Return to Oman - Part 3

Return to Oman – Part 3

Fawzia and I would talk once in a while about Oman, and even wonder if we should go back for a visit. After she passed away, I lost interest.  Hamlin’s daughter Malki works in Qatar, and she said that, if I wanted to return to Oman, she would accompany me and drive me around.

Prelude

So, in November, my sister Beaula and I first flew to Qatar to spend four days with Malki. I watch Al Jazeera and like its coverage, which I consider more balanced than that of the BBC, and certainly less American centered than CNN “International”. I had a positive impression of Qatar as a tolerant, progressive country.

I won’t dwell much on Qatar, except to say that all of Doha, the capital, appears to be a construction site in anticipation of the football World Cup in 2022. A thin sheath of dust seemed to cover the whole city. Hardly any greenery was to be seen. The streets were choked with traffic most of the day and night. With all that construction, corruption appeared to be rife. Even the impressive National Library had been four years behind schedule. The only redeeming feature was the magnificent Museum of Islamic Art.

Qatar's impressive National Library

On a jogging track, and again at an outdoor plaza, cold air was flowing up from grates on the ground. It was air conditioning! Is there any hope for a nation that spends natural resources on air conditioning open spaces?

Falcon auction in Doha

OMAN

The flight from Doha to Muscat had to take a circuitous route, because, due to a boycott of Qatar by a number of Arab states, Qatar Air was not allowed to fly over Emirate’s air space. During the flight, I wondered if Oman had escaped the wild extravagance that Qatar had succumbed to.

Upon landing, we were bused to immigration, as we had been 30+ years ago. What, no air bridges? Being asked to pay US$60 (cash only, no credit cards) for the visa upon arrival was a shock. (Oman may be trying to discourage budget travelers.) And only one sad duty free shop in the arrival lounge, as in the old days. I should have guessed that Oman was building a new airport, and was not spending much on upkeep of the old one. Makes sense.

We rented a SUV and Malki drove us along Sultan Qaboos Road to a comfortable hotel closer to the downtown area. What a difference from Doha. The greenery lining the road was astonishing. I didn’t see any high rises; instead, elegant buildings, most of them Omani in appearance, dotted the landscape. Of course, hundreds of new constructions had come up since I was last in Oman, but the growth appeared to be carefully planned and not jarring. Even 30 years ago, trees and grass had lined the roads in the Muscat area, but it was more verdant and attractive now.

Sultan Qaboos Road

I wanted to visit the waterfront, so that’s where we ended up that evening, driving through the barren hills. In terms of color, the hills could only be described as drying cow dung.  The roads were not crowded, and traffic was orderly. I did not see any Toyota pick-ups taking passengers, whizzing by as in the 1980s, at death defying speed. They had been replaced by taxis, hundreds of them, all driven by Omanis.  We visited a tiny, privately owned museum (entrance fee: Riyal Omani 1, free parking!), and then climbed up to a nearby fort, which had the Omani flag fluttering in the breeze. These forts were either built by the Portuguese, who were here in the 15^th century, or modeled on Portuguese forts and built by Omanis. Small watch towers ringed the hills, lookouts for approaching enemies from the sea. All these historic structured had been carefully restored.

Fort near  Muscat waterfront

Ancient watchtower in Muscat. They are scattered all over Oman.

We sauntered down to the corniche, which used to be where expatriates, including shop assistants and construction laborers, as well as the locals, came to catch the breeze. When we came to Muscat occasionally, the corniche was the one place we always visited, partly because there was no other place to visit, unless one owned a car. In those days, no restaurants in the area either, and a clean toilet was impossible to find. Little had changed on the seaside, but the weather-beaten buildings across the road had been spruced up.

Diving into the vast suq (marketplace), we were assailed by the aroma of Oman, spices and frankincense. Hundreds of small stores lined either side of the narrow, enclosed walkways. Walking was not easy, because everyone was carrying or pulling a bag, in anticipation of the loot and Chinese-made “souvenirs” they planned to buy. The smells and the massing humanity became overwhelming at times, perhaps because of my age. The shops may be owned by Omanis, but all the salesmen were Indians. And they know how to make a sale.

