"oh man, Oman!"

What an amazing weekend I almost didn’t have.  Yes, I was ready to crawl back under a heavy, heavy rock with only a small corridor to the outside...one large enough to let in air, members of the salt and sugar food groups,  and crappy romantic comedies.  You see, I know myself fairly well by now, and can recognize the monthly telltale signs that I’m about to be lousy company.  You might know them.  The crying because the bagboy wanted to carry my groceries out (“What, do I LOOK like I’m that incapable?  Are you trying to get a tip?!”), trying to be first to the stoplight ‘cause, ‘cause, because I WANT to, that’s why! (Yes, I admit it, I am that person...does it help that it’s only like one or two days for every 30 or so?) I tell myself it’s the beginnings of wisdom to know when to stay the hell out of everyone’s way before I tell them to get the hell out of mine.  (Only person who can’t escape is Mom, but she’s somewhere around 8500 miles away, being spared for the moment.) I know when it’s time to hide.  Those full moon moments. Those Ms. Hyde moments.  AAAOOOOOOOWWWW!

So, here I was, digging my proverbial hole for the weekend, when my friend and her main squeeze (how long has it been since you’ve heard THAT term?) decided to come down for a visit on their way to Oman.  Eh, one night, no big deal.  A little good company might be good for me, especially if I don’t have to get dressed or anything.  If need be, I can move to the back of my cave...my bedchamber.  Zein, fine. They can have the run of the flat.  Little did I know that they were plotting to take me with them, once they decided to go camping.  I resisted up until the last, but I am so glad I, erm...caved.

It’s amazingly close, this paradise.  The coast is only about an hour away.  The coast of Sohar. (Did I already mention that I can see the Omani border from my windows?)

Okay, if you aren’t living under your own rock, you are probably somewhat aware that there is a little bit of restlessness afoot in the Arab world.  Oman has been mentioned, and I have heard some hand-me-down “inside” information that’s pretty interesting.  But first, I will tell you, we went ‘round the roundabout near where the protesting started and now continues to this day.   This is what I saw:  oh, about a couple, three dozen men chillaxing in the grass with their friends.  And some signs with Omani colors on them.  That’s it.  The big excitement was that one of them knew some of our hosts.  This individual, a very excitable gentlemen who wants to be known as “Enjoy” welcomed us by attaching himself to the side of our moving truck, asking us if we were journalists, and told us to blog about it.  And, I am indeed.  However, I doubt anything I say will be a boost, or a detriment, to their cause. I just dig his name.

You want to know more about the second-hand knowledge I have about the current situation in Oman?  Okay, read on:

Someone tried hard to urge them not to protest prior to even the Tunisian uprising.  There were already efforts in the works with people concerned with workers’ rights and unemployment, efforts by the government.  There was already a peaceful movement afoot.  The protesters are the ones that got caught up in the fever that’s spreading across the Arab world.  Now, that same Someone who wants to help the workers, the same one who writes passionate poetry about his Sultan, is caught between friends who are protesting and people wanting to do things without complete upheaval.  Now, the news will tell you that people have been hurt.  It’s true.  Things did get intense.  We did see the military for a moment on our way back.  Yet, it sounded preventable.  I can’t say I’m informed enough for a solid opinion, but from what I have seen up until now, there has been a highly peaceful notion of Oman founded on a lot of truth.

Enough of the playing informant, since I’m not a very good one anyway. Can I just tell you about playing in the mountains now?  

Well, we camped in a wadi (“arroyo,” by Sonoran Desert standards, except that the water table is still reachable), next to a working falaj (a canal that brings water to the village, and I’m willing to bet, the same falaj that has been there for hundreds of years, with some regular maintenance.)  It’s rocky terrain there, with some green.  Besides the palms and other trees (one of which is about 700 years old, the “biggest tree in the world,” according to one of our hosts who has never heard of the Redwoods), that thrive next to the falaj, they are mostly small  desert succulents.  The village is tiny, and they cultivate much of what they need there: hashish (Okay, okay, don’t get excited, I’m not talking about the smoking kind.  It actually refers to the grasses they grow to feed the goats), lemon trees, a small stand of aloe (the universal plant medicine, apparently), and the date palms.  It’s the most picturesque place I have ever, ever been.  Not only that, but the people we met are content, beautiful-souled people. I had heard, and now I know, the Omani people are just lovely, kind, and accepting people.  

