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.

Oman! You Devil.

It is almost impossible for me to talk about Oman without comparing it to Dubai, which is the only region of the Middle East that I know well, or at all. The essence of my feelings on these two neighboring countries can be distilled into two anecdotes, the first of which occurred while we were staying at the Turtle Beach Resort (TBR) in Ras Al Jinz, Oman. 

TBR is made up of ten or twelve humble straw roofed huts, which are comfortable enough, and have a slightly rugged charm, allowing the occupant to muse: "See? I'm not as soft as you think I am." All from the comfort of a queen size bed that is probably decked out with feather pillows brought from home. The first evening at TBR passed in tranquil fashion, as Vanessa and I seemed to have the place nearly to ourselves. In the morning, the resort's smattering of middle aged guests emerged well before us, and were already sunning themselves on the beach while we policed our breakfast plates against a squadron of Omani flies. 

We were still recovering from 36 hours of (mostly) driving and sleeping, and allowed ourselves a day of lazing around the beach and shack which, at its most active, included a dusty game of basketball with some gullible local children. "Isn't that Yusuf Islam?" I would exclaim, pointing and squinting into the distance as they turned to join me, knowing full well that Yusuf's latest album went triple frankincense in Oman. Having effectively diverted the ten year olds, I quickly passed the ball to Nessa down court where she proceeded to finger roll another two points for Team USA.

Needless to say, we were greatly enjoying our time at TBR, and continued to do so despite the arrival of a gang of cell phone encrusted Dubai residents, who had mistakenly booked TBR believing that it was some sort of luxury hotel with a night club and custom tortoise shell dance floor. 

Later, as I lay my head on the pillow, reading One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for the first time, our new neighbors proceeded to power up the AC in their shack, igniting a tortured sounding generator that turned out to be located six feet from my head, just outside our poorly insulated hut. I don't expect huts to be well insulated per se, but I also don't expect them to have air conditioning. I suppose the reason I most resented the resulting 14 hour mechanical serenade, was that the temperature was quite reasonable, on the cool side if anything. It's possible that the noise might have been meant to obscure the couple's amorous plans for the evening, but it proved no match for their braying affections, which suggested a film acting pedigree quite unexpected in an islamic state. 

When I awoke the next morning to find the AC/generator still whirring like a broken refrigerator perched inside my ear canal, I exacted my revenge by pounding on the walls of our hut, shouting over and over, "goddamn these plastic nails!" Still, I can't be sure that our slumbering neighbors heard me, as my antics probably blended in with the white noise of their personal comfort. I realize that I'm whining about minor irritations, but isn't a vacation hopefully a respite from such aggravation, especially when the nearest town is a sparsely populated fishing village? We relished our break from Dubai, so when Dubai came to us in Oman, it was quite unwelcome.

My second story about Oman, isn't so much a story, but the paraphrasing of an email I received from my friend and editor, Andy. Upon our return, I had sent him a new article, along with a note thanking him and his wife for recommending the Oman Dive Center (ODC) in Muscat, where we stayed for two nights towards the end of our trip. Returning from TBR at the start of the work week, we sailed smoothly down Oman's recently opened coastal highway, which afforded excellent views of the Gulf, and the pleasure of sailing through toll booths that weren't yet operational. The ODC is a somewhat more refined resort than TBR, in that the huts are a better furnished and more finished looking in general, including their own open air shower and bathroom. Nestled behind the hut and, protected by rock walls about five feet high, the shower was like some excellent backyard patio with an overhead sprinkler. Also, the coffee is pretty good at ODC, whereas TBR serves instant. Within minutes of receiving my email Andy wrote back the following reply, he'd just returned from almost a month in his native Australia:

"Yeah, having a little trouble adjusting myself-- wish I lived in Oman instead of Dubai."