Oman, an Unassuming Jewel, Part 2

Day 2: Forts, Boats and Turtles, Oh My!

The plan was to head south along the coastal road, aiming for Ras Al Hadd, where we’d booked one night at the Turtle Beach Resort, and had reservations to see the sea turtles that evening. Reviewing the map, we saw little fort symbols all over the place, so feeling that if it was worthy of a map-point, then it should be worthy of a stop.

So after making a quick stop for drinks, snacks and cash, we headed on down to Quriyat. It was about 10-15 minutes out of our way, and took us through a sleepy little town, that was only sleepy because it was the middle of Friday morning prayers.

We found the fort without any problem; right in the middle of the city. We parked and wandered around it, but it was completely closed up and there were no factoids anywhere. We decided to wait until prayers got out, hoping that the fort’s guardian would amble by. He didn’t, but lots of other men and boys did, in their colorful Omani outfits and various embroidered caps and turbans.

They all certainly stared at the two strangers scoping out the fort, but no one approached to offer us the key or a tour, so we climbed back in the car and headed out of Quriyat. All in all, I say skip it. Now I’m skeptical of the map-points.

Our next stop was at Wadi Shab. There are several “wadis” throughout Oman. These are typically valleys with high walls, like the bottom of a canyon, and we’d heard that Wadi Shab and Wadi Tiwi were both really beautiful and made for a good hike. We followed the signs for Wadi Shab, but soon found ourselves driving through very narrow streets in a tiny town. As the road narrowed to one-car-width, we saw another car approaching from the other way so we pulled over to let them pass. As they slowly crept by, we saw they were another Western couple. They stopped and rolled their window down and with a perfect Midwestern accent said hi. We asked if we were heading in the right direction for Wadi Shab, and they assured us we were, and said the 45-minute hike in was well worth it, but be sure to wear your swim suit.

Well, despite having our suits with us, I didn’t see changing in the car a viable option, but we continued on regardless. We came to a parking area under the highway and quickly learned that to actually hike in you had to either wade through the water to the other side, or hire a boat to take you across. After watching some waders up to their waist in the water, we opted for the boat.

There was a sign posted that said the cost for the boat was 200 baisa (one-fifth of a Omani rial), so we paid 400 for both of us and with a bit of help from the ancient boatmen, we clambered on board. Our captain was adorable, however, while my husband tried to chat with him he didn’t seem to hear him and just stared at me.

I was quite happy the whole trip only took about six minutes. We lumbered out of the boat (I’ve got to practice this more so I’m less lurchy) then began the trek back through the canyon.

It was so picturesque, with craggy stone walls, periodic caves, palm trees, and iridescent pools of water. It was an easy hike, mostly flat, some sand, some rocks. We walked for about 10-15 minutes then came to a beautiful swimming hole, where you had to traverse the cliff along the side to circumnavigate it.

At this point we decided we should probably turn back, as we didn’t come prepared with swimsuits and we still weren’t sure how long it would take us to get to Ras al Hadd and the turtles. So we turned around and trekked back out, with full intention to doing the full hike on our next visit.

The return boat ride was even more exciting. There were three young men from Bangladesh also waiting, and when the boat “docked” at the muddy incline, they all leapt on board like gazelles, leaving us to fuss and fidget at the slippery edge. Finally I reached out and grabbed one of the young men and promptly slid down the incline, but managed to grab my foot out of the sucking mud and get it into the boat before it completely submerged. With equal help and lots of, “Put your right foot here, and your left hand there,” direction from me, my husband also got in, and we puttered back to the other shore. Amazingly during the time we were gone the price increased, and our 400 baisa fare went up to 500. But we were fine with that and paid and didn’t even point out that the young men’s fare did not increase. Maybe they charge extra for ditherers (especially those from the West).

We headed out back through the maze of the village streets, pausing once to let a young boy and some goats cross, but were soon back on the pristine highway, heading south.

We came in to the town of Sur, which was touted as being the biggest town south of Muscat. It certainly was spread far and wide, but as we were cruising around looking for a restaurant or a grocery store, we were coming up empty. “Where do people eat? How do they get food?” was a common utterance for miles.

We finally came upon a few shops in a row, and one appeared to be a restaurant. I was dubious, but agreed that there were no other options. There were a few plastic benches and tables lined up on the patio outdoors, and a counter that looked into the well-worn and far-from-gleaming kitchen.

