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Published: December 11th 2013
The border guard stamps my passport. I look at him enquiringly, but he just says "Finish", so I thank him and walk off. Why I didn't have to pay the 20€ that I had been quoted, I don't know, but I'm not gonna complain. I take it as a good omen for my sojourn in Oman, which is to be my first real travel experience on the Arabian Peninsula. I wouldn't count the few days of sightseeing I've had in Doha and Dubai as such. I withdraw enough Omani rial to last me for 10-14 days, buy a local sim card and hop back on the bus destined for Muscat, the capital.
As per my request, the bus driver drops me off at Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque. It's 2pm, certainly not the best time to be walking around outside in this type of climate. The sun beats down mercilessly, dust particles permeate the air, entering my nostrils and mouth. I seek shade in the mosque parking lot, observed by curious workers in blue overalls, who obviously hail from the Indian subcontinent. Trying to find my host's place, I circumnavigate the massive mosque. Unable to locate the right street (for absence
of street signs), I feel myself getting increasingly weary and delirious. After asking several proto-Indians, I find they have no clue when it comes to giving directions, so I start asking the locals. Most, if not all of these, are wearing the traditional dishdasha, a white, ankle-length robe, as well as a kummah, the Omani embroidered headdress for men. They are all men, in fact, no female is to be seen anywhere. After a few tries I find the petrol station I've been looking for with my host's building right next to it.
Ajit is an Indian doctor in his early fifties. He has been working in a nearby hospital for four years now, sending money to his wife back in India to help bring his kids through university. He has a noticeable limp, as he was hit by a car a few months back. When he comes home from work, he mostly spends his time in front of the TV, drinking beer and whisky and eating snacks. I ask if he wants to join me for dinner, but he rejects, saying he doesn't usually eat dinner. Just around the corner there is an Indian vegetarian restaurant. As long
as I can find one of these, I'll never starve. I order Paneer Burji, Idli and Aloo Paratha, a delicious and plentiful meal. While I'm eating, the waiters just stand there watching me, apparently fascinated by a Teuton consuming their food. Even a kitchenhand is busy observing me through the round window in the lime green door to the kitchen. I wave at him, which prompts him to crack the biggest smile and wave back enthusiastically.
***
I get up early in the morning to visit the mosque. Muscat's Grand Mosque is named after Oman's undisputed, unified heavyweight ruler Sultan Qaboos. There are many mosques, but this one is his. And I have to admit it is a truly majestic one. After entering the main gate, one can stroll around the vast outdoor area and marvel at the architectural prowess on display. The most impressive touch are separate sections with different styles of Islamic art in the form of tiled ceramic windows. The patterns are intricate and intriguing. Information boards in Arabic and English detail the history of the styles, which include Ottoman, Egyptian, Samarkand and Contemporary.
I ask a worshipper whether I'm allowed to
enter the prayer hall. He briefly looks me up and down, ponders for a bit, then says yes, I can go. He actually accompanies me to make sure I get in without anybody stopping me. Apart from the one in the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the prayer hall must be the most impressive one I've seen. My new friend is delighted at my amazement and goes on to explain that the gigantic chandelier was fabricated in Munich. Weighing 8.5 tonnes, it consists of around 600,000 Swarovski crystals and contains a few thousand halogen light bulbs. The rug is no mean feat, either. Measuring 70x60 metres, it is the second largest single-piece carpet in the world. It took 600 Iranian women four years to complete it. Once it was finished, they flew in the 600 women to weave together the carpet inside the mosque, as it had been produced in six separate pieces to even fit through the door. The massive pillars are made from Italian marble, while Burmese wood has been used for the ceiling decorations. I ask my informative friend where he's from, and he says he's from Tanzania. Just as I'm about to bid him farewell, a big
tour group from South Africa enters the mosque with their guide. I'm guessing they're from a cruise ship. How boring.
***
A shared taxi-ride later, I'm in Muttrah, where I enter the famous and slightly touristy souq. The items on display include incense, spices, traditonal dress for men and women, scarves, t-shirts and lamps. Nothing really strikes my fancy, so I walk along the corniche towards Old Muscat. The harbour shows poignantly the mixture of traditional and modern, with beautifully painted wooden dhows next to ultra-posh yachts and lavish cruise ships.
