The port of Aden
19 April – We go to the French cultural centre and I see Sarah's workplace. She is manager of the Aden centre and is happy with her recent position. I check my mail and then towards noon I take a bus into town and stroll around the central streets and shops. The sun is very hot. Several buildings are made of stone and probably date back to the colonial period, the golden age of the port of Aden. It's a peculiar town, lying on trading routes that were once strategic, and even now it retains some importance, though its haven has a slack traffic for several reasons, among which acts of terrorism that were carried out in its docks and targeted American and French interests. I notice people of different origins and its history is fascinating, its very natural volcanic configuration jutting out into the sea compensate for the lack of outstanding tourist attractions.
Up Wadi Daw’an
14 April – Last night again the day came to a close with the qat rite, that Adnan and I chewed until 2 am. Maybe I felt a very slight effect this time because I took longer to fall asleep. But the most conspicuous effect was the rubbing of the harder leaves on my gum that became irritated. When Geraldine saw me with this ball in the mouth, she burst into laughter, while I was moaning with pain.
Arabia meets the Indian Ocean
I took a Land Cruiser to Mukalla, as agreed last night, with other passenger, among whom three women in absolute black. In order for them not to sit next to stranger men, there were the usual changes of seat, but I stayed confined to my uncomfortable back bench, blocked without much room to stretch my limbs from time to time. I soon felt my legs and buttock go numb, and more than once I thought I couldn't just stand any longer.
Hadramawt days
10 April – I’ve just arrived in Sanaa. I’ve taken two buses from the airport to get to Tahrir, the capital city’s central square. I have 2 hours’ delay on the schedule. I look for a phone shop and ring Geraldine up, the friend I met 3 years ago when we were cotenants in a dear old house in the Bab Tuma district of Damascus. She tells me to move towards the 25 September Street and while I’m walking a taxi accosts me at some speed. Suddenly the back door opens and a broad smile followed by loud outburst of mirth gives me the most friendly welcome, a gust of warmth in this cool cloudy day, that sees me tired after much nighttime travelling and of course disoriented for having just landed in an unfamiliar place.