The sun rises early in Socotra in May, and by 6:30am it was already uncomfortably hot and sticky. After a quick breakfast of eggs, bread and cheese, Penina and I piled into the car for a 90 minute drive to the Homhil Protected Area. We headed eastwards along the coast for a bit and then drove inland for a slow and tortuous 4WD climb up a steep, winding track. The view from one side of the car down into the valley below was stunning, with exposed geological layers on the other side of the car featuring impossible rock colours and every imaginable shape.

The track levelled out and we drove into a scene which stopped us in our tracks: our first experience of the alien-like landscape for which Socotra is famous. Faisal parked the car under a tenuous patch of shade and we wandered amongst bottle and frankincense trees. Silhouettes of dragons blood trees dotted the crests of nearby peaks.

Wasa described the method for harvesting frankincense and extracted some for us to sample. It smelled divine.

We drove on to a small village slightly higher up in the mountain and were met by a young man who would guided us on a short walk through a ravine. This is one of the pleasing aspects of tourism on Socotra: visitors on treks and walks must be accompanied by a local villager in addition to their tour guide, helping to distribute more widely the money they bring to the island.

Halfway down we stopped at a dragons blood tree — the first we’d seen up close. Wasa described their unique characteristics, such as hollow trunk, and showed us some of the dark red sap. The trees are much taller than I expected.

We walked on. It was hot. Very, very hot. The sun felt like it was boring through our skulls and the hot breeze wasn’t helping. And then suddenly we were upon a natural swimming hole, set against a fantasy backdrop. The water looked so incredibly inviting.

Over the next 45 minutes we paddled in the water as much as modesty allowed. As we sat on the rocks, drying quickly in the heat, a goat scrambled down the rocks to have a drink.

It was a quiet walk back to the car where lifesaving ice-cold water was waiting in an Esky in the back. Wasa took a while to catch up because everyone in the small village stopped him to say hello.

With windows open for maximum natural air conditioning, we drove back down the mountain and on to the Di Hamri Marine Conservation Area. A trail from the main road lead to a stunning beach on one side of a small peninsula. Penina and I got out of the car a kilometre early and walked along the beach to a campsite on the other side of the peninsula where Wasa and Faisal would be waiting. The beach was blanketed in red rocks, washed up coral, and other remnants of marine life. The water was crystal clear.

By the time we got to the campsite, Wasa and Faisal were reclining under a palm-thatch shelter. We joined them, grateful for the sun relief and some more ice-cold water. A group of men from a town on the other side of the island were walking out of the water and back to their own shelter. Wasa said they were a buck’s party of sorts — one of them was due to marry tomorrow so they’d come to Di Hamri to chill out for the afternoon.

Speaking of food, we were starving. A large plate of rice and fish arrived from a small cooking hut back from the beach, and the four of us tucked in greedily. Under the other shelter, the buck’s party was also eating lunch seated in a circle around the tray. Goats were roaming around everywhere without concern for the humans — situation normal on Socotra. As we all ate, one goat approached the other group from behind and stuck its snout into a large saucepan full of vegetables in gravy. The men shooed it away with a laugh and then one of the groom’s mates took a fresh tissue from a box, beckoned the goat to come back, and wiped food from its face.

We mentioned to Wasa that in Australia we’d be under attack from seagulls by now, and Wasa joked that in Socotra “the seagulls have morals.” So we threw our fish bones to the many Egyptian vultures that were hanging around waiting for us to do just that.

After nearly an hour spent reclining on pillows to let our food digest, Penina and I pulled on flippers and snorkels and slid into the warm water. Within metres of where we ate lunch lies a vast coral ecosystem with an amazing range of reef fish and other marine life. For the next 90 minutes we paddled around checking out schools of fish, large clams, an octopus, and every colour of coral. We were just about to get out when Wasa, a recently arrived tourist (she was the only other tourist we saw the entire trip), and her tour guide jumped into the water as well. The five of us swam across to the edge of the peninsula where the local men were confident we’d find large schools of fish. We did — and we got caught up in the middle of a few — plus we saw a turtle for good measure. (Well, Penina did, and I managed a quick glimpse.) It was getting late in the afternoon by the time we got dry and dressed.

