Thirty-Seven Hours of Travel

Yemenat

Mohammed Al-Mekhalfi

I wrapped my head in my woolen shawl and left the house, braving the bone-chilling cold of Sana’a. It was nearly eight in the evening, and the city was dozing off under dim lights and the faint movement of a few passersby.

With heavy steps, I walked to Aden stop at Bab al-Yemen, where my friend and colleague, Yahya Hameed Al-Faqih, was waiting for me.

After a few minutes, we boarded the bus that would take us on the long journey to Aden, that far-off city in the south of my beloved country Yemen, nearly three hundred and seventy-eight kilometers from Sana’a.

The passengers’ faces concealed untold stories of weariness and hope. The bus moved slowly, navigating the dimly lit streets. No sooner had we left the outskirts of Sana’a than we were halted at the first checkpoint. The soldiers took our identification cards, recorded our information, and questioned us about our reason for traveling to Aden.

The same scene repeated at every checkpoint, though with less severity, until we passed Dhamar. There, a long line of vehicles stood waiting in heavy silence. We remained stuck for nearly two hours before we were finally allowed to continue.

We resumed our journey toward Yareem, then on to Naqeel Somarah, a mountain pass stretching about twelve kilometers. The road was winding and narrow, perilously overlooking deep abysses on both sides, every turn stealing our breath away.

Then we began descending toward Al Dalel, a vast valley scattered with smaller ravines, as the night’s frost seeped through the bus windows, stinging our tired faces.

We continued until Sahoul Bin Naji, which extends to the outskirts of Ibb. There, at the city’s entrance, the lights of houses scattered along the mountain slopes greeted us—tired stars struggling not to fade.

As I gazed at that scene, I felt as though I were looking at a sleeping city. The houses lining the road seemed to be breathing quietly beneath a blanket of cold, and despite the frost creeping in from all directions, I sensed a warmth of life within them.

Faint lights behind curtains, the breaths of residents slipping through narrow window cracks giving the place a hidden vitality, as if the entire city slept to one pulse.

Exhaustion overtook us, we drifted between drowsiness and sudden alertness, dozing off at times and waking to the bus’s vibrations as it carved its way through the winding road.

When we descended Naqeel Al Sayani, dawn began to slowly appear. As we approached Al-Thakarah junction near Al-Hawban, daylight grew clearer. Memories of this very road rose within me when I used to travel it to my village in Mekhlaf-Sharab via Sixty Road, a trip that once took no more than an hour.

But today, the journey felt stretched between two eras: one that passed with lightness, and another that carried the weight of weariness and longing.

How I long for my village that cradled the most beautiful days of my life. I remember my last visit eight years ago when I arrived here, my brother Ahmed was waiting on his motorcycle. I barely greeted him before we rode off through Mekhlaf-Al-Odain, and within half an hour we reached the village.

Moments later, we reached Al-Hawban–Aden junction. I opened the window and gazed toward Taiz-my first city-where I first learned the features of urban life in its streets.

My last visit was in 2009, and sixteen years have now passed because of the war.

At the first checkpoint leading into the city, we were forced off the bus. Exhausted, with no concern shown for the elderly or women, we repeated the same tedious routine: handing over our IDs, followed by half an hour of interrogation.

We continued toward Demnat Khadeer. Before the entrance to Al Raheda, the bus turned right. Minutes later, we began ascending Naqeel Al-Zurbi in Hayfan and Al-Arooq, where thick fog blanketed the mountain-side villages.

The road was rugged, especially along slopes riddled with potholes and dangerous bends, but the bus pressed on without stopping. We then crossed Al-Khazajah watercourse.

Before entering Lahj, at Tor Al-Bahah, we pulled over to exchange currency—from the Riyal used in northern areas to the currency of territories under the internationally recognized government.

Even the phone network cut off. I asked Yahya why, and he told me the “VoLTE” system for Yemen Mobile is not activated in the southern regions.

We emerged from Al-Khazajah onto a paved road stretching ahead without curves. The bus picked up speed, and for a moment I felt as if we were flying.

We passed the initial Lahj checkpoints unhindered, until we reached the outskirts of Aden. There, we were stopped again and forced off the bus, even women were searched.

Among the passengers was an elderly woman with cancer, accompanied by her son, and another woman who was so exhausted she was nauseated. Yet no consideration was shown.

Suddenly, a bearded man appeared, his demeanor suggesting he belonged to a Salafist group. He greeted us sternly and began scrutinizing faces. His gaze settled on a young man across from me, with long hair and a shawl wrapped around his head. Pointing at him, he barked, “You are Daeshi” and ordered soldiers to take him for interrogation.

At last, we reached Aden at half past eleven in the morning. Fatigue marked our faces after the long and arduous journey, we hadn’t even had breakfast.

We contacted our friend Ali Shabeer and told him we were heading to the Passport Office in Khor Maksar. He welcomed us and waited at the gate.

We arrived just before the noon prayer and handed him our passports to begin the procedures for changing our profession. The place was crowded with citizens from northern governorates, wearied, dressed in disheveled clothes, carrying worn bags like tattered sacks.

Within half an hour, we completed the paperwork, paid the fees, and received the receipts to collect our passports later. We left them with Ali, who would retrieve them and send them to Sana’a.

I was utterly drained, so I said to Ali, “Take us to the best Zurbiyan restaurant in Crater.” He smiled and took us to a place in Al-Maidan.

We devoured our meal hungrily, our hunger met the delicious food, warming us for a moment after the hardships of the journey.

