2024: Year of Sincerity ~Oman 3 'The proposal'.

Week 4. Traveling through the Middle East from Jordan, Saudi Arabia and now in Oman.

On the long bus ride from Sur to Nizwah, Mah-moud our tour guide tells us a bit of Omani history and some important facts about the places we are to visit. Then pauses dressed in a white long thobe and black geometrics line his white cap. Pointing the mic to his baby face, he says,

Now that I have a moment, I will tell you about our love story. 

This is in response to my asking him how he met his wife the other day. Mahmoud begins,

I met my wife, Mona at school. We texted each other for 7 years and never dated. We only texted. but everyday our conversations grew. I would wake up to text her and text her before I slept. This went on for years and I never told anyone. I felt guilty because I started to have feelings for her. And in our world we cannot openly talk to females. Finally, when we decided to see each other,  I asked my mother for permission to see Mona. 

Can I date her?

Will you marry her? She asked

I don't know. I said

Then no. she said.

So I didn't pursue her anymore.

Another year went by and we decided we really wanted to see each other so I asked my mother again but she didn't allow it.

After our conversation I thought to myself…

If we marry, in the beginning we would be our perfect self. Then eventually we might end up divorced and based on everything my mother said I decided not to go through with it. 

Then one day my father called me into his office. He said,

Close the door. Let's talk. Tell me everything.

 I was so nervous but I told him everything. After that my father asked,

Do you plan to marry her?

I am not sure. I said. 

Ok if this is how you feel we will give it a try. It's a 50 50 chance. And There are the background checks and standards. You know how that goes. Even though our family approves of her, their family may reject you. But, let's give it a chance and see where it goes. He said.

Months passed and I didn’t hear anything and asked my father what he found out. 

They are a simple family, they are fine and we can propose. He said. 

Since I didn’t want anyone to know that we have been communicating all these years, I had to come up with a plan. My aunt who is close in age with me was friends with her family. She and my mother went to visit Mona’s parents, just to have a look. My mother liked Mona and her parents agreed to start the background checks on my family. The results were good and they gave our parents their approval. But that was not all, then there was the family meeting. They all came, her father, mother, uncles, aunts and siblings. Everyone gathered in our living room with my father, mother, uncles, aunts, cousin and brothers. The elders did all the talking. I didn’t say a word. Then finally they said that we could date. After a few months we decided to marry. Now I am satisfied and I don’t think I will have more wives. 

How many wives can you have? I ask

As muslims we can marry up to 4 wives.

A tourist shouts from the back of the bus. 

What about the dowry? 

Oh yes, The dowry was 7,000 rials, 18,000 usd.

What did they start with? I ask, curious if he made a good deal.

They asked for 10,000 rials because the other daughters in the neighborhood were getting as much. But after some negotiating we reached a price with other terms and conditions to the contract. The dowry belongs to the wife and she can decide what to do with it. In addition I had to buy gold, jewelry, clothes, shoes, and pay for the wedding. While she only had to pay to get herself ready for the ceremony.  

That's a good deal and a good love story, we say.

If your daughters fell in love the way you did, what would you do? Will you tell your two daughters your love story? I ask.

This is the issue. I don't want to tell my daughters our love story because I don't want them to do the same thing that we did. Mahmoud says.

Still in the bus, the cool air blows on my face. The bus stops and we step out to feel the calming of the sun's heat and sweltering humidity. Night falls with its orange glow overlooking the horizon. We walk into a restaurant new and shiny with isles of food, a marvelous dessert station, salad bar and savory hot dishes. Neat and pretty, we are the first ones. The food untouched with clean serving spoons on small plates, I’m pleased that we are first to feast upon the lovely banquet. In search of my biadhinjan, aubergine, it's nowhere to be found yet the colorful dishes call me over to load up my plate. Grilled veggies in olive oil, cheesy baked sliced potatoes, and a variety of salads. Cucumbers and tomatoes are the main vegetables since I arrived in Jordan, Saudi Arabia and now Oman. Great for scooping and dipping into hummus and babaganoush glazed with olive oil. Delicious. 

