THE SULTANATE

In the lounge at Bangkok Airport, I read on CNN that Sultan Qaboos of Oman had died the previous day.  This came as a shock, and I began to wonder what might result from his death.  Whatever would result, there was no turning back now.  My upgraded flight from Bangkok to Muscat was everything I could have hoped for.  The seat could slide down into a completely flat bed.  It was a day-time flight, so I didn’t go that low, but I lay right back and stretched out, my back lifted only enough to comfortably watch the screen that hung at my feet.  There was a flap between my neighbour and me that could be raised to completely block him out, and so I did that.  In addition, the headphones were the over-ear type, which blocked out the sound of the engines completely.   Although it was day, the windows in our cabin were darkened.   It was like lying in a cocoon, and I loved every minute, watching two movies and a nature show.  The meal was also fantastic, with four courses, presented as one would expect in a restaurant: the service was attentive, the crockery ceramic, the cutlery stainless steel, the vessels glass.

Landing that evening, I was impressed with the airport.  It was large and clean and surprisingly rather empty.  Then again, I am accustomed to East Asian airports, where populations are vast.  Here, soothing Arabic music played quietly over the speakers as we waited to collect our bags.  I was able to get Omani Rial and a SIM card before finding my phone-reading taxi driver.  We drove along a well-developed freeway system towards downtown Muscat.

Soon, disappointments accumulated.  It was raining, and I had specifically left my umbrella behind because I was travelling to the desert.  Before arriving at my hotel, I received a message from an agent in the Omani exclave of Musandam, on the tip of the Arabian Peninsula that juts into the Strait of Hormuz.  I had booked a full-day cruise on a dhow in the fjord of Khor Sham, to which I was looking forward.  (I'd actually initially planned to visit the tiny village of Kumzar, so isolated that it has its own unique language.  However, a trip to that destination was prohibitively costly.)  

The message read that due to the death of the sultan, this trip was cancelled.  (Take a look at the picture to see what I missed.  I was quite sore about this.  Ah, well.) 

That evening, I cancelled the accommodation in Musandam and booked instead nearer Mutrah, the historical centre of the city.  Arriving at the hotel, the receptionist told me that the breakfast I had booked with the room was not possible because they were doing renovations.  (He did deduct the charge for that breakfast.)  I got up into my room.  It was large and spotlessly clean.  However, it was basic.  There was no chair, a single hanger hung in the large wardrobe, and in the bathroom, the toilet seat was not connected to the toilet.  There was only half a roll of toilet paper!  What kind of hotel is this?  Furthermore, it was an open-plan bathroom, by which I mean that there was no separation of the shower from the room, allowing the splattering water to wet the entire floor and the toilet.  The only saving grace about this particular shower was that the water pressure was too low to splatter much of anything.  After settling and washing, I went online to find that the government had declared three days of national mourning, starting tomorrow (Sunday) and lasting until Tuesday.  Business would reopen on Wednesday.  I was leaving on Wednesday!

Well, I am not the kind to get bogged down by what cannot be.  I was certainly going to explore.  Fortunately, I heard later that supermarkets and eateries were encouraged to open to keep the population fed and comfortable.  There was a supermarket just at the end of the street that opened early and closed late.  Sorted!

(Sun, Jan 12)  In the morning, I bought some food and drinks at the supermarket, as well as an umbrella in case the rain returned.  Then I set out.  It was sunny, thankfully, and there was a somewhat icy wind blowing, also thankfully, since I tend to sweat.  Despite the days of mourning, I saw sewage trucks draining tanks, municipal workers picking up trash, and emergency machinery clearing away the deposits left by the unexpected rain.  There had been quite a bit of flooding, and with it, mud had covered portions of road.  Most shops I passed remained shut, though there was a smattering of snack shops and coffee shops admitting guests.  I noticed that, gracefully, the hotel access road emptied directly onto a stop for buses to the city, and beside it lay an underpass to cross to the other side for buses to the airport.  Only thing was the buses

were a casualty of the period of mourning, and armed members of the special forces prevented descent into the underpass.

I made tracks for the Royal Opera House, one of the places I absolutely needed to see and photograph.  At one intersection, another set from the special forces turned me away.  After realising it would be impossible to walk there with all the road closures (mourning), I hopped into a taxi that was passing by.  (I think the taxi drivers of Muscat made a killing in those three days with the buses off.  This had a maddening side-effect – my costs skyrocketed.  You see, I would quickly learn that Muscat is not a walkable city, though I did walk for hours and many, many kilometers.  Not only that, but it seemed I’d chosen a rather remote place to rest my head.  ...Incidentally, I was intrigued by this country's currency.  The main unit is called Rial, and one rial divides into 1000 baisa.  This is the only currency I've ever used whose basic unit divides into a thousand...  Anyhow, I digress.)  Arriving at the opera house, it was immediately obvious that this building was among those that had been closed for mourning.  So much for that idea!  I felt quite miserable at this point, but what’s the use in getting knocked down?  The taxi driver luckily told me where to go next, down to the nearby beachfront, where there were places to eat or get coffee.  I had a cup at Costa overlooking the sea.

