Travel doesn’t really broaden the mind or answer questions, just raises new ones.
Here are a couple.
I have quite a lot in common with the Sultan of Oman: dashing good looks and getting on a bit, worrying who is going to take over when I’m gone. Now in my case, it’s pretty straightforward, of course, but not, it seems, for him. You see, no one knows if he has a wife, or many wives, any or many children, whether male or female. So, what’s the answer? Wait and see. Yes, the clever fellow has handed out envelopes to a few trusted dignitaries with the answer for when the time comes. Why didn’t I think if that? Keep ’em on their toes alright.
Now the second is a bit more personal and current. After a long night flight, one looks forward to a shower arriving at one’s hotel, even if it is around breakfast time. Clearly, there may be a little delay so early, but a ‘leading hotel of the world’ with 158 rooms should be able to come up trumps, right? And there is only one other couple also waiting for a room. It seems, however, the answer is no, because quote ‘We are fully booked (possible) and check out time is 12 noon’. Six hours later, we are all still waiting. So, it seems that every departing guest wishes to get his or her money’s worth by loitering in his room until the last possible moment? Possible but likely? I look around for the estimated 250 odd guests; maybe they never leave their rooms because we never count more than a dozen in the grounds or restaurants. Mind you as a sandwich and a small beer cost fifty dollars, they’re probably keeping their heads down eating smuggled packet of crisps in their rooms. Crisp anyone?
I might just add a couple of comments about our dashing (my wife’s comment, not mine) guide on this morning’s city tour. I enjoyed it especially because he always popped round to open my car door, but somehow failed to do the same for my wife. Not sure how to read this, but her indoors (the car) was a bit miffed. Most men in Muscat wear a cap but our guide who had a fine head of hair declined to do so as he claimed it encouraged hair to fall out, which he wished to avoid. Shopping in the Muscat souk to update our supplies of frankincense and myrrh was great fun, but I am sure we were royally ripped off. After all, this must be where the three (wealthy) kings came from as frankincense trees only grow in Oman.
Leaving the capital behind, we head into the interior up in the mountains at 6,000 feet on dirt track switchback roads clinging to the side of vertiginous unguarded sheer drops. What could wrong?
Well, just the driver really and his unique driving technique. I thought I’d communicate the issue obliquely by telling him about the ‘Pete and Dud’ sketch about Tarzan. I explained Pete was looking to recruit someone to play Tarzan, a role normally given to a biped but as Dud was deficient in the leg department to the tune of one, he wasn’t really suited. This was my way of telling him that in my humble opinion driving on such roads usually required the use of two hands, not one. In response, he huffily pointed out that he did use two hands but not necessarily at the same time (or never, as I would put it). This had the additional advantage (for him) of being able to use his iPhone app to confirm our altitude at any point on the route. He will no doubt be an early adopter of driverless cars as he is almost there now.
On the positive side, I passed my first test to become a local guide where we had stopped for a picnic. Our guide had gone off to do what a man (or woman) has to do, when a Swiss couple driving themselves (insane) stopped to ask me the way. I was of course able to offer detailed directions on the route, where to stop for the best view and how to stop the vicious cheeky local goats from grabbing their sandwiches, based on first-hand experience. All in German too. The man couldn’t believe his luck as there was no one else for miles around, certainly not speaking German too.
Certainly, the highlight of the day took place at 12:15 as we stood on a promontory overlooking an oasis, of vivid-green fields sown with alfalfa, aubergines, garlic etc., overlooked by an ancient tiered mountain village from where the call to prayer echoed into the surrounding mountain peaks. Pure magic. Worth the mild heart attacks getting here.
Up early today for Friday cattle and goat auction day in Nizwa. Forget Sotheby’s, think the running bulls of Pamplona and make sure your life insurance is up to date before you go.
Let me set the scene. In a large patch of ground outside the souk and the famous Nizwa fort sits a sort of circular covered rostrum affair while crowds of mainly men in their dazzling white dashdasha gowns mill around the outside, surrounded by tethered goats and trucks of cows and bulls ready to be auctioned.
So far so good, but then things liven up as the auctioneers begin to circumnavigate the bandstand dragging their goats and sheep behind them, or occasionally vice versa. Buyers and sellers leave a path for the animals to be paraded around the rostrum, negotiating with the auctioneers as they pass but usually causing a jam for the dozens more following them round. Much shouting and negotiating as they try to get the best price as more and more animals join the parade.
Still so far so good, but then the big stuff moves in as huge cattle are yanked around against their will as the crowds move back a bit for the parading livestock. They are not as well behaved as the goats though, often trying to reverse, kneeling down, fighting and even trying to get a leg over. It turns into a frenzied racetrack of fast-moving traffic and would never get through ‘elf and safety’ as livestock can career into the crowds, some with dangerous-looking horns (the cattle, not the crowds) as there is no barrier between the angry animals and spectators. In the chaos, I am not even sure that I might have not acquired a black heifer in a misunderstanding. It all called for a couple of Omani coffees and dates (edible not female) in the souk.