Faisal had disappeared during the afternoon to see if he could find some qat so Wasa drove us into the nearby village to look for him, his swimming trunks hung over the wing mirror to dry. Our driver successfully retrieved, we drove back to the Deleisha campsite where we would again spend the night. “To your room?” asked one of the smiling men when he saw us.

It had been a huge day so we were pretty tired and struggled to finish another large meal. We sat chatting to Wasa over tea until our eyes refused to stay open any longer, and we went to sleep enjoying a warm breeze that had started to gently blow.

My alarm was set for 4:30am but I should’ve known it was unnecessary. Mains power came on during the night just in time for the first call to prayer. To this soundtrack, we quickly showered and collected our stuff, said goodbye to the hotel owner, and met Jamil and Gamil downstairs. As Gamil wove his way through the narrow streets of Old Sana’a, Jamil announced that there was time to grab a coffee on the way to the airport.

We cruised through the sleepy streets of the city as the sky slowly turned from black to dull pink to dull blue. Gamil parked the car and we walked around a few corners into an alley full of hole-in-the-wall coffee shops and mobile food carts. The four of us took a seat at one of the long, shared benches with about a dozen other people who were sipping coffee and eating bread, quietly contemplating the day ahead. Loud Islamic chanting blared from a speaker in one of the shops, drowning out the sound of food sizzling on hotplates. A grizzled old man efficiently delivered milky coffee to patrons, the skin on his hands somehow immune to the scalding hot glasses. Penina and I weren’t very hungry but Jamil insisted on buying a couple of different food cart offerings for us to try: two different kinds of bread, one with egg cooked into it. It was all quite delicious.

As we drove out of the city, the sun finally managed to poke its head above the layer of haze that obscures the Sana’a horizon.

At the airport we said our goodbyes to Jamil and thanked him for looking after us in such unusual circumstances. He asked us to spread the word about our time in Sana’a and encourage tourists to come back. Business is obviously tough with things the way they are at the moment.

Our flight was not far away, so by the time we’d checked in and quickly scanned our email courtesy of Sana’a Airport’s free wifi (are you paying attention, Australian airports?) it was time to board the plane to Socotra. This time around, though, we were subdued; I think we were both waiting until we were definitely on the other side of Socotra immigration before allowing ourselves to feel excited.

We flew the leg from Sana’a to Mukalla, with 25 minutes on the ground transferring passengers, and then took off again for the quick hop to Socotra. A simple meal of pastry and fruit juice popper was served but we didn’t feel like our juices so we offered them back to the attendant. She refused to take them, giving us a look of concern and saying, “No, no, you are going to Socotra. There is nothing there! You will want these!”

We were treated to the same beautiful view of the north coast of the island as we flew in, and we landed under blue skies in contrast to the overcast weather on Wednesday. The first thing we saw as we poked our head out of the plane to climb down the stairs was the local Felix Airways manager, Fareej, grinning from ear to ear. He met us at the bottom of the stairs with handshakes and a welcome back to the island. As we approached the terminal, the tourist police officer from the other day saw us and also greeted us warmly. He ushered us straight past the immigration desk and into the baggage hall, telling us that he’d been in contact with Dr Az-zahri in Sana’a and would do anything necessary to make sure our time in Socotra was pleasant.

Next to the conveyor stood a young man holding a printed sign bearing our names, although he’d already identified us since we were the only Westerners on the plane and were accompanied by a smiling police officer. Abdulwasa shook our hands and welcomed us to Soctora on behalf of the tourist agency* arranged for us by Jamil in Sana’a. Once we’d collected our bags, Wasa lead us to the carpark where a couple of police officers were waiting with Abdullah, the man who’d issued us fake visas. Abdullah was shaking violently as he addressed us, stating that he was “standing in front of us” to offer to conduct the tour if we wished. It was a pride-saving move which he’d either asked permission of the police to make, or which the police had “suggested”. We declined Abdullah’s offer — quite politely, I think, given the inconvenience and expense he’d caused us — and said we were more than happy to be with our new agency. So, the police lead him away. “Back to prison,” replied Wasa when we asked where he was being taken.

