The last day in Oman...

Leila has finally given me the plague. She snivelled about three days ago, and I was mildly sympathetic, but brushed it off as probably a light cold. Now that I have it, I can confirm, it is definitively plague. We both slept badly, I was coughing like a chronic consumptive, and Leila was having to listen to this performance. However, it was our last chance to see the mosque in Muscat (whose opening times we slept through on the first day) so we dragged ourselves out of bed at seven, and started on the drive back to Muscat.

Certain parts of Muscat’s road systems from the air are beautifully complex, to the extent that some of it looks like Islamic art work- twisting yet symmetrical. The impression from the ground is less transcendent, especially if you are trying to negotiate it when you need the loo. This brings me onto the most important question of the trip where do Omanis go to the loo? There are hardly any public toilets, even at motorway service stations these were often closed. Most of the deserty countryside does not lend itself to much cover (as Leila once discovered) -  although admittedly your options would be less limited in this direction if you had a 4x4. The most baffling thing is quite a few restaurants we went to didn’t have loos..

We arrived at the mosque at 10.15am, just getting to see it before it closed at 11am. As we were taking off our shoes to go into the main prayer hall the conversation of the two men behind us caught my attention.

“I guess this isn’t very different from visiting Ely cathedral.”  Said one to the other. It turns out the world is an extremely small place and the men behind me currently live in Ramsey, having grown up in Chatteris. Like me they had spent a large amount of his school trips traipsing around Ely cathedral.

I disagree with them, there were quite a few differences between the mosque and Ely. Firstly, and most importantly the mosque was warmer. My main memory of Ely is largely shivering beneath a very thick duffel coat. Secondly rather than subjecting school children to hours sitting on stone floors whoever designed the mosque included a thick (and very comfortable looking) Persian carpet.

Exhausted from the early start we hunted down some elusive Omani Wifi, which turned out to be the local starbucks. It was almost lunchtime, and after we had both checked-in for our flights home we headed to Kargeen Caffe for a long lunch. Up to this point we hadn’t eaten much traditional Omani food (possibly with the exception of Shawarma). So we settled down for a feast of traditional Omani bread and Kabsa Dajaj which was a biryani like dish of chicken and rice which came with lamb soup and a cold sauce which tasted like extremely garlicky gazpacho. The plague was mildly improved by a strange Yemeni tea which consisted of crushed cloves and cardamom.

We were running out of time so we headed to Muttrah Souk as our last stop before the airport. I found some postcards, and a tiny chair and a large book was produced so that I could write them. I then sent a number of unfortunately totally illegible postcards. (Not helped by the man sticking a stamp over most of the writing in a couple of cases...) Having posted these, hoping that the sentiment it’s the thought that counts will be conveyed, I re-entered the maze of shops to try to locate Leila.

There was quite a scene going on inside the small shoe shop. Three Omani women were yelling in fast Arabic at the shop owner, who was cowering in the corner, Leila was standing waiting to pay for a pair of sandals. It soon transpired that the shop owner had attempted to rip off the Omani women, who had insisted on a refund. This refund had eventually been given; however, the unfortunate shop owner had then, without waiting for the Omani women to leave the shop, tried the same technique on Leila. The Omani women came to her rescue and were now berating him for his inhospitable treatment of foreigners. After five minutes of very fast, cross, Arabic Leila was allowed to pay the local price for the shoes. The Omani women watched the money being exchanged, and then left the shop shaking our hands on the way out.

It seemed a shame to have to head back to the airport to fly home- Oman has been a wonderful adventure. But we have definitely now worked out the Muscat road system, in the whole 25-minute journey to the airport, we were only slightly lost once.

PS. A couple of days later the plague has reverted to mild cold status.

Meeting the locals

“I know who you remind me of.” There is an ominous pause from the Omani man , I get the feeling that this is not going to be complimentary.

“Mr Bean.” At this point I really hope I have misheard.

However, there is no mistaking the phrase: “Yes, you could be Mr Bean’s sister.” Leila can’t control herself at this and falls about laughing. I reply (trying and failing not to sound too haughty) that I am not Rowan Atkinson’s sister.

 We are walking through yet another beautiful oasis, this one is more inhabited than the last, and there are donkeys tethered at the wadi banks. I’ve always thought that donkey brays sound a little odd, but the sound of two donkeys echoing off the canyon is not dissimilar to an approaching alien invasion.

 We had been walking for the last few minutes with a local man who was swimming in the wadi after work. It finally transpires that he was in fact an Omani policeman, but as he assured us- a friendly policeman who preferred becoming people’s friends to issuing parking fines.

