A police station in Zabid. Around 10am. The steady stream of people asking me where I'm from and why I'm here finally culminated in me sitting next to The Man Himself, patiently explaining myself. It's February, but I have a respectable tan from the past week or so spent in the lowlands here by the Red Sea, mostly outdoors and in the backs of pickup trucks. It's hot and humid, and I could use a hot shower. I'm 'going native', wearing a turban on my head (they're remarkably useful) and a sarung/skirt for pants. Compounded with a healthy beard, it normally earns me big points with people I meet, but this time it has bought me a free night's accommodation in a Zabid jail. A number of Al-Qaida boys have escaped from prison, digging a 70m
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