There wasn’t really a menu available, moreso faded pictures of questionable meals. So my husband ordered a kebab of some kind, then asked if they had anything vegetarian for me. Nada. Feeling frustrated, but not surprised, I said I’d skip food. But then I saw a pile of eggplant in the back and pushed him to ask about that. He chatted a bit, then said they’d do some eggplant and falafel for me. Hello! Happy now! So we chose a table and sat to wait.

Within minutes we were brought a huge gorgeous salad, of greens, tomatoes, onions, and black and green olives. After dousing it with fresh lemon juice (always advisable for fresh veg in foreign lands) we dove in and it was fantastic! Then my husband’s kebab came, along with my falafel, deep fried eggplant, soggy fries, and a side of tahini with fresh bread. I was in vegetarian heaven. Really, I could have recommended them for a 3-star Michelin listing at this point. Keep an eye out for the “Al Kharuf Alsuri & Coffeeshop,” it’s going places!

Just as we were finishing up, we were joined by a small herd of goats wandering past. My husband was certain they’d heard of the falafel and were looking for a platter, but the proprietor came over and shoo’d them away with his dish towel and some questionable phrases before we could offer some.

As we were leaving, we happened to notice the shop next to our favorite restaurant. It was the “Kawader Sur Trading Co.” specializing in “Retail of Sanitaryware & Fitting There Of”. How utterly perfect.

With the sun slowly setting we continued on down to Turtle Beach Resort, arriving just as dusk was ending. As we bumped over the last part of the unpaved road leading to their driveway, we could see a glow of red lights that got bigger and bigger as we drove on.

Finally we realized that the glowing lights were our resort, with “resort” being less resorty and more campy. It might not have had the flash of the Shangri-La, really couldn’t have been farther from it, but it was practically dripping with character. The path was almost slick with it.

We had our own straw hut with a basic but functional bathroom, and we enjoyed a drink in the mock boat that was the open-air dining hall on the beachfront.

Then after conferring with the staff, we headed out just before 8pm for our 8:30 turtle date.

Ras al Hadd and Ras al Jinz are neighboring towns, though they feel more like Siamese-twin neighbors because I’m not sure there’s much distinction between the two. But I can tell you that at night everything looks very much the same, and this led to us getting horribly turned around. We finally found the other accommodation option in this area, the Ras al Hadd Beach Hotel, and wandered in hoping for some directions to these confounded turtles. They were ready and waiting for us (apparently frustrated tourists are not uncommon) and happily handed us a hand-drawn map leading to the turtles, which we dutifully followed and within 15 minutes were parking in the Ras Al Jinz Scientific Centre for the Turtle Protectorate (they definitely could use an acronym).

We made it with seconds to spare as the last group of eager turtle-watchers was heading out when we walked in. Despite the few recommendations online to the need for making reservations ahead of time, which we did via email, this was apparently not needed as no one asked us about them. But after paying, they did quickly tag us on to the end of the second group who were already heading down to the beach.

As we soon found out, the plan for the evening was to walk out to the beach, via moonlight and a few flashlights bouncing around, and once near the shore stand in quiet groups waiting for our guides to locate a turtle. So this all could have been for naught, I guess, depending on the turtles’ plans. The primary nesting times for the giant green sea turtles, who have claimed this beach, are June through September, however the online sources said they did nest year ‘round, which we, and our 40+ other hopeful turtle spotters, were apparently banking on.

The group we were first tagged on to ended up being me, and my husband, and eight Omani men. However, when we got to the beach, they further separated us into language groups, and the 10 Arabic speakers went with one guide, while we joined the 35 or so English speakers. And after a few minutes of waiting, our guides came back whispering that there they had found a turtle in the middle of laying her eggs. So with fervent whispers, they told us to come forward slowly and quietly in groups of six.

When it was our turn, we crept up to her, being careful to walk around behind her, and as quietly as possible, and with the aid of a flashlight, we peered down into the hole and saw her pushing out golf-ball-sized eggs, pure white and glistening, one after another, slowly but seemingly effortlessly. There was something so magical about watching this under the moonlight, with the waves crashing behind us. I almost felt like I was seeing a unicorn or other mythical creature. She was absolutely beautiful, with an enormous armor-like green shell the size of a saucer sled, and I would have loved nothing more than to give her a good chin-scratch, but I did restrain myself.

