Things are such a humid, conglomerated mess so don’t ask the date or time. I have no clue. Yesterday morning (?) we visited Sultan Qaboos’ Grand Mosque and it was spectacular. We all had to be dressed appropriately before the armed guards would grant us access into the gardens. You must remove your shoes before entering. You must stay on the blue carpet once inside. The women’s room was impressive with breathtaking woodwork on the ceiling and doors, tile blooming into indefinite patterns on the walls, and glittering chandeliers above us.
Fabulous.
Until we saw the male prayer room… All colors used on the interior are natural, nothing is painted. Every small, seemingly insignificant detail is attended to, the stone inlay is mind-blowing. The Swarovski Crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling weighs 8 tons. The room’s rug was the LARGEST in the world until Dubai one-upped-them within the last year. The buildings, grounds, garden, library, bathing rooms, shoe cubbies… all of it was immaculate stone and or rich brown wood. Qaboos paid for this Mosque “out of his own pocket” as everyone says, and he spared no expense.
That afternoon was our second drop off activity. We were broken into mixed-gender groups of three and were given a slip of paper with a destination. The assignment was to hail a taxi, tell them where you needed to go, get there and take notes on specified Arabic foods, and then use similar methods to return home. In Oman one barters with the driver before entering the cab in order to determine price. Under no circumstances does a woman ride in the front if there is a man with her. Under no circumstances are their seatbelts for backseat passengers. And under no circumstances does the taxi driver abide by any kind of traffic law or limit (mom and dad, this would be a good part to skip over). The driving here is atrocious. EVERYONE cuts off EVERYONE, honks at EVERYONE, speeds past EVERYONE without turn signals in a kind of merging/braiding motion where turns are always too sharp and you’re always in your neighbors lap 30 seconds in and if you are still breathing by the time you tumble out of the back seat into oncoming traffic, the trip has been of the utmost success. Haha… maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But just the breathing part.
Last night Scott tracked down a “traditional Omani restaurant” on Ruwi, so like 18 of us went. The food was delicious as usual, I think we probably gave our waiter a heart attack, and no one remembered the name of what they had ordered by the time the food was brought out but, hell, what would life be without a little utter chaos.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Ye-om Wa-Hed Pictures
Our villa in North Al-Hail. This is where we will taken everyday for classes.
<- The beach is about a half mile from our front door
Da Pohang - our ghettotackytransportation
<-Looking out from a tower at the Souk entrance to the port, we are staying down the street to the left a few blocks
Souk shops
Ye-om Wa-hed
This morning we had our breakfast in a private room of the hotel; lots of coffee and tea with white toast and a fried egg. What followed was an introductory meeting where we received approximate schedules, our school administered cell phones, etc. Our first assignment was to visit Mutrah Souk down the street and find something unusual that’s purpose was unbeknownst to us, find out its use, and barter with the shop owner to sell it to us for 3 rial. We are in a hotel basically right on the Muscat harbor along Corniche, private and sultanate yachts of ridiculous sizes dock at the industrial pier. My roomy Rachel (who is Austin College friends with Miss. J. Jennings!!) and I stopped in the first clothe shop we found in order to buy a hijab for visiting the Grand Mosque Sunday. Everyone here speaks English very well, and likes to use it which makes for an ironic sitch when we are trying to improve our skills in Arabic. We both got him to sell us black silk hijabs for 4 OM (9ish dollars) instead of 6 OM and spent a good amount of time in front of the shop mirror being instructed on how to appropriately wrap the slick fabric around our face and head. Down the same street an antique shop had various curios and I purchased an intricate metal henna ink-holder for 3 OM. A few shops later Rachel bought an antique secret-message-scroll cylinder, haha those shop keepers saw us coming and thought “There’s a sucker born every minute…”
Because it’s Ramadan, the Souk was very empty (restraint from making superfluous purchases during daylight hours), making the two of us American tourists even more vulnerable to the salesmen standing at every shop entrance. “Welcome! Hi! Come!” “Hello, 100% silk, incense?” “Enter! Come now! Come now!!” “T-shirts, shaws? Pashmir! Welcome!” Needless to say, Rachel and I were pretty happy we at least knew to say “la, shook-ran” (no, thank you). We also had to find our way to a post office in order to purchase a stamp.
