dressed up for eid

It's the first day of Eid Al-Fitr at the end of Ramadan. Children play on the cobbled paths of Sana'a's old city. Girls wear princess dresses or bright outfits with matching handbags, while boys in shiny new suits run around with sunglasses and plastic guns.

The boy photographed above with two toy guns said that when he grew up, he wanted to be a businessman.

spring clean

The sun beats down on the cobbled path outside Enas’ house. With a hand on each front hoof, her brother escorts a reluctant white sheep towards her, two water basins, and the water hose for its weekly clean.

“Look, this one is beautiful,” says Enas, holding up its black nose as she scrubs it. “Her name is Fairouz ... no Haifa. Do you know Haifa Wehbe, the Lebanese singer?” She laughs.

One by one, each sheep is scrubbed down with laundry powder that her elder sister, in a black dress and brown cardigan, sprinkles from a small plastic bag. Enas combs each animal's fleece with a black hair brush.

Each sheep -Enas says there are 20- escapes as soon as it is rinced and, shaking itself down to the delight of the young children watching, slips back up the path to its clean friends.

a husbandless tree

Enas stands in front of two slim cypress trees at the edge of the garden. The trunk of the first sweeps up gracefully towards the sky, but the second, a slender double trunk, soars up meters above it.

She gently taps the bark of the double trunk. "You see this one?" she says. "It's much taller."

"It's normal," she explains, with a twinkle in her eye. "It's married."

"The other one is a spinster."

planting mint at dusk

buying basil at half past eight

“My name is Enas and I am a spinster,” she says, re-adjusting her black scarf around her head. “Do you have a mirror?” I do, actually. A small multicolored spotty one I was given for Christmas. Should I whip it out in the middle of this dark garden?

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she says, waving her sickle towards the dimly-lit houses at the edge of the large green patch. “It’s dark, no one can see me anyway.”

“What about you? What is your name?” she asks. “Are you married or are you a spinster?” I consider this. I am 27. In my book that is not old, but then again I am not married. “I am a spinster,” I announce. She likes this. We become friends instantly.

She asks why I want basil. I explain it is to cook with, not for a bride or a dead man’s shroud as is usual in Yemen. She takes this in her stride. She knows this because she has American neighbors who do the same.

With her sickle, she gathers two large bunches of mint and one of wild basil. We step back over the damp earth mounds separating the lettuce, marjoram and radishes to the edge of the garden. Her elder sister, wrapped in the same red an blue cloth with nothing but her eyes and hands showing, is waiting.

She introduces me. The same question again. “I am a spinster, but God willing there is still hope,” I say. She laughs, “Not in Yemen!”