We loaded our bags in the back of a love-worn Landcruiser and Wasa introduced Faisal who would be our driver for the next week. Inside the 4WD, the air-conditioning was already a welcome relief from the heat and humidity outside. We set off on the short drive to the island’s main town, Hadibo, chatting with Wasa about our time in Sana’a and taking in the view.

Hadibo looked nothing like I expected it to. The relatively new tarmac road that spans the island’s north coast wraps around the city as no thoroughfare in town is straight or wide enough to accommodate it. A mix of brick and concrete buildings stand haphazardly amongst the dust and litter, faded signs hanging above chaotic stores browsed by roving goats. Later, when Penina asked Wasa if there were lots of food crops on the island, he replied that it was difficult to maintain large plots because “the animals have democracy” and fencing is expensive.

Parking outside a strip of shopfronts, we went inside the tour company’s office to meet its manager, Radwan. Radwan joined the long list of Yemenis who’d expressed shock at our story and apologised on behalf of their country. After loosely outlining the week’s plan, Wasa announced that our first destination would be the small village of Deleisha, which due to some unusual geography is the only place on the whole north coast that escapes the gale-force monsoon winds that plague Socotra from late May to August. We drove east alongside the dramatic peaks of the Haghier mountain range, past the island’s port (complete with two wrecked ships on the beach from the 2004 tsunami), until reaching an unmarked turnoff that took us down to the water.

We pulled up at a small campsite that was so new Wasa hadn’t ever seen it (he’d been overseas for several months before our tour). In addition to five palm-thatched huts, the campsite featured a larger, open-front “mess” building and a concrete toilet block. With no other guests staying, we took our pick of the huts.

After checking that we wouldn’t be offending anyone, we urgently ditched our jeans in favour of swimming costumes and dived into probably the most inviting water I’ve ever seen.

It felt late in the day due to the early start but even after our swim it was only 1pm. We changed back into clothes and headed to the main building for a lunch of grilled fish, rice and bread. Sitting in the shade, bellies full of good food, looking out over the water, and drinking cups of sweet, spiced tea, it was only a matter of time until we drifted off for nap time.

Later that afternoon, after some book time with more cups of tea, we strolled a couple of kilometres up the beach, marvelling at all the crabs and critters on the sand. The sun set during our walk back to the campsite, and then as we sat on the ground outside our hut enjoying a slightly cooler breeze that took the edge off the humidity, the full moon rose over the water.

Someone fired up a petrol generator shortly after dark and dinner was another simple meal of fish and rice. After we finished eating, the campsite owner, Abdulrahman, sat with us over tea to have a nice little conversation in broken English (and even more broken Arabic), complete with lots of hand signalling. The generator went off just before 9pm and all we could hear as we drifted off the sleep in the hut was the sound of the ocean.

* Socotra Eco-Tours (ironically, the second of the two agencies we’d had on our original shortlist)

We woke after a great sleep that was sorely needed after our massive first day in Sana’a. Mains electricity was still off in much of the city but that didn’t matter one bit as we sat in the sunny hotel courtyard, overlooking a lush mosque garden, for another lovely breakfast. Our first task upon being picked up by Nasser and Gamil was to drive through the outer suburbs looking for a photocopy shop with generator power at which to make more copies of our travel permits. The city was sleepy on this Friday morning.

Photocopies procured, we drove up to a craggy lookout on the edge of town which provided a view of the vast plateau to the west of Sana’a. In the distance we could just make out the Dar al-Hajar, or Imam’s Rock Palace.

As we approached the entrance to the Rock Palace, the sound of drums filled the air. Inside the compound, a group of men dressed in their best clothes were dancing in a group, jumbiyas raised in the air, celebrating a wedding.

After a walk through the palace with a large crowd of Yemenis taking advantage of the weekend, we drove onwards to the town of Shibam. We stopped en route at a small village comprising not much more than a mosque, a petrol station, and a makeshift qat market that allowed Nasser and Gamil to purchase their fix for the afternoon.