The green sea turtle is a truly amazing animal. They take at least 35 years to mature, during which time they swim around, eat and sleep, but then once maturity hits, they return to the same beach they were born on, and the females lay over 300 eggs in a two week period every three years. So when it’s their time, the fertilization occurs in the water, then they climb out of the ocean and come up on the beach. They then go to work digging a hole about three feet deep and three to four feet in diameter (it’s large enough to hold them). Then at one end of the hole, they dig down even further and that’s where they lay their eggs. In one nest they can lay anywhere from 80 to 130 eggs. Then, with amazingly strong front flippers, they hurl the sand behind them covering up the eggs, patting it down with their back flippers. The whole process takes an hour or two. Then she climbs back in the ocean to rest up and prepare for another round in two weeks.

The eggs have their own amazing journey then. And depending where she digs the hole, determines the gender of the babies. If they’re closer to the water’s edge, they’re colder and therefore male. If they’re just a few degrees warmer, they’re female. Our guide assured us that her decision is not conscious, but it certainly does make one wonder.

After two months, the babies start hatching, and the top layer of eggs starts digging furiously and pushing the sand around them down, then the next layer does the same, until all the layers are hatching and pushing the sand below them which slowly raises them up, layer by layer. Then, with a bit of moonlight, hopefully no foxes in attendance, and a good sense of direction, they make a dash for the water.

After spending an hour or so letting all the groups watch the laying of the eggs as well as the cover-up, our guide called us over. He had found a baby sea turtle; imagine a half-dollar with flippers. He was so cute I kept gripping my husband’s shirt to stop myself from squealing. As a mass, we all escorted him over to the beach and our guide placed him where the waves eventually carried him off, to all our enthusiastic, but non-raucous, cheers. I wished him well, and said we’d see him in 35 years.

As we turned to walk back to the Centre I suddenly had a grave fear of stepping anywhere. It was quite dark and the babies were very small. I was desperately wishing for hover-boots at this point. But instead, I walked very carefully and cautiously all the way back. Halfway back we found one more baby who was heading in the complete opposite direction (anyone want to guess at the gender?). So one of the guides ran him back to the ocean, where I’m hoping he found his little buddy.

It was such a deeply moving experience, aided by a harvest gold full moon making it a truly magical night. Despite not being able to take any pictures, and frankly I’m thrilled they strictly enforced that, the images in my mind are indelible. However, we were eager to return in the morning, hopefully to take pictures, as the online comments said you could do that. But when we inquired we were met with blank stares and they said that was only for the museum and gift shop. Harrumph. But we couldn’t force the issue, so we further relished our whole experience, with hopes, of course, of doing it again some day (and we're laminating that hand-drawn map).

Oman, an Unassuming Jewel, Part 3

Day 3: Daggers, Zombies, and (more) Forts

We woke up to have breakfast, which was as you should expect at camp, dry and cold, but we still enjoyed the waterfront view. I was fully prepared to load up and head off, as we were driving all the way to Jebel Akhdar (Green Mountain) that day, again having no real idea of time or distance, but then in a fit of whimsy (as he is prone to do) my husband suggested we go for a dip in the water first. Frankly, despite typically leaping at any chance to get in the water, I wasn’t too enthused this time as I’d already showered, dressed, and packed up. But, reminding myself that we were on vacation, I relented and we quickly changed and grabbed our towels.

Throughout our breakfast several people had been swimming and playing in the water, so when I dashed over and started to walk in, the frigid temperature didn’t register immediately, until I got in to my ankles. Then it registered and I was truly shocked that anyone could have gotten in, let alone do several laps like we saw. I said this to my husband and he pointed out, “He was a Brit.” True enough; wacky Brits. We did our best, but really couldn’t get in any farther than our mid-shins, but even still we proudly proclaimed that this was the farthest east we’d ever “swum” and called it a success. Then we returned to our hut, changed back into our clothes and loaded up the car.

Conferring with our map and GPS, we decided to take the coastal road south a little farther, then catch the in-land road heading north, which would take us past the towns of Jaalan Bani Bu Ali and Jaalan Bani Bu Hasan, both of which had small write-ups in the local tourism brochures. As we were driving through more small towns, we started to notice that while all of them can claim a grocery store, barber, carpentry (or “carpentary” as we saw more than once), gents tailor, coffee shop, super market (for brooms and buckets), and restaurant, the second common thread was that the signs were often the same.

