Traveling in the Republic of Yemen where most of the weapon-laden natives spend the day completely stoned on a green leaf called gat, curse life and blame the West for everything, is surely a strange way to spend a vacation.
A Sultan’s palace with the Harem quarters turned into hotel rooms is the present day Taj Talah Hotel. During the two months I called it home, the hotel housed an assortment of characters usually found only in spy novels.
In the courtyard restaurant news updates on the latest developments in the Middle East were announced, and personal views unleashed. A couple of Sudanese merchants, who recently lost their livelihood due to Osama Bin Laden, spat on the floor, “Osama! Yikhreb beitak! May your house fall down!”
The hotel was run by Ali, nicknamed Little Saddam, an Iraqi gun dealer in exile. Little Saddam controlled each corner of the hotel, including us, the guests. In the garden restaurant, mysterious Iraqi business men in black suits with bulging briefcases huddled together whispering.
Next to them, a group of bright-eyed archaeologists excitedly discussed the possibility of discovering the eighth wonder of the world. In the lobby, forlorn French and German aid workers contemplated their fate after being expelled from Iraq. Important notebook wielding journalists, in their latest Banana Republic fashions and short attention spans, ordered Little Saddam to fix the fax machine, pronto. Furious, the writers’ elite cornered him behind the reception desk. Didn’t he understand that the world was counting on their every word? They threatened him. The American was going to call his Senator to send the Navy. The Englishman was going to call the Queen herself. Little Saddam was unimpressed. “And what are you going to do? Call your President?” he sneered at me. “Give me dollars and I will fax it for you.” Sometimes he did.
Relief workers arrived daily in shiny white Toyota Land Cruisers. They filled the lobby with an air of “we’re here to save the world.” A French Algerian, gay artist, unwelcome in either country, was looking for asylum in Yemen. “I am homeless, and soon I will be a man without a country,” he cried. Little Saddam put his arm around him, “If you stop your whining, I will take you to Baghdad. We can fight the Christian dogs together.”
When Little Saddam realized that I was the only guest without any humanitarian, political, or journalistic purposes he became suspicious. This resulted in an “interrogation” on the roof garden. “What is your reason for being here?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Why don’t I throw you off the roof as dessert for the wild dogs down below? In Baghdad you would talk,” he said knowingly.
One day, Little Saddam put up a sign on the kitchen door. “Western tourists are not allowed in the kitchen.” We demanded an explanation. “It is necessary because, first you take over the kitchen, then the hotel, and then…the whole country.”
Marching up and down the hallways of the hotel, he knocked on the door of every guest who had left their keys on the outside. “Please remove your key,” he demanded. “Why?” I asked. It is better that way; ‘They’ make copies of them.” Before I could ask who was collecting the keys, he was already busy knocking on the next door. “Do not burn incense in my hotel, I hate the smell,” Little Saddam growled.
We complained about Little Saddam to the hotel management. The management laughed. “He is nothing, he is just the receptionist. He is your servant.” On the contrary, I think we are his servants,” I said.
Little Saddam would entertain new groups of foreigners with stories of life in Baghdad. One brother was under permanent house arrest, possibly tortured. His family members were begging for asylum all over the world. And, in order to get this job, he had to hand over his passport to the hotel management. “I am now a prisoner here, who is responsible for this?” Plagued with Western guilt, foreigners opened their wallets and begged Little Saddam to take their dollars, euros and pounds.
One morning, Little Saddam told a captivating crowd of foreigners that when ha had to flee Iraq his friends bought him several diplomas a going away present, forged by Egyptians, the best and most expensive in the world. “What other diplomas do you have?” I asked. Sharing time was over.
“Please do not hang out of the window with you bare arms showing. I forbid it. Not in my hotel,” he shouted at the women leaning out of the hotel windows. In his spare time Little Saddam peddled antique guns to unsuspecting tourists. He knew that they would be confiscated at the airport and find their way back to his room at the hotel; the Little Palace of Baghdad. Finally, Little Saddam found a way to get even with the Western world.
