Sometimes, you meet the nicest people in holes in the ground. Huge bearded geologists, for example, often lurk in the Wabar crater, hunched over unimpressive pieces of rock. In the spectacular rocky crack that is Wadi Lajab, high in the mountains to the east of Jizan, the occupants are of a different men. This is a favorite haunt of the people of the hilly Tihama, the hill men with flowers in their hair.
The Asir region is under development as a tourist area. Abha has established itself as the tourist capital of the region and displays all the trappings of the mass tourist trade. Cable cars, luxury hotels, amusement parks and some well developed easily accessible tourist sites, all located in the cool mountains, make it a popular summer destination for thousands.
Tucked away in odd niches — and far more interesting to the international traveler that the Supreme Commission for Tourism is hoping to attract — are people and morsels of history, that fine fare for the peripatetic collector of unconsidered trifles. In parallel with the quantum dilemma, by observing them, one alters them; go quickly before it is gone. One of those places is Wadi Lajab.
Nearly five million years ago, the tectonic plate of the Arabian peninsula tore itself away from Africa and began to drift east. Bobbing — geologically speaking — unsteadily on a sea of magma, it tilted slightly downwards on its eastern edge and began to force its way under Iran. The Asir region and the mountains thus rose, cracking in places and spewing black basalt over the landscape. One of those cracks, 3000 meters above the sea, several kilometers long and 150 meters deep, is Wadi Lajab.
There is something about deep closed spaces in rock that stirs a primal instinct, a mingling of threat, security and claustrophobia seeds a feeling of anticipation and excitement at stumbling across the unknown. After the arduous climb from the plains, Wadi Lajab is no exception. Streams of sweet clear water sparkle out of solid rock; brilliant green foliage and twisted trees grow from cracks in the rock walls and silence becomes a tactile presence as the vast walls climb higher the further you travel into the canyon.
In a slight widening near a pool of water, the journey is rewarded. Flowermen, who use the wadi as a source of water, cluster, as if condensed out of the silence, on a boulder and appraise the visitor inquisitively with deep brown eyes set in a frame of long black hair and a headband woven from dry and fresh herbs or flowers. Slight and agile, these faun-like men are perfectly attuned to their environment and are able to run up sheer rock walls with the agility of a chamois.
The fragile balance between their graceful presence and the environment they live in makes the visitor feel leaden and clumsy and is tinged with a measure of sadness. Their very attraction as tourist sights is the seed of their demise. It is the inevitable fate of the objects of tourist attention. If tourism is to be developed in this unique region, it must be done with the greatest sensitivity and regulation.
In the ancient village of Rijal Alma, at the foot of the escarpment below Souda Park, restoration and development of an ancient trading village is under way. Winner of the Prince Sultan ibn Salman award for architectural heritage, the village seems to grow out of the hard grey rocks from which it is built. Easily accessible from the cable car that extends from the Souda national park complex, it is a place redolent of history and tradition, well preserved and clearly oriented to tourism. It has taken on the appearance of a living museum but, in its restoration and development, gathered to itself some of the more invasive clutter of development.
The dressed stone square towers, patterned with gleaming lumps of sugar-white quartz, that comprise the original village are typical of the culture of the area. Clinging to the side of a steep hill and overlooking a sinuous road that once brought the fruits of the spice and incense trade into the interior, the defensive plans of the builders and planners becomes plain.
Wooden screened balconies, made from sticks gathered from the few trees that grow on the hills, cling to the houses and form extemporary shower rooms. It is a scene that might have been current a thousand years ago when the village was founded, except for the stadium, huge football stadium lighting poles, trailing electric cables, snappy information signs and the paraphernalia deemed necessary for the entertainment of tourists.
Restoration and conservation is admirable; preserving historical sites gives the opportunity for succeeding generations to have a point in the past to measure their progress and peg the staring point of what is seen as their cultural development. With the technology and abilities of modern Saudi society, it is well within reason to hope that eyesores such as electric cabling and waste pipes might have been concealed to preserve visual amenity during the reconstruction of these ancient buildings.
A garish stadium which hosts traditional dancing and events might have been placed some distance from the ancient buildings that are so much in harmony with their surroundings and simply by being so, connect the observer with the harshness of the environment and the resilience and ingenuity of the people who built them. Here the touch of tourism is obvious; by being there, it has altered the character of the village.
Character aplenty however can be built from the foundations up. Perched high on a rocky promontory on the edge of the escarpment above the Tihama plain is a remarkable piece of architecture in the Mogul style. The result of Mohamed Al Sheheri’s vision and cash, the museum at An Namas is a wonderful eccentricity built to house is collection of artifacts he has been assembling since he was nine years old.
It is little visited.
Airy galleries house dust-covered cases that contain un-catalogued items assembled in roughly themed groups. Brightly patterned walls painted in the local style contrast starkly with the cheerful jumble of larger displays.
Al Sheheri’s passion for his collection and his willingness to show the results to visitors — any visitors — is infectious. He scurries ahead, unlocking doors and pulling covers off cabinets. His almost manic enthusiasm is tinged with pathos; he is eager to spread the word of his life’s work and seems rarely to get the chance. His collection of books and documents on the top floor is his pride. “This is Arab and Islamic knowledge,” he said. “It is what we took to Europe and exchanged for their knowledge. This is history.”
The museum is built and open but Al Sheheri needs to be on the tourist map. This is a place where development can and should take place for it preserves the artifacts and traditions of the local culture on what is effectively a green-field site. Al Shehri could not have too many visitors.
“Ignorance,” said Oscar Wilde, “is like a delicate flower: Touch it and the bloom is gone.”
The same could be said with some justification of the cultures and unique nature of parts of the Asir region. Touch the wrong parts with insensitive tourist development, and the original flowering of Asiri culture which still remains virtually untouched is gone: And when that happens, it will be forever.
