2024: Year of Sincerity ~Oman 2 'The Rooster'

On the bus I sit in the front row, my favorite spot. I can see everything before me, buildings, landscapes, people,…donkeys on a truck? Plus it prevents motion sickness even though I have not felt motion sickness on buses for years. Yet I don’t want to take a chance.

The engine revs up and Mahmoud standing says, 

Hello everyone we have a new member, Ms April is joining us. My name is Mahmoud and this is our driver Sultan. Welcome now to Oman. 

We are nearing our first tourist attraction. Drive through the beautiful embassy quarter, to reach the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque. 

Mahmoud says. 

We have arrived at the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, Named after the Sultan of Oman who ruled from 1970 until his death in 2020. He was the longest-serving leader in the Middle East and Arab world at the time of his death, having ruled for almost half a century. The mosque was built as a contemporary place of worship, it serves as a spiritual landmark for modern Oman. At the mosque make sure the body is covered and women need to cover your heads. 

Unzipping my backpack, I pull out my black scarf then wrap my abiya, long black robe over my legs and cover my chest. Knowing the protocol because I have visited a few mosques throughout the Arab world. 

A few years ago, I visited a Mosque in Egypt. Never having entered a mosque, I was curious about the lovely structure, I asked my driver,

Is it possible to enter the Mosque?

At first he was hesitant because it was not customary for women to be in the same room with men during prayer time. 

Wait here. He said. 

Then by chance he returned to escort me inside the mosque. In the foyer there was a plastic bin full of old Abayas and scarves to borrow and a tall shoe cubby. I slipped off my sneakers and placed them in one of the compartments. Then pulled out a black abaya and a black scarf. Once dressed, I caught a glimpse of myself in front of the mirrored armoire. There was something elegant about the way the black dress draped to the floor shrouded in black exposing only my face. We entered the room quietly where the high ceilings peaked with simple but ornate red wood carvings. While men knelt scattered around the red carpet, bowing their heads facing east towards Mecca. 

Once we get off the bus I recognize a few of the passengers from the dining hall, mostly southeast asians and a few caucasians. Mah-moud checks the women, from top to bottom making sure that our scarves are covering our heads and no arms and legs are exposed down to our wrists and ankles. Then at the gate, two soldiers survey our clothing. I grab a hold of my scarf which is slipping off my head. One soldier points to a lady alerting Mah-moud. One of the Asian women has her legs exposed and goes back on the bus and returns with a longer dress.

Once inside, the gleaming Italian marble floor is smooth and reflective cool as Lake Michigan. I stay back behind the group as I want to take a shot without anyone on the ground. Before me the vast brilliant marble floor leading to the row of sandstone travertine arches are plain and graceful. I am ready to shoot when a string of swanlike teens in their flowy navy dresses and dancing white headscarves glide into the scene. Ohh, I breathe in with aww,  then click and put my phone down. Their dresses and scarves lure me in a trance as I watch them silently disappear into the spruce trees. 

After the visit to the mosque, we continue to the Opera House to visit this marvelous edifice with moldings that curve along the floors, posts and ceilings. Built specially by Sultan Qaboos. At lunch we stop at a fish restaurant. With most of the country by the coast, the fish await swimming in a large at the entrance then land on our table grilled, three whole fish with their eyes pointing our way on large pizza trays. One of the Laotians lady whips out a bottle of red chili from her bag. With a vigorous shake sprinkling the fish then passes the bottle to the others to share and my mouth waters. We all vow. 

Now that is the best meal on this trip!

We are nearing Old Muscat, surrounded by steep mountains and flanked by twin 16th century forts ‘Jalali’ and ‘Mirani’. 

Mahmoud informs us, 

The Al Alam Palace is our next stop. His Majesty Sultan Qaboos’ residence but he doesn't reside there yet it serves as a guest house for dignitaries. Then We will proceed to Bait Al Zubair Museum. Sheikh Al Zubair who served three former Sultans, founded the house in 1914 and his son Mohammad Al Zubair opened it as a museum in 1998. 

Our final destination is the corniche at Muttrah - the main port and commercial center and where you can explore the colorful historic souk (market). At the Souk, the narrow entrance to shops doesn't appeal to me. Shopping makes me nervous and confused at times and the souks are an extreme shopping experience. Every stall is filled with rich colorful textiles, jewelry, traditional Omani perfumes (bukhoor - made of frankincense), souvenirs and antiques screaming for your attention. Today, I am not in the mood to wrestle storekeepers and tourists in a crowded market. Perhaps because I have been on a bus with 20 other tourists. Besides throughout Jordan and Saudi Arabia the souks had similar souvenirs just as they did throughout my previous travels to Tunisia, Morocco, Egypt, Qatar, Bahrain, and Kuwait. As the group disappears into the souk I walk off and stay near the street.