(click)

From here, I decided to walk.  I headed first to the district of Qurm (or Qurum, depending on whether you’re reading a map or following street signs).  

(click)

It was now that I realised I’d forgotten sunscreen, and I could feel my face starting to burn.  I also noted that, as in St Petersburg, distances were far greater than I’d anticipated.  Whatever, keep going!  Qurm was lovely, a mainly residential area for those with some cash and a flare for design.  Here I stopped at a schwarma restaurant to regain my energy, though I’d really been eyeing the Lebanese place across from it that hadn’t yet opened.  Nevertheless, my kebab snack - which was in fact a complete meal with rice, kebab, sauces, pickles and soup - was scrumptious.  After filling, I soldiered on.

I chose now to make my way to Ruwi, not understanding how very far I’d have to walk.  I popped into a variety of gas station shops to look for sun block, but alas, none of them had any.  I was at least able to stay hydrated.  

(click)

While it was a criminally long walk, it did offer me the chance to stop and inspect eye-catching phenomena along the way.  Upon reaching Ruwi, I was not immediately taken with what I saw, and soon succumbed to the taxi drivers pushing for a fare.  It was this driver who used the GPS on my phone to guide him to my accommodation.  (I remember a day when taxi drivers had to study, pass tests, and know their city like the back of their hands.)  It was also because of this trip that I finally worked out that the area I’d been staying in was called al Khuwair.  Great, the next trip would be easier.  It would turn out that each ride I took was terrifying because texting while driving was clearly a national pastime.  There were signs on the side of the road discouraging it, but I guess these could not be read in addition to the texts.  (I would find taxi rides throughout western Asia terrifying – drivers in this part of the world have erratic habits.)

Arriving back at the hovel I was calling home, I washed and returned to the supermarket.  What a treat to be buying things such as samosas, pies and kebabs!  This helped my mood because I was actually quite miffed at the lack of buses, the road closures and the shut restaurants.  Before departing Taiwan, Oman was the place that had the most charming appeal for me.  I try to keep a positive attitude, but sometimes it requires a little coaxing.  Little pleasures, like the reverent Arabic music that played in many of the few stores that were open, went a long way.  Back at the hotel, I entered the elevator on the ground floor, pressed 5, and started ascending.  It stopped on 2, and two ladies got in, whiffing heavily of cigarettes.  They were going down, so why the elevator even stopped, who could tell?  One of them pressed G and then close doors.  A message appeared: OVERLOAD.  There were only three of us!  One of the ladies got out, while the other accompanied me to the 5^th.  The slow ascent gave us a minute to say hi.  They were Iranian!  What a treat!  Reaching my bathroom, a lobster stared back at me through the looking glass.

(Mon, Jan 13)  Today I left the hotel a little later.  It was cloudy and cool, perhaps 16°C.  This time I headed to Oman Avenues Mall, not too far away.  I was keen to see what kinds of retail outlets were available.  Also, in truth, there wasn’t much else worth seeing nearby.  I found it odd that al Khuwair was home to so many hotels because everything of interest required a commute.  The only claim to fame that I could discern is that this is Embassy Alley (my name, not Muscat’s).  

Anyway, I trundled off.  Arriving, the supermarket was open, but the rest of the mall was advertised to open within about 15 minutes.  I walked around those parts that weren’t cordoned off, until spotting a security guard. I asked him if the centre would open as scheduled, or was it closed in mourning.  The latter was his answer.  I walked to the edges of the parking lot.  This was raised and offered a good vantage over the surrounding neighborhood.  Here I watched as yet more motorcades carrying visiting dignitary-mourners sped by upon the closed roads.  Down on the feeder roads were the soldiers with their rifles, deflecting traffic.  Among the vehicles in these motorcades were more than a handful of EMPTY buses.  Somewhere among these notable people were Prince Charles, Boris Johnson and the King of Jordan.

(Sultan Qaboos was a much loved ruler.  During his reign, Oman was transformed from peasantry to modernism.  He used oil reserves to build infrastructure, establish schools and bring medicine to Oman.  He reigned for 50 years, and in that time, he completely reinvented his society and his country, while nevertheless maintaining its culture.  He was a peace-maker, acting as intermediary in many tense international situations, among them US-Iran relations.  Also under his rule, the country was renamed from Muscat and Oman to the Sultanate of Oman.  He was a man worthy of respect, and I understand why the country responded to his death the way that it did.  It was simply very bad timing on my part.  In the wake of this death, GoAir, an Indian low-cost carrier, offered to waive cancellation fees for those who might suddenly choose not to travel to Muscat.)

