Yemen is scattered with similar soaring constructions, from those in smaller villages to bigger towns, such as the famous Shibam, dubbed in the 1930s "The Manhattan of the Desert" by Anglo-Italian explorer Dame Freya Stark or the exquisitely decorated Dar-al-Hajar, the Imam's Palace of the Rock. Some of Yemen's skyscrapers can reach up to around 30m in height, and the first modern skyscrapers in Chicago were only slightly taller than that. I could almost have been in Dubai or New York, only that these constructions were somewhere between 300 and 500 years old and built from mud. I climbed up to a seventh-floor rooftop that had been converted into a cafe the Old Town lay below me, but the neighbouring buildings were mostly as tall as the one I was on, evoking the strange sensation of being surrounded by skyscrapers. The magnificence of the buildings, together with their simple practicality, made for an inspiring architectural vision.įrom the alleyway, it was practically impossible to appreciate the true height of these buildings, but when I reached the souq, I could see that some were up to seven storeys high. Many had rooftop terraces, which doubled as entertainment spaces as well as outdoor bedrooms on warm nights. The window frames and the friezes between the floors were marked in intricate white lime to contrast the mud-coloured background, creating a gingerbread house effect.
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While the lower floors, at street level, were windowless due to their use as animal shelters or working spaces, the ornate windows higher up were either covered by stained-glass or by delicate mashrabiya screens screens protecting the privacy of the women inside. But when I looked up, I realised these slender buildings, some with just one or two rooms to a floor, soared high into the sky. At street level, where mud-brick walls are only broken up by large wooden doors, there was often not much to see. Sana'a is filled with buildings unlike anywhere else in the world. In a tiny room, a camel trudged in tight circles powering a millstone crushing sesame seeds.īut despite all the visual stimulus, it was the architecture that dominated the scene. I saw locksmiths mending enormous metal keys that open imposing wooden doors a vendor selling prickly pears from a cart, and the local baker pulling fresh bread from a hot-glowing hole in the ground. Tall, skinny buildings were crammed into the narrow lanes that connected lush fruit and vegetable gardens with the ancient souq where donkeys are still sold.
Stepping through Bab-al-Yaman, the enormous gate allowing access into Yemen's old walled city of Sana'a, was like stepping through a portal into another world.
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