Listen, can you hear the distance calling...

Now, I am thinking that as many of you are feeling the chill of midwinter, you may be dreaming, just a little, of coming out to visit us here and getting some sunshine.

So you can get an idea for what you might be in for, (horrendously long flights and jet lag aside,) let me list of some of the things Pat and Colleen got to do while they were guests in our home:

We drove through the desert to the mountains in Masafi so they could buy Persian carpets. They haggled beautifully and got fantastic deals. Thomas secured a tiger-skin pattered rug for himself. We ate in another tiny one-table restaurant. Then we took a slight detour to Umm al Quwain's Barracuda Resort so they could see where we get our alcohol and I could blame them if we got pulled over with the pseudo-contraband in the back. We also found a nicely photogenic herd of camels in the desert, much to our delight, and snapped away.

We went to the beaches several times, the last of which I'm saving for it's own blog entry. Seashells, turquoise waters, and soft white sands, as promised. OK, so it actually rained on this day in the photo, what can you do?

We went out for some grown-up only evenings, including to Apres at the Mall of the Emirates to enjoy cocktails while watching the skiers, and to Souk Madinat for fantastic steaks beneath palm trees, lovely wine, and watching Dhows sail by, the Burj al Arab soaring in bright lights as our view, all beneath a glorious half moon on its back.

We paid the 3 dhs apiece to go into my beloved Safa park, wander on a balmy day, enjoy Malik burgers, and people watch, marveling at all the different sorts of cultures and families in one green space.

Mike photographing Pat and Colleen in Safa Park

We drove through a flood and went to my all-time favorite shopping spree place, Antique Mall, where they showed considerable restraint, and enjoyed Arabic coffee.

There were sunsets, an evening at the Nad al Sheba horse races, sitting around laughing.

Colleen and I donned headscarves and long-sleeved "modest" clothing and I finally got to tour the Jumeirah Mosque to learn about Islam and what it means to be a Muslim. We chased that up with the best lattes in Dubai at Central Perk, and then Pat found a giant bright green caterpillar on our walkway that we made our pet for several days and named "Fatty".

We did an almost drive-by of Atlantis, though I chickened out and didn't drive quite far enough. They'd had enough of my so-called navigating that day anyway.

They heard the soaring call to prayer, checked out the local grocery scene, checked out Bethy's school and Mike's worksite, and even took a day trip to Abu Dhabi to be dazzled by the Emirates Palace.

They saw for themselves the seemingly endless construction, the insane driving styles, the over-the-top cars and architecture, and the warmth of people here towards children.

They got to meet Rani, and Ram, and all approved.

At the end, we wanted them to stay longer...the mark of a truly successful trip.

Lots of photographs, lots of memories. Some blurry, all precious.

At this time I would also like to (very belatedly) thank Colleen for the free use I've made of the photographs she and Pat took on their trip out here for the blog. Thanks Mom!

Bright eyes

Colleen and Pat, I must say, demonstrated what perfect house guests should be. They helped clean, pay for "petrol", and even babysat. encouraging and freeing me to go running. Now that's a great deal.

In return I tried to show them as many of Dubai and the UAE's beauties as I could. They bore up admirably, especially the day I took them to the Gold and Spice Souks. Now, had I taken them the boring direct route, that would have been one thing, but I took them the "I am so completely and utterly lost it's almost not funny" route.

Pat got to laugh at me and Colleen made the best of it by getting some photos of a stretch Hummer limousine on one of the, er, detour tours, so that worked. They were calm passengers in the onslaught of interesting driving conditions as well; construction everywhere, U-turns, crazy drivers (hopefully I wasn't considered one of them...at least I didn't go twice the posted speed limit!), and signs that led one inexplicably astray. (Never follow the signs if you can help it.) I assured them that I drive much more aggressively in Dubai than I ever would in the states...you have to.

They may or may not have believed me, but they didn't argue the point. Probably worried I'd crash if I got agitated enough. As it was, I managed to have only one accident while they were here.

We finally got to Dubai Creek. The Souks are one of the best parts of Dubai, in my opinion. They are colorful and a colorful cross section of the population as well. Tourists, Indians, Iranians, Emiratis, all beneath the carved wooden beams overhead that encompass the market.

You notice they are toting the kids. This was a major bonus for me. One kid is pretty manageable, two could be a handful in a place with so many interesting people and crannies if they so chose. Along the way we ran into several people who wanted to hold or photograph the kids. Usually they want to hold Thomas and photograph Bethy. Thomas made a man missing his two-year old son very happy, and Bethy was presented with 50 dirhams after she posed for a photo for an Iranian. (Her allowance is 5 dirhams a week, so this was quite the windfall for her. I couldn't tell her no. )

The Iranian man, like every Iranian I've ever met once he learned that we are Americans, was extremely emphatic in informing us that he loves Americans. Not likes, loves. In other words, don't fall for the anti-American flag burning propaganda from his government that you see on the news now and then. Iranians feel pretty bad about it.

The Spice Souk is a treat for the eyes and nose, to be sure, but the Gold Souk has a particular effect upon people:

It's pretty overwhelming with the sheer amount of riches, store after store. Lots of bright sparkle, sold by the ounce. Described as "exhaustive", there are more than 300 jewellers. If you want your seriously over-the-top kind of bling, this is the place.