Back at the hotel, I packed and checked out.  I asked the receptionist to call a cab for me.  I was about to encounter my most uplifting moment of the trip.  The very best that this hotel had to offer me came after returning their key.  Sana, who would drive me to my next accommodation (in Ruwi, to which I’d walked yesterday), would charge me less than a third what I was charged by yesterday’s taxi.  He explained that the red- white or blue-white taxis that I’d seen up until now could only be driven by Omanis.  He was Bangladeshi.  I’m guessing that his services are not strictly permitted, but at the price, I was overjoyed.  By now I was really feeling the pinch from the missing buses; and while the taxi from the airport was metered, the ones I hailed on the road rode me hard.  Sana made an offer which I accepted.  We arranged that he’d return the next day and take me to a few destinations.  I was now in a much lighter mood.

Sana dropped me at Tulip Inn, where my room was entirely more pleasing than the one I’d just vacated.  (I seem to have a first-place curse when I travel.  I have been disappointed a few times – on my trip to South Africa in 2015; in Auckland in 2017; on Kinmen Island in 2018; and now again in 2020.)  After checking in, I was off.  This time I was determined to make it to Mutrah (or Matrah or Muttrah, depending on who wrote the name).  This promised to be the quintessential attraction of Muscat.  I was not disappointed.  En route, I saw sights that caressed me with memories of East Africa.  (You may remember from a previous travelogue that Oman used to control Zanzibar and that Stone Town on that island was once the capital of Oman….. long, long ago.)  

As I got closer to my target, it became evident that this was the oldest and poorest part of town.  Here, the happy sounds of children at play made me realise I hadn’t heard that until now.  As I walked, I caught a delicious whiff of bread.  I thought I’d just go on, but then stopped, remembering that so little was open.  I back-stepped, said “That smells very good.  Are you selling?”  Three men beckoned for me to enter.  The baker was making lavash.  I’d never had lavash.  I was thrilled.  When he handed me my disc, I offered money, which he refused.  Had I just walked into a private home and asked for a hand-out?  I thanked the three profusely and went on my very merry way, savouring every morsel.

Arriving finally at Mutrah Souq (the traditional market), it was closed, as I thought it might be.  I wandered into the gloomy unlit passages.  Then I realised that I was possibly one of very few people who would see it like this, empty, clandestine, quiet.  I took some pictures, and then made my way back to Ruwi.  

Along the way, fortune shone again.  I’d been peering into a sandwich wrap shop from across the street, when a man poked his head out and beckoned for me to enter.  Great, dinner!  I got a chicken wrap and an avocado juice - (Oh my oath, how tasty!) - to go.  Then I called it a day.

(Tue, Jan 14)  On my last full day in the sultanate, Sana came as planned to pick me up.  I would find out later that he is not Indian (as I thought he’d said yesterday) but Bangladeshi.  We drove first to Stone Beach, Qantab, a village on the coast which Sana told me was inhabited by Bedouin folk (if I understood his pronunciation correctly).  It seemed a calm place, and I asked a couple of boys to take a picture of my companion and me.  Then I got a picture of the boys and thanked them with a translation offered by Sana – shukraan (شكرا).  

From there we hugged the coast onward to Bandar Jissah, where Sana had said there was something to behold.  Indeed, this development was spectacular, and clearly a playground for the uber-wealthy.  

Within the same area stood the Shangri-La Hotel and we stopped there to get some pictures.  I confided that I’d expected to be stopped at the door, but Sana said that if you strolled as if you were resident in the hotel, they would simply assume you were.

(click)

We now headed back the way we had come.  En route, Sana stopped to get some hot tea, and water that I’d requested.  He paid.  We were now heading to the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, beyond Ruwi and also beyond al Khuwair, where I’d stayed the first two nights.  I was pleased to be visiting this important location.  However, when we arrived I was told that I was not allowed to enter.  Tourists were allowed only in the mornings.  From 11am onwards it was reserved for Muslims only.  I was rather disappointed, but there were some vantage points outside, which I got to photograph.  Sana disappeared deep into the belly of the expansive house of worship.  When I was done, he was still nowhere to be found.  I thought that rather odd, but when he alighted, he said that he’d gone in to get pictures for me, which he sent to me on WhatsApp.  How entirely thoughtful and unexpected!

(click)

As we’d driven about, we’d spoken all the while.  This man could speak Bengali (the language of his native Bangladesh), Hindi, Arabic and English.  I’d noticed thus far that native Omanis did not speak English terribly well, while communicating with non-Omani residents was fluid and easy.  Incidentally, the country’s population stands at around four million.  Of these, just over 55% are Omanis, while the remainder are expats.  Expats may live and work here, but at retirement age, they have to leave the country.  There is no permanent residence and no route to citizenship.  My impromptu guide also said that bringing one’s family along was very expensive and only available to the uber-rich.