A military checkpoint obstructed the road into town and it was manned by the standard complement of bored looking young men with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Soldiers at the Sana’a checkpoints had tended so far to glance disinterestedly into the car and wave us through, but the soldier at this checkpoint saw foreigners in the back seat and asked for travel permits. After an exchange between Nasser and the soldier, and then the soldier and his comrades in a hut just off the road, the travel permits were accepted, the soldier flashed a huge smile, passed a bag of small, dirty pears through the window, and waved us on our way.

We arrived into Shibam just as Friday prayers were starting. The busy market was deserted and the absence of people in the central square revealed rocky, churned dirt and a river of plastic litter. While cats and dogs prowled for food scraps, the local population’s stragglers ran down the street towards a mosque. We stopped our car at the only occupied stall to buy some apricots from an old woman.

After parking, Nasser guided us through a courtyard towards a restaurant which was empty at first but filled quickly after prayers finished. We took off our shoes and reclined on lounges as plate after plate of food was delivered to a low table sitting between us. There were two kinds of rice, a mutton dish, potatoes, vegetables, saltah, a salsa-like condiment, and yummy concoctions involving eggs and grapes that we’d never seen before. And just like yesterday, we stuffed ourselves silly despite still feeling satisfied from breakfast. A couple of lazy cups of tea helped wash down the feast.

After letting our enormous lunches settle a bit, we drove to Thula for a walking tour through the ancient old city. Being a Friday afternoon, it was very quiet. But two little girls quickly spotted us and approached with baskets of old tourist trinkets for sale. Nasser said they don’t get much of a chance to sell them these days. As with Old Sana’a, walking through Thula felt like walking back through time.

As we approached the main square, a couple of local men joined our party and started chatting with us. They were friendly and hospitable, and wanted to know our impressions so far of Yemen. One of them kindly let me give my poor, basic Arabic a workout, and I learned a few new words. I also learned that my beard apparently makes me look like a Bedouin (I didn’t know this), and that my wife is very beautiful (I knew this).

We said our goodbyes and got in the car for a drive back through Shibam towards the village of Kaukabam which sits atop a high mountain. From Kaukabam we had a great view of the route we’d driven that day with Thula off in the distance and Shibam directly below us.

On the way back into Sana’a we decided to drive around the outskirts of the city, via a road on which hundreds and hundreds of cars park on weekend afternoons to take advantage of the view and the many shisha vendors who provide a drive-in service, popping the pipes on stools next to the cars’ windows.

As darkness fell, Nasser and Gamil took us across town to a restaurant so we could catch up with Jamil and debrief on our time in Sana’a. Jamil had chosen a restaurant popular for its baked fish, and the fish (along with an amazing spicy dip) didn’t disappoint. After Penina and I chose our scaly victims from an iced display of the day’s market haul, Jamil insisted on taking us into the kitchen for a tour. We were hesitant because we didn’t want to be Those Tourists, but Jamil insisted, and then he encouraged us to take a photo of the bread baking process. So I took a video.

We had an early flight the next morning, and Jamil would be picking us up at 5am for a ride to the airport, so we retired straight after dinner. The electricity was still out at our hotel and the owner once again fired up his generator so we didn’t have to pack by torchlight. Tomorrow, inshallah, we would finally begin our tour of Socotra.

Arriving at our Old Sana’a hotel room late on Wednesday night was a bit surreal after the events of the past eight hours. We thanked Jamil for the ride and climbed four flights of narrow, crooked steps to our room where we discovered outside the window a vista of impossible fairy tale buildings, illuminated by a welcome burst of mains power. Exhausted after four take-offs and four landings in one day, we slept soundly until the dawn call to prayer filled our room courtesy of the loudspeakers from half-a-dozen nearby minarets.

Breakfast in the hotel courtyard early the next morning comprised fresh bread, eggs, ful, youghurt and honey. Washed down with a pot of Yemeni coffee brewed from the husk instead of the bean. As we ate we reminded ourselves of just how lucky we were to even be in Yemen, and tried to contain our excitement at two unexpected days in the capital.