Regardless of whether we were in Sur or in Nizwa, the “Gents Tailor” was the same sign, as was the “Coffee Shop,” even down to the same pictures of the food, most of which they don’t actually serve. As we continued driving along the coast we passed through a beach town where the road had been washed away by high waters, so we followed the detour off into the desert and wild brush. We decided to pull off the path and stop a minute to change drivers, and as we were doing this, every single car passing us stopped to make sure we were okay.

Even a truck, with five or six Omani men standing in the back, stopped and waved and blew kisses. This latter move we had been noticing as we drove through the villages and the young boys would blow kisses at us. At first we weren’t sure quite what this gesture meant, but we soon realized there was no ill intent, it was just a genuine greeting. Everyone was being so friendly we were taken aback a bit. This is definitely not something we experience in Kuwait, where they’re too busy speeding and texting at the same time to stop and wave, let alone inquire as to our well-being.

Coming in to the outskirts of Jaalan Bani Bu Ali, we passed a bus stop, not unlike all the others we’d been seeing in the towns. However this one was completely packed with lounging goats, just hanging out in the bus stop. With a little begging from me, my husband did a rather wild u-turn and we did another pass to ensure I could get a good photo. I mean, in hindsight, we never saw this again on our trip, so aren’t you glad we made the effort? Passing them this second time, we saw that some had decided to lounge on the bench, others were standing on the bench (there’s one in every family, huh?), and the rest were just milling about in the shade. We have no idea if this is a regular thing, or, as my husband surmised, they were all just waiting for the bus to the beach.

Leaving the goats behind us, we continued on. To get to the Jaalan Bani Bu Ali fort, the brochure said we’d drive through the “modern town”, which we were able to discern because in addition to the coffee shop and gents tailor, they also had a ladies tailor, as well as multiple super markets and several restaurants. We drove straight through and as we were getting in to the residential area we could see some stone battlements peeking up over the rooftops.

Having our hopes dashed with the Quriyat fort, we were skeptical whether this would be worth the stop, but we’re so glad we took the chance! This fort was a huge ruin standing in essentially the suburbs. Some of the stone walls surrounding the complex were still standing, but others had crumbled. We drove around it, marveling at its size, and found a young boy crossing the street. We stopped and asked him if there was a caretaker for the fort, or if we could go in it. “Yes, anyone can go in,” he answered. He then asked where we were from, and we told him, then he smiled and walked off. So, feeling that we’d gotten as much permission as we were going to get, we parked and got out.

We decided to enter through, or really over, the crumbled wall; being ever so careful to not break an ankle or step on a nail from 1502 A.D. As friendly as everyone had been, were still weren’t angling for a visit to the local doctor.

The fort’s inner complex had multiple buildings, all of which were in varying states of standing, but some were replete with turrets and battlements and ancient wooden doors and all things castle-like. There was a large central building that we could only really peek in to due to the state of collapse. We were able to explore a little more of the side buildings, even daring to climb some still-standing stone stairs that led to the landing, on which you could see down to the grass below as the floor on either side had given way over time.

There was even a small double-domed mosque at the back of the complex. Our twelve-year-old tour guide had long gone, so we had no information on the age of anything we were seeing, but it was fascinating nonetheless.

As we headed back to our car, I saw a man slowly walking towards us across the empty lot. He was dressed in traditional Omani clothing, with a turban of sorts, carrying two plastic bags. At first I was a little hesitant, and found myself walking with great purpose to the car, but as he got closer my husband said hello and remarked on what an amazing place this was and the man agreed. As they chatted, I marveled that he didn’t even bat an eye at the two strangers who found their way into his neighborhood. As he was turning to leave, I whispered to my husband to ask him if he wouldn’t mind if we took his picture. He didn’t mind at all. But before I could snap away, he tucked his bags behind his feet, and then whipped his kefiyah (scarf) off his shaved head, and with great care, carefully replaced it just so. I then nudged my husband to stand beside him and snapped off a few quick pictures and thanked him profusely. These are some of my favorites from the entire vacation; this wonderfully serious Omani man, with his galabeya, turban, and twelve-inch curved silver dagger (a khanjar), standing proudly next to my husband who happened to be wearing his “People for the Ethical Treatment of Zombies” t-shirt. Really couldn’t get any better.