After a few kilometres of gentle strolling, I pass through Old Muscat's impressive double gate, a remnant of the erstwhile walled city. I enter Bait al-Zubair, Muscat's newest museum. Inside are collections of traditional household implements, weapons, jewellery, dresses and costumes. Mutal and Hajul are large, hollow silver anklets, which was customarily worn by brides during wedding festivals. They are beautifully decorated and were sometimes filled with gravel to make them jingle when the bride was dancing. One very intriguing exhibit is the Makhalah, a small container on a chain, which used to be worn around the neck. It didn't contain cocaine or opium,
but Kuhl, a black paste which is applied to the eyes using a silver stick. Omanis believe Kuhl protects the eyes and strengthens sight. Interestingly, there is also a male version by the name of Al Mkahil.
Some of the finest artifacts are the Sayf Malik, which are an old style of face mask worn by women. They date back to the 18th century. These are actually pretty nice to look at, being intricately embroidered and vaguely resembling a mixture of Venetian Carnival and Mexican wrestling masks. Heavy earrings called Ghlamiyyat remind me of Borneo ear weights. The jewellery in general seems to be more on the weighty side: there are massive bracelets (some with rivet-like spikes...female Arab 19th century-punks?), long necklaces with large carved silver discs as pendants, and hefty engraved rings.
The household goods include frankincense burners, rose water-sprinklers, coffee pots made of brass, copper or silver (still handmade in Nizwa), large copper trays, ornately decorated wooden chests and containers for perfume and jewellery. Among the weapons are various versions of the famous Khanjar, the traditional Omani curved dagger, which is worn on an embroidered belt as an essential part of the male dress. It reflects
manhood, courage and tradition. However, in the 19th century, Khanjars as status symbols got increasingly replaced by firearms, when Oman became a major arms trader in the Gulf region. Consequently, several boomsticks are also on display. I exit the museum rather impressed by the rich cultural heritage and customs.
***
I get up at 5am and hitch a ride to the airport to fetch my rental 4x4. A bit of a turning point in my travel history, one might presume, but it is really the best option for getting around, and it might save me a night or two in Oman's expensive hotels. The country is not really geared for independent travellers or backpackers, hence a severe lack of affordable accomodation and reliable public transport.
The first stop of my road trip is the historic town of Nizwa, less than two hours' drive from Muscat. One of Oman's oldest cities, Nizwa used to be an important centre for trade, religion, education and art. These days it features on tourist itineraries for its colourful souq and famous fort. I cross through the first to get through to the latter, where I roam around for a while.
The fort is not bad, just maybe a little too renovated and manicured, giving it a very artificial feel. The sun, however, really starts getting to me. As I'm reading an info panel, an Indian family comes walking around the corner. The husband says "Hello, how are you today?", which is barely audible, as it's crammed into a flurry of words he hurls at his wife and daughters. He kind of looks at me, so I ask "Are you talking to me?", once again conjuring Travis Bickle. His posh eldest daughter replies "Yes, he was actually talking to you" before saying something to her family in Hindi, plus mumbling the words 'tattoo' and 'scary person'. I shouldn't be surprised to be called a scary person when I'm quoting Taxi Driver, but I'm kind of offended by the reasoning. "What, I'm scary because I have a tattoo? The tattoo makes me scary? Really?" -"No, no, you're alright." she says, trying to defuse the situation. But too late. "Oh, now I'm alright! Well, that means a lot, coming from you. Thank you so much!" I say sarcastically and walk off. Having to deal with naive people who were born with a silver
spoon up their arse while exposed to extreme heat don't go together that well for me.
I eat lunch, consisting of a semi-decent hummus, roti and a few greens in a small eatery before moving on. Not far from Nizwa lies the gradually sloping shoulder of the Hajar Mountain range, which includes Oman's highest mountain, Jebel Shams. I do as the lazy locals and drive up the mountain in my 4WD. It takes me around an hour and a half along a difficult dirt road to get close to the top. However, I take a wrong turn and end up in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the mountain. Passing Bedouin hamlets and mountain goats, I make my way through hairpin bends, hoping to reach the elusive peak, until I realise that sunset is drawing dangerously close. I decide to do the sensible thing and turn back. Still, the views of the canyon are spectacular, and I'm trying my best not to get too distracted and thus avoid a plunge into the abyss right next to the track. When the tires touch sealed road again, I take a deep breather.
