their dozen kids from Al-Mulkala, the famous Hadramawt region port on the hellishly-humid Arabian Sea coast, five hours, up the mountain pass and then across the empty plateau of howling hot winds, here – where Freya Stark, the lone English woman travelled by donkey to Wadi Hadramawt back in 1935 & 1938 (check her books). My hotel window looks to the white, towered, fortified palace of Sayun, where she’d stayed as a guest of the Sultan.
Looking after dad’s AK-47, Jibla
Wadi Hadramawt has a long history: think the Queen of Sheba stories and the famous frankincense route from the coast of Oman and Yemen across the deserts of Arabia to Rome or over by sea to India and beyond and you’re half-way there.
Amid the branching wadis (dry river beds/ canyons) off mighty Hadramawt hide caves and art dating from the Stone Age and ruins from civilisations that they call the cradle of Arabia : 12th – 1st centuries BC cities that grew very rich from the frankincense that the – entire known – world craved so much.
Today I spoke – briefly – to a old Javanese-descended Arab here as I ate my fried tuna and rice at a local restaurant for back in the middle-AD centuries merchants from Hadramawt had sailed to India, Singapore, and even Java (Indonesia) exposing new regions to Islam and continuing their trade.
And talking of ancient trade: I am mighty glad that “the world’s oldest profession” exists – albeit, small-time & super discreet – here in the lands of Islam. It appears the saying – “people are people”, is indeed true the world over.
Love, flowers & Arabian fantasies – MRP
I’d crossed the West Bank from Jordan to arrive in Jerusalem two days after the second anniversary of the first Intifada – uprising.
Palestinians had demonstrated in the streets and two young men had been killed by Israeli soldiers. This day I stubbled into the riot that followed the men’s funeral.
Soldiers
One, experienced
a mean-looking guy who’d seen fist-fights
riots and wars
He whistles, raising his baton
then barks the orders
Another man in green is nervous
terrified
see his eyes
watch his hand
–shake
finger squeezing an M16
barrel held @ 75 degrees
Warning shots
Pushing, running, shrieking
women, men
Soldiers
Stones
Now, an empty street
of discarded banners
shoes
scarves
and an abandoned coffin.
It happened fast – Israeli soldiers threatened me & my camera if I took photos. Disturbed by the experience, I returned to my guesthouse in Arab East Jerusalem; the owner listened to what I’d just seen – then told me a young-Israeli-female soldier had just been stabbed-dead in the old city.
Illusive peace – Jerusalem, Palestine/Israel, 1989 (c) MRP ART
Extract from story - Hitching to Baghdad:
A cloudless sky overlaps the receding morning grey. On the streets of Rutbah the potholes are puddles and asphalt glossy as I stroll in a dream state: absorbing the very first impressions of my first day in Iraq.
Before Rutbah: hitching the desert across Jordan and Iraq on a gasoline tanker, 1989
I, am, away with it. Still tired. And I don’t even notice the Nissan pick-up slow up beside me. But I soon accept a lift; he speaks no English but lets me out 400 metres later – in the slow centre of town.
I sip sweet black tea outside a basic café and dwell – so this is Iraq, it’s okay – yeah, quiet, people seem friendly, and super-curious for sure. Across from me rows of flat-roofed, sun-bleached, bland concrete buildings border the dusty asphalt mainstreet. Many have a half-completed look, with bricks and rusting steel exposed, awaiting an optimistic additional storey. A few people are out and about but it’s not busy. Shops display modern clothing, Adidas bags and other goods hanging from pinned-back steel doors, where wooden crates and heaped sacks clutter their entrances.
Basically a scene not worth writing about but to bring it alive suddenly – a man balancing a tray of tiny glasses on his fingertips says “You are welcome to Iraq. Most welcome!” “Thank you. It’s good to be here.” And I ask him how much I owe him. “No. This okay, no money.” “No money? Free?” “Yes free for you. You like more?” He replaces my empty glass with another fresh glass of tea then darts between tables, serving others while still shouting out questions at me: Which country you from? Your name is? You are tourist, yes? Where you go after here? How long you stay Iraq, friend?
During this tea talk a hell-of-a-noise emerges from down the mainstreet to be loads of schoolchildren marching and chanting. Three boys lead the crowd holding Saddam portraits. Followed by two lads with a large-scripted Arabic banner. Two girls in camouflage frocks carrying colorful bouquets. Two boys troop flags. The Iraqi national flag flutters limply in the light breeze as columns of school boys – flanked by unsmiling teachers – follow on mass. I see two lads giggle and jostle – to get scolded by a serious man.
I ask the guy standing beside me “What’s this for?” Another man replies “Holy-day” Well, it wasn’t Ramadan (the Muslim holy month), that I did know. I asked him again “A holiday for what?” “Our president, Saddam.” Really? Weird way to spend a holiday.
But I’m intrigued so I follow the parade – since I’m heading out of town to hitch, anyway. On traffic island a huge mural of Saddam’s head and shoulders – in military uniform and shades – dominates the passing kids. Several children call to me and I take their photo.
Pro-Saddam march by school kids in Rutbah, 1989
Soon the parade merges with adults gathered in a parched park shaded by Eucalyptus trees. There on a stage are wreaths of color, more presidential portraits, more Iraqi flags. In fact the entire stage is a parcel of Iraqi tri-colours – of red, white with green stars and black ribbons wrapping everything and everybody, adding an authorative splash of official color to the drab-suited dignitaries seated by the speaker’s podium.
Raspy, amplified Arabic shrieks over the crowd to reach across the street to where I stand watching; not wanting to be intrusive I purposely keep a distance because already I’ve been the reason for too many bewildered stares.
I’m crouched down rewinding my film, about to put a new one in the camera when I gaze up to see many faces staring and pointing over at me? At me !!!
A wildfire ignites before my eyes as Arabs whisper to one another as the murmuring spreads to crackling as more faces turn to stare at me.
The speaker is losing his audience – his words no longer of interest as 100s of Arabs now stare at me. Fuck. Shit. Feeling uncomfortable I leave but before a half-metre a guy in suit-and-tie is beside me, identifying himself as “Security.”
I forget about the million stares on me as he glares down and barks “You have no right to be here! No photos allowed! Why are you here?” “I’m a tourist.” “You have visa?” “Yeah.” “You have permission for camera?” “Whose permission?” “You must have a letter from from the Foreign Ministry in Baghdad” “But I haven’t reached Baghdad yet!”
He thrust his hand forward – “Give your film to me!” “No! I’m not losing my photos of Jordan.” And shoving my camera into my bag I walk away raving madly. “I’m a tourist! I’m a tourist! Tourists carry cameras!” To my surprise he leaves me alone.
The incident makes me uneasy. Time to leave town – quick.
I decide against hitching further and instead backtrack to the bus station where I join three Iraqis in a shared taxi to Ramadi …
In the backstreets of Baghdad, 1989