Knowing we still had an uncertain drive ahead of us, we opted to skip the fort at Jaalan Bani Bu Hasan, but we did stop in the local grocery store looking for some lunch. It was about the size of an average gas station shop, with similar type items for sale, so we just grabbed some sodas. As we were checking out, my husband tried to ask the proprietor about the fort, hoping to get some background on it. However, not knowing the Arabic word for fort, proved to make the entire exchange rather difficult. As my husband kept repeating in Arabic, “When was the *fort* built?” the proprietor kept nodding and offering him dates. By the third time, I interjected and smiled and said, “Shukran” and pushed my husband out to the street. We could have been there all day, or at least have ended up purchasing a carload of dates.

We grabbed some odd egg sandwiches on the way out of town at “the restaurant” and then continued heading northwest. We did make one more unscheduled stop. As we were driving through one town, we saw a large sign saying, “Sooq Qadeem,” which means “Old Souq”. Having a quick debate, we decided to check it out, just in case they had some fantastic souvenirs we hadn’t realized we couldn’t live without. We took the turn, and drove through a narrow street, with houses on one side and cars parked along the other. We squeezed through and came to a t-junction, with just more houses. There was an old man standing in his yard watching us, so we drove over and my husband asked him where the souq was. As they chatted away in Arabic, I tried to catch a word here or there, but before my ears could tune in, we were thanking him and turning away. “There’s no souq,” my husband said. “It’s the name of the neighborhood.” Well, how ridiculous is that? It’s like naming a suburb “Old Grocery Store, Ohio” but then having no grocery store.

We knew approximately where we had to go to get to our hotel on Jebel Akhdar, however it was approximate enough that the plan was to get to one of the towns at the bottom of the mountain, then call. So, arriving in Ibki, we called the Sahab Hotel to get further directions. This hotel came recommended by a friend who’d been here a few months prior. But the odd thing was that the hotel was not registered in our GPS, whereas practically everything else was.

We managed to get three-quarter directions, which would get us to the top of the mountain, then we’d call again. We started to head up the mountain road, which, like all other roads in Oman, was in perfect condition, and after a few miles, we came to a police/ranger stop. He took my driver’s license info, then with a smile handed us some colorful brochures about Jebel Akhdar, reminded us to use lower gears when descending and sent us on our way. Really, people are just so damn nice here.

The drive up was not bad, considering my vertigo. And at no point did I burst into tears and make my husband lead me around the edge (much as I did at the Duomo in Florence). It helped greatly that there was a solid cement railing leading up the entire time. It was switchback after switchback, and we argued over which gear to be in the whole time. Which also helped distract me from the dizzying heights. We finally made it to the top, 2,000 meters above sea level, and we called again.

We finally made it to the Sahab Hotel, which from the outside looked like it was under construction, but after entering, it was a stunning oasis. Apparently coming during the week enables one to get a free upgrade to the best room in the hotel, as well as not having to fight with others for parking. In our case there were only three other cars there, and they might have belonged to the staff. Our room was on the second floor, with our own patio and looked out over the hotel grounds and this amazing expanse to the valley below. We wandered the grounds a little, and with a quick check, I confirmed that the hot tub was indeed hot. So we grabbed our suits for little dip. As we bobbed in the hot tub, perched at the edge of the grounds, overlooking the valley, the stars came out in spades, and we were serenaded by that evening’s call to prayer and one lone toad, croaking to us from an unknown location. Capturing the surreal moment perfectly, my husband whispered, “Do you believe it yet?” I really didn’t.

We enjoyed a lovely dinner that night at the hotel’s restaurant, where we ran in to two other sets of guests. So we knew there were at least three rooms being used. The manager also approached us and offered us two hand-drawn maps of the area, covering at least six of the terrace villages, which we could drive or hike to, as well as a few other local sites. After dinner, we retired to the sitting area of the lobby where my husband enjoyed an Omani coffee and we both partook of the fresh dates, which were the most amazing dates I’ve ever had; rich and chewy and seemingly so decadent. We perused the coffeetable books they had on Oman, and in doing so discovered even more things we wanted to see. We had one more full day in Oman, and we were apparently going to try to get as much out of it as humanly possible.

Oman, an Unassuming Jewel, Part 4

Day 4: Feel the Culture, Feel it Burn

Our fourth day on vacation started a bit early. We both woke up around four in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep.

