Preeti verma lal explores the crumbling remains of the old towns of Muscat, Oman, where the past, present and future fuse together in proportionate harmony.
Arus abiyadh ma samakh makhli. Saloonat owal. Ruz bil khudra. Kubz al murdouf. Roz bil habib. Sleepless on the two-hour Mumbai-Muscat flight, I was struggling to perfect the Arabic intonation of Omani dishes, but my 'r' was going limp without the throaty twang and my 'z' muddled in the meek drawl.
I was on an airline's package deal to Oman and my mind — and itinerary — was murmuring all things Omani. Even my portmanteau! I had packed a burgundy head scarf and a bucket of sunscreen to beat the almost 50-degree Celsius heat. And, of course, a sweet tooth for the famed Omani dates that ripen in summer to burnished golden on statuesque date palms.
At the airport, Dharmender S Amalkar, the Airport Manager, welcomed me with a warm smile, and a cheery Omani immigration officer completed the visa formalities in a blink. As I put first foot forward on Omani soil, a hot summer breeze caressed my face and brazenly flirted with my long hair.
The Omani summer can wilt even a rock, but I was prepped to brave the sun in a nation of three million where men look handsome in collarless traditional disdasah and women winsome with the hijab (head scarf) over their porcelain skin; where khanjar (dagger) sheaths are trimmed with silver thread and turbans are hand-embroidered exquisitely; where shark soup is a delicacy and umali, a dessert, translates into Ali's mother; where the ripple of sand dunes is rhythmical and women safe even on a deserted street.
Muscat was bathed in darkness when Ali Darwish Ali Al Hashliali, the Zahara Tours driver/guide/interpreter, drove me out of the airport. Faraway, the golden dome of the Grand Mosque shimmered like a jewel sewn on dark velvet; all I could hear was the whistling wind and the rustle of the swaying palm fronds. There was a certain stillness about Muscat, so unlike the staccato hurried pace of the West; Omani homes looked elegant without a hint of flamboyance; and history seemed to happily meld with Omani modernism that is barely four decades old.
Muddy marvel
In Oman, between the ancient and the modern, I picked the ancient and drove to Al Hamra, an old town built on tilted rock slabs, which lies in the Dhakiliya region. Also known as Hamra Al Abriyeen with reference to the Al Abri tribe that lives there, Al Hamra has some of the oldest preserved mud houses in Oman. Ali drove through a labyrinth of slender alleys and lush date farms to Bait Al Jalal, the oldest mud house in Al Hamra.
What must have been a luxurious edifice is now in ruins — windows have crumbled and walls have fallen, but in the 500-year-old mud, even the debris looked splendid. That, however, was not the only mud house in Al Hamra. In a rich trader's two-storied mud house, the arches have frayed in the harsh sun, but the carvings on the old mango door have withstood the weather.
Not too far away is the Al Hota Cave, one of the largest cave systems in the world. The entrance has a sinkhole, but what lies inside can leave anyone breathless. No one carbon dates the caves. Perhaps it began 1,000 years ago. Perhaps a million. But what one knows is that for millions of years little drops of water have been trickling off walls and forming stunning stalagmites and stalactites. Within the dark confines of Al Hoota lie Nature's incredible limestone artistry.
Still on an ancient history spree in Oman, I drove through Izki, an ancient city which was once an active trade route; Misfah, a village seemingly hewn out of rock. Mud houses hang precariously from the edges, but they sure are sturdy, for they have existed for centuries; Wadi Ghul, a spectacular deep canyon in the mountain range, out of which rises Jabel Shams, the highest peak in Oman.
I was dizzy with driving through a dirt track around a sorrel landscape, my throat was parched, my skin tanned, my hair tangled, and my stomach growling with hunger. I could drive to the Nizwa Souq and dig into the famed Omani halwa, which is made of sugar, ghee, nuts, cardamom, saffron and starch (interestingly, the halwa has no flour) or drive to Hail Al Shas (The View), a tented camp perched on the top of a mountain, where the sky lives just an arm's length away; where in the silence you can hear your heartbeat and the swish of a dragonfly's wings.
I'd rather be with the dragonfly. And the stars. In Hail Al Shas, peace was everywhere. Illuminated by the stars. And the warmth of Omanis. There's something in the loam of Oman. Perhaps warmth. Perhaps respect. Perhaps history. Perhaps everything. I am ready to book another flight to Oman. I am ready to pack a burgundy head scarf and a bucket of sunscreen. The 50-degree Celsius heat no longer bothers me!
