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Oman;
Muscat and Salalah
An Introduction to Islam and
Antiquity
From Job’s Tomb to the Sultan’s
Palace—and Six-Star Hotel
We had now left the Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea.
We entered the Gulf of Oman and were headed for an obscure land that
borders with the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia andYemen. Most people
have never heard of Oman, and I had never expected to land here. Our next port of call was suppose to be Djibouti, but we had
heard that this land was so distressed and without interest that the
Renaissance people had substituted Oman for Djibouti. Several people aboard the R2 were disappointed---they check
off countries of the world they’ve visited, and they were eager to check
off Djibouti. Next time, we
told them.
So here we were. It
was Monday March 12 and Muscat and Salalah—two ports in Oman--would be
ours to explore over the next two days.
In case you didn’t know, the Sultanate of Oman is an
independent country in the southeastern quarter of the Arabian peninsula.
It borders on the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia and Yemen—and
most important, has been Islamic since the 7th century.
As usual, we were warned to keep our shoulders and
knees well covered when we went ashore in Muscat, the capital.
We learned that Oman had been closed off to outsiders for many years
in recent history. In fact,
from 1938 to 1970-- under the rule of the Sultan Said Bin Taimur--Oman’s
trading families agreed not to import anything the sultan felt was
progressive or Westernized, such as eyeglasses, radios and books!
Walking through the souk later that day, we couldn’t
tell if the Omani women even wore eyeglasses today since those we saw were
covered completely with the black headdress that had only a slit for the
eyes!
Not surprisingly, the population is almost entirely
Arabic. We saw men dressed in the bright blue, loose long shirt dress called
dishdashas and women covered in shawls and veils.
But back to our entry into Muscat.
Extreme security prevailed at the dock, and we had
decided to hire a taxi for the day rather than take a tour. Vi, Lori (another passenger who had asked to join us in
sharing the taxi) took a shuttle to the entry gate where an armed soldier
guarded the port. We didn’t
know what to expect, but I became the designated negotiator with the taxi
driver.
As usual, a throng of noisy taxi drivers awaited to
fleece the rich international tourists disembarking from the cruise ship.
We had studied the exchange rate---$1 for .38 reals—totally
confusing to us. The tours were
costing $60 apiece for half a day, so I knew I could do better.
I picked one likely
prospect, a turbaned smiling man and with many nods and gestures, negotiated
a price I thought couldn’t be
beaten--$30 for three hours for three people.
He didn’t speak a word of English but was beginning to reluctantly
agree when I threw in “air-conditioning?” as the last prerequisite.
That ruined the whole deal! Without
a word, he stalked off. So much
for my negotiating! I looked
around for another likely victim. A young turbaned Omani driver walked up.
I restated the terms—again no English, but he agreed, responded to
“air conditioning?” With a
nod, “yes” and we made the
deal.
We jumped into the taxi and off we went.
The first thing we noticed was NO air conditioning. Next we learned
that the only English he knew was, “No Problem.
Oh well, another battle lost, but
at least we were now deep into the heart of Muscat and the beginning
of another adventure, this time to explore
Islamic culture.
Sahid, our driver, took us first to the Sultan’s
palace, a beautiful gold and blue domed palace, guarded by an armed soldier.
I walked up and engaged him in happy conversation for a photo op--he
was very pleasant. Another R2 tourist then tried the same trick and got brushed
off at gun point.
From the modern to the ancient— Sahid headed through
old Muscat, streets of winding paved roads bordered by pale ivory, tan and
brilliant white walls and ancient doorways leading into hidden homes behind
the stuckoed walls.
The city of Muscat, both modern and ancient, was very clean-- unlike
the mountains of trash, wandering cows and foraging animals we had come to
expect on the visit to India that had just ended.
Despite the sultan’s edict to keep the 21st century at
bay, we noticed modern billboards on some of the streets, but no internet
cafés. There was
little traffic. Those
vehicles we saw were mostly taxis, and Muscat for the most part is a
new beautiful town, built primarily during the last 35 years, we later
learned.
