Wadis, Witches, and Me: 2-Weeks In Oman

Its been several months since my return from my 10-day vacation to Oman to visit my BFF since high school, Claire, who is a CELTA-certified foundational English language teacher at the University of Nizwa. Due to time constraints during the trip, blogging was absolutely out of the question (not to mention our net troubles which I'll go into greater detail about later) and life has been near chaos since my return, therefore making blogging if not difficult, just short of hard to get into. 8 months later however I am back into my groove and prepared to tell my newest story. This post will be about Oman only, therefore I will attempt to condense 10 days worth of adventure into a post that covered 3 back this time last spring.


The day of my flight to Muscat for a mere vacation was more of a stressful, hectic clusterf*ck than my entire leaving of another continent for an undetermined amount of time. My leaving in the first place was contested by a fair few (its amazing how so many people think they have a say in your personal life) as something to be avoided because, according to them, it was "haram" due to my lack of mahrem status. A mahrem is a male guardian in Islam for women; your father, your older brother, an uncle, or when married your husband, of course. Women aren't supposed to travel alone, at least not for extended periods of time. The logic is that we need "protecting", but those who know me are already rolling their eyes and saying "Cause Elena is just the kind of woman who needs 'protecting'." Say in the States most people wouldn't give a flying f*ck, but here its everyone's business and everyone is out to either protect your honor or spread the word about how you sullied it. The official story, come up with by me sadly, was that I was visiting my brother Mike, the major in the US Army, as he was stationed in Oman. (Sorry for the fib, bro) Mike has toured Iraq, Afghanistan, and I'm sure Kuwait, but I don't think short of a layover my older brother has ever been to Oman. Another part of the "Ayb"-ness of the situation ('Ayb' means "shame" in Arabic) was that the person I was visiting was a would-be Muslim female in her own state of mahrem-less being living and working alone in a Muslim country. Now Shadi's only real beef with my going without him was simply that; going without him. The man is in dire need of a vacation as well, and wanted to see Oman too, especially with me for company. Sadly the court didn't take its own vacation until well into June, and the cheapest tickets to Oman were before May. This was my only shot, so I took it. Thanks to my sizeable tax return, I was able to purchase my own round-trip tickets, a camera and phone once I reached Muscat, and fund most of my trip without breaking a sweat. "Islamically" that's totally within my rights as its my money. When I returned Umm Shadi told me she couldn't lie when people asked, but that her explanation flummoxed the stupidest of the gossipers to the point of acceptance. I realized that to be able to post the truth I'd have to dispel the myth about my visiting Mike, and that family members here would probably find out. I've decided I don't care.

That morning Shadi and I had to return to Irbid police department to get a stamp on my passport that would save me from a $300 fine upon return to Amman due to our lateness in fixing my permanent residency status (a point you will note we were relaxed on due to our belief that we were leaving the country too soon to care whether I had residency or not), then to race to 8th Circle to run Thakia by Dr. Alaa's as she had torn her stitches the night before. They fit her with a cone of shame and instructed us on the medicine to use, then we booked it to the airport, unable to stop at an electronics store to fetch me a camera. I arrived almost 2 hours before departure, and Shadi, I would learn later, had found a spot near security where he could watch me nervously search for my ticketing desk and deposit my luggage. As I neared security checkpoint 2, I was informed that my flight was suddenly on final boarding call. I race to the terminal to find it half empty, door closed, and all passengers still sitting patiently in the waiting area; they hadn't even begun boarding. I sat there for another hour jiggling my foot to music and knowing that the flirting flight attendants were commenting on my reading and toe-tapping like it was something they'd never seen before. The flight was decent, the food not so bad, and the Australian business-men sitting in front of me kept me more entertained than the inflight gag show. We arrived in Bahrain 25 minutes early, (I had an hour layover according to my ticket), however upon arrival we discover that our transit flight is ALSO in final boarding status. Once again upon arrival this is not the case, but thankfully the wait wasn't so annoying. This flight was longer, but by the time I felt I'd been in the plane half an hour, we were already descending. I could see ocean, which I hadn't seen since I was a child (both my flights to and from Jordan crossed the Atlantic in the dark). Traversing this airport was no problem; I exchanged my money, purchased my 10-day visa which was mercifully cheap, discovered that my 230JD became 140OR, got my luggage, and set off to hunt down Claire. Easily the only white person in the terminal she was a quick find. I had long tired of the stares, glances, and smirks by both the Arabs and Indians throughout my flights and layovers that I decided to douse them in Americanism. "Ya Amreekia!" I bellowed toward Claire and flagged her down spastically, smirking at all the reactions that sparked and not caring one bit. I gave her a blow-by-blow of my trip as we made our way to her car, also enlightening her on my camera dilemma. The decision was made to hit up the closest mall on the way to Nizwa and fetch one, and we did just that, after a grand display of the style of Omani driving I would become accustomed to over the course of my vacation. We found a camera in 5 minutes, and I chose in under 2. I would be introduced to the Omani style of abaya and shayla wearing in that mall, as well as what counted for interior design (spare no expense in the Gulf, baby) before we hit the road to Nizwa.

