Enchanted Soudah: Traditions in the clouds

Mimicking the mountains behind them in color and shape, the homes of Rijal Almaa are fortresses that have provided staunch defense against many attacks on the region. Built from stones of various shapes and sizes, yet fitting snugly like a jigsaw puzzle, the walls are reinforced with mud and clay. Each building’s facade is punctuated with rows of small windows cascading downward, bordered by square frames of white quartz, and facing either southward or westward to catch the mountain breeze.

On the inside, the spacious rooms are decorated with Al-Qatt Al-Asiri, an art form of geometric patterns, shapes and symbols, applied traditionally by women to the walls and ceilings of each home using natural dyes. A variety of sources, including pomegranate peel, clay, frankincense resin, onion peel, basil lead, turmeric and charcoal create a kaleidoscope of colors. Each of the painstakingly executed decorations carries a story, a flow of conversation about the people who live here.

Over a lunch of rotisserie chicken piled on heaps of rice and stewed okra, with the beloved local staple of aseed, a bread baked in wood-fired tandoors, soaked in ghee and doused with honey, Ibrahim Al Fathy recounted the history of his ancestral home. Over nine centuries old and located at the crossroads between the south of the Arabian Peninsula and the Levant, the village of Rijal Almaa in Saudi Arabia’s southwestern Aseer region has sat alongside an important ancient trade route, which connected merchants to the holy cities of Mecca and Medina.

“It’s described in both the Quran and the Bible. The first tribes settled here after the ancient Ma’rib Dam was destroyed.” Ibrahim told me as he drew a map of Rijal Almaa’s valley on a piece of paper. The dam was originally built to irrigate crops by capturing monsoon rains from the nearby mountains. However, once the dam collapsed, the area became too arid for agriculture. People moved and settled in Rijal Almaa, attracted by its fertile land and the surrounding scenic mountains.

A decade ago, Ibrahim embarked on a passion project to renovate his ancestral home, for which he kept the original title deed from the mid-1800s, written in Ottoman Arabic script. “All my friends told me I was crazy, wasting my time fixing some old wreck,” he said. “But they surely are impressed now.” He chuckled with pride as he pushed the door open to a spacious terrace overlooking the ancient fort towers.

In the basement, Ibrahim pointed out that his home was built on a solid rock foundation. “It must be very strong. If you don’t find а good location for the foundation, facing the right direction of the wind, the house will collapse,” he said, placing his hands on the original walls that are rendered with a mixture of mud and manure. He opted for a different method for the sleeping chambers upstairs, using paint and plaster instead. “It’s not good for your health to breathe manure while sleeping,” he noted.

Ibrahim restored his house using traditional materials and centuries-old methods he learned from the elderly village masons. He pressed the mud with his own feet and inserted ragaff, flat-shaped sharp rocks, into the exterior walls to protect them from the rainfall.

“I wanted to bring my home to life in its original form, but make it even better and more functional. This is where I spent the best years of my life. My most treasured childhood memories come from here—my mother baking bread, our doors staying open for visitors all day long—I left a part of myself here.”

Now in his mid-thirties, Ibrahim Al Fathy is a tour guide, a cook, and a village imam, whose dream is to share his family home with the world.

“I don’t want a regular life. This way is closer to nature. Everyone who enters my home tells me it has a special soul. Our ancestors were wise; they knew how to do everything with their hands.” Donning a black blazer embroidered with gold, a sword tucked into his waist belt, a white sarong with yellow and red stripes and an elaborate headdress of orange flowers and mountain herbs, Ibrahim prides himself on preserving the culture of his community and passing it on to future generations.

The next day at dawn, I followed Ibrahim and his friend Ahmed Ali Asogy into the hills of Rijal Almaa, as they walked on the sun-kissed slopes, collecting flowers and herbs to make essabah, the traditional headdress for men.

Later in the day, they spread a carpet on the ground under the shade of juniper trees. Ibrahim and Ahmed emptied the sacks of flowers and herbs and joined a group of men sitting on the ground, making flower crowns, cracking jokes and reciting poetry.

Septuagenarian Abou Wael, the oldest in the group, told me that his ancestors covered their heads with flowers to protect themselves from the sun while harvesting crops. “The flowers served a practical purpose, but they are also part of our tribal identity,” said Abou Wael as he neatly twisted thread around the stems of rue, which he attached to a thin band. “They are beautiful and smell great. They symbolize youth and good health.” Abou Wael described an old custom of wearing a flower crown while sleeping: “These herbs were said to repel demons and give you nice dreams,” he said, before adding, “They also cast away geckos and bedbugs.”

Two men made fire in a dug-out pit and prepared a young sheep carcass for al haneeth, a traditional southern dish of meat slowly roasted on hot embers under a bed of palm leaves and herbs, covered with a mound of earth with margoog, patties of dough soaked in mutton broth, jammed between the layers.

Musa Al Mangahi, the musician in the group, pulled out a small plastic flute and began to play. Dressed in jubba and futa (shirt and sarong) with kohl lining his serene eyes and long dark hair, Abou Wael sat reclining on a pillow. As if on cue, he began to chant in sharp melodic bursts, cajoling others to join the chorus. While the lamb roasted in the earth oven, Abou Fayeh Makloty, one of the cooks, sprang to his feet and raised a dagger into the air, shedding years, as he pranced about clicking his tongue rhythmically to the music.

"What’s your secret for staying young and healthy?" I asked Abou Wael.

“I spent most of my life as a nomad, which kept my mind at peace. I never bothered with the problems of modernity. Now, I have a sedentary lifestyle, but I can’t live without nature. Everything I need is always in my car—the cooker, the pillows, the food. I go out every day with my friends. We sit by the fire, tell stories, cook and sing,” he answered.

Whiffs of roasted meat and herbs rose from the fire pit, mixing with the sweet aromas of the flower crowns. Abou Fayeh dug out the crispy, golden cuts of tender meat and smoky bread patties and served them on a platter of rice. “The head is always for the esteemed guest,” he said with a smile, skillfully dividing the meat. As the sun began its descent, the men gathered to enjoy the feast, savoring the tender meat and flavorful broth.

The skies turned dark and moody, and cool raindrops fell on the juniper needles first and then onto the men’s flower crowns. “The rain is always a blessing here,” Ibrahim said, and everyone nodded. A fresh breeze followed the rain, breaking the afternoon heat.