It had been a day of getting to know local Omanis, which had begun at breakfast. Given Sur's proximity to Mumbai, and large population of Indian migrants, breakfast had been in an Indian café that served exceptionally delicious (and enormous) dosas. Working our way through the large Indian pancakes (washed down by Masala chai) we got talking to the man on the next table -Mubarak. He had lived in Sur his whole life, and gave us a history of the city, Sur has been a centre of trade between India and Africa since the 6^th century. At one time it was under Portuguese rule, and the centre of the slave trade. The British Empire banning slavery diminished its importance, as did the opening of the Suez canal. Today it is renowned for still producing Dhows, which are large elegant wooden boats used for fishing and transporting goods. As we were leaving the café Mubarak (or Mu-Mu) offered to show us around the ship building yards- he said to come and find him in the second café along the sea front later, where he would be playing dominos with his friends.

This is exactly where we found him an hour later, sitting in the shade of a tree in front of the sea, playing dominos.

He greeted us like long lost friends, and we set off to be shown the dhows. He then produced his parents- in -law boat and showed us around Sur’s harbour. In another country this level of generosity would have appeared strange (or even creepy), but at every turn in Omanis have been desperate to show us their country. The harbour was spectacular, and the dhows surprisingly elegant (especially one which had been bought as a yacht for a Qatari family.) He showed us where the local turtles like to feed. (There was one enormous turtle happily munching in the shallows.) On returning to land we joined him for Chai Karak (spiced sweet tea), and then had to turn down a long list of invitations to go snorkelling for turtles, and to go and meet his wife and children. However, we did promise to return to Sur to visit him.

We then headed up the coast road, and stopped to have a look at the ancient city of Qalhat. This is largely a pile of rubble on a small hill above the sea. However, up until the sixteenth century it was a ‘medieval Dubai’, and covered more than 60 acres. The last remaining building is a mausoleum to Bibi Maryam, who had ruled the city in the 1330s, what is left is a quaint building with moulded arches, and a dome which has long since fallen down.

Returning to the ever reliable portable air conditioning unit we headed up the coast to the Wadi Shab, where we met the loquacious policeman (with obviously deficient eyesight). Then (with me still sulking about looking like a relation of Mr Bean) we headed onto the final stop for the day was the Bimmah sinkhole. Local legend has it that this crescent of blue water set deep in the rock was formed when a star fell from the sky. There was a rather dull scientific explanation of what actually happened, but I’ve already forgotten this and the star theory seemed much more plausible. We had supper in Quryat (which massively beat the previous evening’s dinner option of crackers and plastic cheese) with a deliciously spicy shawarma and large pomegranate juice. Finally we reached where we were staying, which was a traditional Arabian house in a fairly remote (but fortunately easy to find!) village. There was no internet here, which definitely contributed to the slight delay in this blog post appearing...

Racing camels and baby turtles...

"Wow that looks like the tool they used in Egyptian mummification."  Said Leila looking excited at the mysterious equipment just produced from the back of the car. 

There are times I wish I had such a creative imagination- sadly all I could muster is "Unfortunately I think it's a towing hook Leila." 

The Nissan saloon car the hotel manager had been using to drive across the desert is well and truly stuck in the sand. We have sat here for about ten minutes driving back and forth and deflating the tyres. 

It would be fair to say the hotel manager wasn't having the best morning. There had been a vague air of fawlty towers when we arrived at the hotel last night, but increasingly it appeared that Basil was on holiday and had left either Manuel or is vague (and slightly hopeless) younger brother in charge. The hotel proudly advertised 45 minute camel rides in the front lobby, we thought this sounded rather fun and happily signed up for one. Arriving at breakfast the hotel manager looked rather panicked when we said again that we were really looking forward to going on a camel ride this morning. He came gingerly over to the breakfast table a few minutes later to say that unfortunately the camels had moved, due to the new motorway being built, but we could still go, but just half and hour later. 

We then set off to locate the camels in his Nissan, listening to a long monologue about how expensive petrol is today in Oman (it is a pricey 28p a litre- it used to be 22p...) There was also a rather long speech about local date production, including a memorable line about how in Oman they have so many dates they feed them to animals, but still manage to sell them to the Indians for lots of money. 

It soon became apparent that the hotel manager had little to no idea where to find a camel. We visited two very interesting desert villages before he enlisted the help of his friend. His friend pointed straight off the road, and we headed into the desert. We drove for two kilometres, skidding across the loose sand at times, before arriving at a small shanty town camp with a beautiful camel standing outside. 

The hotel manager spoke animatedly and quickly to the supposed owner of the camel. Finally he turned back to Leila and me.