The clock-tower in Muscat Claire was rather fond of.

Even with the redbull provided via thoughtful Claire, I was still half-out on the way to her place, and, as it was pitch dark, didn't really notice much until we reached her building an hour later. We would chat, eat a tasty meal at a Turkish restaurant near her place where we would run into a few of her friends and I would find 5 black cats all resembling Javanese or Sphynx's, discover quirks about her new apartment (she'd moved in the day before I arrived) and fall asleep, as usual, rather late. Shadi called near midnight, worried to death because I hadn't called when I'd gotten to Muscat. Claire and I decided a phone for me while in Oman might be a good idea; we'd fetch one the next evening.

Claire had classes to hold the following morning, so I stayed in her new town, Hay Al Ain, to explore it and set up the Nawras net connection on my laptop. Net having failed, I ventured outside with my camera in tow to catch whatever was making that god-awful trilling racket outside the kitchen window and ended up meeting one of Claire's neighbors, a nice older British lady named Elaine who was headed to the Falaj Daris hotel for some swimming. She informed me the bird was a collared dove and fairly common around Nizwa. The promise of bird-watching would lure me further into town an hour later, but not before I would seem to break into the neighbor's apartment with my key absurdly thinking it was the door I'd vacated previously. I was assaulted by a belligerent and fearful lady's voice from behind the door, screaming in an unintelligible Bedouin language before discovering my mistake and booking it up the stairs to my true haven. I decided to wander the streets, camera and money in tow, and would discover how insanely quiet Hay al Ain is. Even as the children were bussed home from school, the only sounds in the area was the occasional catcall from a teenager on the vespa-equivalent of a motorbike (meaning you looked just as lame sitting on one of those in a dishdash as anyone wearing anything would look on a Vespa). As I wandered into the parking lot of a modest masjid, a man I had sworn I saw drive by me not 5 minutes ago pulled up alongside me and asked in mixed arabic and english if I needed assistance. I was warned previously by Claire and my own experience that most people who do this for a white lady either assume she's a prostitute or stupid, so regardless of his actual motive I would tell him in my best arabic that I was fine and needed no help. Thankfully he left without incident. After a few more "Azzayik ya binty" and "ya habiiiiiiiibi" 's (Egyptian/Omani dialect for "How are ya, girl?" and  "oh my goodness/my love") I decided to wander down a dirt road heading into some low mountain terrain instead of the paved road of douchepickles. While encountering random herder-less goat herd #1 and some more randomly abandoned bathroom tile, I approached the hilltop and see a ramshackle hut ahead of me. A teenage boy in a white truck pulls alongside of me and I prepare for the usual. Instead, rather emphatically, he informs me in arabic and international mime "Do not go that way or you'll die". I request clarification, and he further mimes a shotgun in my direction. Thus informed, I make an immediate about-face and head back the other direction. I decline his invitation for a ride home, and consider myself lucky I wasn't the cause of an international incident. Apparently a transient family of rather violent Pakistani workers lived beyond that hill, and embraced the redneck version of "stay off my lawn." I hit the local general store (just like the ones in Jordan) for some soda and snacks, then head back to the apartment to watch Ice Age 2, eat, and await Claire's return at 2pm.