Our guide for the next two days was the softly-spoken Nasser, assisted by driver Gamil, and the two of them picked us up straight after breakfast. We stopped first at the tourist police headquarters to collect a stack of travel permits for our excursions outside of Sana’a planned for the next day, before heading towards the National Museum of Yemen. Driving through the choking traffic, windows open for a blast of hot, dry, dusty air, I could feel my sinuses clogging and my eyes stinging.

Being a non-work day, the museum was packed with large families. Kids ran from exhibit to exhibit, excitedly pointing at pre-Islamic stone artefacts and modern, fancy weaponry; their parents taking control whenever possible to snap mobile phone photos of them posing in front of taxidermied tigers. Penina was very popular with the young girls who held out their hands for shaking, and one set of siblings insisted that their father take a photo of them with us.

After the museum we drove through al-Sabeen Square — the location of last year’s terrible suicide bombing — and past the enormous Saleh Mosque. At a busy intersection, abaya-clad women begged for money, flashing their Syrian identity cards at drivers. Nasser explained that there had been an influx of such refugees over the past year or so.

On the outskirts of town we climbed to the top of a small hill that was teeming with the remnants of a wedding party, just in time to hear the midday call to prayer echo around the city, buffeted by the wind.

Despite our requests for a small lunch due to such a hearty breakfast, Nasser and Gamil took us to a bustling local restaurant where our table was overloaded with roast chicken, rice, saltah (meat and fenugreek stew) and bread. The food was so delicious that we ate much, much more than was sensible.

Penina and I then retired to our hotel to nap, while Nasser and Gamil went off in search of some qat for the afternoon chew (a group of young men back at the restaurant had been sniffing deeply and appreciatively from their own bags as we left.) When they retrieved us a few hours later, both with cheeks full of the leaf, Gamil drove us a short distance from where Nasser started a leisurely walking tour of the heritage-listed old city.

We strolled through winding alleys and busy streets, staring up at unimaginably ancient buildings in various states of repair. People were going about their business with only a cursory glance at the tourists who are, sadly, much rarer than they once were.

After pushing through the crowded souq and resisting the temption to buy a jumbiya or two, we climbed onto a roof for a panoramic view of Sana’a.

The tour ended at the famous Bab al-Yemen, where traders took advantage of the open space to better display their wares.

Nasser then received a phone call informing him that the man I’d spoken to on the phone from the airport yesterday wanted to meet us. We drove back to the tourist police building and Dr Musaid Az-zahri greeted us in his office, taking the opportunity to once again express deep regret over our visa situation. He said he knows Yemen faces a tough enough battle attracting tourists without incidents such as ours further discouraging people. We assured Dr Az-zahri that the generosity shown to us by him and others far outweighed the actions of the man who forged our visas.

Nasser and Gamil offered to take us back to the Saleh Mosque so we could walk around and take a closer look. After we ditched our shoes and Penina borrowed an abaya, we hurried inside the building before sunset prayers started.

As magnificent and beautiful as the mosque is, we found it difficult to square its existence with the poverty experienced by too many Yemenis just outside the walls.

Back at our hotel the power was off so the owner started his petrol generator. Still overfull from lunch, we declined Nasser’s offer to find us some dinner, opting instead for a couple of small falafel rolls from a stall near the hotel. We ate them sitting on the roof of the hotel, enjoying a warm breeze and the kaleidoscope of sounds bouncing around the darkened city.

After a couple of days in Doha for business and pleasure, we flew back to Dubai. Obligatory tourist photos in front of Burj Khalifa sorted, and fortified with a good breakfast, we caught a taxi the next morning to Sharjah Airport. From Sharjah we were booked to fly to Socotra via the Yemeni coastal city of Mukalla.

We’ve been organising our Socotra visit for months. Independent travel on the island is very difficult, and Yemeni tourist visas can only be procured via an agency, so we’d done a lot of research on the half-dozen or so Socotran tour operations. All of the reviews we read seemed to suggest that two agencies in particular were probably the best, so we picked one of those pretty much at random and got in touch. The agent there was responsive and helped us design a ten-day itinerary. We wired him money a couple of months ago for flights (which we couldn’t book independently as Australians), visas and a deposit on the tour. About a week before leaving Australia we received photocopies of our tourist visas via email.