On the way back to the hotel, we had a nice dinner at a posh Indian restaurant on the waterfront. After the meal, a large bottle of 4711 brand eau de cologne was brought to the table for us to sprinkle on our fingers. That was a first. That night, an American friend of Malki’s, Bradley, arrived from Doha.

Muscat suq

The next morning, after a breakfast prepared by Malki, we set off for Nizwa, 183 km from Muscat. We quickly left Sultan Qaboos Road and hit the highway, which I later realized was the old road to Nizwa and Salalah, the latter about 900km away on the border with Yemen. When I arrived in 1981, Oman and Yemen had skirmished on a border dispute, and Salalah had been out of bounds. We had no wish to go there on this trip, even if allowed.

Soon, signs began to appear of place names from the past, not because I had visited them but because Sri Lankan teachers had been posted to schools there. Ibra, Ibri, Rustaq, Sur, Adam, Bid. Sur brought a sad memory: Joe Jayamanne, from that 1981 group, had suddenly died there the following year. 

The highway, actually a renovated version of the old road, was rough in certain parts. Dark, treeless hills loomed on both sides. The ferocity of the occasional rain storm could be seen in the deeply gouged hillsides. Dirt roads wandered off the highway, going to hamlets, usually with the prefix Al to their names. How did people survive at these places? A few date palms, a dozen goats? But the flat roofed, boxy houses seemed to be in good shape, and they all had electricity, which also meant air conditioning. I have no doubt that construction was subsidized by the government.

We passed a sign saying Nizwa University. When I left Oman in 1984, their first, Sultan Qaboos University, was just starting. Now, there was a regional university, which I later learned was a private one.

Highway to Nizwa

Nizwa had been the capital of Oman at one time, and I barely remembered it from the one visit I made, perhaps in early 1982. All I have is a photo, taken by Emil Fernando I think, in which Sarath Jayawardena, Jagath Soysa, Joe Benedict, and I squat around a dried up wadi (a riverbed), and a few Omani kids have come to stare. But, the Nizwa I saw now was vastly different. The dilapidated old fort has been carefully restored, keeping to its authentic architecture. After a cup of cappuccino at a tiny café in the shade of a tree, we ventured in.

A small entrance fee. And then, endless wonderings, sometimes ducking through low doorways, everything labeled in Arabic and English. Stores for grain, for dates, for arms and ammunition. Jail cells, prayer rooms, mysterious, winding stairs. Bottomless wells, to ensure a safe water supply when besieged. Boiling dates were poured from the battlements on attacking armies, causing an especially sticky death. Finally, the rooftop, where canons faced in all directions, and Nizwa was spread out below.

Biblical looking clay pots near Nizwa Fort

Also, the tourists, not only English speaking, but also other languages. I recognized German and Italian. A sprinkling of Chinese and Thais. And the tour guides were mainly Omani, performing a task that couldn’t have been dreamt of 30 years ago. Perhaps we had done a good job as English teachers.

On the way back, we detoured to Jabreen Castle, another tourist site. I was castle-fatigued already, so did not explore. Again, busloads of European tourists. A quick visit to the filthy toilet reminded me that some things never change.

I wanted to show my fellow travelers a falaj, which is unique to Oman. A falaj is a narrow underground tunnel which carries precious water from the source, usually a mountain spring or a well, to agricultural fields. Evaporation was minimized by not being exposed to the sun. A falaj could run for a few kilometers. The clear, fast flowing stream was also used for ablutions before prayers.

This falaj has been restored, and brought above ground. It ran for more than 2 km. In the background are the hills which extended to Jabal Akhdar (“green mountain”), Oman’s highest.

After a full day of sightseeing, we were returning to Muscat when a tire burst. We soon saw that the tire had shredded beyond repair. While vehicles thundered by, all our attempts to get the spare wheel out failed. Our calls to the “24-hour emergency number” supplied by the rental company were not answered. The situation was hopeless; we were entirely at a loss and it was getting dark.