“Let’s go outside and look at the stars,” my husband suggested. Thinking myself just the luckiest girl to have such a romantic husband, I quickly threw on my fleece and sneakers and followed him outside. When we had arrived at dusk the previous day, it was markedly colder up in the mountains than it had been in the desert or even by the water. But now, at 4:00 a.m., with a brisk wind blowing past our elevated patio, it was freezing. I was hugging myself, jumping up and down, while marveling at the explosion of stars above us. But after a few minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m heading in,” I said, looking over to see my husband standing on the patio, with his head bent over his SmartPhone. “What are you doing?”

“There’s no internet signal in the room, and my friend from Flushing asked to play Words with Friends. I couldn’t ignore him.”

“Look at the stars,” right! “Romantic husband,” right! I promptly returned to bed and went back to sleep.

Upon re-waking at the correct time, we had a nice breakfast and planned our route for the day. There were at least six terrace villages for us to explore, plus one marked look-out. We could drive to all of them, or we could have the hotel drop us off at one and we could hike back, or we could even hike directly out from the hotel.

One additional variable was our last-minute decision to buy a clay water jug for a friend. He’d commented on them in Cairo, and said that they always had the freshest water. In Cairo we’d see them balanced on stands for actual use, but never for sale. We’d been seeing them all over Oman, and decided that we’d try to get him one. We asked at the hotel, and were told that the town of Bahla was known for making them, and after seeing that Bahla wasn’t that far from Ibki, at the base of the mountain, we thought we might try to squeeze that in today as well.

So, knowing our lofty goals, we headed out first to the “Princess Diana Overlook,” which was basically next to our hotel. Apparently she had camped here once, hence the claim to fame. If you’re an avid fossil hunter, this would be a good spot to start, and the view was definitely stunning, but as the whole area was on a plateau (Saiq Plateau), the view was basically stunning from all sides, so I don’t think it really warrants a separate stop (though I did spot another gecko and some delightful goats, which was fun).

We decided to drive out to the farthest terrace village, Wadi Bani Habib, first. Finding any information on the villages, when and why and how they were built, is not easy. But it seems that due to the location and unique weather, this area is a perfect place for orchards and gardens, and is renowned for its pomegranates, apricots, figs, dates, grapes, saffron, and especially roses. In March and April, when the 35-petal rose named for Jebel Akhdar is in bloom, the fragrance apparently permeates everything, and distilling of the petals for rose water is in full force.

All of these separate villages have been formed out of the sides of the mountains, creating layers and terraces for houses and orchards and farming. They’ve even created an amazing irrigation system, called aflaj (singular, falaj), involving labyrinthine channels carrying the water to all levels. Wadi Bani Habib, is only about a 15-20 minute drive from the hotel and it’s labeled (on the hand-drawn map) as “Ancient villages,” and they certainly look it. But I’d love to find out whether they’re 500 years old, or just 50.

As we peered over the edge from the parking area (complete with modern bathroom), we saw stone houses across the valley, built into the side of the cliff in layers. Even from this distance, my inner 8-year-old yearned to race over and explore every inch. It definitely looked abandoned, but having seen houses in Egypt and Tanzania, in particular, I’ve learned not to assume something is “unlivable.”

We started down the seemingly hundreds of stone steps. As I turned a bend, I came upon two local women climbing up. We greeted each other as we passed, and each continued on their way. My husband and I kept stopping to take pictures on the way down, and at one point I heard a noise and turned to see one of the women scampering down the cliff with a large bag perched on top of her head. Whether she wanted to avoid us, or it was just easier for her, she had foregone the stairs and just used the hillside; I’m thinking she’s been hanging out with the goats a lot lately. This happened multiple times with both women and another man carting down 25 kilo bags (55 pounds) of animal feed, which further shamed us and made us yearn for a comfy cushion and the TV remote.

Despite our shame, we made it to the bottom of the valley, which now meant we were looking up at the houses. In hindsight, we should have climbed up the opposite side and done a little snooping, but we decided this time to just take a few pics then turn and face the, now thousands, of steps climbing back up (they always multiply when you turn your back). With much huffing, puffing, and increased stops for more pictures (and air), we finally made it back to our car.