"You can only sit on the camel today, not ride it. Very special camel. Sorry no ride." I was vaguely up for this, but Leila definitely felt the rights of the consumer were being affected and protested that the poster had mentioned camel ride, not sitting on camel. 

This was interrupted by the arrival of a younger looking chap, who joined in the animated Arabic. The hotel manager was beginning to look more and more sheepish. 

"Very sorry, not possible to sit on camel today," he began. "This is a racing camel, and apparently he is dangerous, he throws his rider, this man, off every time he gets on." 

I'm not a camel expert, but looking at the physique of the camel (and the fact that unlike its free roaming compatriots it appeared to have a stable) this seemed likely to be true. So instead of going camel riding we got to pat a very handsome racing camel on the nose. Returning to the Nissan we told the driver we were quite happy to go back to the hotel having at seen a camel, as he seemed a little flustered. He insisted that he was going to call his friends to find another camel. We headed back towards the road; but on one of the sand skids we headed into a deeper part of the sand, and the car became stuck. This at least gave the hotel manager some time to call his friends, he chatted away as is his friend deflated the tyres . The towing hook had been produced as a 4x4 had been spotted on the horizon. We were rescued from the sand with great efficiency, and headed back onto the road. The hotel manager finally gave up on the camel hunt, and we returned to the hotel. 

The next adventure was a trip to the very beautiful wadi bani khalid. This is a river valley with clear fresh water flowing through a surprisingly green canyon. We swam, and dodged the ticklish little fish who seemed intent on nibbling toes. They were the same species that sometimes appear in English spas offering a 'natural' pedicure. They certainly seemed to think my feet were very edible.

As dusk fell we left the desert and headed on the long drive up to a turtle reserve on the coast. We drove through a spectacular mountain pass, where the only suitable soundtrack seemed to be excessive repeats on riverdance. (Much less annoying when you can't see Michael Flatley...) 

Fortunately the turtles were a little more organised than the camel debacle. A party of twenty people headed out into the dark beach with strict instructions not to switch on their torches, but also not to stand on any baby turtles, which led to a few tricky situations. The beach alone was spectacular, miles from any town or village the stars were so clear you could see the Milky Way. The edge of the waves rolling onto the beach were phosphorescent, and left glittery spots on the sand. We were shown the turtles laying their eggs and covering their nest with sand. (This looked extremely hard work.) These turtles were enormous- about 1.2m in length.  They were green turtles, and all returned to the same beach where they were born to lay their eggs. Apparently

The sand temperature determines the sex of the turtle and those born nearer the sea tend to be male, and the ones further away female. Each nest contained about 100 eggs, and in the season 30,000 nests are made on this one beach. Unfortunately only 1-2 baby turtles out of about 1000 survive to maturity- quite a few are eaten by foxes!

Goats, mountains, and more goats...

"Well at last we get another Omani experience." Leila's attempt at spin didn't really work. We had been sitting in a very chaotic traffic jam for about an hour. It is 8.15 in the morning and I (about an hour and a half ago when we left the Airbnb) was disproportionately excited about going to an Omani goat and cattle market. I didn't wish to disillusion Leila, but am very much of the opinion that sitting in a traffic jam with dodgy parking on each side of the road is a fairly international experience. 

Fortunately it was worth it,  after some slightly creative parking we finally made it to the organised chaos that is the Friday goat and cattle market at Nizwa. The centrepiece of the market looked like a bandstand where men in Dishdashers stood facing outwards. Round the band stand (but still in the shade of its roof) another line of men stood, and the animal was paraded between the two lines of people, in a man-made ring. I never quite worked out how the transactions were carried out, but an energetic young bull soon proved that there were no barriers involved, as it careered away from its handler scattering people in all directions. The women seemed to be control of looking after the animals outside of the ring. They were all in traditional dressed in brightly coloured dresses and scarves with elaborate face masks covering everything but the eyes and chin. 

Having seen the live animal market we then walked through the dead animal market (which smelt rather worse- especially in the case of the fish hall.) Nizwa souq was beautiful, a maze of tidy tunnels and patterned tiles. Frankincense was being burnt in most of the craft shops where you could pick up your ceremonial sword, gun, and most importantly Eley cartridges. 

Emerging from the souk we stumbled on the fort, which was both impressive and again impressively tidy (on closer inspection it appeared that this was partly due to it being rebuilt after the RAF bombed it in order to suppress an uprising in the mid 20th century.) The highlight was definitely seeing the man traps where you could fall to your death. Or where, when the castle was besieged, the soldiers could poor boiling date juice all over their attackers.

