That’s how I felt after the collapse of my first marriage.
Buck also told us, “The new dam was built in the 1980s-fourteen hundred years after the old dam collapsed.”
“Union problems?”
Buck also let us know, “A bridge limits your ability to go off-road.”
Right. That’s where I’d set up a kidnapping.
Anyway, within ten minutes we were approaching the archaeological site of Bar’an. I saw a white minibus parked on the dirt road, and a blue military truck, probably belonging to the National Security police.
Buck parked behind the truck, and Brenner and Zamo parked behind us.
We all got out and looked around. There were patches of scrawny trees here and there and date palms and also a few irrigated fields, but mostly it was brown dirt and dust.
Buck, too, was looking at the arid landscape and said, “The desert, when it decides to come, is relentless. The dam and the irrigation pumps are fighting a losing battle.”
So are we. And ironically, so are the jihadists. There will be no winners here. Except the desert.
We weren’t out of the vehicles two minutes before we were attacked by kids yelling for baksheesh, then souvenir vendors, then two young men who said they were guides for hire. And finally, an NSB officer butted in and offered protection for twenty dollars. He must be related to Captain Dammaj.
I hope there’s an ATM machine around here.
But Buck was our ATM machine, and he gave the NSB officer some rials, then paid off the kids to beat it. He also gave the two guides a nice tip for doing nothing, and he spoke pleasantly to all of them in Arabic. Buck is a good American diplomat; he gives money to anyone and everyone.
The police officer was looking at us as though his instincts told him we weren’t the clueless tourists we appeared to be. I wondered if he could tell we were wearing Kevlar, and if so, did he conclude we were carrying? Or did he think we were stupid enough to be here unarmed?
He said something to Buck, who translated for us. “He says the police are leaving, and we should not stay here too long.”
As though these clowns could be of any help. But thanks for the tip. I said to everyone, “I wonder if these are the same NSB guys who took a hike on the Belgians.”
No one replied.
Anyway, the Keystone cop left, but the souvenir guys, six of them, hadn’t been paid off yet, and they were waving their wares at us-cheap jambiyahs, probably made in China; shiwals, one size fits all; sandals, ditto; and postcards.
Buck gave the souvenir vendors a few hundred rials, took a few postcards, and we were now free to approach the entrance to the ruin.
Zamo stayed behind to provide security, as per the plan, and the four of us walked to a stone arch that looked new, where four Bedouin sat, chewing, and they hit us up for an admission fee of about three bucks each. At the end of the day, it is the Bedouin who control all movement and all access here.
The ruin was elevated above the surrounding land, and we climbed up some stone steps and looked out across a few acres of excavations and broken walls surrounding a paved courtyard. Across the courtyard, at the top of a flight of steps, were tall square columns where a group of tourists stood listening to their guide. Nice ruins. Better than Marib, which was creepy. Time to go.
But Buck, our unpaid guide, said to us, “This is the Bar’an Temple, also known as the Temple of the Moon, and also known as Arsh Bilqis, which means the throne of Bilqis, which is the Sabaean name for Sheba.” Buck continued, “Not far from here is the Temple of the Sun.”
Makes sense.
“This temple was dedicated to the Sabaean god called Almaqah.”
Please, someone kidnap me.
Buck went on awhile, as he does, and Kate, of course, asked questions. She’s always trying to improve her mind, and as long as she doesn’t try to improve mine, I’m okay with that.
Meanwhile, the real tourists were assembling in the courtyard with their guide, and I counted fifteen of them. I looked for my Sana’a pal, Matt Longo, but these were mostly middle-aged people, probably Europeans by their pale winter skin and atrocious footwear.
The guide led his clients toward the exit, and as they approached, Buck said something to the guide in Arabic, and they chatted a minute, then the tour guide moved on toward the minibus.
Buck said to us, “Half the tour group are German, the other half are Danes.”
Totaling one bunch of adventurous idiots. Clueless in Bilqis.
Buck told us, “They’re returning to Sana’a.” He added, “No one stays here overnight anymore.”
I inquired, “Why does anyone even come here?”
Buck replied with impatience, “To learn, Mr. Corey. To see history. To experience another culture.”
Okay. I guess the Belgians experienced another culture.
Buck reminded me, “If you stay home, the terrorists win.”
That’s what everyone in New York said after 9/11, so we all went out and filled the bars and restaurants. Fuck Al Qaeda. Make that a double, bartender. God bless America!
But this was different. This was the belly of the beast. And for all I knew, the tour guide, the NSB officer, and everyone else here was on their cell phone right now telling someone there were American turkeys here to pluck.
Buck glanced at his watch and said to us, “This area will be deserted within half an hour. We’ll wait until then, then we’ll head back to the Bilqis Hotel.”
Kidnapped at the oasis. Waylaid at the wadi.
Buck, with time on his hands, informed us, “The Western archaeologists won’t return here, and the local authorities won’t remove the drifting sand.” He concluded, “In ten, maybe fifteen years, all this will be covered again, except for those columns.”
Kate said, “That’s sad.”
Maybe they can put an oil well here.
Buck turned, looked toward the west, and said, “Those hills on the horizon are the ones we flew over, and where the Crow Fortress is.” He told us, “The Yemenis believe that Noah’s Ark came to rest in those hills after the Flood.” He also told us, “About forty kilometers farther west of the Crow Fortress is where the Al Qaeda training camp is. Also somewhere in those hills is where we believe The Panther’s personal hideout is located.”
Maybe he’s hiding out in Noah’s Ark. I suggested, “The Predators should look for the Ark while they’re looking for The Panther’s hideout.”
Buck reminded me, “The Panther is coming to us.”
“Right.” We had as much chance of finding The Panther as we had of finding the Ark. The Panther, however, would find us.
The sun was starting to sink in the western sky and I shielded my eyes as I stared at the distant hills. So the Crow Fortress was not too far from the Al Qaeda training camp, which would soon be pulverized by American fighter-bombers if all went well. And also up there in those desolate hills was Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a long way from New Jersey. And maybe Noah’s Ark was sitting up there, too. A profound thought was taking shape in my mind, a unifying thread, perhaps, that would link all this together, and I said, “This place sucks.”
Buck turned impatiently and led us down into the sunken courtyard. I noticed we were hidden from the road, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I drew my.45 and slipped it in the pocket of my bush vest. Brenner did the same.
Buck, addressing Kate and Brenner but not me, said, “This is the temple that some Mormon scholars believe is the place where their prophet Lehi came after he fled from Jerusalem in the sixth century B.C.” He added, “It was here where Lehi is said to have buried the prophet Ishmael.”
I hope Ishmael was dead.
I was really looking forward to my kidnapping.
Buck also told us, “The Mormons also believe that it was here that Lehi built a ship for himself and his family and sailed to America.”
Hold on. Did that ship have wheels?
But Buck clarified, “There is strong evidence that there was a river here at that time which flowed to the sea.”