Two long tables are set for our group to dine in. I am torn between falling in line to our assigned seats or scouting out my perfect seat by a window. My legs reluctantly lead me to the open seat at the end of our long table and I am about to plant my butt in the chair when I hear,

Oh Richard is sitting there! Amanda, a woman from California in her 40's says and puts her hand in front of my hips to block the chair. She is saving the seat for her husband. 

I jerk and step back.

Hmm, and I wondered if they considered being apart for one meal? 

No matter, I turn to land on an empty table for four by the window! Sighing in relief, calmness fills my soul. What a nice pivot to be on my own as the night sky gazes through the glass pane. The table cloth pressed, napkins folded and silverware shiny. My eyes span the beauty of the dining hall broken by the other tour group who rush in.

As hungry zombies off loading a cruise ship scavenging for food because we have been starving since our last meal only a few hours ago. I laugh to myself and how grateful I should be to have this experience, all of it and my own table. Apparently both groups began their bus tour from Dubai yet our group has been first to everything. As I look across the dining room, my eyes are distracted towards the middle of the lengthy table where a vigorous hand waves at me.

One of the Laotian ladies living in Tennessee gestures at me to join them. My sinuses crinkle, because I really want to sit in this lovely setting. Either she thinks I don't realize that we have assigned seats or feels sorry for me because I am eating alone? Reminding me of when I was a teacher corralling my students into their assigned seats in the cafeteria.

But I hold my hand up as a sign that I am staying put and bow my head a little as a gesture of gratitude for thinking of me. For this is 2024, the year of sincerity.’ Where I will practice a whole year and let my senses drive the moment, not to question my inner voice and emotion. So without questioning myself and denying my instincts, I sit in my plush embroidered chair, brush the pink table cloth, unfold my crisp white napkin. Then placing the shiny fork between my fingers, I remember to savour every bite. With no interruptions or forced conversations. It's me and my meal. I honour you, I think to my gorgeous plate of food. Taking the time to chew and taste every morsel. My plate is clean and set it aside to be cleared away so that my dessert plate has its own table for its full attention. Coffee is the companion to dessert. I love my dessert with coffee. And timing is everything. I ask the waitress, 

One latte please.

The petite young waitress, (now at my age, there are plenty of young servers these days.) 

Sorry mam, lattes are not included. It's extra. She says.

That is ok. I can do extra. I say

Not afraid of the word ‘extra’ as I used to be. I am easing into 2025 which I named, The Year of Decadence. A year of elaborating, splurging, luxuriating a little. All practice to become something that I have never ventured in, living within my means. I know how to live below my means to some extreme.

Once traveling through Ethiopia, in a small village we stopped at a coffee stand.

One coffee please? 

6 birr (5 cents). Do you want milk?

How much with milk?

8 birr (7 cents). 

I will take it black. 

Perhaps it's the way our parents and my ancestors taught us to clean our plate, not to waste food, not to waste money, and to take care of what we have because it might be the last thing we own. Even time, In Korean ‘Nunko Tteul Sae Optta’ meaning: You're pressed for time and can't afford to waste it. Or perhaps it was because growing up our household was filled with uncertainties. Sometimes our phone line was dead, oftentimes we didn't have heat in the winter. Then there were calls from a loan shark named Nick. 

Ay yo, tell yo faddah Nick called, he bedda give us ow money. 

Till this day, I dread taking calls.

I walk over to the glorious dessert bar, my favorite part of the meal, feeling deserving after coating my stomach with veggies and nutrients. Strawberry mousse, crème brûlée, biscotti crumbled cake, and fruit decorate my plate. As I swing past the long table, all eyes are on me, but my feet stay on track back to my square table. Then to my surprise, the chairs are no longer empty; now I am surrounded by Omani locals, my tour guide and driver, and another driver. 

Oh, are you joining me?

Yes yes, says Mahmoud, (pronounced Mah-moud with the emphasis on the ‘h’ but the other guests have been calling him mo-ha-med and I don't dare correct them, it's not my job.