Sana is Muslim (as you’ve gathered since he was allowed to enter the mosque).  He’d lived for 20 years in the Gulf area, first in Saudi Arabia, then briefly in Qatar, before arriving in Oman six years ago.  His family and friends were all still back in Bangladesh.  I asked him how much longer he planned to stay.  Two more years.  He invited me to contact him in the future and to visit Bangladesh to see him.  He is from a part of Bangladesh that borders Myanmar, and his area absorbed the displaced Rohingya.  We spoke about that for a bit.  I was careful not to have an opinion, which I don’t.  One should keep one’s nose out if one doesn’t have all the facts…..  He told me, which I had not known, that the Rohingya had been denied citizenship by the Myanmar government, both the military junta and the subsequent leader Aung San Suu Kyi.  They are confined to their province and denied education, jobs in the civil service and other rights.  This was educational for me.  (Later on this trip, when I was in limbo between West Asia and South America, I read that the International Court of Justice had ordered Myanmar to take concrete steps to prevent genocide against the Rohingya.  Myanmar’s own justice system has concluded that war crimes have been committed by elements of its military.)

Sana also pointed out that tiny vegetation was growing on the mostly barren mountain slopes.  He said that this is a new feature, that for decades there was no vegetation whatsoever.  The new arrival is due to more rain than usual.  His explanation was a lament.  He informed me that the road system in Oman included no tunnels because the rock is too soft for such engineering.

After the grand mosque, Sana took me to my next accommodation, as arranged.  We hadn’t discussed how much I’d pay for his service today, but I felt confident that he was a good man, and when he asked for X, I added a little because I believed it had been worth more.  Tomorrow morning he would come again to ferry me to the airport.  I’d booked my final night in al Khuwair not far from the first hotel.  This one was booked with Airbnb because I knew I would need to wash my clothes.  Rather annoyingly, I was unable to operate the machine – the water started draining before it even covered the clothes!  I gave up, washed by hand and used the machine for its spin cycle.  Then I went out to find a supermarket.  I planned to eat in the accommodation, so I was on a supply run.

En route I spotted a few open eateries with the promise of Turkish food.  Change of plan – here I’d have a late lunch, and at the supermarket I’d get some snacks for the evening.  My schwarma was excellent, as was the mango juice.  Beside me sat a ruggedly handsome and very masculine man in his 40s and another in his 60s.  The pair looked like they were from Syria or the south Caucasus, and it seemed they were the owners of the establishment since I understood them to be barking orders at the workers, who appeared south Asian.  I had not yet worked out if all Omani men dressed in the traditional Arab robe or if it was a choice – was this tall drink of water beside me Arab or not?  (His manner reminded me of the red-blooded Pole Piotrek who hosted me in Longyearbyen.)  I stole only two glances and then decided that I’d pushed my luck far enough.  After eating and shopping, I called it a day.

Circling back to my apartment, I took a shower.  Horror of horrors: the water was cold and no towel was provided!  I was totally unimpressed with this place.  (After waking the next morning, I found the switch to turn on the hot water boiler!  I never did find a towel.)  For some reason I decided not to turn my phone on airplane mode overnight, which is something I always do so as not to be awoken by email, message or weather notifications.  In the wee hours, I got a message from my host saying that there’d be road closures again in the morning and that I should try to leave home before 6am.  I messaged Sana immediately, but he was asleep, as I’d expected.  Then I quickly checked Google Maps to see if there were alternative routes to the airport, and indeed there were, so I slumbered again. 

(Wed, Jan 15)  The next morning, Sana arrived as arranged and brought me to my aviation.  En route, he told me that rain was forecast again for today.  Scarcely had the words passed his lips when droplets tumbled from the sky.  The craft was delayed for half an hour at the gate, and after boarding and queuing for take-off, it was delayed for another half hour – Muscat air traffic control was concerned about weather conditions around the airport….. or was it yet another blooming dignitary taking precedence?  I’d been assigned a middle seat, and the one beside mine on the aisle was also assigned.  The one by the window was vacant, and as soon as the aircraft’s doors were shut, I hopped over to get a view, if I could, of the Persian Gulf.  

This is actually the Gulf of Oman,
which lies east of the Musandam Peninsula,
while the Persian Gulf lies to the west.

Rain was falling once more, and our ascent, when it finally happened, would prove to be bumpy.  My friend in Dubai had warned that rain was expected again on Wednesday, and since we were departing in it, I gloomily anticipated that the forecast had been correct.  Landing 40 minutes later, the sky was clear.  Hoorah!