Oman, better late than never

Road tripping once again.

Early morning haze that coffee can't quite penetrate, leaving the city behind in its cool beginnings. Familiar ground to Hatta, dunes rolling, camels strolling unconcerned - but seen anew through parents' eyes, still worth a picture stop. Breakfast in the restful peace of the hotel, lingering over coffee, unwilling to move too soon. Steps to the hill-top park seem more difficult, weighed down by the early start and eggs and toast, but the still silence and hazy mountain ridges still inspire peaceful sighs.

Into unexplored territory - Omani visa procedures, unexplained and discovered through trial and error: we play the part of confused tourists very well, and manage eventually. Oman itself a welcome change to the eyes: green and lush in comparsion to Dubai, palm trees spreading fronds in all directions, schoolboys in white robes and round caps stream from schools for a noon break, mosques jut out at regular intervals, thier double minarets and domes adding splashes of color - purple, blue, coral - to the dusty palette of the landscape. Homes, most of them basic, some glinting with ornate glass or mosaic work, stay low to the ground. The ocean is out there somewhere... the earth looks like it ends just at the horizon. Roundabouts come more frequently, cars circle about monuments, sculptures, clocks... Muscat before we expect it. The hotels, malls, and freeways could be in any city in the world.... but white villas on rocky hillsides lend a Mediterranean feel and glimpses of brilliant ocean remind us of our location.

We find our hotel after only a brief misdirection and don't waste much time heading down to the beach for a walk and a swim. The hotel's small private beach becomes much bigger at low tide - a wade across a shallow channel opens up the nearby public beach, and the deliciously cool waters of the Gulf of Oman. The tide comes in as we turn back, and as Richard and I wade into the channel, it drops off quickly, and we're forced to swim - doggy paddle, clothes-getting-wet, this is-is-ridiculous swimming. Soon as we reach the other side, the hotel employee points behind us to where two people are wading across a shallower portion... only up to their knees... you'd think that farther out would be deeper, yeah? NO.


The next few days were a perfect combination of relaxation (sweet, sweet coffee and lovely buffet breakfasts on the terrace, drinks under the palms in the evening, delicious dinners on balconies, swimming and lounging around the pool, and dozing off in the warm evening breeze under the bright-white glow of the moon before sleepily stumbling inside to bed) and experiencing the Omani culture:

Getting into the car and driving, we found the Muttrah corniche - hot and breezy under blue skies, turquoise waters lap around navy boats and dhows, gulls wheel, local people and the occasional tourists walk along the sidewalk. The Souq is a covered walkway lined with shops full of Omani silver, little round hats, shimmering fabrics, antiques, jewelry, shoes... alleys veer off to a maze of more shops or squares of bright blue sky, locals and tourists browse together, shop-keepers entice but don't annoy, and we stroll along.

Fisherman have long since brought in their catch, the stench rank in the hot afternoon; in the fish market they sit on buckets with their catches: big fish, little fish, a shark, a squid; eyes still and dark. Blood and scales spatter the floor. Outside, a boat arrives, men sort through the catch, sell them from the boat in bulging plastic bags.

Down the coast, craggy mountains rising, white towns appear as the road dips and falls. Up a steep grade in search of the Shangri-la hotel, mountains on every side, the hazy blue of sea meeting sky visisble in snatches as the road climbs and drops. We find the hotel, perched on a cliff overlooking crashing waves and a vast expanse of brilliant aquamarine water - at the edge of the world.

Another day, another drive, on the 'fort loop.' Leaving the coast, we cross rocky plains dotted with scraggly, hardy trees, mountains hide on the edge, lost in the haze. Nakhal fort is deserted in the heat, we explore courtyards and turrets, look out at the landscape along the long black barrels of dormant cannons. Continuing on, we enter the mountains - rocky, pock-marked hills rise on either side as we follow a curving wadi, dry and rocky with occasional oases green with date palm shade. I would not want to be trapped there when the rain falls and the water rushes along... the mountains slant downward in striped layers, seemingly formed by giant hands squeezing the earth...

More turrets to explore in Rostaq, then home again through the flat lands...

After one last lingering breakfast on our last day, soaking up and palms and waves and cheesy elevator music, we headed home via Nizwa, reluctant to stop at yet another fort in Jabeer, but it was the best yet - smooth stone passages and stairways to explore, and a commanding view of the surrounding plains...

ready to be home, but one last barrier: the border. How many times can we stop? What do they need now? What should we do here? Which way do we go? Giggling by the end, we hand over documents, car registration, and passports... home is a welcome sight when we reach it.

Most pics courtesy of Jen, Jim, and Joan, as I was not so much about the camera on this trip...