Yemen tribal hospitality

The Surveyor is over from the wild climes of lawless northern Yemen. This visit his smuggled treasure is an AK-47 bayonet destined for a gun-freak relative in the Antipodes. As well as the regular haul of duty-free and ancient flint arrowheads, the Surveyor has plenty of tales of kidnapping and other intrigue.

A Swiss couple who recently enjoyed some tribal hospitality were actually on the same flight to Dubai. Their English wasn't particuarly good, according to the Surveyor, but they seemed to have enjoyed their ordeal, perhaps thinking it a slightly more colourful section of their guided tour:

"The local guide and translator, Amer Al Deen Al Hawthi, who was also held along with the Yemeni driver, added that that their kidnappers had been “good and hospitable”, and had also treated them well. "

Another tale concerns a Chinese worker, recently kidnapped from an oil site in the north. Several weeks went past, but there was still no reaction from the Chinese embassy. Eventually the kidnappers got fed up with waiting, and rang the embassy to inform them that: "we've got one of your men here."

In a reply that has probably exponentially increased the future safety value of all people of Oriental appearance in Yemen, the reply came:

"Have you? We've got plenty more you can take."

Yemen: Bride required

The Surveyor drops into Dubai en-route from Yemen to the Antipodes, solely to pick up a special consignment from City Centre. Not sandalwood camels, pashminas, Omani silver, saffron or even the Burj Al Arab in a plastic snowglobe, but three crates of Heinz tomato soup.

He has another, far more taxing mission: to find a twenty-something white british lady for a Yemeni colleague wanting a third wife. Forty-something Hassan, described as a "bearded Leonard Nimoy", already has twenty children. He earns US$200 a month and lives on a small farm.

The Surveyor admits that Hassan has absolutely no concept of what life is like for the average woman in the UK, nor what her marital expectations might be.

"But on the upside, he doesn't spend all his money on qat," he notes.

Applications on a postcard to hell@in-a-handcart.com.

Jebel Ali Club revisited

The Surveyor is visiting from Yemen, with a freshly smuggled harvest of stoneage flint arrowheads, but sadly no souvenirs from the gun souq.

To ease him gently back into Dubai's seven-star lifestyle, after the camel-spider infestations, boiled-mush Yemeni cookery and AC-free camping of energy company Halibut's desert Butlins, a half way house is needed. Too much gilt might explode his brain, so we stop for supper in that grim expat hole, Jebel Ali Fat Northern Working Men's club.

This time warp of a bar-come-social-club is rooted firmly in the very early eighties, a time when "prawn thermidor" or "chateaubriand" would be considered rare, exotic and the height of clarse. "BBQ" considered an exciting and special treat, not a rain-dampened lukewarm charcoal disappointment best left in the hand of antipodean cousins. When deejay cool directly related to gold sequinned jackets and mullets, rather than inversely.

Freezing, hideously furnished both in terms of decor and clientele, but thankfully the retro-themed menu is all very edible. And food, at the end of a long hard day at SHAC, or a long hard month in the Yemeni desert, is the only thing that matters.