From here we headed back to the other villages. We opted to skip Sayq village, and drove on to the village of A’Sherageh. As we approached the houses, the road suddenly became very steep and narrow and my husband felt it was too tight to drive down. So he backed up and parked under a tree, leaving us no option but to walk down. So we grabbed our cameras, and started the trek. As distance goes, it certainly wasn’t far, but I will admit that despite his proclivity to over-worry things, he was right, this was a very steep and narrow and twisty road. So we shuffled down it, around curves to the right and curves to the left, passing interesting homes all wedged in together.

Just as we came around another bend, my husband suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, good grief!” After our arduous trek, we had finally made it to the parking lot. I half-jokingly said, “Go and get the car,” but he just looked at me. The village was under a bit of construction, so we really couldn’t wander down too many of the streets, but off to the right there was a man perched on a wall. My husband approached him and after a mutual greeting of “Peace be with you,” he learned that the man was a foreman (bricks or carpentry, or something), and had lived here for 30 years. He was probably only about 45, but looked closer to 92; a definite wake-up call for the benefits of sunscreen. Then, much to my husband’s surprise, he said he was Pakistani (move one from “made Omani friend” list to “made Pakistani friend” list).

Now was the hike back to the car. On the way up, as I was relentlessly muttering my complaints in my husband’s general direction, he turned and said, “Feel the culture!” And I immediately responded, “Feel it burn!” We made it back up to the elevation of our car, but not without a lot of laughing and gasping for air. See, sometimes worrying is not fruitful.

The last village on our visitation list for today was Al Ayn. Here we actually parked in the designated parking lot and wandered in. Passing a local villager, my husband asked politely if it was okay for us to wander around. The man gruffly pointed out that I could not enter the mosque, but there was a separate women’s mosque if I was interested. We hadn’t even thought of the local mosque, but now we were curious, so we continued on, passing under tunnels made by the houses above.

Coming out from the tunnel, we saw a hand-made sign saying “Women Prayed” with an arrow, so leaving my husband behind I followed the narrow path. It led to the edge of the terrace overlooking the valley and turned, and I came upon three young women coming the other way. I greeted them and stepped aside. From my vantage on the step, I could see the lush green terraces falling off to my right, and to the left the path led to a cement room that was apparently the women’s “mosque.” Figuring I probably shouldn’t go further, plus it was guarded by a very well-fed snoozing cat, I turned and retraced my steps.

Feeling that we’d gotten a good taste of these amazing terraces, we decided to head down the mountain and address adventure number two for the day: the hunt for a water jug. We found several “Bahla mosque” listings in the GPS, so figuring that most towns have a mosque near the center, we chose one at random and headed off. We drove down the mountain without incident and followed the GPS precisely. Within two hours, it had led us to the remotest mosque in all of Oman, I’m sure. There was nothing in sight other than a mosque and a large playground next to it. Otherwise we had mountains, trees, shrubs and sand. That’s it. There wasn’t a Gents Tailor or pictures of restaurant food anywhere nearby. There was a group of people with children on the playground, so we drove over. My husband walked over to two men, to see if we could get directions.

I sat in the car and watched as he first approached the younger man. As they chatted, all the children slowly gathered around staring up at my husband, then the older man got in the mix as the women stood off to the sides. This lasted for several minutes and at one point the older man crouched down and started drawing in the dirt. Knowing my husband doesn’t have the best sense of direction, I did wonder if I should get out and join the crowd, but soon after, he turned and came back to the car. He was telling me the directions he’d been given when I noticed that the older man was shuffling towards us. I pointed this out to my husband and then rolled my window down so they could continue chatting.

My Arabic may be minimal at best, but I’m getting really good at reading body language, and I could tell that “Pops” (as we affectionately called him) wanted to get in our car. As I was trying to explain this to my husband out of the side of my mouth, Pops started tugging on the rear door handle behind me. Not expecting anyone to ride with us, we’d pretty much trashed the back seat, so I was wildly trying to reach around and shove aside our empty water bottles and maps and fleeces to allow him room to put his tiny, sun-worn frame. Suddenly, with minimal effort, we had our very own Omani!

He spoke rapid-fire mush-mouth Arabic, even I could tell that, so to get my husband to go in the right direction, he relied on the yelling and spastic hand gesture communication method. We finally figured out that we’d be following one of the women in her car, with the seven children, back to the main road. I wasn’t sure at this point just how far Pops was going to go with us, but I figured this was what they meant when they said, “It’s about the journey (with the ancient Omani),” so I sat back and went along for the ride.