When I was in grammar school my teachers pronounced my name Hi-Chung, He Chung, Hia Juice? Instead of He-Jung, my given name. So I changed my to Betty.

Excited to finally sit with locals, I don’t want to waste this precious moment. Sultan, our bus driver sits in front of me with a shiny smooth round face and dark bright eyes. He is dressed in a crisp ironed white dress and a round cap embroidered in blue. Camel meat with gravy drizzling over rice fills his plate. 

I didn’t see camel meat?

Take take, he points at his plate. 

Shokran. Thank you.

Aywa Aywa, yes yes, try

Lifting my clean fork, I prick the meat. And chew for taste. 

Mmm, Kowayessa Awee. very well.

Take take

La shokran. I wave my hand. I just want to taste. Yesterday we had camel meat cooked two different ways and I was curious how today's dish varied. Not gamy like goat but drier than cow beef. 

Back on the bus Mahmoud told us his love story. I wonder if Sultan had a love story to tell. 

Sultan, are you married?

La, inchallah. No god willing. Someday. Inchallah.

How many siblings do you have? 

Ashera sabah, 17 Ahamdoulala

My eyes open wide. 

How many mothers?

Ethnan , 2 

Do your mothers favor one group of children over the other? 

No, we are same. My mother…chewing, he puts his fork down to show all fingers then one. 

Hada ašar, asar hada, I say 11 backwards and forwards because I can’t recall the order. 10, 1 or 1, 10. Mahmoud jumps in,

Hada aser 1, 10. 

Oh my, I declare with thoughts of the poor woman giving birth consecutively, year after year. 

The other bus driver is amused. He sits taller and slimmer than Sultan with a clean shave. Also dressed in a long white dress but sporting an embroidered cap designed in orange swirls.

Ismek eh? What's your name? 

Ismee Allee. My name is Allee

His eyes flicker and mouth agape, impressed. Mahmoud announces. 

She is studying Arabic!

On cue, I say like a baby, Mudaress masrya, online,  teacher egyptian, online.

He blinks and smiles. 

Aywa, Sultan confirms.

I want to say more in Arabic as I know this moment to practice is rare but my mind floods grasping for words all scrambling in my head. I can’t recall any of the hundred Egyptian Arabic words I learned before I arrived to the Middle East. Feeling deflated and guilty, I think my mudaress masrya would not be pleased. And I dread that all the words escape from my brain chambers. Then Mahmoud breaks the panic ensuing and offers, 

You know each country has their own Arabic dialect but within each country depending on where you live they have their own dialect. Others can't understand if you are not from that part of Oman. I will give you an example. He says to Sultan who is from a different region of Oman. 

anqafid: أنقفض

Sultan squints and shakes his head. He doesn't know the meaning.

Mahmoud looks pleased to stump him. 

Omani Arabic is a dialect spoken in Oman, Zanzibar, and parts of Kenya, Somalia, the UAE, Iran, and Pakistan and there are several dialects spoken within the country. I am from a small town called Liwa near Suhar in the north of Oman and we speak differently.

 When Allee sits down, I want to continue playing this game of words. I face Mahmoud,

Say the word again and see if Allee knows the meaning? 

anqafid: أنقفض

Allee leans back and is stumped as well.  

What does it mean? I ask.

Get ready.

We laugh. 

I am so grateful for this small exchange with locals. From here on Sultan addresses me in Egyptian Arabic, he too is getting a kick out of using another dialect.  

Esamalukum, Peace be with you.

Wa a lekum salem, and peace be upon you.

Ezayak? how are you?

Kayessa Oui, Very well. Alhamdulillah, Shokran. Praise be to God, Thank you.

And we smile.

‘Alhamdulillah’ is my favorite Arabic word. It rolls off my tongue, a lengthy and substantial word that gives the listener the most pleasure. Sort of like the one word I know in Amharic spoken in Ethiopia, ‘Amaseganalu.’ Thank you.., it took days to learn. Amaseganalu, is long and drawn out and satisfying. Back home in Georgia, USA, I use it at least once a week while shopping at the International Farmers market. And I get a big smile in return.