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Published: November 18th 2010
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There are perhaps certain advantages to being delayed for nearly twelve hours, even if that means waiting out that half a day in a tiny, characterless terminal in Dubai with only a McDonald’s and Baskin Robbins to keep one occupied. In this case, the advantage was that, from my fortuitous window seat, I got to see my destination come into view all a-glitter in the night. There were the long ribbons of highways, as well as the bright curves of the bays and harbors that are the reason this city exists. I could also see the black gaps in those lights, mysterious to me from my aerial perspective, but once we landed I could see that those unlit spaces were craggy mountains, another shaper of the city. I had arrived, at last, in Muscat.
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I fell for the idea of Oman before I really knew much at all about the country; I just wanted to go because I couldn’t.
When Oman first came onto my radar, perhaps back in my early college days, I was enticed by its being a relatively closed place, with fairly restrictive visa requirements. I saw it as challenge of sorts. This desire
to see what is hidden is perhaps why I have sought out opportunities to travel to such “out there” destinations as Turkmenistan and Saudi Arabia, and why I scheme to get into places like North Korea (someday I will make it!).
However, as I actually began looking into the country and its history, the reasons for my wanting to go to Oman multiplied, becoming more tangible. I was fascinated by the story of Sultan Qaboos overthrowing his father in 1970 and working gradually to modernize Oman without it losing its cultural heritage. Indeed, part of the reason it was so difficult to get a visa for so long was that the Sultan didn’t want the country flooded with tourists and expats as it was finding this balance. It’s perhaps not too surprising then that the hotel I stayed at in Muscat, which was only built sometime in the 1970s, bills itself as the first hotel in Oman (it has not really changed its décor since, from what I can tell). There wasn’t much need for hotels for a long time.
I also was fascinated to learn that the Omanis practiced a form of Islam different from both the
Sunnis and the Shi’as, a kind called Ibadhi (Khariji), which emerged from a fiercely egalitarian vision of who rightfully could serve as the spiritual-political leader of the Islamic community.
As the years went on, Oman kept popping up in my studies and teaching. Increasingly, I became entranced by its pivotal role in the Indian Ocean world, a position that many, like the Portuguese in the 16th century, tried to control. Then there was the vast Omani empire that emerged in the 19th century that encompassed much of the east African (Swahili) coast, as well as parts of Iran and what is now Pakistan. I became curious to see how this cultural mishmash would look like in today’s Oman. Especially considering that for a good chunk of the 20th century, under the leadership of Sultan Said bin Taimur (Qaboos’ father), the country closed in on itself.
But other than a quick transit through the Muscat airport back in 1997 on my way to Sri Lanka, I have only now gotten the chance to finally make my pilgrimage to Oman.
Of course, it is not a closed country anymore. As part of the Sultan’s plan, visa regulations have gotten
increasingly easy. All I had to do, in 2010, was show up at the airport, pay the visa fee, and be on my way (from landing to getting into a taxi took me twenty minutes flat – one of the easiest customs and immigrations processes I have ever experienced). But all those other allures drew me in, and I have not been disappointed.
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Since I lost a full day in Muscat, I decided to make up for lost time. I woke up early and descended from Ruwi to Mutrah* and its souk and corniche. It was early enough that I nearly had the harbor-front to myself. I made my way to the northern edge of the corniche to see the fish market in action, the vendors wares literally dripping from the sea as they were dragged from the fishing boats just a few feet away. A section of the market was devoted to “cleaning”, so you could hand over your newly bought fish (swordfish anyone?) and get it gutted in front of you. Yum!
A short distance away, the Bayt al-Baranda (House of the Veranda) Museum was opening up, so I ventured in. The place, a
lovingly restored traditional house, is now a museum of Muscat, attempting to trace the area’s history all the way from the age of the dinosaurs (I am not kidding) through the glories of the al-Busaidi dynasty (that of the current leader, Sultan Qaboos). While a sophisticated museum, I found myself amused at the nationalism oozing from most of the exhibits (such as the description of the valiant Omani Arab efforts to rid the coasts of the brutal Portuguese).
From the museum, I retraced by step back to the souk, which was now bustling, a wonderful mash of Omanis in national dress and inappropriately dressed Germans.** Omani men could win an award for best dressed in the Arab world. With their spotless dishdashas, floor-length dress shirts (usually white, like in other parts of the Arabian peninsula, but here sometimes in other colors) with a tassel hanging at their neck (apparently meant to be perfumed) and with their kummahs, flat topped caps embroidered with beautiful patterns, no two alike, or msarrs, turban-like wraps of patterned cloth, like pashmina shawls, they are quite striking. I felt so underdressed walking in the crush.
But as much as I would have liked to
stay in the souk all day, the sea beaconed. I returned to the corniche and, despite the growing humidity, began to follow the coastal path towards old Muscat, a 3-4 km jaunt hugging the rugged shore. I passed under the shadows of the Mutrah Fort (there seems to be a fort or watchtower on every hill!) and the gigantic incense burner monument (this is the land of Frankincense, I guess!) and made my way to the gates of the old city of Muscat.
Old Muscat is a statelier place than the mercantile tumble that is Mutrah. This is the seat of government in Oman, the place where the Sultan lives in his sumptuous palace (actually one verging on gaudy, which is striking in this country of such refined, understated architectural tastes) and were most ministries are housed. It also has a great museum, the Bayt al-Zubair – like the Bayt al-Baranda, housed in a restored mansion; this one focuses on Omani handicrafts and the household of the original inhabitants (oddly Anglo-Indian in taste!). And to round out the sites, you guessed it, forts, two of them: al-Jalali and al-Mirani Forts, both of Portuguese origin.
As night fell, I
found myself back in Mutrah, eating kebab at an outdoor restaurant near the entrance of the souk. A TV flickered with a show in honor of the 40th anniversary of Qaboos’ reign. Omani and Indian families tucked into their food and fresh juices. I was exhausted but happy. I had made it to Muscat.
*Sort of like Khartoum, Muscat is really composed of a collection of distinct towns. There is Muscat proper, Mutrah, and Ruwi, as well as other suburbs that constitute greater Muscat.
**I am traveling in Oman during what is perhaps the busiest travel week of the year, due to the Eid al-Adha holiday. Oman seems to be a major destination for expats from around the Gulf region, seeking a more relaxed setting than the Emirates or Bahrain or Qatar and, perhaps, hoping to soak in some “authentic” Arab culture. It doesn’t’ hurt that the country is also gorgeous, full of outdoor activity possibilities.
I can understand all these more local foreigners traipsing about, but I am still baffled at the large number of Germans – from Germany – trundling about the Sultanate. Even some of the Germans I have met have expressed some surprise
to find so many of their compatriots here on holiday.
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Michael-Ann
non-member comment
thanks
Always learning from you, James. Beautiful post, beautiful pics. Reminds me a bit of Jeddah...? Glad you are finding it to be all you hoped.