As my husband drove along, they chatted a little, and we learned that Pops, who’s real name was Khalif bin Said, used to work for the telephone company (not sure what he did), and he owns a house in Muscat as well as one here in Bahla. My husband innocently inquired if the woman driving the car was his daughter, and Pops replied with a mush-mouth response in which I heard the word for wife, and we suddenly realized that you probably shouldn’t ask such a question.

When we made it to the main road and civilization again, Pops gestured for us to pull over behind his daughter/wife/driver. We did, and he offered some more mushy directions and fervent hand waving, and we thanked him profusely and assured him we understood, and in response Pops told us quite succinctly, “I am a citizen of this country, and if you didn’t know something, then it is incumbent upon me to teach you.” In that one moment, I realized how rare it is to meet someone for just a few minutes who touches you deeply, but Pops did. And through this little act of kindness, Pops single-handedly skyrocketed the Omani people to the top of the “Nicest-to-strangers” list. He’ll be hard to beat.

Unfortunately, we failed Pops entirely and managed to get lost once again. But as I was fiddling with the GPS, I suddenly found, “Bahla souq.” Why we couldn’t find it in the first place, I don’t know. Sometimes I think fate intervenes; otherwise we would never have met Pops. But we plugged in the coordinates and headed out and within 25 minutes had arrived.

Now, to be fair, the Bahla souq was more like a collection of alleys and shops in which the locals recline and chat. And upon turning off the main road, we saw immediately what we were looking for, a pottery shop with clay water jugs hanging outside. The shop was small, but we managed to pick out two jugs, one for our friend, and one for us for all our troubles. But before we could pay, the proprietor insisted that we try the water from the dripping jugs hanging outside. As much as my husband loves water, he equally hates tuberculosis, so I watched with great amusement as he offered a quick prayer to Saint Therese Patron Saint of Tuberculosis before he drank from the jug.

So after a quick and easy exchange we carefully carried our hard sought-after purchases back to the car. Feeling mighty good after our find, we thought we might try our luck at buying a khanjar dagger, so my husband asked the water jug proprietor where to go. We meandered down the abandoned alley he had indicated and then found ourselves in an open courtyard surrounded by a few open shops, including more water jugs. My husband approached a handful of men sitting around and asked about the daggers. One of the men said he had some, and pulled out three, tarnished, very used daggers.

He was asking almost $400 for one dagger, so we politely declined. Then another man, sensing a possible sale, had us follow him to his store, which was really an open stall with a desk and chair, and he brought out two, equally tarnished and used daggers, complete with tattered belt. So to serve the teeming tourism trade, Bahla can offer five worn-out khanjar daggers. I frankly found it adorable.

But we declined these daggers, as well as the rusted silver jewelry in a plastic bucket that was also presented to us, and were content with our authentic water jugs.

As we headed out, back to Jebel Akhdar, we found ourselves driving through Nizwa. We had read that Nizwa had a souq similar to the Muttrah souq in Muscat. Figuring we weren’t going to make it up the mountain before dark anyway, we decided to stop in. We managed to find a parking space, and as we wandered through, what appeared to be an old fort that the souq had taken over, we passed shops selling baskets and silver and other knick-knacks. It was clean and quiet and there were trees growing here and there, giving it a real outdoor feel. As we walked down some steps and came out into another courtyard, we were faced with the store that should have been called, “1,001 clay water jugs.” They were everywhere, in every size, stacked up, leaning, hanging, perched and ready for sale. I immediately announced that they weren’t half as nice as the ones we already bought and kept walking.

We ended up not finding anything at Nizwa that we couldn’t live without, and just headed back to the hotel, up the mountain in the moonlight. Following a nice quiet dinner we took another dip in the hot tub. As we were bobbing about, trying to discern some constellations, the lights went out. I called out, “Hello? Anyone there?” And the hotel manager apologized profusely as she had not seen us and figured everyone had gone to bed. We apologized as well, and got out and headed back to our room, but not without a lot of apologies from her and even some begging to return to the hot tub.

Our final day of vacation was spent driving the two hours back to Muscat, returning the car, and checking in at the airport. The one thing we did do was finally buy an Omani guide book. Apparently the only place you can find them (outside of Amazon) is W.H.Smith in the airport. But at least now we’re fully prepared for our next trip. I do hope Pops is ready for adventure #2. We’ll keep the back seat ready for him this time, just in case.