Judged by Yemeni
standards my taxi to Ibb wasn’t too full; there were only ten people
in our estate car. Sure, its condition was basic to my eyes, yet the old
Toyota boasted quite a few ‘optional extras’ – an un-shattered
windscreen, wing mirrors, seats, all its doors. In this particular instance
the problem was human rather than mechanical.
As we were never afforded a formal introduction I shall take the liberty
of christening our driver ‘Dastardly’. He could have won ‘Wacky
Races’ and there was a definite air of ‘Dick’ about him.
Before he even reached top gear I felt my bowels turn to water. Dastardly
drove without due care and even less attention. Solving the problem of having
to constantly overtake the infuriatingly slow traffic he simply elected
to drive on the wrong side of the road. Oncoming vehicles were treated to
a horn voluntary and a stream of Arabic abuse.
Sana’a disappeared in dust. We were still alive. Dastardly was doing
his best to rectify the situation. To this end he’d given up looking
at where we were going, preferring to chat face to face with his pal ‘Mutley’
who was sitting directly behind him. On the rare occasions Dastardly actually
was looking forwards it was usually just to scream invective at slower drivers.
These dawdling slackers were only doing a mere 60mph round hairpin bends.
Alongside the highway there were constant reminders of the fragility of
life. Burnt out buses, trashed Toyotas and mangled motorbikes glittered
in the setting sun. I tried to recall some statistics concerning safety.
Only one sprang to mind - nobody had to pass a test. Premature death was,
no doubt, seen as a minor drawback for those earning a living sitting behind
the wheel. Break failure or spinning off a cliff could be usefully interpreted
as Allah’s will. Nobody wore a seat-belt, to do so would be a an act
of cowardice and an insult to your driver. The Highway Code was based on
three simple principles;
Might is right - Life is short - Time is money.
As we climbed towards the highest mountain passes in Yemen I felt the palms
of my hand turn cold and clammy. It was then that the overtaking on sheer
drop blind corners started and I lost my bottle.
Speaking no Arabic, I had invested in a phrase book that very morning.
Scanning its pages for expressions which could communicate my fear, I found
myself sliding into a distressingly Pythonesque scenario.
“Could you please tell me when the duck hunting season begins?”
was the first sentence to catch my attention.
Skipping pages my plight became increasingly surreal.
“These pyjamas are badly ironed” was a phrase I had used all
too infrequently in the English Language, as was;
“My shirt collar is not sufficiently starched.”
An oil tanker missed us by inches on the left-hand side. Horns blared, lights
flashed, Mutley cackled.
Without holding out much hope I looked for the book’s travel section.
Reading the first phrase I knew I was doomed;
“Could you please tell me if there is a library on the boat?”
The best I could come up with was;
“I get off at the next stop.”
This sentence was just too much of a compromise as what I wanted to say
was:
“For God’s sake Dastardly you irresponsible bonehead, SLOW DOWN
BEFORE YOU KILL US ALL!”
In desperation I resorted to plan B. Putting away my book I started shouting
in English.
Exactly what I blurted out I cannot remember. Deviating from the subject
of road safety, it was something to do with Dastardly’s co-ordination
skills and an illegal, over-familiar relationship between himself and his
mother. Attention instantly focused on me. As my rant dwindled away there
was a moment’s sombre silence. Then, as if on cue, everybody broke
into spontaneous laughter. Dastardly threw back his head and roared at the
plastic upholstered roof. Mutley slapped me on the shoulder amicably, apparently
I was now one of the boys. Grabbing my book he eagerly surfed its contents.
Seconds later his eyes lit up and he stabbed a blunt finger at a carefully
selected phrase.
“Will you be my guest for dinner?” it said.
.