I ponder whether to sleep
Sultan Qaboos Mosque chandelier
Apparently the second-biggest mosque chandelier in the world (after Abu Dhabi)in the car or attempt the two-hour drive to Ibri, where my next host Carolyn lives. I decide to give her a call to ask if she's free tonight. "Sure, come on over!" she says. Omani drivers may very well be some of the worst in the world. Most of them are local men, who are breastfed a sense of entitlement and have apparently never had anyone say 'No' to them in their whole lives. Extreme speeding, tailgating, cutting off other cars, not turning on their lights at night, overtaking anywhere they can, regardless of oncoming traffic, driving onto the wrong lane for a bit when turning left, and just generally being dickheads. However, the few women drivers I've witnessed are even worse. Apparently, it's too much overcoming the odds of becoming a driver in a highly misogynistic culture in the first place AND a decent driver at that, which is kind of understandable. They seem to have no grasp of road rules, operation of a vehicle, or any common sense. It's that bad. I'm very relieved when I finally arrive in Ibri and am welcomed by Carolyn.
Unsurprisingly, Caroyln works in Ibri as an English teacher. Apart from
that, she's a translator, phonetician, as well as a 62-year old original hippie. Eight years ago, she traded her comfortable life back in Colorado for a more exciting one in Oman, and has never looked back. "I love Oman with all of my heart and soul. I'll probably stay here for years to come." After a few difficult years, she managed to adjust and fell in love with the country and its people. She lives in a veritable mansion, furnished Omani style all the way. The walls are decorated with local artworks. There are diwans, pillows embroidered with khanjars, wooden chests of many different sizes, large silver coffeepots, curios and knickknacks. She makes me a sandwich, we talk for a bit, before I finally pass out.
***
There's not that much on in Ibri, so we decide to go on a drive towards the Saudi border. Typically of Oman (which I've come to realise by now), there are no clear signs to indicate where we're going, so after a while of basically driving through the desert, we decide it might be better to turn back. We do come across some beautiful rock formations, with colourful striations
and sharp edges galore. I am reminded of the Israeli Negev desert, where I had an intense experience climbing a similar-looking mountain.
Heading back home to dodge the midday heat, we pass by a supermarket to get some groceries. Before we are able to enter, I am stopped by two 'security guards', wildly gesturing and speaking in Arabic. I get the idea that my shorts might be the problem here. It's 40+°C outside, and I'm supposed to wear long trousers? OK, I get it, they are conservative, but really? Surely they will be able to just ignore my exposed calves, right? "Please, there are women in there." For fuck's sake, it's a supermarket, not a mosque or an official building. Still, there's no arguing with hardliners, so I sit on a bench outside the checkout area and wait for Carolyn. I realise that the women I see here are actually the first local females I set eyes on during this trip. Most of them are clad in black abayas, with black veils covering their entire faces. Others only wear the hijab. I understand now why they didn't let me in. The looks I get are beyond lascivious. Some of
them flush, but not out of religious indignation, I presume. It seems the sight of my exposed calves gets some juices flowing where the well was considered dry long ago. No wonder they wouldn't let me buy groceries there! Society itself might disintegrate! And then the tattoos! Scary, at the very least! Certainly forbidden, haram! But oh-so-tempting...
A 'senior security guard' approaches me. He asks me in halting English if I could sit somewhere else, over there, at the entrance, where no-one can see me.
"Over there?"
-"Yes."
"You mean where that kid is sitting?"
-"Yes, yes."
"You do realise I might corrupt the poor, innocent creature?"
-"Yes."
"What's that? You want me to sit over there and corrupt that child? Do you really think that's necessary?"
-"Yes, yes."
"Alright then." I walk over and sit down, next to the Bangladeshi kid and his Dad, just opposite the ladies' toilet.
***
The following day, I pass by the Nizwa area again, where I visit Bahla Fort, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Oman has many forts, but this one might just be the most extensive and remarkable
of the lot. Built in the 13th century, the fort was only restored and conserved in 1987 upon inscription on the World Heritage List. Its ruined adobe walls and rising towers are quite a sight to behold. Apart from a few solitary local visitors, there aren't any tourists out and about. It takes a while for me to cover the whole maze-like structure, and to find the exit after getting lost a couple of times.
Afterwards, I drive another half an hour into the mountains to see the beehive tombs of Al-Ayn, also a World Heritage Site. Not much is known about these structures apart from their age (roughly): they date back to between 2000 and 3000 BC. A few dozen of them are located next to each other in various places across an area that lies on an ancient caravan route. They were constructed of piled stones and designed to protect the remains of up to 200 people.
