Return to Oman

This past weekend we drove over to Dibba, part of the Omani annex that lies, disconnected from contiguous Oman, at the northwestern tip of the UAE. Dibba is a sleepy fishing village with a few resorts, just over the border from Fujairah. We had followed our friends Jane and Andy from Dubai, trusting their many years of experience as Safari guides in the African bush would help lead us to our destination. In fact, this particular UAE/Oman border crossing is more relaxed than the main Oman border, and I was able to present Vanessa's passport while she slept heavily in the passenger seat. Still, the ever watchful UAE border police did wonder aloud about her prone position, and I assured them that she was only napping. 

We set up camp at the end of a long beach, as far as possible from the moronic escapades of several full size SUVs, one monster truck, and two quad bikes-- one of which appeared to be hobbled by some mechanical ailment that perhaps inspired the removal of the muffler from the second, otherwise working, vehicle. The overcompensating quad's throaty roar seemed to shake the canyon behind us as the rider dumped the clutch, thrusting his front wheels into the air and tearing across the beach. The bike's flatulence reminded me of one morning last year, when I started up my small Toyota pickup to find that thieves had stolen my catalytic converter in the night, disabling the exhaust system in the bargain and earning me a lot of unwanted attention as I drove through a throng of critical mass riders later that morning.

Eventually, the automotive revelers were replaced by a paramilitary dance group, whose chanting, drumming and inexplicable psychedelic organ playing continued into the wee hours. We did our best to ignore them, cooking over an open flame, and enjoying the fresh air and multiplying stars from our graffitied corner of the beach.

The next day we drove back accross the border and breakfasted at Le Meridien, also home to the dive center that would take us Snorkeling/Diving that afternoon. As it turns out, a red tide had suffocated the reef months earlier, cutting off its sunlight for weeks at a time, and the resultant destruction had severely impacted the ecosystem. There were a few sharks, clown fish, and eels on hand, but the amount of sea life was hugely decreased since Vanessa's visit there six months ago. Still, it felt wonderful to be out on the water, and the weather was absolutely perfect.

On the return trip we stopped at a road side market to buy two clay pots for our front porch, and met a few local characters in the bargain. We met a man in yellow sweater emblazoned with the number 23, who explained that he had been a sailor and truck driver all over the world. Upon hearing that we were from California, he listed off the numerous port cities that he'd visited before coming to the UAE and buying his own long haul rig. I tried to give my new good buddy a big ten four, but he shook his head, walking away in quiet disgust. We negotiated with the merchants, shaving a dirham or two off the price here and there, sampling fruits we'd never seen or heard of, and ultimately declining to try the salted sardines, which sat heaped in the late afternoon sun, flies festering from every nook and cranny. It was the perfect end to our brief escape from what has become a festering nook in its own right, as the unexpectedly wet winter has brought an outbreak of mold to our poorly ventilated apartment-- not to worry though, Sheriff Bleach has recently arrived on the scene, and all is well in Arabia.