When everyone was back at the hotel we got on the bus to visit our “large villa” in a northern residential area of Muscat that would serve as our classroom compound. This labeling was entirely appropriate. The house-converted-school building is gorgeous. Everything is tile and columned and white or beige or mint and so shadowy cool with intricacies and details left out from even the most fabulous US homes. The gulf is visible from an upstairs balcony, maybe a half mile away. Lunch was ordered in and we were holed up in the kitchen until we finished our mixed rice/chicken/steamed cabbage dishes. The. Food. Is. So. Good. It probably helped that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was eating it. In spoonfuls.
Later we spent time in an upstairs loft talking about our observations of the Souk and one another’s unusual objects. We took an Arabic level placement test (AHHH.) and went over the schedule for tomorrow. It’s super important that we follow the rules when visiting the Grand Mosque and our program leader Elizabeth made it very clear that if we weren’t dressed appropriately we would spend our day OUTSIDE the building. And let me just tell you how hot it is here. In the shade.I don’t remember the 45 minute ride back to the hotel. I’ve never slept like I do here. There is no energy for dozing or dreams. Either you are awake or you are asleep and when I say asleep what I really mean is dead.
Rachel and I went directly to bed when we got back and were woken up by Sarah at around 9 pm to go out in search of dinner. Now, because no one is allowed to engage in any form of pleasure during the daylight hours, night time is a big deal. All the restaurants, closed during the day, just get slammed with patrons. Everyone everywhere is out walking, shopping, eating. It’s like a holiday every evening when the clock rocks 6:30. I had a mutton sharwama which is like a lamb pita-wrap with sauce and cabbage. Delicious. After dinner we returned to the Souk, now packed with people. It may to ten or eleven or twelve but everyone and their child is out and about. We bought pins for our hijabs, spent considerable time browsing in the first “grocery” store we had come across thus far, and managed to make it out of the labyrinth of looping back streets and winding alleyways tight enough to force single file in order to head home. Ye-om wa-hed: complete.
Because it’s Ramadan, the Souk was very empty (restraint from making superfluous purchases during daylight hours), making the two of us American tourists even more vulnerable to the salesmen standing at every shop entrance. “Welcome! Hi! Come!” “Hello, 100% silk, incense?” “Enter! Come now! Come now!!” “T-shirts, shaws? Pashmir! Welcome!” Needless to say, Rachel and I were pretty happy we at least knew to say “la, shook-ran” (no, thank you). We also had to find our way to a post office in order to purchase a stamp.
When everyone was back at the hotel we got on the bus to visit our “large villa” in a northern residential area of Muscat that would serve as our classroom compound. This labeling was entirely appropriate. The house-converted-school building is gorgeous. Everything is tile and columned and white or beige or mint and so shadowy cool with intricacies and details left out from even the most fabulous US homes. The gulf is visible from an upstairs balcony, maybe a half mile away. Lunch was ordered in and we were holed up in the kitchen until we finished our mixed rice/chicken/steamed cabbage dishes. The. Food. Is. So. Good. It probably helped that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was eating it. In spoonfuls.
Later we spent time in an upstairs loft talking about our observations of the Souk and one another’s unusual objects. We took an Arabic level placement test (AHHH.) and went over the schedule for tomorrow. It’s super important that we follow the rules when visiting the Grand Mosque and our program leader Elizabeth made it very clear that if we weren’t dressed appropriately we would spend our day OUTSIDE the building. And let me just tell you how hot it is here. In the shade.I don’t remember the 45 minute ride back to the hotel. I’ve never slept like I do here. There is no energy for dozing or dreams. Either you are awake or you are asleep and when I say asleep what I really mean is dead.
Rachel and I went directly to bed when we got back and were woken up by Sarah at around 9 pm to go out in search of dinner. Now, because no one is allowed to engage in any form of pleasure during the daylight hours, night time is a big deal. All the restaurants, closed during the day, just get slammed with patrons. Everyone everywhere is out walking, shopping, eating. It’s like a holiday every evening when the clock rocks 6:30. I had a mutton sharwama which is like a lamb pita-wrap with sauce and cabbage. Delicious. After dinner we returned to the Souk, now packed with people. It may to ten or eleven or twelve but everyone and their child is out and about. We bought pins for our hijabs, spent considerable time browsing in the first “grocery” store we had come across thus far, and managed to make it out of the labyrinth of looping back streets and winding alleyways tight enough to force single file in order to head home. Ye-om wa-hed: complete.