We were not the first westerners they had met, but different enough that the children stared in interest.  The children only?  No.  In the UAE, there are many Bengali expats working.  Here, it is no different.  They lead quiet lives, and I realize now that the ones who live rurally rarely, if ever, have seen a western woman.  The unmasked staring!  I wish there was a better word for it, because it sounds impolite, and it really isn’t in this case.  Maybe just, plain, open, looking. They looked, wide-eyed, with a fascination.  But, then, it was mutual.  Everybody looked at each other as if we had just discovered a unicorn.  My favorite looking came from a local, Sheikha.  

Beautiful Sheikha.  The kind and loving wise woman.  She’s only 55, but is definitely the crone of the village.  What love this person has in her heart, in her eyes.  We met her as she returned home carrying freshly cut hashish for the animals. (Her picture is on the blog.)  We asked to take her picture, and she was happy to oblige.  She invited us to tea, and we sat and talked, asking about her life.  Abdullah translated, and we used the little Arabic we know to converse.  Gen gave her a gift of a new sheila (scarf) and a necklace for the little girl.  Sheikha returned from giving the gifts with the news that the baby who will be born soon will be named Jena, in her honor.  How amazing is that?  (Gen’s name is too close to “djin,” not something you want to be called, as it refers to spirits.  “Jena,” on the other hand, is “heaven.”)  What I’m really excited with right now is that Rashed, another of our hosts, knows them through family ties, and he mentioned that it could be arranged that Gen and I go back to teach English for a week of volunteering.  Sheikha promised to teach us how to tend the animals and crops.  I sincerely hope to return to share more experiences in this mountain paradise.  

So many amazing things happened this weekend, that I nearly forgot that I’m turning she-wolf at the moment.  Between eating goat (really gross and I’m am not a fan and it tastes like fatty soap and I saw it’s eyes and teeth and for recent non-meateater, it was just too, too much), being relentlessly hit on by a gay man (“It’s okay, it’s just the alcohol, he’ll be okay in the morning”), watching another goat eat his brother’s remains, freeclimbing to the most lovely mountain views of valley and village, and so, so much else, I almost forgot that I was hormonal.  

I am proud to say that I only pulled the “I can one-up you” once, but it was more out of joy than out of wallowing in the caverns of my hormone imbalance.  Abdullah and I were the only ones out of the six of us who thought it a fantastic idea to boulder and free climb the precarious mountainside that has all the ingredients necessary for a landslide - loose rock, good wind, two climbers racing to the top. I even let go a little of my adrenaline-induced ego-tripping by actually conceding the last few meters to him.  After all, he was our host, and to completely outdo him would just be a little rude.  Nevertheless, fantastic climb, and I came out charged, unscatched, with nary a scratch.   I never feel so absolutely sharp and in the moment as I do when climbing.  (I really should have kept those climbing shoes and spent more time learning how to seriously climb.  Maybe I still will.)   Happy to know I haven’t lost much strength since moving here, either.  I did a little girl-growling, much to the amusement of the men who greeted me at the bottom. GGGGRRRRRR!!!  What a RUSH.  Oh, and on the way, I visited quite a few real, live caves, one with remnants of an old raptor’s nest, all too small for how massive my heart was feeling, so no need to crawl in, no need to create them myself.  

We went back to camp, and were greeted with steaming plates of rice and spicy stew.  So good.  Have I mentioned how wonderful it is that it’s actually appropriate to eat with your hands here?  Love it.  We packed up, tried to teach some Arabs about “leave no trace,” then we drove off, heads and hands sticking out of the truck, feeling the wind, dancing to the blast of my new favorite Arabic music (for which I really must bug them for a copy), and topped it all off with a nice mint-grape shisha and Arabic coffee at a host's brother’s shisha lounge.  Awesome.

So, now, I’ll just find a nice place to put the very small rock I brought back.  Maybe next time I feel like crawling under one, I can just hold it and remember times I’ve soared above them.  AAAAAAYYYYYWWWWAAAHHHH!