The aforementioned modest masjid of Hay al Ain

Mountain view from "dirt road of death"

First of 400 goat herds

 When Claire returns we hit up the LuLu, a local "mall" monstrosity for a cheap phone for me and new sim card for her, grab snacks at the grocery end, get stared at, fetch tasty sammiches at the Nizwa Souk and head home to eat, set up net, talk to our respective male counterparts, and plan the next day's events. I note that everything in Oman, EVERYTHING, has A/C. Awwwww yeaaa.

The next day I accompany Claire to her University as, while it may be a vacation for me, my dear friend still had to work most of the days I was there. I have been to several college campuses in Jordan, but the Uni in Nizwa, newer than most of those colleges and yet not as prestigious, was lovely. Also, that odd quiet, regardless of the din that usually pervades all college campuses, was disquietingly  (totally made that word up) present. The student population here is largely female, with young women 18-20 coming from the local villages and mountain towns; college in Oman is largely free. That said, I have never, in my LIFE, been the subject of more stares from WOMEN. Nearly everyone I passed by had a look for me, mostly curious bordering on gossip-inducing. Claire would explain the lack of white women in this region, and that most were teachers if not students of arabic in the new program. Again I am reintroduced to the Omani style of abaya: overlong flowing fabric with few embellishments and a shayla scarf wrapped loosely and haphazardly ontop of the head. At first I was flummoxed as to how they managed to not trip all over themselves, the fabric not just brushing the ground but sweeping it like the cathedral train of a wedding gown, or a dress that was far too big for the wearer. That's when I chanced to look down. Right, I'd forgotten about Gulf heels. Hooker heels I am accustomed to calling them back home, near platform height to both add to the slenderizing effect of the black abaya and also to avoid tripping over the fabric, although tripping over the heels themselves should also be a constant worry. In some interpretations of the hijab rule in Islam, it is only permissible to show the feet, hands and face which Gulf women cherish with relish. Therefore the shoes, next to the makeup, are the most ostentatious part of a woman's wardrobe. Over the top I'd say, as I have always hated most high-heeled shoes, even as I sold them to other people. After awhile I'd end up desiring that type of abaya, and would get my chance to wear one later on.

First seemed smart, except the haze here is more present than the sun.

Claire's office building; yes those are all date palms.

One of many deluges experienced here; I literally watched this come in.

We visited her office first, where a handful of foreign english teachers sat babbling about the weather and latest scandals. I was most pleased to meet a teacher from Alaska named Ernie that Claire had joked so much about. Voted most likely to be a Tea-Partier I DIDN'T hate, Ernie regaled us with tales of his misadventures in the Alaskan wilderness (also known as Fairbanks), his take on politics including Mrs. Palin, his local trials and tribulations, his jeep, and his many experiences at the local hotspot The Golden Tulip (or Turnip as the expats called it; actually, probably just Ernie). According to Ernie and some of the other experienced teachers, the Turnip (which has a more reputable location in Amman) was the hang-out of Russian and Ukrainian mobsters, and I'm so not kidding. The entertainment provided by the hotel were female singers, hires from the Ukraine and Russia that were rumored to have been kidnapped and forced to work for the mobsters in Nizwa. Ernie said they weren't allowed to leave their rooms at the hotel except to perform every night, and their "keepers" watched all men in attendance very, very closely. He was particularly enamored of a lady named "Tatiana". After making plans to meet up with him at the Turnip later that week, Claire and I booked it to her classroom where her all-female class awaited us. She had previously informed her foundational english class that her American friend would be visiting her for 2 weeks and would come along to class from time to time. Being in the classes was nearly as fun as the rest of the trip, thanks to these amazing girls. As agreed upon the night before, we took care to pretend I spoke no Arabic until the end of the class. As impressed with me as they were in the beginning, especially my clothing choice ("Fashion, teacher!") when I murmured my first arabic retort I'd never seen such excitement. Really? It was nutty when they discovered I could sing, and would request I honor them with a performance in the next class I attended. We ended the class by encouraging one of the students, a girl with incredible beauty and bedouin roots to boot, to sing for us instead. According to Claire and the girls, she had even made a demo recording in Bahrain, but her conservative family and upbringing would never allow her to use her talent that far. Pity. I returned to classes a few more times during my visit, 2 for tests proctoring (where we discovered a 'sophisticated' underground cheating network of writing it on the desk and having the next tester try to copy it; smooth for a 5th grader and one who didn't realize that the tests were different in every class) and one for the singing event (in lieu of our mutual vacation and love of country music, Claire and I would sing "Knee Deep" by the Zach Brown band to great glee and confusion) and each time was memorable and mostly hilarious. I won't forget getting caught in the most random storm of my life, or the nonchalant reactions of the Omanis caught in the same storm (or seeing a water/sand spout alongside the highway)