Arus abiyadh ma samakh makhli. Saloonat owal. Ruz bil khudra. Kubz al murdouf. Roz bil habib. Sleepless on the two-hour Mumbai-Muscat flight, I was struggling to perfect the Arabic intonation of Omani dishes, but my 'r' was going limp without the throaty twang and my 'z' muddled in the meek drawl.
I was on an airline's package deal to Oman and my mind — and itinerary — was murmuring all things Omani. Even my portmanteau! I had packed a burgundy head scarf and a bucket of sunscreen to beat the almost 50-degree Celsius heat. And, of course, a sweet tooth for the famed Omani dates that ripen in summer to burnished golden on statuesque date palms.
At the airport, Dharmender S Amalkar, the Airport Manager, welcomed me with a warm smile, and a cheery Omani immigration officer completed the visa formalities in a blink. As I put first foot forward on Omani soil, a hot summer breeze caressed my face and brazenly flirted with my long hair.
The Omani summer can wilt even a rock, but I was prepped to brave the sun in a nation of three million where men look handsome in collarless traditional disdasah and women winsome with the hijab (head scarf) over their porcelain skin; where khanjar (dagger) sheaths are trimmed with silver thread and turbans are hand-embroidered exquisitely; where shark soup is a delicacy and umali, a dessert, translates into Ali's mother; where the ripple of sand dunes is rhythmical and women safe even on a deserted street.
Muscat was bathed in darkness when Ali Darwish Ali Al Hashliali, the Zahara Tours driver/guide/interpreter, drove me out of the airport. Faraway, the golden dome of the Grand Mosque shimmered like a jewel sewn on dark velvet; all I could hear was the whistling wind and the rustle of the swaying palm fronds. There was a certain stillness about Muscat, so unlike the staccato hurried pace of the West; Omani homes looked elegant without a hint of flamboyance; and history seemed to happily meld with Omani modernism that is barely four decades old.
Muddy marvel
In Oman, between the ancient and the modern, I picked the ancient and drove to Al Hamra, an old town built on tilted rock slabs, which lies in the Dhakiliya region. Also known as Hamra Al Abriyeen with reference to the Al Abri tribe that lives there, Al Hamra has some of the oldest preserved mud houses in Oman. Ali drove through a labyrinth of slender alleys and lush date farms to Bait Al Jalal, the oldest mud house in Al Hamra.
What must have been a luxurious edifice is now in ruins — windows have crumbled and walls have fallen, but in the 500-year-old mud, even the debris looked splendid. That, however, was not the only mud house in Al Hamra. In a rich trader's two-storied mud house, the arches have frayed in the harsh sun, but the carvings on the old mango door have withstood the weather.
Not too far away is the Al Hota Cave, one of the largest cave systems in the world. The entrance has a sinkhole, but what lies inside can leave anyone breathless. No one carbon dates the caves. Perhaps it began 1,000 years ago. Perhaps a million. But what one knows is that for millions of years little drops of water have been trickling off walls and forming stunning stalagmites and stalactites. Within the dark confines of Al Hoota lie Nature's incredible limestone artistry.
Still on an ancient history spree in Oman, I drove through Izki, an ancient city which was once an active trade route; Misfah, a village seemingly hewn out of rock. Mud houses hang precariously from the edges, but they sure are sturdy, for they have existed for centuries; Wadi Ghul, a spectacular deep canyon in the mountain range, out of which rises Jabel Shams, the highest peak in Oman.
I was dizzy with driving through a dirt track around a sorrel landscape, my throat was parched, my skin tanned, my hair tangled, and my stomach growling with hunger. I could drive to the Nizwa Souq and dig into the famed Omani halwa, which is made of sugar, ghee, nuts, cardamom, saffron and starch (interestingly, the halwa has no flour) or drive to Hail Al Shas (The View), a tented camp perched on the top of a mountain, where the sky lives just an arm's length away; where in the silence you can hear your heartbeat and the swish of a dragonfly's wings.
I'd rather be with the dragonfly. And the stars. In Hail Al Shas, peace was everywhere. Illuminated by the stars. And the warmth of Omanis. There's something in the loam of Oman. Perhaps warmth. Perhaps respect. Perhaps history. Perhaps everything. I am ready to book another flight to Oman. I am ready to pack a burgundy head scarf and a bucket of sunscreen. The 50-degree Celsius heat no longer bothers me!