In 2024, I was very fortunate to be one of just 5,000 tourists to visit the remote, war-torn island of Socotra. I found passage to Socotra on a plane transporting relief supplies from Abu Dhabi. While I was fascinated by the Dr. Seuss-like landscapes, I was charmed by the tenderness of the few native people living there.
On our first night, camping on the beach, I witnessed a gathering of some 50 villagers sitting in the desert sands around a fire, singing and dancing. Their instruments were few and primitive but well played, and their voices were strong. The tunes were seemingly as timeless as the sands they sat upon.
Their music had a complexity and strength that made my hair stand on end. Groups of women danced together, then groups of girls, then the eldest couple. Then, two ladyboys danced together—one holding a banana. I wasn’t sure if that was part of the dance or just his dinner. There was no one making fun of the boys; that was just the way things had always been, and always would be. It was lovely to see.