Guilt, and a Sure Sign Yemen Doesn’t Get Many Tourists

Walking into the souk near the Bab al-Yemen gate, Old City of Sana'a

His face was familiar. That was the problem.

“But . . . ”

When he started with that, I knew I was in trouble. My face was familiar, too.

“But . . . . you said you were from Norway,” he said.

He looked confused, a little put out. This was the guy who accosted me as I walked into the Old City of Sana’a two weeks ago. Minding my usual security rules (random stranger, stranger approached me, public, unfamiliar area), I told him I was Norwegian. He prattled on about how great a country Norway was, and how many of his friends wanted to go there.

Right, sure, I thought then. Most Yemenis I’ve met have difficulty identifying Norway at all,  and the fortunate few finally deduce it is in the vicinity of Europe. He finally left me alone after I kept acting disinterested and said I didn’t want to check out the gallery or the shop he was recommending.

That was the last I’ll see of him, I thought. He does this to every Westerner that wanders in here. He’ll have forgotten about me within the hour.

Not so.

One week later, we were both back in the souk, looking at each other.

“Um, yeah,” I replied, stalling for time as I tried to figure out what to say to him. My shock at his recognition blended into the warm shame of my lying guilt. “I did say that.”

I was back in the Old City with some Yemeni friends, back to do some shopping, back to snap up some souvenirs and let my friends do the heavy lifting of the negotiations. They’re good friends that way. But then this random guy hanging around a shop we were in asked where I was from, and I told him what I usually do: “America.”

Five minutes later, my old friend appeared. Miffed.

“Why did you . . ” He stopped at thought for a second.

“It doesn’t matter, no problem,” he said with a shrug.

I never liked saying Norway, I thought, furiously. I’ve only said it to five or six people in my time here, I rationalized. It’s the safe thing to do, right? He’ll understand.

“I tell a lot of people I’m from Norway,” I said, now trying to somehow earn his trust. It was bizarre, I realized , but I really did want him to trust me. But what could I say?

“My family comes from Norway,” I tacked on, desperately.

He looked away, and then walked out of the shop.