We spent the vast majority of our nights after classes at a hookah bar down the street, or selecting a different place to eat. I was an avid hookah smoker back home, and friends would forgo hookah bars to come to my place instead. Thanks to tutoring from both Saudis and Palestinians, I had one great home shisha bar. So, needless to say, I was hella excited to experience it in the land it came from. Having not been disappointed in Jordan (argeelah under the stars in the Wadi Rum is a smoking experience I shall never forget) I was keen to see what Oman had to offer. In Nizwa, I was sorely disappointed. Every time we went to this particular place, populated by staring men of course, the argeelah was a sad excuse. Maybe it was the flavors I chose, since Claire's flavors were far tastier, but I was sorely disappointed just the same. Even the hookah at the expensive beach-side restaurant Japengo would not impress me much. Luckily the food would not disappoint. One night, after exploring the famous Nizwa Souk (Nizwa Fort & Historic Souk), we took our meal at a new fish restaurant called One World. The food culture in Oman, like the rest of its heritage, is largely a mix of Indo-Arab influence. Spices abound in this country whereas others, like Jordan, Syria, and some Gulf states as well, lack in fire. We had a fish and prawn combo that may never be duplicated. The Souk and Fort in Nizwa is one of the oldest of such places in Oman. Tourists are welcome to enter the old fort and shop within its walls, weary of being priced for being "white" (the white tax in the Middle East is the new black tax) however the beautiful Masjid is reserved only for Muslims. We decided to not test our luck as it may have been interesting trying to prove Islamic status being white, uncovered women. After receiving a family dinner invite for the following week by Claire's merchant friend, we returned home to plan our weekend.

Remains of one of the older towers still standing.

Over the course of the first week, Claire and I discovered discrepancies in the amenities offered her in her newest apartment. While lavishly furnished, A/C provided and appliances, a major hiccup in the arrangements would prompt our hotel stay that weekend in Muscat. The water. The WATER, for Crissakes' was nearly entirely absent for 4 days. Ever gone without a shower that long? Don't think so. Flushing toilets? Ha, better do it on campus. And to make things worse, her asshat of a resident manager gave us the arab run-around like nobody's business! Claire has been swindled and tossed aside by this expat tenant's nightmare all year. A threat to involve her fiance AND my husband finally got some things done, but I do not envy her in this regard (altho I did envy the rest of her employment package, including her salary, at the time) We decided our next trip would be to Muscat, and we left that morning armed with charged cameras, dying cell phones, and the firm desire of a nice beach ahead. I mentioned earlier that the drive to Nizwa at night was uneventful, even seemingly empty as miles had passed me with very few lights to indicate towns or homes. As we hit the main Oman highway I would discover, to my unparalleled delight, why. Claire could only smirk, having expected my reaction after seeing how her fiance Yasser had taken it, as I gawked and gaped at every sight surrounding her Renoult 4-door sedan. MOUNTAINS. Mountains as I had never seen in my life, even in the glories of states like Utah and Colorado. A literal fishbowl we were in, with cliffs so steep and sharp I couldn't imagine how they'd carved a road through it. Small towns and villages dotted the jagged landscape with centuries-old look-out post forts, miniatures of the Nizwa fort. Pigeon huts made from clay spewed their inhabitants into the sky. I nearly wiped out my camera's battery taking photos and video here.

Either a fort or a pigeon hut along the highway.

One side of the fishbowl.

And the other... HOLY BALLS.