Picking up a picnic lunch from the local Lulus hypermarket we then headed up to the mountains for the afternoon. Piecing together information from our map app, Edd's directions, and a vague passage in a guide book we found our way to a spectacular lunch spot at the top of the mountain above the al hoota caves. (Avoiding quite a few kamikarzee goats on the way up...)

We then drove to Misfat al Abryeen, which a small village of rambling traditional mud houses that were partly hewn out of the rocks, and quite a few more goats. Highlights included not managing to fall into the falaj- this is the village's water supply which carries water in a stone drain from an aquifer above the village through it ( filling various washing tanks along the way) before depositing it in certain date plantations; and watching two boys on a donkey easily negotiate a set of very steep steps I had just stumbled down.

We tried to go to the al hoota caves but very sadly the gates were shut.  The (rather long) road trip continued to our guest house in the desert south of Nizwa (quite a long way south as it turned out.) It was this point that on arrival the hotel manager (who bore a slight resemblance to basil fawlty in his manner)  happily informed us that we should definitely go to the al hoota caves tomorrow as they were just opening after a six month refurbishment, and the first 100 visitors could go for free...

Snorkelling

How cold is it?" A moment of extreme wimpyness hits as I peer over the edge of the boat at the green water. 

"Warm," I'm assured, "28 degrees Centigrade on the surface -25 below." This sounds reasonably do-able, but I still hesitate slightly, and I think the guide has finally realised what he's up against.

"We've come to a different place, I changed my mind, not the one with little sharks in it." I am sure this is not true, but it's becoming humiliating so I jump- the water is pleasantly warm. 

Leila really wanted to go diving so we drove forty minutes north of Muscat to catch a boat to the Daymaniyat islands. These are large uninhabited rocks that poke  out of the sea. Sadly there were no beginner dives available, so I decided to go snorkelling. Luckily the genetic disposition towards seasickness did not appear on the hour long boat trip to the islands.

Somehow despite traipsing to some fairly far flung places, I've never been diving/or snorkelling before. In fact I haven't really swum in the sea many places except for many a freezing may/ October day on Holkham beach in the depths of north Norfolk. It was a bit of a culture shock sticking my head under water. There were tonnes of rainbow fish and coral. In the surprise I sank my snorkel and emerged back to the surface coughing and spitting. The guide on the boat offered me a life jacket, couldn't face this so swam purposefully away -with a face full of sea water. 

Half an hour later I had just about managed to get the hang of it. Was drinking a lot less water and one rainbow fish was beginning to look much like the next rainbow fish. Then (slightly to my surprise) I suddenly realised the two large green shapes below me were turtles grazing on something in the coral. They went their separate ways, but I managed to swim with one for a couple of minutes in a large loop round the coral. In the water it looked almost bronze, and must have been about 75cm in diameter. I enjoyed this immensely but got the distinct impression that the turtle might have thought it was about to be eaten.

The boat then returned to collect me carrying a very excited Leila who had seen a leopard shark. After lunch Leila was dropped off on a second dive, and I was deposited in a new area called 'coral garden' (and once again assured there were no sharks in the area.) The coral was beautiful, and bright purple in places there were lots of rainbow fish and not a shark in sight. However on returning to the surface to get my bearings I was surprised to find no boat in sight, and that the beginner divers had vanished. I was ok for a couple of minutes and then I began to get visions of spending years stuck on the rock and being forced to befriend a volleyball and call it Wilson, before reappearing into civilisation looking like Tom Hanks. Fortunately the boat reappeared in (what felt a very long) twenty minutes and it turned out the divers had been taken by the current around the corner into the next bay...

Leila returned with stories of sting rays larger than her and two metre eels. I remain very proud of finding some unusual  purple coral. 

Returning to the boat I soon discovered the pitfalls of my sun cream application. Hopefully by the time I return I will look a little bit skewbald, but for the moment I have three large red patches. We then drove back to Muscat, and after a much needed shower drove two hours into the mountains to a village near Nizwa.

We were staying at an Airbnb, and as per instructions drove to the local bank and waited for the host to meet us. Leila (desperate for the loo) did not appreciate the time it took for him to arrive, or the endless and bumpy off-road he took us down to get to his house. At one point I was convinced that he as taking us into the desert from which we would never emerge (Leila thought at least she could finally go for a wee.) 

Eventually we arrived, to a really beautiful house with garden chairs made out of recycled tyres and pallets. It turned out our host was a professor of architecture at the nearby Nizwa university, and specialised in using recycled products. As Leila dashed to the bathroom - I happily chatted about how I used to make dens out of wooden pallets with my siblings. He explained that he was going to make a den for his children, but was just waiting to get hold of at least 24 pallets- hopefully more. I wondered whether I should send him Thomas Jensen's email address....