Before leaving Yemen, I just had to know. “Do you have a medical diploma?” I asked. “You want to see the one from Baghdad or Switzerland? I’m going to miss you American, maybe I will see you there.”
Up date: A postcard arrived from Holland. “Greetings from Amsterdam! See you, Ali, Little Saddam.
Christina Henning
UAW-Local 1981/AFL-CIO
Tags: Christina Henning
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“In Baghdad, you would talk.”
This story reads like a spy adventure movie script.
The writer, Ms. Henning, evokes a mini-world of intrigue
with a cast of characters right out of our war-torn daily news.
Still, she seems to have a way of successfully negotiating with
and finally charming her tyrannical host, the Little Saddam.
Why is Christina Henning not our Secretary of State?
good one…i liked reading it…laughed out loud once
great informatiive article !
My God, Krista, I almost wet my pants reading this. I’m going to put it on my site. Those were the days!
Good to have someone read this who was with me…who can relate…
Yes…those were the days! I am so ready to have some more!
Whatever happened to Ali? Alida receives a postcard from him once in a while.
He travels between Holland and Germany and is very busy cashing in on his refugee status in both countries. LOOOl
“”"Why is Christina Henning not our Secretary of State?”"”
Yes! Why not?
I could really kick some ass…LOOoooool
Anytime Krista. I was in Yemen last Oct-Nov, but it was a little too dodgy. Didn’t feel safe. My friend enthusiastically chewing qat 8-9 hours every day: Habibi, the security situation here is Very Good!
We had side arms all over the house and Kalashnikovs in the closet. When we went to the book fair and the mosque he called the heads of security so we could drive right up to the door….
But you are welcome to visit me in Salalah……
Hallo Trygve…I read your blog about your family and your doggie on the plane.
Some parts of it was so very sad. ;-( I’m happy that you’re doing well with your store and thank you so much for the invitation.
Love u
Krista
Hi, Krista I remember little sadam so well but do you remember the owner of the hotel the walking needle he was so thin and had a mean face ,this former colonel of the Yemeni army.He was full of hate towards foreigners special Americans were his favourites
yeh he treathened us, no embassy is going to save you he shouted at us, I can lock you up for ever! so admit that you commited this crime!
the crime throwing a stone outof the window after they abused a poor little dog who was sleeping on the top of the car, the holy cow.
the stone landed almost at the head of a policeman, what a timing!!!!and than the shit hit the pan
do you remember the quatparty in his hotel? lorries full of quat at the front door and all the high officials in their black suits, the butcher of Bagdad and little Sadam hide himself and me sittting on a gun not knowing wghat was going on…..
great time we spent together and so many wild stories.
remember we were almost kidnapped they were running down the mountains with their arms loaded.
lets have a reunion mashy habibti? love you meine schwester!!!! Lida
okay Krista when will be the next trip love your sister Alida
“”"the owner of the hotel the walking needle he was so thin and had a mean face ,this former colonel of the Yemeni army.He was full of hate towards foreigners special Americans were his favourites
yeh he treathened us, no embassy is going to save you he shouted at us, I can lock you up for ever! so admit that you commited this crime!
the crime throwing a stone outof the window after they abused a poor little dog who was sleeping on the top of the car, the holy cow.
the stone landed almost at the head of a policeman, what a timing!!!!and than the shit hit the pan”"”
Shit. Yes I remember! He came to our room. We were soOOOoooo scared.
“”"do you remember the quatparty in his hotel? lorries full of quat at the front door and all the high officials in their black suits, the butcher of Bagdad and little Sadam hide himself and me sittting on a gun not knowing wghat was going on…..”"”
LOOOL I have pictures of that quat session
great time we spent together and so many wild stories.
remember we were almost kidnapped they were running down the mountains with their arms loaded.
lets have a reunion mashy habibti? love you meine schwester!!!! Lida
We need to go back! Lets write a book. U think we get a Visa?
SO…what do you think of the latest happening in Yemen? Of course they’re picking on a woman…a YEMENI WOMAN…what a joke.
This has…for sure…sealed our fate of never getting a visa…;-(
It really has put a damper on our shopping…