Suddenly, a large SUV came to a stop and three Omani men spilled out. They saw our problem straight away, and got to work, jacking up our vehicle and removing the shredded tire. Two spoke English, and they carried on a conversation with us as they worked. When the spare wheel was removed, we discovered that it was flat. That didn’t deter our good Samaritans. They bundled three of us into their SUV and drove about 20 km to the nearest tire shop; Bradley stayed back with our vehicle. While the new tire was being fixed to the rim, two of the men exchanged Facebook contacts with the two ladies in our party. We also heard their life stories. One guy was married with children, the second planning to marry, and the third visiting Bangkok on “picnics” (their memorable euphemism).

The three samaritans at work

They drove us back to our vehicle, fitted the wheel, all in the dark only with the help of cell phone lights, not allowing us to do any work. Then, they loaded the useless spare tire and drove with us back to the tire shop. All this must have taken at least two hours, but they were cheerful throughout. I have never been helped in this manner, but later learned Omanis usually stopped to help strangers stranded on the highways.

That night, another of Malki’s friends, a Britain named Jack, joined us. Now we were a party of five. The car rental company had also given us a newer SUV.

Up the Al Batinah Coast

This was the most important part of the trip, as far as I was concerned. We would be going to Liwa, passing Khadra and Sohar, all on the Al Batinah coast, the highway heading to Dubai. 

The highway from Muscat to Dubai. Khadrah is before Sohar; Liwa beyond.

Checking the map, we were taken aback to discover that Liwa, where I had taught in 1981-82, was 250km from the hotel. Really, had I lived so far from civilization?

We first went along the road close to the beach. Fishing boats, hotels, and posh villas of the super rich. Certainly not the Riviera, but Omanis were developing a taste for the beach as a place for recreation. In the bad old days, some used it as a toilet.

Eventually, we hit the highway, which I realized was the old road, now converted to a dual carriageway. The other difference were the roundabouts, which caused me some confusion. Soon, dusty date palm gardens began to appear. The small shops that lined the old road were still there, but they had expanded to “supermarkets”. There were car dealerships, and signs for all the major Japanese and Chinese brands of electronic products. Obviously, no zoning laws existed, so the buildings were a mishmash.

Suwaiq, where I had shared teacher’s quarters in 1982 with Emil Fernando, was the first landmark I recognized. Khadrah, where we had lived for nearly two years, couldn’t be far ahead. But finding my old school, Abdullah bin Abbas, wasn’t easy, because the school had been moved to a new building while the old buildings had been renamed.  After some banging on the gate, a security guy (who spoke some English) emerged and, with some persuasion, we managed to get in. I was told that I could walk around, but photos were not allowed. Then, the clerk of the school arrived. I had some old photos from the early ‘80s, when I taught there, and also remembered my landlord’s name – Khamis Bhati. That rang a bell, but the clerk didn’t have the contact number. The clerk said that he had been a student at the school, and although I showed him a photo of the English teachers and the headmaster from my time, he could not recall us. 

At the former Abdullah bin Abbas school in Khadrah

I saw the classrooms in which I had taught, the teachers’ room where I would sit grading student’s homework, drinking cold Pepsi. I was told that all the teachers, including those who taught English, are all Omanis now. I saw a whiteboard which said “English Club”, with a few faded notices. Not all that inspiring. Perhaps, a multinational teaching staff does have certain advantages, such as a drive to perform better than teachers from another nationality.

English teachers at Abdullah bin Abbas in 1983. We were from Pakistan, India, Jordan, and Sri Lanka. The headmaster was Sudanese, and spoke English

It was a Friday, which meant no school. That was a major error with scheduling our trip, because, had I come on a school day I would have met the teachers, and some may have been students during my time. I must have been tired and disappointed, and the school didn’t raise my spirits. I would have liked to see more trees, more greenery, more shade. Perhaps the Omanis were being spoilt, expecting the government to do everything for them.

We continued to Sohar, passing familiar towns like Saham (where we had come to shop and to send money to Sri Lanka) and Bidaya, where Jagath Soysa taught. We also passed Sohar University, another private institution, but a big surprise nevertheless. Sohar, too, had seen vast changes, the once dusty town now a major metropolis, with a built-up waterfront, deserted at that time of day, and also a couple of hotels. I also saw a sign for an international airport! In fact, there were direct flights from Doha to Sohar.