Checking in at Sharjah Airport, one desk over from someone checking in a Canon printer (!), the Felix Airways flight manager sighted our visas and allowed us to join the flight. I was expecting the boarding of the small Bombadier jet to be a Ryanair-style free-for-all due to unallocated seating, but instead it allowed the flight attendants to appropriately arrange passengers according to gender and social rules: women, children and Western tourists first.

As we descended towards Mukalla Airport 90 minutes later, skating over the vast expanse of brown that is Yemen, we spotted clumps of decommissioned and burnt-out military vehicles and aircraft dotting the landscape. The air outside was hot and humid, but a glorious contrast to the single-digit temperatures we left behind in Canberra. Those on the plane transferring to Socotra were herded across a scruffy courtyard to a small transit lounge. Inside were about ten long metal benches, an air conditioner, prayer mats, and a flatscreen TV displaying the three upcoming arrivals and four departures that day.

Our Socotra flight was a while away so we settled in to read our books. Sitting with us were about a dozen other passengers, mostly women wearing abayas and men who looked naked without their jumbiyas. It seems not even a Yemeni can carry a large dagger on board a plane. Through the window I could see the pilot of our previous flight unfurling a small mat in the shadow of the plane’s front wheel for quick prayers before take off.

Two hours later an identical Felix plane landed at Mukalla and we boarded after refuelling. The flight attendant made sure we were seated on the correct side of the plane for the best view of Socotra on approach. Right about now, excitement was starting to build, and the short 50-minute flight seemed to take hours. Our first glimpse of Socotra was everything we’d expected: sheer cliffs and jagged mountainsides, a small bay filled with azure water, no sign of civilisation bar a narrow coastal road. The sky was hazy with low-lying cloud adding to the atmosphere of mystery. Weaving around the mountain contours, we landed and taxied back along the runway to a simple terminal building and tower.

It was a short walk to the terminal from the plane, and the air was a few degrees cooler than in Mukalla. We followed everyone else through an unmarked door and approached what seemed to be the immigration desk in amongst a crowd of people. A couple of officials saw two tourists holding photocopies of visas so they pulled us aside and lead us to an office. This is where everything started getting crazy.

The young official who stayed with us in the office spoke no English but was full of smiles. He briefly examined the photocopies and started writing notes. Then the other man returned with our passports and looked through some files. Soon, several random men had taken up position inside the office to enjoy the spectacle. I thought this must be part of the ritual that I’ve been through several times while entering various countries. At this point I thought nothing was wrong.

The immigration official then tried to explain something to us in broken English but we couldn’t understand anything other than a general sense that there was a problem. He issued some instructions to another man who returned promptly with the captain of the flight to translate for us. The captain informed us that our visas were not valid.

At this point I started to suspect that we were in the middle of some sort of elaborate scam, and that all this was laying the groundwork for a bribe. Then in burst our contact from the tour agency who quickly introduced himself to us and began arguing with the immigration officials. He was quite worked up and seemed very nervous.

A local manager for Felix Airways entered the office and told us that we would need to leave Socotra and return to Sana’a on the next flight which was leaving, well, now. We asked what would happen if we did not leave on the flight, and the manager and the flight captain both said we would have to stay in Socotra Airport until the next flight in three days. It was at this point I expected an explicit demand for a bribe but nobody was making any hints. If anything, the young immigration officer seemed quite embarrassed. I looked around for our agency contact and saw him off in the distance surrounded by machine gun-wielding men. This didn’t seem like a shake-down.

We made a quick decision to get on the flight, although to be honest we weren’t thinking incredibly straight at that point. All of this happened in the space of about ten minutes and in a very loud and confusing environment. We quickly paid cash for the flights and were shepherded back towards the waiting plane with our luggage. The Felix manager apologised profusely, promised a formal receipt for the flight tickets, gave us his mobile number, and kissed us on the cheeks. He then translated for the immigration official who also said he was also very sorry.

We climbed on board and took the front two seats which the stewards had cleared for us. I can’t even remember taking off. We were shell-shocked. We had come all this way to go to Socotra and we weren’t going to Socotra.