After lunch, we bid Ali farewell and contacted our friend Odai Al-Qadhi, who welcomed us warmly and invited us to meet at the Duck Roundabout in Khor Maksar.

The sun was scorching, yet the air held a pleasant mildness that comforted us-unlike Aden’s typical summer heat.

We sat in a restaurant, sipping juice, enjoying ourselves, and chatting with Odai for about fifteen minutes. He tried to persuade us to stay until the next day, but we politely declined, explaining that we were busy and intended to return to Sana’a. After a warm farewell, we headed to the Sana’a stop in Al-Qahirah district to prepare for the return journey.

We would have preferred Al Dhalae–Sana’a route, the shortest and easiest, but it was late, and the Murais checkpoint closes at 4:30 p.m. and does not reopen until 6:30 a.m. So we chose the mountain route through Hayfan in Taiz.

We looked for a bus for over half an hour before finding a small car. The driver said he was heading directly to Sana’a, so we boarded. We waited nearly two hours while he tried to obtain a travel permit.

The car was comfortable. I sat in the middle seat beside Yahya-a young man of high morals, diligent in his work, calm-natured, health-conscious, and disciplined in his exercise.

Behind us sat Jamal, a young man from Taiz, chewing qat intensely, preferring to recline and watch his Turkish series.

In the front sat Khaled Al-Suraimi, in his early fifties, from Rada’a. A kind man whose smile carried a humor that lightened our journey. Beside him sat Sabreen, the driver’s twelve-year-old daughter, who filled the car with her lively, innocent laughter.

We left Aden at five in the evening, beginning the long road back to Sana’a.

The driver showed clear signs of exhaustion, his eyes betrayed nights without sleep. In a hoarse voice, he told us he hadn’t rested in four days, having slept only a few broken hours.

He worked this job for a modest wage, striving to gather his daughter Sabreen’s school fees. The little girl beside him, unaware of his immense hardship, filled the road with her laughter.

He drove at frantic speed along Tor Al-Bahah as darkness cloaked the horizon. Suddenly, he shouted in a trembling voice that he saw a car flipping into the valley beside the road. He slowed down and turned back toward where he thought the accident had occurred.

Fear surged through me, silence and astonishment overtook everyone. We approached the edge of the road, peering into the darkness, where an object resembling an overturned vehicle appeared. Our breaths caught, I imagined passengers trapped inside.

But as we neared, the headlights revealed they were simply bee boxes arranged in a way that made them look like an overturned car from a distance.

We sighed in relief, praised God, and continued until we neared Al-Khazajah watercourse. There we stopped to eat dinner at a simple local restaurant.

We continued toward Al-Arooq mountains. The night had grown intensely cold and still, everything submerged in darkness and silence.

At the last checkpoint, the driver pulled out several small cartons of Marlboro cigarettes from under the seat-each containing ten packs. He handed them to us, saying, “Take these and hide them. Inspection here is strict.”

We quickly hid them under our clothes, trying to appear natural. When we reached the checkpoint, soldiers ordered us out and began meticulously searching the car, prying open doors and seats.

One soldier shone a flashlight into Khaled’s face and snapped, “Open your coat. What do you have?”

Khaled hesitated before opening it, revealing the cigarettes. The soldier asked, “Who are these for?”
“For me,” he answered.

Then he turned to Yahya, who opened his sports jacket, exposing the cigarettes.

During the inspection, I quietly slipped back into the car, retrieved the cigarettes I had, and hid them under the seat before anyone noticed.

Moments later, the same soldier called me over and searched me but found nothing.

After more than half an hour, they demanded the driver pay customs fees for a bag of clothes on the roof. He explained it was a delivery for someone in Sana’a, but they refused.

A soldier escorted us to the customs office in Al-Raheda by order of the checkpoint commander. There, they detained us for two and a half hours, searching and sorting the clothes and filing an official report. We shivered in the courtyard, exhausted; they showed no mercy not even to little Sabreen trailing after her father.

In the end, they confiscated the clothes and gave the driver a receipt for the recipient to later retrieve them after paying fees.

After all that exhaustion, we continued toward Sana’a, passing the same checkpoints. As we neared Naqeel Somarah, the driver said he felt extremely drowsy and feared losing control on the mountain pass. He asked, “Which of you can drive?” Yahya said he could.

But I intervened, telling him, “You should drive, you know this road better.”

Then Jamal played Egyptian songs over Bluetooth. We clapped and laughed. Even Khaled joined in enthusiastically. The driver laughed heartily, as if fatigue had momentarily lifted.

As we ascended Naqeel Somarah, Khaled began telling humorous stories. I laughed from the depths of my heart, I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed like that.

We continued until Dhamar, where Khaled got off toward Rada’a. We bade him farewell and continued until we finally reached Sana’a at eight in the morning.

I arrived home, ate a quick breakfast, then lay on my bed. The next thing I knew, it was half past one- I had fallen into a deep sleep, drained by the long, exhausting journey.

Thirty-seven hours of continuous travel, across mountains and valleys, through endless checkpoints—between the cold of the north and the heat of the south, between flickering hope and persistent fatigue, between heavy drowsiness and the brief laughter that tried to lighten the burden.

We endured all this for a simple administrative procedure: changing the profession in our passports in preparation for traveling abroad in search of a glimmer of hope—hoping it might grant us even a relative form of stability.

I returned to Sana’a burdened with the fatigue of the road and struck by the paradox of it all: how such a journey could reflect the condition of an entire nation. A nation whose people are exhausted for a right that should never require such hardship.