Soon Sahid led us off the paved streets and onto a
dusty dirt road that wound its way up the jagged mountainside. Where was he
taking us, we wondered, but “no problem” was his stock answer when we
asked where we were going.
Finally, we reached the top of the mountain and the
road dead-ended. We were on a dusty dead end overlooking a new dam and
spillway constructed into the canyon below---with absolutely no water in
sight. (We learned later it
rains 3-4 inches a year in Oman.) But
it was another photo op we decided—and took Sahid’s picture next to the
taxi.
Our next stop made the entire day—and visit to
Muscat—worthwhile. Back down
the mountain we careened, stopping at a little hole in the wall “food
stuff” place---a neighborhood grocery store, it turned out. Sahid came out with a gift for each of us, a bottle of RC
Cola —and we drank it gratefully! We
had chatted with the clerk of the store as we waited and learned he was
Indian from Goa, had completed one year of college, and here he was in the
back streets of old town Muscat working for two years in this little grocery
store.
Sahid brought out his bag of groceries and off we
headed, we knew not where—but soon we stopped far down a winding street
and he parked the taxi. We
realized he had taken us to his house, and three tiny boys, around two years
old, greeted him. They
were playing in front of a long flight of stone steps leading up a rock
strewn hillside to an open door of a small house on the hill..
Sahid beckoned for the children to have their photo taken by us, and
called to two older boys, one dressed like a boy scout and the other with a
backpack for school. We saw two women standing at the top of the stairs, and
he indicated that according to Islamic tradition, he had two wives and these
were his five children. He beckoned one of the shy young women to come down the
stairs. She had a lovely moon
face and hesitant smile that we could see, since she had no veil on, and she
held a baby. An older woman at
the top of the stairs chattered angrily and beckoned us away from taking her
picture. She stomped off down
the street, obviously annoyed that Sahid was allowing his wife’s photo to
be taken. (Many of the women
beckoned us away from taking pictures in the souk later that morning.) This was a special opportunity for us to see Sahid’s home
and his family and take their photos, and we thanked him.
From rags to riches—our next stop was perhaps the
most incredibly luxurious place in all of Oman—and perhaps in that part of
the world.
But that’s another story, and now as I tell this
story back on the ship, first I have to go to lunch.
We had our usual magnificent R2 lunch out on the
Panorama deck in the bright sunshine, overlooking the brilliant blue waves
of the Red Sea. I am ready to
continue.
Have you ever taken a mystery tour in a place where you
knew nothing about where you were going and couldn’t even guess?
Try Oman.
We got into Sahib’s cab and without a word off he
went, out of town and following the road along the coast lined with banana
and palm trees for many miles. We
had no idea where we were going, but he kept saying what we thought was
something like “palace.”
Then we saw it, the outline of a magnificent
palace-like structure backing up to the sea and facing the jagged brown
mountains. It was a king’s
palace, we thought, until we got up to it and saw the name, “Al Bustan
Palace—but it was a hotel. A
SIX star hotel we soon learned! And
we also heard it was one of the most luxurious in the world.
Entering this magnificent hotel of mosaic walls,
statuary rising up within lovely fountains, and marble floors so sleek and
white and shimmering they looked like ice, we were dumbfounded. Lori, our companion, had been to the Taj Mahal with me.
“It’s better than the Taj,” she insisted.
She was almost right.
We lingered in the air-conditioned splendor of this
palace-hotel as long as we could—using the sumptuous bathroom facilities
with great joy, I must say. (It’s
rare on these excursions to find such an unexpected amenity—running water,
hand towels, soap, and honest-to-god toilet —we took advantage of every
welcome amenity, believe me.)
Lingering as long as we could, we went on our
way--first to a fishing village and then on to the souk.
There’s a souk in every middle-eastern city, and this was no
exception. Wandering through
the winding covered aisles lined with tiny stalls and beckoning vendors,
selling everything from baskets and shawls, to black slitted veils, nutmeg,
sandalwood, and French perfume, we searched for an Oman specialty,
frankincense and mir. Skipping
many overpriced offers, for a dollar I bought enough frankincense to split
three ways among the three of us back on the ship.