Because I was so intent on saving my camera battery for the beach, I didn't take any photos of the city of Muscat or the drive to the beach Claire knew about. Finding parking was fun, as a beautiful day in Oman meant everyone was out and about. We settled on lunch at this cute little restaurant popular with expats, and I continued my effort to locate the best Limon-Nana (Mint Lemonade beverage) in this or any other world. I settled on a nice tuna melt sandwich and we managed to charge our phones and cameras in the restaurant. I'd brought along my swim-tunic and leggings (although western style swimsuits are fine in Muscat, I preferred not to be harassed anyway) so we changed in the bathroom of what turned out to be a mini-mall the restaurant was a tenant of. After exploring an expensive perfume shop and more expensive Arabic giftshop, we hit the beach. The tide had been high before lunch, but now after 1pm, it had receded and left behind on its near white sands millions and millions of tiny sea-creatures and their former homes. I retrieved bags from the beachfront coffeeshop and Claire and I went to town collecting as many as humanly possible, with me diving into the warm blue ocean every so often. Swimming here was miles better than the public beach for the Red Sea in Aqaba, and I relished every second, but wished my husband had been with me. After about 2 hours we noticed a group of Arabic shabab (young men) slowly following us down the beach, nonchalantly. It was to be expected, however as I was in no mood to deal with the same issue I had in Jordan since this was my VACATION, I approached the group on my own and in my usual arableezi requested that they cease and desist as we were married women on vacation together and were uncomfortable with their presence. Their "Rep" responded in his best english, apologizing and agreeing to stay put as we moved off, handing me a sizeable shell they had found and thought we'd like considering what our current activity was. I thanked them and we headed another way, leaving them behind. At this point I discover a crab scuttling near my feet, and we chase it attempting to catch it for posterity. No dice, but a tide pool full of smaller critters digging into the sand made up for it. The sun began setting after our 3rd hour there, and after one more dip and some sunset photos, we cleaned up and headed out in search of the hotel we had scouted on the net the night before that had good reviews from expat clients.

Told ya.

My last moment on that beach.

Best place for a sun-salutation, amirite?

Our hotel was called "The Beach Hotel" aptly and creatively named due to its close location to said beach. A nice, clean double room greeted us with the best bathroom I've seen in a hotel my whole life. The shower head blasted hot water like a burst water main, and the tub could have fit two. We decided we'd each get a bath later; for now a shower would suffice since the cold slow drip we'd had 2 days before left us pining for a real clean experience. Our evening activity was planned for the Muttrah Souk, a famous city some miles outside of downtown Muscat well-known for its amazing shopping experience and fisheries. It was here that I would achieve my goal of taking home a Gulf-style butterfly abaya, gifted me by Claire as a belated wedding gift. Claire would also purchase what they told us was an abaya meant for weddings, but she looked so fabulous in it there was no question of her taking it anyway. We decided to wear them while we continued our shopping adventure, finding things here and there to take home to my family. After 2 hours, we got feeling more than a bit peckish, so we headed back into Muscat proper for a dinner down on the beach. Our original destination was a well-known spot called Tche Tche, but after being seated in a niche surrounded by shabab we chose to trek down the road a bit to another place called Japengo. It is at this juncture that I finally discovered where all the disgusting desperate men hung out in Oman. In Jordan, they were everywhere and anywhere; you'd never know what situation you could end up in. That whole week in Oman the only annoyance we'd received was at the hand of Indian workers in Nizwa. To find dinner tonight, we had to traverse the well-known trap that was the Shatti-Al Qurm. Apparently, when the sun set anyone was who anyone and anyone who was no one drove up and down this road soliciting hoots, howls and catcalls from enormous groups of young men on the sidewalks on either side. Even Claire, fully decked out in abaya and hijab (I had abandoned mine in the car) was not left out. After passing 2 such groups with only calls, we hit a would-be biker gang just waiting for us. "Hark! A herd of Douche!" I cried, knowing what awaited us. I was not wrong. Mixed english and arabic whistles and calls met us, and no english swearing or nasty hand gestures were spared by either of us, but unlike Jordanian shabab, they were not daunted. At reaching Japengo, Claire finally shouted "Qussimich!" (this word, meaning "your mother's *****" is possibly one of the most inflammatory arabic statements) The doucheherd fell into shocked silence, possibly at the fact that a white girl knew how to swear as good as any of them. She would later lament her use of the female tense, but I assured her that the message reached them all the same. It was while we sat ourselves we ran into an Indo-Omani acquaintance I had known in college named Haneen. She and a group of her fashionable Muscat friends were seated beside us, and we made idle plans to meet for coffee later that week that never happened. She was scandalized at our encounter with the bike-riding shabab down the street and was sure they would come after us. I was unfazed, even after one rode around the circumference of the restaurant more than once that night. The food and argeelah was decent, despite the high price, and we enjoyed a nice night near the beach.