I want to spend the night in a desert camp in the famous Sharqiya Sands, a region of desert spanning several hundred kilometres. From the main highway, I turn right and drive towards the massive dunes on a sealed
road for a few kilometres. After a while, the road just ends. There are a few camps, but all their gates are closed. I hike up a large dune to have a look around. Nothing much, except sand and more sand. Without a GPS and on my own, I'm not gonna keep on driving into the desert. I content myself with the short climb up the dune and watch the sunset.
Instead, I spend the night in a hotel in Ibra. The owner isn't particularly friendly, he just does not seem happy about having to accomodate a stranger, and a weird-looking one at that. There aren't many other choices in the small town, so I take what I can get for a comparatively low price. In the morning, I continue to Wadi Bani Khalid, the best-known wadi in the region. A wadi is a valley, typically a dry riverbed that contains water after heavy rains only. The one in Bani Khalid contains several freshwater pools and boulders scattered along the course. I've come here to swim, so I change into my boardshorts and walk towards the water. The pools are what I imagine an oasis to be. Set amidst
palm trees and steeply rising cliffs, it looks like a proper place to take a good rest. Next to the largest pool is a little café that also serves lunch. I go up to ask the owner if it's ok to swim without t-shirt. He says it's alright, no worries. Note that the LP actually states that tourists should be respectful and wear a t-shirt when swimming. Bullshit. The local men do it as well, even when they're with their families.
The water is unreal, cool and refreshing. Just right to combat the heat. I jump off a few of the adjacent boulders and off the bridge connecting the divide. I enjoy myself so much that I even manage to ignore the dull German couple, who is sitting with their feet in the pool. Why the fat chick has such a thoroughly sullen look on her face, I'm not really sure. Just jump in and enjoy yourself, it's fun. While I'm busy swimming, they walk across to the café to eat some burgers. If that's their idea of a refreshing break, who I am to badmouth them?
***
My next stop is Sur, where I
stay with Billy, a Canadian of Dutch and Trinidadian heritage. I bet nobody has ever been able to correctly guess his background. He works in Sur as an English teacher. Previously he's worked in Saudi Arabia. Talking about his experience, it comes across as the most restrictive place for foreigners imaginable, which doesn't really come as a surprise. Still, he says he would go back "if the money was right". He seems to be quite happy in Oman. No taxes, free accomodation, cheap petrol, plus it's quite safe, if you don't drive, that is. Still, he finds it very boring in Sur. Muscat might suit him better, as there's more going on, and the pay is higher.
For dinner, we go to an Indian vegetarian restaurant in the town centre. We meet some of his expat friends: Martha from Poland, Jeff from the States, and Nora from England. Billy asks the waiter to seat our group in the family room, a separate section behind a curtain. This ensures that the unveiled white females won't be constantly gawked at by curious menfolk. Thali's on special that night for less than €1, so everyone orders it. It comes with a limitless
supply of chapathi, which we make good use of, constantly calling the poor waiter for more of the delicious flatbread.
Afterwards, we go to Billy's for drinks. The fridge stocks a few six-packs of Bitburger, while Nora brings a bottle of wine and Jeff gets some whisky from his flat next door. It becomes clear that these type of meetings happen rather often, with alcohol a regular and welcome guest at all times. They talk about last night, where everyone appeared to have had a bit too much. The expat life in Oman must be really uneventful.
Billy makes for a good conversationalist. In a sardonic tone, he recites the story how he and two mates went on a weekend hike in the mountains around Sur and got lost for four days. They almost died of thirst, but were rescued when they came across some Bedouins who organised a ride for them to the nearest village, where they were airlifted to the hospital. Although several months have passed since, he comes across as still quite traumatised from the life-threatening experience. After the second beer, I excuse myself and go to bed.
***
After breakfast,
we pick up Martha from her house next to the beach, and drive to Wadi Shab, less than 40 minutes from Sur. We park the car and take the little ferryboat to the other side of the canyon, from where we hike into the wadi. The scenery is rugged and spectacular, with sharply soaring cliffs on both sides of the partially dry riverbed. We meet some locals with donkeys loaded with rocks. After walking for about 45 minutes, we come across a set of deep pools with oversized boulders rising on both sides. Billy and I take a chance and dive off some of them into the cool water. The highest of them is probably 6 to 8 metres, which makes for a good release of adrenaline, followed by a rush of endorphines.