Fun with Ramadan
Twenty. Four. Hours. After my final flight landed in Muscat the evening of Thursday the 27th, I had till 10:00pm the next day to wait for the remainder of the group to arrive. .. I moved seats a few times, you know, change of scenery. Going to the restroom was always a big to-do and took at least fifteen. Finished a book… Sat… and sat… after being awake all night, I figure it MUST be at least noon on Friday and am ready to throw in the towel when I find it isn’t even 9am yet. As if wallowing in boredom in a tiny airport and having gotten zero sleep for the last two days wasn’t fun enough - it’s Ramadan, ladies and gentlemen. From the pre-dawn prayer to sunset (approx 6:27pm), Muslims are forbidden from engaging in eating, drinking, sex, gum chewing, and smoking.
Forbidden.
The acts might actually be illegal if performed in public. And, for those of us not practicing Islam, participation in these activities is restricted to situations of absolute privacy. If you want to eat or drink or blah-de-blah you MUST be completely alone. Unfortunately, being cooped up in an overly populated, one-runway airport, not to mention being white, and female, made privacy not unlikely, it was an impossibility. Throughout the morning I tried to accept this, having finished dinner the previous night at around 1am local time (jet lag does evil things). Too bad there just wasn’t enough to do to keep my mind off of it. I realized I had to eat. And now. I loaded up my four obnoxious pieces of luggage, made another awkward stop at the tiny restroom in order to formulate a plan, and found my way to the “departures” entrance which, because of morning prayers was surprisingly vacant. But it didn’t take long. As I’m reaching into my backpack for the Larabar, a gentleman takes a seat across the room from me. Luckily a smatter of columns decorate the center of the room and our placement makes it so we are JUST hidden from each other. Still paranoid, I take some of the bar, put it in my mouth and try some method of subtle chewing/swallowing in order to be less conspicuous. This exhausting eating technique was made all the more doable because of its necessity; I couldn’t think of anything but food.
But as luck would have it, two men immediately made their way over to the bench perpendicular to my own and began “the stare”. Now let me be clear, this variety of staring isn’t the you-look-up-and-they-are-watching-but-immediately-look-away-out-of-embarassment staring. It’s like they are playing that first-one-to-blink game like when you were a kid on long road trips, but they don’t invite you to join. I thought I had followed the clothing rules. For it exceeding 100F outside coupled with insane humidity I was basically dressed for winter. Nothing from my ankles to my neck was visible and I often put the hood up on my sweater. But the Omani men of the airport make staring more than an art, it’s a national pastime. By that evening I was so ready for a hijab and abaya you wouldn’t believe I was Sarah D… something, anything to cover me and blend me, hid me! (A hijab is a head scarf that Muslim women wear wrapped to cover their hair and shoulders, only the oval of their face is visible. An abaya is basically a black cloak worn to cover perhaps less modest clothing. Nearly all young women wear this combination in a pitch black because it is “trendy”. No joke, it’s seen as extremely youthful and stylish especially when various pieces are bejeweled with colorful rhinestones and glitter.) So I’ve had one bite of Larabar, privacy unattainable I decide to return to my main bench in the general entrance. I read some more, trying to do anything to pass the time, to forget the 13 hours remaining and the rumble in my stomach. Mid morning there is an obvious lull in the crowd. Able to see a good portion of the current airport population, I count those before me. Forty-three men and three women, including myself.
I break out the book again and just as I realize the futility in trying to ignore and subdue and suppress, an angel of the Lord asks me if I was an SIT student. Actually his name is Scott but for the relief of company that he provided for me for the next 12 hours he might as well have been Gabriel. All day long we watched the dark men in their dishdashas swarm and then ebb away in the crowded airport. We discovered that Omani men are extremely affectionate and it is completely normal for these grown man-friends to hold hands when walking, sitting, talking, what have you. They embrace often and with the European cheek-to-cheek (switch), other cheek-to-cheek (switch), first cheek-to-cheek kind of formality. Scott and I talked about food, ourselves, schools, Arabic, food, families, future careers, food, movies, books, food, music, food, and food. It didn’t take long before the children next to Scott and the tourist next to me all eating weakened my resolve and I took to the painfully slow process of feeding myself bits of bar under the façade of scratching my nose, yawning, chewing a nail, ANYTHING.
It was a really long day.