But I didn’t bother with mir or sandalwood or the many burners
pushed in our faces aggressively
along the way.
At two p.m. our Muscat
tour was ending. We were
ready to get back on the ship,
And there we had an unexpected reunion, one dating back
to our old Ocean Explorer days.
Greeting us in the piano bar on our R2 ship was Walter
Ahart. Walter had been our
favorite pianist and singer for four months of the Ocean Explorer around the
world trip. My buddy Jackie had
kept up with him by e-mail and found him playing the piano eight million
miles from nowhere—of all places in the piano bar of the Hyatt Hotel in
Muscat, Oman. She
had routed him out, brought him to the ship (with great difficulty due to
the tight security at the port and on the ship) and the ten of us expatriots
from the Ocean Explorer had gathered for whisky sours and an hour of
reminiscing and concert by Walter that afternoon.
It was very much nostalgia and fun and sad to say goodbye and leave
Walter in this forsaken corner of the world.
Say Hello to Salalah
By the next day, we were old hands at bargaining when we sailed overnight to
the next port in Oman, Salalah. A small town in the very southern border that’s a popular
seaside resort when the temperature rises as high as 125 degrees inland,
Salalah’s temperature was simply hot but not steaming that day, and I was
ready to be the tough, hard bargainer for a half day taxi ride to see what
we could see.
We had heard that exhorbitant prices were being charged
for taxis—up to $150 for four hours-- but I was ready for anything!.
Marching out to the taxi line, I started right in on the second
driver in line and did some tough bargaining--not easy when the driver
speaks not a word of English. I
finally got him to agree (reluctantly) to three hours for $50 dollars for
the three of us and we were ready to hop aboard—when the soldier guarding
the gate walked up and said no. He
gestured, go with the first taxi driver---and he said gruffly, three hours,
$45! He actually stated a price
lower than I had bargained and we jumped into the cab happily!
Throughout the afternoon our non-English speaking
driver Mohammed was somewhat pleasant but kept repeating insistently---1
hour, $20---and I kept responding firmly, “No, three hours, $45!”
And that’s what we ended up paying despite his unhappy demeanor at
the end of the day.
But in the meantime, we had a great time seeing Salalah,
bargaining at the old souk in town, driving along the beach,
heading through coconut palm plantations, stopping at a coconut stand
for the vendor to break into a coconut and give Lori a straw for the milk,
and wandering through a banana plantations.
Finally and most interesting with a coupled of hours of
time left—we demanded to go to Job’s Tomb.
I had read that it was up in the mountains.
At first the driver seemed
not to understand or know of
Job’s Tomb. Then he kept
indicating it was too far, $20 dollars an hour more, he kept
insisting!. But I kept
repeating “three hours, $45” and finally he gave up the argument and
headed up into the mountains. We
weren’t sure where he was going, but he began to pass single camels
grazing along the bushes and wandering along the road, then entire herds of
camels lining the hillside, some shackeled to keep them from wandering, some
not.
We rode far up the winding two-lane road to the top of
the mountains, perhaps for 35 kilometers or so and about 2,000 feet
elevation. There were scenic views around every
bend, of far distant mountains, camel herds, and guernsey cows
grazing on the dry, barren hills. Finally,
when we were almost despairing that this was a wild goose chase, we turned
another bend, and there we were at the entrance to obviously what must be
Job’s Tomb—since several of our fellow R2 passengers were standing there
to greet us.
Jackie, David and Donna, our good OE1 ship buddies, greeted us, busily waving hello and
snapping pictures. In the
heat, we walked up the mountainside to a small dwelling, took off our shoes
and donned appropriate head covering scarves and entered the site of where
Job had presumably been buried---a ten-foot tomb covered in a brilliant
velvet cloth of green and gold.
We were satisfied. We had done and seen everything of
interest in Salalah—except the Queen of Sheba’s Palace at Khawr Rhori---but
that will wait for another year and another cruise!
And all for $15 apiece.
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