Looking for a place to eat, we found a restaurant with an African theme; we enjoyed the lunch. Few customers. It was Friday, after all.

Now, on to Liwa. The scrubby, dusty village had changed. A massive harbor could be seen where a fishing village used to be. Eventually, we found the turn-off to the school. The school, which was closed for Friday, still stood desolately in the midst of a dusty field. Those days, hardly anyone drove to school. Now, I could see many parking spaces marked on the ground. The nearby date palm garden, to which escaping students would disappear, was still there. A few shabby houses were scattered around, but the dreadful teachers’ quarters were gone. No guard appeared and we could not get in. Seeing some strangers hanging around, two middle aged Omanis drove up, saw my photos, and appeared to recognize old landmarks, and commented on the flood of 1982.

At the school in Liwa

Around the corner, a game of softball cricket was in progress, played by young me who must have been Indian and Pakistani laborers. Cricket had come to Liwa! On the way back, we paused briefly at the Liwa roundabout (built after I had left), where only a few shops, a garage, and a health clinic had been. Now, it was bustling. I remembered the friendly Mangalorean, Frankie, who owned all the businesses, and who had been kind to us English teachers from Asia. He must have made his millions and returned to India. I didn’t inquire about him. I did see a Pizza Hut across the road.  I recalled an open-air cinema that used to be near the same spot. Business must have been slow, or perhaps due to popular demand, the owner showed a porn movie one evening. He was arrested and the place shut down. Now the premises has become a Toyota dealership. I am not sure if that would count as progress.

Another view of Liwa school

At Liwa junction

Indefatigable Malki began the long drive back to Muscat. My mind went back to the visits to Khadrah, Sohar, and finally to Liwa. But I didn’t feel nostalgic for those bittersweet times in the early 1980s. I did talk briefly about my past experiences, and my sister, who has faced hardship, may have understood. But, I don’t think they meant much to the three young people in our party. 

In the morning, we had seen a large mosque before entering Sohar, so stopped there in the evening. Surrounded by lovely gardens, the mosque was a where one could linger. We did, and resumed our journey somewhat reluctantly.

Entrance of Sohar mosque

Garden of Sohar mosque

The next morning, our final day in Oman, we first visited the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, an imposing structure not far from the airport. As in the Sohar mosque, lovely gardens surrounded the mosque, but, unlike in Sohar, it was crowded with tourists. I had been inside the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, a venerable edifice, after standing in line for some time. But this mosque has no lines, and visitors wandered freely, gazing at the magnificent ceilings, the intricate calligraphy, and the colorful vestibules. I recalled the cathedrals I had visited in Rome.

In the afternoon, we drove along the corniche to visit old Muscat, where the Royal Place, and the Museum of Oman are located. Views of the palace brought back old memories of a visit with Fawzia and Roy. Our friends Sheriff and Swarna had driven us there in 1983. This time, after 34 years, I posed alone.

1983

2017

Beyond the nostalgia, this trip was special because, for the first time, I had a chance to spend time with my niece, Malki, and get to know her better. She was tireless in showing me Oman, driving more than one thousand kilometers, while keeping us entertained with her humor. Without her, this trip would not have been possible.

Model of an Omani fort at the National Museum.

Some so called “oil rich countries, such as Nigeria, Angola, Venezuela, and  perhaps Saudi Arabia, too, have splurged the billions of dollars they earned and have gone bankrupt. Sri Lanka wallows in corruption, and is becoming a basket case. My beloved Hong Kong, where Mainland “tourists” descend in hoards, is nearly unrecognizable from 1995, when I arrived. Housing process are sky high, and millions have become mortgage slaves. The USA, where I studied and taught for 11 years, is staring at the horror of eight years under Trump. But Oman is none of the above. Fortunately, it’s not “oil rich”, and development has been carefully planned, the people are still pleasant and helpful, and seem more prosperous and happy. The roads are better, the countryside is greener.

I wish Fawzia or my friend Emil Fernando had been with me to share the journey. We would have had so much to talk about.

Our party of five