Grand plans were plotted at 2 am- we were going to get up early for the tour round the grand mosque. Then we predictably slept through two alarms and finally stumbled out of bed at noon. Plan B was made (mosque now closed to non- muslims) we headed in the Muttrah direction for breakfast( or more accurately lunch.) We have a very obliging Mazda for the week, christened Siara, which Leila informs me is Arabic for car.  My relationship with Siara has definitely improved since the long circular drive round Muscat airport last night (trying to find the exit) where I mistakenly stamped on her brake pedal (thinking it was the clutch) about five times. Fortunately the brain cells are slowly being reprogrammed and driving an automatic car is becoming surprisingly easy. Map reading however is not advancing with quite such speed. Forty minutes after departure we realised the map we were using did not take account of recent major 'improvements' in the Muscat road system, and that we were in fact heading in virtually opposite direction.  

A little recalibration later we drove through the fort gates into Muttrah into what looked like a film set with wooden boats moored in a very neat harbour, overlooked by white houses with ornate Arabic balconies. We sat outside in a small shady garden and had an amazing breakfast of Crispy Zatar, stewed beans, cheese and olives. 

Fully fortified (and admittedly ready to fall asleep again) we then climbed back into the air conditioning box, and went to explore old Muscat. Sights included many impressive sandy coloured forts which jut out at seemingly improbable angles from mountains, and an enormous sculpture of a frankincense burner, which looked a little like a space ship.   

We found a fun museum (which was an excellent purveyor of really strong air conditioning) and also housed examples of  national dress, armouries, coins, many pictures of the sultan, beautiful qurans, and most importantly the national stamp collection. There was also a cafe, which had the seemingly rare commodity of wifi. The sun was setting, and in the advent of less oven-like conditions we went for walk around the outside of the Sultans palace. This was an unexpected mixture of beautiful and frankly ugly architecture, although I thought it probably best not to mention this to the very smart army man that approached us as we walked round the edge. He informed us that we were not allowed to take pictures (despite the fact, as Leila later informed me, his colleague was encouraging him in Arabic to let us take pictures and to try to chat us up.)  We then headed back to Mutrah to go to the souk, which has opened for the evening. An Aladdins cave would be cliche, but probably apt. This is an extraordinary place, which caters for all frankincense, jewellery, haberdashery, silk scarf, and taxidermy shark needs. After much aimless rambling (from me) and scarf intense scarf battering (from Leila) we decided to return on Monday to decide what to add to our suitcases. Then came a more practical trip to the hypermarket to pick up supplies. 

By this point it was getting rather late, and we decided to have supper in a part of Ruwi called 'little india'. It turns out little India unlike its namesake is very, very small and hard to find. In fact, an hour later we were yet to locate this mysterious region. (Despite a very kind man in a pet shop giving us pretty clear instructions.) Hunger and desperation were setting in so we decided to go back to the Airbnb and eat the emergency supplies from the hypermarket. However, fortunately on the way home we stumbled across an amazing cafe which served up a real lovely Manoosha (which as far as I could establish was basically Omani cheese pizza smothered in Zatar.) Two slightly lost white girls were very popular, and having thought at first we'd only be able to eat half a pizza each were so impressed that we finished one each they gave us a free pudding. This was amazing and consisted of milk, orange blossom and pistachio. We pretty much rolled out of the cafe to the car, and finally managed not to get lost once on the way home. 

The forecast was ominous. The Times of Oman takes an unusually pictorial route to weather forecasting, a man in traditional Omani dress of a long white dishdasher (a great name for a collarless white floor length gown) cowers under a scornful looking sun. Should this not convey the heat sufficiently the editors added a large 40 degree centigrade sign in capital letters to underline the point. 

So it would appear summer in the Arabian peninsular is rather hot- certainly confirmed by the fact it was 33 degrees when I left the aeroplane at ten in the evening. I am very much looking forward to picking up the portable air conditioning box (aka hire car) in an hours time. In the meantime I'm waiting in the airport rather exotically between a costa coffee and a WH Smith. There seems to be an overhang between this and my last adventure as I'm about to eat Dosa from an establishment called idli.com. Quality of dosa bodes well for the next week.

Edd (the lover of temples and loser of Nivea) has been replaced by Leila (lover of turtles) for this adventure. Being too important to risk travelling on the same flight from London we staggered our arrival, but she'll be here any minute!