Entrance to the Muttrah Souk.

One wing of the ginormous souk.

Upon returning to our hotel, we settled on a swim in the private pool that was walled on either side by portions of the hotel, sparing us sidewalk onlookers. However, after 20 minutes and a man watching from a balcony, we chose to return to our room for the promise of a hot bath and talking on the phone to our respective spouses. That bath, btw, was one of the most sublime experiences of my life abroad. I weep inwardly every time I take a bath at home. In the morning we snagged some Caribou coffee and headed back to Nizwa as we were set to have lunch with Ahmed the Merchant's family at his home near the Souk. We picked him up at closing time, since Friday was a half-day for the souk, and made it to his neighborhood filled with old homes and more date palms. Ahmed's family homestead turned out to be nothing short of a zoo, and I mean the literal kind. Every sort of animal either wandered his yard or sat in large cages, including domestic cats! His yard had flooded with the litter rain that we'd gotten days before, and flies were everywhere. As it turned out, his wife and kids were eating with her family, and we were alone save the presence (guessed) of his own mother who'd made lunch in the form of an Omani fish beryani. We ate with our hands, and discussed differences in Jordanian custom vs. Omani tradition. I slyly snuck in a jibe about how Jordanians would never allow 2 young women alone with a man who was not their relative or husband. I took his blush to be the proper amount of shame in assuming rules didn't apply to foreigners. After lunch he took us around town to show us the old mosque and the falaj park. We returned home after Asr. Claire would allow me to drive her car while she worked that week, and I spent that time adventuring in places off the beaten path: the falaj daris, a date palm and banana farm, a neighborhood near said farm, and abandoned roadside mini-fort, and the LuLu learning to use Omani currency (called the Omani Riyal; OMR) Taking a picture of a man-made water fall at the Daris I encountered a group of women washing their carpets in it, right next to a sign in english and arabic forbidding said act. One of the women , an older motherly type, spotted my camera and freaked out, calling "Ma fi soura! Ma feesh!" (I want no pictures! None!)while her daughters calmed her and translated my arableezi indicating I only wanted the falaj and no women were in my pictures. It is a normal custom that women not be photographed without permission, but in Oman I sensed even more. We were close to Bahla, that interestingly paranoid town where magic was very much alive and a great fear. Could I also have been stealing her soul? Not a very Islamic concept, but not unlikely considering where I was.

One of the many inmate's at Ahmed's home zoo.

The aforementioned falaj

Date and banana palms at the falaj park.

A falls at the Falaj Daris

A wadi on the way to Jabal Akhdar (Green Mountain)

The rest of the week passed in hookah bars, a nice Indian restaurant, one more visit to U Nizwa and some goodbyes to Alaskan Ernie, as well as some last minute gift purchases, henna tattoo experiments and red hair henna dying. I was homesick for Shadi and couldn't wait to get to him, but the thought of leaving Oman was awful. I resolved to get us here to live, at least for awhile, as soon as I could. Claire dropped me off at the Muscat Int'l Airport and another nutty plane-ride home ensued. I spent 5 hours on a layover in Bahrain reading a book Claire had lent me "Girls of Riyadh" (one that had been ironically banned in Riyadh due to its content, talking about the sordid personal lives of Saudi women) and managed to finish it before boarding the flight for Amman. Shadi awaited me at the terminal, and we were both greeted by my first "mud-rain", a rain that contained so many dirt particles that cars and everything were coated in a nice layer of dust for days to come. Sleep was both hard and easy that night, missing the mountains and odd quiet atmosphere, but gladder than ever to be back to the love of my life.

Bahrain Int'l Airport, view from my terminal.

Fort or what?

Peppercorn's Indian Restaurant, tasty place popular with Expats.

The monstrosity that was the Lulu Hypermarket.

View from the datepalm farm.

The Falaj Daris family park near Hay Al Ain.