markings I couldn’t make out, and a huge United States Air Force C-17 cargo plane. The outpost of Empire.
We touched down and the aircraft rolled to a halt, then taxied to a hardstand a hundred yards from the terminal. The engines shut down and Kate said, “He’s not taxiing to the gate.”
“We walk.”
“I’m assuming that’s a joke and it’s not funny.”
Clearly Kate was a bit anxious, not to mention tired and cranky after a nearly thirty-hour journey. I said to her, “This whole country is a joke. Learn to laugh or you’ll go crazy.”
No reply.
Everyone was standing, and I stood and moved to the exit door and looked through the porthole at the terminal, which I remembered from last time; a low building not much longer than a strip mall, badly lit by three stanchion lights. I could see the headlights of the mobile staircase, followed by a bus, heading toward the first-class exit door, which reassured me that the peasants in the rear wouldn’t be on my bus.
I returned to my seat, and Kate and I collected our things and moved into the aisle.
The staircase pulled up without smashing the aircraft, the door opened, and I could smell the fresh, cool morning air rushing into the cabin. Yemen.
So down the stairs and across the tarmac to the waiting bus. Our fellow passengers from first class were all seated, but Kate and I stood in the rear. Kate was the only unveiled woman on board, and the men, who had not taken much notice of her on the aircraft, now looked at her, as did the women. It was as if we’d all been on a nude beach, then got dressed and boarded a bus, except that one of the women was still naked.
There are two gates in Sana’a Airport, and we stopped at the one called two. We let everyone get off first, then followed. So far, so good.
Inside the terminal, our cabin mates moved toward the passport control booths. Only two booths were manned at this hour, and the booth marked for VIPs, diplomats, and crew was closed. Also, there was no one around who looked like us, and Kate said, “Maybe we have to go through passport control.”
“We’re supposed to be met here.”
So we waited. The buses that were filled with coach peasants started arriving and the passport lines got longer. Two Yemeni soldiers carrying AK-47s were giving us the eye.
Kate said, “Let’s call the embassy number.”
“The pay phones are on the other side of passport control, and I’m not standing in line with the peasants.”
“We can’t stand here.”
“Okay, let’s cut the line.”
I went to the head of the line at one of the booths and Kate followed. No one objected and I recalled that the Yemenis, for all their faults, were exceedingly polite and tolerant of Westerners, whom they expected to be arrogant assholes.
Kate and I went to the passport guy and presented our diplomatic passports. The guy checked our visas, then our faces against the passport photos, and he stared at Kate. I mean, every woman in line was veiled, so this guy must be good at eyes. Right?
He stamped our visas, then motioned us to pass through. For some reason—instinct—I glanced back and saw he was on the phone.
Before we got to the double doors marked EXIT, a tall guy with a two-day beard, wearing a crumpled suit but no tie, approached and without identifying himself said, “Come this way,” and motioned us to follow him to a side corridor. I said to him, “We’re meeting someone here from the American Embassy.”
He seemed to understand and said impatiently, “Yes, yes. Embassy man is this way. We must discuss your visa.”
Sounded like bullshit to me, and I didn’t want to leave the public area—not that it mattered a whole lot where you were when you got arrested. But if we stayed here, we might see our embassy guy. I said, “We are traveling on American diplomatic passports, as you know, and we have been instructed to wait here, and we’re not moving from here.” I suggested, “Go get the embassy man.”
He seemed very annoyed, and at this point he should have IDed himself and asked for our passports, but instead he said, “Wait,” and walked toward the corridor.
The two soldiers with the AK-47s moved closer to keep us company. Meanwhile, the Yemenis from the flight were giving us furtive looks as they hurried toward customs.
I said to Kate, “See what happens when you cut the