Tourist

“That is the camel he is enjoyding it the frankincense trees and the American peoples.”

When you only spend 56 hours in Salalah there is no time to sleep. In Muscat you sweat because you breath, here the air is cool and dry and there is a breeze.

Arriving mid-day Wednesday we headed straight from the airport to Salalah Port, our small white bus dwarfed by the swinging, hinged cranes along the main strip. Mainly used for trans-shipment, the port is moving thousands of crates per day, millions annually. We toured the bay by tugboat, evoking nautical longings that were difficult to bed down.

The top floor of our hotel housed a “health club” with male, female, and general hours and miracle of all miracles, there was even a pool (beach-swimming isn’t allowed during Ramadan for females). So we ladies donned our suits, covered by both swimming-shorts and t-shirt, and waded heavily in the warm water. Four o’clock approached, Haffa House’s weekly, hour-long, women’s only swim time, and the boys were ushered out. Being notoriously ill-suited for lengthy girl-only-interactions, Graham, Scott, and I rounded up Hugh, John, and DJ to head to Husn Souk. The walk was long. Very. But there were forests of banana trees and frond-roofed huts selling the local coconuts, papayas, and plantains. We found one of the Sultan’s palaces, peace be upon him, situated firmly on a walled-in stretch of forbidden beach. Here the riptide was fierce enough to deter even the most ignorant of swimmers, it smashed and rolled, beating ridges into the sand. We spent little time in the actual souk, it being so near Iftar, and decided to resign ourselves to finding a place to eat. Taking two cabs, our two groups eventually met up on July 23rd Street, half wanted to go to a conveniently close Chinese restaurant. Scott and I expressed a simple “hell no” to that plan, put off by the thought of passing on Omani food for a buffet we could find in the states next to a Walmart. We walked. And walked. And then retraced our steps in the opposite direction. And walked which was “really very less great, actually”. The tops of my feet bled and we found as authentically Salalah-an a place as we could. Because of the mixed company (me) we were required to use a private family room, but the six of us destroyed the chicken, beef, and fish they laid before us, pedestaled atop saffron rice. Hugh, John, and Graham went to check out a nearby hookah bar while DJ, Scott, and I spent the next hour walking back home.

By now it was 10pm, and desperate for some appropriate clothes, I spent the next hour in Max, which shared a building with our hotel. After scouring the busy store, the following 45 minutes I stood in line. Basically, the area before the registers was a writhing black mosh pit; abayad women pushing through, elbowing each other out of place, cutting ahead, slipping behind, throwing their piles of clothing over the counter and into the arms of employees in order to insure that they’d be taken care of next. If this had been America you better believe there would have been a throw down. “You cutting in front of ME, mammy? I don’t THINK SO!” It’s interesting how what is considered perfectly acceptable in some cultures is entirely, hands down, no doubt about it rude in another. Returning home at midnight, I had an hour left in the health club, just enough time to run out all the aggression and angst I had collected during my shopping experience.

Thursday was a whirlwind of tourist attractions. Taqah Castle and their cliffs. Samharam archeological site. Tomb of Ain Rezat. Mirbat Castle, homes, and port. Wadi Darbat and nearby falls. “Really, it’s very enjoyd-able. I am sure you will love it, actually.” We left the hotel at nine and returned by three-thirty. Trompin’ around Salalah without food or water for seven hours. We broke fast beneath a tent in the desert and visited the Frankincense Museum before ending up back at the main souk.

SO sick of many of our compatriots, Scott and I managed to slip around corners in the noisy maze of shops and lose most. While they headed back to the hotel to gather for another hookah-bout, Scott and I made our way back the beach. Being so near the water, a skin of condensation coated everything; the plastic table beneath our glasses of foggy Lipton was slick with droplets. No women out now. All the sardine fishermen had pulled in their last weighted throw long before and the beaches and restaurants were dotted with small groups of grown men, dishdasha donned. On our way back into the market’s heart, I bought some rich brown and nutty halawa to go with the frankincense I would present to my host family upon returning.

Friday morning was another maddening trip to see “all the sights”. Job’s tomb, Ziczac Road, the Mughsayl fountains… Salalah is “really so beautiful, actually”, which is VERY true, but packing so much into such little time took its toll.