As soon as the seatbelt sign turned off, one of the stewards told us the captain would like to see us. We went into the cockpit and Captain Aiban introduced himself and said he would do everything in his power to sort out the situation, that what happened was completely unacceptable.

We returned to the cabin and sat, stunned, trying to take stock of what our options were. We started to calculate how much money we’d lost and how we might use the ten days we suddenly had free. We made a list of all the countries we could think of within a reasonable flight of the UAE offering visas on arrival.

After landing in Mukalla we stayed on the plane as passengers transferred, and watched Captain Aiban talk animatedly on his mobile out on the tarmac. Back in the air, the Captain asked us to the cockpit once again and explained that he had spoken to immigration officials in Sana’a and would take us to see them when we arrived. He said that three other tourists had experienced the same problem last week with fake visas from this particular tour company. Returning to our seats, the steward offered us tea or coffee on a flight where beverages had been restricted to bottled water. “But just for you,” he said. “You are my guest today.”

As we descended through the cloud and haze into dusty Sana’a, we had no idea what was going to happen next. Would we be ordered to buy a ticket on the next flight out of the country? Would we have to spend the night in the airport?

Captain Aiban told us to follow him off the plane and he took us to an empty immigration wing. A conversation took place in Arabic between the Captain and several other men. One of them was a senior manager at Felix Airways named Khaled who spoke softly to us in English, and another was the senior tourist policeman in the airport. Khaled took me to a computer so I could print out relevant documents for their investigation. The tourist policeman assured us, as translated by the captain, that they would do what they could to sort out the problem.

Khaled took us upstairs to the airport transit lounge and gave us blank paper. He asked us to write two copies of a complaint about our situation – one for Felix Airways and another for the Sana’a Airport Manager. About 20 minutes later, while we were halfway through drafting those letters, one of Khaled’s colleagues arrived with two enormous serves of delicious food from a local restaurant for us. He and Khaled repeatedly refused payment for the meals.

Some time later, the tourist policeman approached and handed me his mobile phone. It was the Deputy General Manager of the Yemeni tourist police, Dr Musaid Az-zahri. “I am very sorry to hear you are a victim of crime,” he began in stilted English. “You are a guest in our country and I want to apologise for what has happened to you.” After several more profuse apologies, he told us that he had called the Deputy Minister of the Interior, told him about our case, and the Deputy Minister had personally approved our tourist visas, to be issued as soon as a tour company could be contacted to sponsor them. I stuttered my profuse thanks.

And keep in mind, this was a public holiday in Yemen.

After I’d returned the phone, Khaled gave me some more detail. Police at Socotra Airport had arrested the representative of the tour company we’d booked with, and were going to try to recover the money we’d advanced for flights, visas and tour deposit. Someone from a Sana’a tour company was on the way to the airport to meet with us and organise a new Socotra tour and flights back to the island. Khaled and the others then insisted that we move to the first class transit lounge, gave us the wifi password, and offered us free international phone calls.

An hour later we were ushered out of the airport by the tourist policeman with fresh visas sparkling in our passports. He introduced us in the carpark to a tour guide named Jamil who would take us to a hotel, organise our new Socotra tour with the second of the two companies we’d had on our shortlist, and look after us in Sana’a for the next two days until our flight.

So, here we were. It was 11pm, twelve hours after leaving Sharjah for Socotra, and we were driving through military checkpoints into Sana’a in a beat-up old Toyota Cressida, listening as Jamil explained what we were going to spend the next two days doing in this beautiful, broken city. We’d had no intention to come to Sana’a, but now that we were here we were going to make the most of it.

And we could only do all this due to the incredible, incredible generosity of the many Yemenis who lined up to help us out when we were in trouble (with a liberal dose of luck, patronage and flexible bureaucracy, to be sure). That said, we weren’t going to relax completely until we were on the correct side of the Socotra immigration desk on Saturday afternoon.

Note: I didn’t want this to be a name and shame post, so I haven’t named the Socotran tour company in question. We’ve been assured multiple times that the man responsible has been arrested, and his tour license and ability to book flights revoked. If you are actually thinking about travelling to Socotra I am more than happy to chat further via email.