The rest of the day proved more restful, seeking out sixteenth century mud-built abandoned villages perched precariously over deep canyons of date palms, tiered terraces of roses, apricots, pomegranates and so on, sadly not in season. To be here when they are, you have to be prepared for temperatures in the 40s and even 50s.
This country offers endlessly differing landscapes from one hour to the next. One moment you could be on the moon with jagged ochre lava rocks on one side and then limestone cliffs a moment later. However, the day starts at the point where eons ago a canyon was formed into the mountain range splitting the thousand-foot high limestone cliffs into two where very occasionally a raging torrent suddenly emerges to disgorge its power into the valley. Hoping for a dry day, we head off deep into the ravine along the riverbed which is littered with huge boulders and rock detritus, all of which create not the smoothest of paths for the 4/4. For seven kilometres, we wended our way through shaded gorges towering above us, past ubiquitous date palms and with sunlit peaks occasionally appearing in the distance.
Amazingly when we can go no further by vehicle (though you can venture further on foot,) we become aware of a handful of locals who have returned down memory lane, or memory track, to where they once lived before being rehoused in more modern if less characterful accommodation. I bet there is Wi-Fi up here too. Actually, the country seems to have complete coverage of a different sort, that is ‘call to prayer coverage’ wherever you are. The mosques, of course, act as the relay stations, but in the unlikely event you don’t have coverage, fear not. There is an app which will automatically relay the call on time, adjusted for your geographical location. Brilliant. Travelling with a Muslim is like being with a type 1 diabetic; he is always just popping outside, but in his case, to pray at special times. He has special dispensation, as he is travelling, to reduce prayers from five to three adjusted times a day.
The only minor events on the road involved sighting of a child’s size motorcyclette with a genuine registration ‘007’. James Bond is obviously big in Oman. The other was being overtaken by an open-backed jeep with a camel standing in the back which almost broke loose at 70 miles an hour.
Sunset over the dunes finished off the day as we prepare to pass the night under canvas.
It seems only polite to look in on the locals while travelling, and in the case of 15,000 square kilometres of sand, this means the Bedouin. If this was the Wild West, of course, there would be a row of horses tethered to a rail outside, but here we had instead to make do with an untidy row of miserable looking camels all wishing they were somewhere else.
After customary removal of footwear, we attempted to decorously lower ourselves into an uncomfortable cross-legged position opposite our garrulous hostess to take coffee and dates. A succession of female family members then casually dropped in and then out: daughters, grandchildren and other sundry extended family members, all beautifully decked out in their finest, except for the little lad wearing his Lionel Messi football shirt which rather let the side down I feel. Many Bedouin have chosen to be relocated just outside the sand dunes in modern brick-built dwellings but still seem to make the ‘front garden’ look like where they used to live: a tip. A universal problem then.
Photography here is a sensitive subject these days. In the recent past, the young ladies were content to have their photo taken using one of those old-fashioned camera contraptions, but the mobile phone had changed all that. They have noticed that selfies accentuate the subject’s nose and front teeth making them look like rabbits (or camels perhaps?), and they don’t want foreigners taking home unflattering photos. Don’t blame ’em.
Back in scrubland, which is much of the landscape not given over to mountain ranges, one is drawn to the conclusion that building style and regulations are very different in the Middle East. For a start, having a nice view does not seem to be a high priority since the view is usually either next door, or more often sand and rubble and a few thorn bushes usually being demolished by herds of hungry goats. Siting of buildings seems entirely random but usually within earshot of the muezzin. Houses have a Legoland building-block design with a square central extra floor, housing stairs to the roof and are most often whitewashed, many with garish embellishments I associate with the style adopted by wealthy Chinese in Asia. They are quite often extremely large but may house extended families. Almost without exception, the property is completely surrounded by a wall for privacy and the family car is always parked outside the gate.
After most of this week away from the coast, we return to the dazzling ultramarine waters of the Arabian Sea, briefly to witness the construction of a couple of traditional wooden dhows (most are now made from fibre glass) which have been ordered by Qatar, yours for 300,000 smackers and a ten month wait, built in the finest Burmese teak.
And despite it being low season for a bit of how’s your father for the turtle community, we are fortunate to witness a bit of egg laying activity at the Ras Al Jinz Scientific Centre tonight. This takes place on the beach pitted with signs of egg-burying and egg retrieval activity. We try to remain silent and unobtrusive as, from time to time, we come upon a large female furiously digging away with her flippers in a rather inefficient manner to unearth (or is it unsand?) a clutch of young’uns as they desperately struggle to climb out and head for the sea, a route which they don’t yet know is full of potential dangers; in fact, their odds of survival outside this protected environment would be 1,000 to 1.