Billy has been to Wadi Shab quite a few times, so he knows a good spot where to leave our backpacks, shoes and shirts. From here onwards it's swimming. We cross another four or five pools before cautiously passing through some very narrow rocks into a brillantly illuminated cave, where the sound of a thundering waterfall reverberates from the walls. The water is very deep, so
one has to hold onto the rocks for a break from constantly swimming in place. There's a rope attached to a rock on top of the waterfall, so I climb up to take a look at how the path goes on from here. Also, to walk around onto the biggest rock topping the pool inside the cave, and to jump from it. We linger around for a while, enjoying the cave's magical feel, then head back out.
All the swimming and cliffdiving has really taken it out of me, so as we're driving back to Sur, I instantly fall asleep. After a little nap at his place, Billy and I head to a Syrian restaurant for dinner. We order hummus, mutabal (eggplant and tahini-dip) and fattoush (salad with lots of parsley and chopped flatbread). Maybe I'm just extremely hungry, but the food is some of the most delicious I've ever had. Plus the mint and lime juice they serve is divine. Certainly a welcome respite from the ubiquitous Indian food.
***
I get up early the following morning to drive the 400+km to the small harbour of Shanna'a, where I take the ferry to Masirah
The corniche
The white thing on top of the hill to the left is a frankincense burner Island. After I exit the car to sit on the deck and enjoy the breeze, I notice I'm the only one who doesn't have his motor running. Everyone else sits in their car, making use of aircon and radio, I'm guessing. No consciousness of anything in this country. Even explaining it to them would be a complete waste of them, most likely they would think I'm out of my mind.
After roughly two hours we arrive at Hilf harbour, the main settlement on Masirah Island. I drive to a Turkish restaurant to get some take-away for dinner and breakfast, as I'm planning to spend the night on the beach. While I'm waiting for them to prepare the food, I sit with a friendly middle-aged lady who's watching TV. It's refreshing to see a woman here who isn't completely covered up, but even these are hard to find. Oman feels like a giant sausage party, which creates a strange atmosphere and an unhealthy imbalance, in my opinion. Even worse that most of the men one comes across seem to suffer from very high levels of passive-aggressiveness.
Masirah Island has a reputation for being rather deserted and relatively unspoilt, making
it a haven for rare wildlife and people who love to kill or harass rare wildlife. I circumnavigate the island, which is done in less than two hours, to look for a good spot for the night. I end up finding a decent enough beach that only seagulls and hermit crabs seem to frequent. Going for a swim is out of the question, as the water is cold and very choppy, so I just sit there and watch as the sun slowly sets on my Oman trip. I eat my baba ghanoush, bread and salad, when all of a sudden I am startled by something behind me. I find a camel, who has been sneaking up on me, now trying its best to look all innocent and harmless. It takes me a while to shoo it away, before I finish up dinner and head to the car to sleep.
***
My final drive in Oman takes me the best part of the next day. I stop at a small village for lunch. It's there that I notice the loathsome Omani habit of parking outside an eatery, honking until a waiter comes out to take their order,
then wait in the car until the food is delivered. Yes, it might be a version of drive-in, but the people here are so lazy and spoiled it's mind-boggling. Also, they expect to be served and pampered at all times. I'm talking about the natives, of course, not the Indians, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis and Sri Lankans who do all the hard work around there.
The last stop is at Hawiyat Najm Park on the Muscat highway north of Sur. The small park contains a rather creepy sinkhole where I go for a little swim. I'm the only one there, and swimming to the edges of the rocks, I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The sinkhole is locally known as Bayt al-Afreet, which means House of the Demon. The exact depth of it is still unknown, nobody has dared to dive into the black deep to measure it. The sound of the water hitting the rocks, a bit like a leaky faucet, just accentuates the eerie atmosphere. I don't dare linger for too long, and continue on my way. I make it to the airport in Muscat just in time to return the car
and hop on the bus back to Dubai.
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The Travel Camel
Shane Dallas
A comprehensive blog on a hot adventure!
So impressed with your experiences in Oman - the forts, scenery and even that eeire sink-hole (yes, some places do have a very uncomfortable ambience. I've not seen any of the sights you listed here and they all look worthy of a couple of weeks - but in cooler weather. You should have shared some food with camel that came sneaking from behind, I'm sure it was only trying to be hospitable and considerate in approaching you so quietly.