Allen, my husband collects silver animal pendants so I stop at a small shop to hunt for one. The first silver pendant he collected was while visiting the Galapagos. A silver casted iguana. Then on our way to Antarctica, the ship stopped at the Falklands Islands where he found a perfect shiny magellan penguin named Marve. The last trinket was from Bali, Indonesia, a hollow engraved elephant that could pass for a pig. At the shop, a bell rings as I enter. 

Sabah al-khair,  good morning

Sabah noor. Response to good morning

Where are you from? (guessing that he from India)

I am from pakistan.  

Oh I would love to visit Karachi someday. 

Yes Yes it's beautiful. 

Do you have any animal silver pendants? For a man?

Out of nowhere he pulls an old tarnished rooster with detailed feathers. Not from the glass compartment where all the gems are stored. Shaking it, the head and feet move. Placing it in my hand. The rooster is weighty and every piece of feather, the main, crown and talons are carved with precision. He takes it and pulls out a handkerchief rubbing the rooster to shine brighter. That's the one I thought. Then with my poker face, I ask,

How much? 

10 omani. He says.

I could have paid it but I know this part of the world loves to haggle. Coming from New York and being Korean, haggling is a life skill. As a real estate investor, I trained newbie investors the art of negotiation which comes in handy having a business, shopping or dealing with children.

How about 7 omani? I say.

I give you for 8 omani, it's good price. He says.

Yes it is, I will take it. I say. And wonder how Allen would receive his rooster?  

He packed my charm in a beautiful Tiffany blue box with a blue bow then slipped it inside a thick blood red bag that could be used to store toxic material. 

Do you want a pashmina?

La shokran. Mas salem. No thank you. good evening. 

Although I am tempted by the rich ornate designs, I decide to wait and purchase them when I return to India where pashmina scarves originate. Buying souvenirs that are manufactured and handcrafted by the locals makes it unique. Although the Chinese make souvenirs for most foreign countries around the world, their knockoffs are unmatched with popular items of fridge magnets, pens, coasters, dresses, etc. 

Mas Salem, good evening.

With my souvenir in hand I am relieved to have found something nice to bring back for Allen. Stepping out of the cool store into the humid heat. I pop my umbrella open for shade. Walking across the street and down by the sea of Sur. Its shipyards, which still produce traditional wooden vessels, played a pivotal role in Oman’s maritime past.

In the city center. I walk further along the coast as the water crashes against the rocks. A splash of water keeps me moving forward until the city view appears and two old wooden ships are picturesque in the front of the backdrop of a massive modern cruise ship. The water beats against the rocks that sprinkles coolness onto my toes. No one is walking along the bay but as I approach a gazebo, a man is taking cover from the sun. I smile passing him.

As I get closer to the mountain view on the right, Mutrah Fort stands high along the steep rocks. As the omani flag waves at the top, I wish I had the time to climb the fort but there is only 20 minutes before I have to return to the bus. I sigh. As I cross the street I find a small building with art work displayed in front and the sign to an art museum. I love galleries as it shows local art of the people in that region. Fascinating what people can create all over the world, a symbol of their lives on all sorts of material. A man standing under a tree puts out his cigarette and walks towards me. 

Is it open? I ask.

Yes.he says.

The museum is small but I don’t want to rush through it plus I don’t want to be that person holding up the bus. Making the poor tour guide lose pace. 

No time, Shokran.

Afwan, he says. As he walks back under a tree to smoke. 

The tourists arrive on the bus armed with bags of souvenirs, clothing and pashminas. So many beautiful things but I carry a tiny suitcase to prevent purchasing unnecessary goods imagining a sparser life. On our last home renovation, We dumped our sentimentals into the dumpster yet some lingering sentiments managed to remain stored in our garage landfill. Thinking of hiring an organizer who can torch the room. Only to dream of parking our cars in its proper home someday. 

While we wait on the others, I ask Mahmoud, 

How did you meet your wife? I am always intrigued by how people meet and choose their mates. 

I will tell you on the bus because it's an unusual story for the Omani people. The others will like to hear it as well. He says.

Oh good, I can't wait to hear a good love story. 

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