Early afternoon, Sarah arrived and joined our white-kid club. Graham arrived a little before the breaking of the fast. Slowly but surely we filled a row, and then the aisle in front of the row, and then the opposite benches. Everyone had finally been accounted for by midnightish. I had been in the same airport, basically the same seat, for over twenty four hours, hadn’t slept in over thirty (and when I had slept before that thirty it had been a 45 minute stint), and had been restricted to the most inefficient eating I had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Keeping my eyes open in the bus to the hotel was itself a true illustration of perseverance and determination. But you better believe that when my head hit that pillow I was done. Good night, Oman.
Forbidden.
The acts might actually be illegal if performed in public. And, for those of us not practicing Islam, participation in these activities is restricted to situations of absolute privacy. If you want to eat or drink or blah-de-blah you MUST be completely alone. Unfortunately, being cooped up in an overly populated, one-runway airport, not to mention being white, and female, made privacy not unlikely, it was an impossibility. Throughout the morning I tried to accept this, having finished dinner the previous night at around 1am local time (jet lag does evil things). Too bad there just wasn’t enough to do to keep my mind off of it. I realized I had to eat. And now. I loaded up my four obnoxious pieces of luggage, made another awkward stop at the tiny restroom in order to formulate a plan, and found my way to the “departures” entrance which, because of morning prayers was surprisingly vacant. But it didn’t take long. As I’m reaching into my backpack for the Larabar, a gentleman takes a seat across the room from me. Luckily a smatter of columns decorate the center of the room and our placement makes it so we are JUST hidden from each other. Still paranoid, I take some of the bar, put it in my mouth and try some method of subtle chewing/swallowing in order to be less conspicuous. This exhausting eating technique was made all the more doable because of its necessity; I couldn’t think of anything but food.
But as luck would have it, two men immediately made their way over to the bench perpendicular to my own and began “the stare”. Now let me be clear, this variety of staring isn’t the you-look-up-and-they-are-watching-but-immediately-look-away-out-of-embarassment staring. It’s like they are playing that first-one-to-blink game like when you were a kid on long road trips, but they don’t invite you to join. I thought I had followed the clothing rules. For it exceeding 100F outside coupled with insane humidity I was basically dressed for winter. Nothing from my ankles to my neck was visible and I often put the hood up on my sweater. But the Omani men of the airport make staring more than an art, it’s a national pastime. By that evening I was so ready for a hijab and abaya you wouldn’t believe I was Sarah D… something, anything to cover me and blend me, hid me! (A hijab is a head scarf that Muslim women wear wrapped to cover their hair and shoulders, only the oval of their face is visible. An abaya is basically a black cloak worn to cover perhaps less modest clothing. Nearly all young women wear this combination in a pitch black because it is “trendy”. No joke, it’s seen as extremely youthful and stylish especially when various pieces are bejeweled with colorful rhinestones and glitter.) So I’ve had one bite of Larabar, privacy unattainable I decide to return to my main bench in the general entrance. I read some more, trying to do anything to pass the time, to forget the 13 hours remaining and the rumble in my stomach. Mid morning there is an obvious lull in the crowd. Able to see a good portion of the current airport population, I count those before me. Forty-three men and three women, including myself.
I break out the book again and just as I realize the futility in trying to ignore and subdue and suppress, an angel of the Lord asks me if I was an SIT student. Actually his name is Scott but for the relief of company that he provided for me for the next 12 hours he might as well have been Gabriel. All day long we watched the dark men in their dishdashas swarm and then ebb away in the crowded airport. We discovered that Omani men are extremely affectionate and it is completely normal for these grown man-friends to hold hands when walking, sitting, talking, what have you. They embrace often and with the European cheek-to-cheek (switch), other cheek-to-cheek (switch), first cheek-to-cheek kind of formality. Scott and I talked about food, ourselves, schools, Arabic, food, families, future careers, food, movies, books, food, music, food, and food. It didn’t take long before the children next to Scott and the tourist next to me all eating weakened my resolve and I took to the painfully slow process of feeding myself bits of bar under the façade of scratching my nose, yawning, chewing a nail, ANYTHING.
It was a really long day.
Early afternoon, Sarah arrived and joined our white-kid club. Graham arrived a little before the breaking of the fast. Slowly but surely we filled a row, and then the aisle in front of the row, and then the opposite benches. Everyone had finally been accounted for by midnightish. I had been in the same airport, basically the same seat, for over twenty four hours, hadn’t slept in over thirty (and when I had slept before that thirty it had been a 45 minute stint), and had been restricted to the most inefficient eating I had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Keeping my eyes open in the bus to the hotel was itself a true illustration of perseverance and determination. But you better believe that when my head hit that pillow I was done. Good night, Oman.
(Our room in Muscat)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
So here's what happened.
Spanish didn't stick. After taking it throughout all of high school I had little to show for it. Upon arriving at the University of Denver following my graduation I had to take a language proficiency test and lo and behold, my performance in Spanish was... embarrassing. Maybe it was the novel hype of being a freshman in college, maybe it was my notorious "oh yeah? well i'll show you..." attitude, or maybe I'm just plain crazy because the next week I registered for my first Arabic class.
And in ten days I leave for Oman.
The first question I usually get asked when I tell someone where I plan to study abroad isn't "And what will you be studying?" or "How long will you be away?" or "Are you at all nervous?" No, the first question is almost always something along the lines of:
"You're going to O-where?"
Don't get hot and bothered if you fell into this category, I'm not making fun. Really. But just so we can set the record straight, Oman is a country on the south-east point of the Arabian Peninsula. The United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen all nestle against her along her western/southwestern border. Oman's east coast meets the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea. If you head north across the Gulf of Oman you will hit Iran. Picturing it?
The program I am working through is called SIT Study Abroad and they specialize in more of an immersion-oriented dealio. I will not be taking courses on a university CAMPUS, I will not be staying in DORMS, I do not choose specific CLASSES to take. The particular SIT program I applied to participate in is called Oman: Political Culture and Development and it has the following set curriculum:
Intensive Language Study: Arabic
Political Culture and Development Seminar - which includes the following components:
Spanish didn't stick. After taking it throughout all of high school I had little to show for it. Upon arriving at the University of Denver following my graduation I had to take a language proficiency test and lo and behold, my performance in Spanish was... embarrassing. Maybe it was the novel hype of being a freshman in college, maybe it was my notorious "oh yeah? well i'll show you..." attitude, or maybe I'm just plain crazy because the next week I registered for my first Arabic class.
And in ten days I leave for Oman.
The first question I usually get asked when I tell someone where I plan to study abroad isn't "And what will you be studying?" or "How long will you be away?" or "Are you at all nervous?" No, the first question is almost always something along the lines of:
"You're going to O-where?"
Don't get hot and bothered if you fell into this category, I'm not making fun. Really. But just so we can set the record straight, Oman is a country on the south-east point of the Arabian Peninsula. The United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen all nestle against her along her western/southwestern border. Oman's east coast meets the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea. If you head north across the Gulf of Oman you will hit Iran. Picturing it?
The program I am working through is called SIT Study Abroad and they specialize in more of an immersion-oriented dealio. I will not be taking courses on a university CAMPUS, I will not be staying in DORMS, I do not choose specific CLASSES to take. The particular SIT program I applied to participate in is called Oman: Political Culture and Development and it has the following set curriculum:
Intensive Language Study: Arabic
Political Culture and Development Seminar - which includes the following components:
- Culture and History
- Political, Economic, and Social Development
- Rural Visit (10 days spent in Nizwa area)
- Educational Excursions (Sharqiyya Sands, Dhofar, Dur, Salalah (in Oman), Qatar, and the UAE.)
Field Study Seminar
Independent Study Project
Classes will be held in a "large villa" (nice, right?) in a part of Muscat known as Al-Hail North, as well as at various make-shift sites as determined by our excursions/rural visit. I will be situated in a home-stay for the duration of my time in Muscat, however we don't get to meet our host family until the initial week-long orientation is through (early September).
These past few days I have spent buying last-minute supplies and staring at my ever-growing pile of belongings trying to will them into packing themselves. Naturally I started about a million projects that need to be finished before I head out- I'm sewing a few tunics so I have something appropriate to wear when I arrive and I'm also making a carry-on/over-night bag. The SIT program requires we write a paper demonstrating our composite thoughts on the online Omani news articles that we have had to keep up on for the last few months and I need to put the finishing touches on mine. The following is my flight itinerary for August 26th:
Depart Denver: 1155am - Arrive DC: 518pm
Depart DC: 600pm - Arrive: Zurich 805am (Aug 27th)
Depart Zurich: 1245pm - Arrive Dubai: 850pm
Depart Dubai: 930pm - Arrive Muscat 1035pm
Thankfully I only have one layover which will be my time spent in Zurich. While in both DC and Dubai I stay on the same plane.
I'm excited but because I don't know what all to expect and have been waiting so long for this opportunity to come to fruition, it doesn't seem real...
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