The effect of all that gold on girls

We managed not to buy anything, oogling the sights and the folks who were haggling away. We got to see the Abras on Dubai Creek, QE2 at port, and to make the kids very happy, to that oh-so-exotic restaurant for lunch...Applebees.

Oh, you want to know about my accident? Well, it was one of those things. I backed into a piece of metal sticking out from a broken grocery cart corral at one of the malls. Punched a nice fat circular hole in the bumper of Bird Car. Pat got another laugh out of it (we all did) and Colleen defended me vehemently. It was, after all, beneath my line of vision.

Souvenir.

The long and winding road that leads to your door...

A solitary camel in the morning light regarded us through long lashes as Colleen and I got back on the road from the Al-Hadd Sea Turtle Reserve. I wondered how the men were dealing with the kids. I needn't have worried; both kids were sound asleep after their late night, and Mike and Pat were relaxing with coffee by the sea.

Breakfast was memorable in that even though every care was taken to give us a delightful outdoor experience, the flies were so unbelievably thick I ended up breaking bites of toast off a piece sandwiched between two plates, sneaking them out and hustling them into my mouth before they could get covered with the buzzing black insects. Not appetizing at all.

I will eat a lot of things, but I'd like to keep flies off that list of edibles, deliberate or non.

The rest of the resort was idyllic, simple and warm, and I would have liked to spend the day lazing in the breezes off the water. It was time to head home, however. Any lazing would have to be performed in the car.

The drive home to Dubai was, indeed long, but we still had a good time. We bought nearly USD$75 worth of junk food at a petrol station. Colleen asked if the price had been correct. It had, it conspired, and the clerk got the idea that Pat would probably beat Colleen for spending so much. He came out of the store to make apologetic gestures to the (supposedly) angry husband, hopefully placate him, and save Colleen's hide. We drove away and found the whole thing very funny. Some slept, some chatted, even Thomas sat and looked at a book, and we all ate too many processed pre-packaged foods.

When we couldn't take any more of that we stopped and I managed to buy some fruit using only Arabic. All the other buyers were ancient Arabs, with the one young man wheeling and dealing. The seller pitied me when I didn't dicker the price and gave me back extra change. Flushed with success, I couldn't help myself and bought two whole rotisserie chickens from outside of the restaurant next door. The machine rotating the chickens was on the verge of being lifted off the ground by what must have been years of accumulated drippings that had run down and solidified.

It tasted delicious anyway.

Again, we had the "no napkins" issue, (there were some sort of thin waxy papers given us, not quite enough to contain chicken or wipe anything up) but we did our best and were a little greasy. Travel can be like that. Nothing like trying to divvy up two whole chickens in a moving vehicle to make you feel alive.

We had very much wanted to stop at the ancient city of Qualhat, and the Tomb of Bibi Miriam, the oldest archaeological site in Oman. Both Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta stopped there on their travels. Who were we not to do the same?

In the late 13th century Marco Polo wrote

"This city has a good port, much frequented by merchant ships from India...since it is a centre from which spices and other goods are carried to inland cities and towns. Many fine Arab horses are exported...to the great gain of the merchants."

In 1330 AD Ibn Battuta wrote

" The city of Qalhat is on the coast. It has good markets, and one of the most beautiful mosques in the world. The walls of the mosque are covered with blue ceramic tiles. It stands on a hill beside the harbour...a lofty situation from which it commands a view of the sea and the anchorage. This mosque was built by an important woman named Bibi Maryam. The people here are merchants , and they bring many goods from India. When a ship arrives the people are very happy ".

Now, thanks to an earthquake, the Portuguese, and time itself, only the tomb and a water cistern stand, though you can easily tell where the city's fortified stone walls were, and why the king would come there to be well guarded and situated in times of war. It was a lonely place, though we enjoyed exploring.

None of us went down into the tomb.

We drove back through the mountains, past the sea, past the tiny villages and children playing, old men out on the stoops, veiled women walking in groups.

By the time we were back in Muscat there was a traffic jam. Such a difference from being the only car on the road. In the restroom, which had a dipper for getting your water to splash on after going, as opposed to the sprayer, (Toilet paper? Are you kidding?) Mike cut his hand rather badly, and we all had visions of sepsis. Apparently his immunity is quite good, and as far as we know, nothing came of it beyond the need for a band-aid.

Mercedes sporting the proper Oman flair.

It was dark when we made it back to the multiple crossing stations for the border. On the UAE side, while all of us were walking back to get in the car after getting the token once-over by the authorities, Pat made a joke about "the three people still hiding in our car." Mike and I lit into him for it, also mentioning in passing that he probably shouldn't joke about bombs at the airport either.

Ah well. It's almost funny when he shakes his fist at other drivers and yells "Abu Dhabi!" (An Egyptian friend of ours once commented that the Abu Dhabi license plates on our cars put the fear of God into other drivers; apparently Abu Dhabi residents are worthy of such fear behind the wheel). It would be funny if he didn't shake his fist, but this is a land where one national was so enraged at a British woman for flipping him the bird after he honked at the taxi that was letting her out (one ends up in jail if one uses such a gesture here) that he drove up on the sidewalk in his Hummer, ran her over, then backed over her as well.

Yes, she is quite dead.

Pat was quite good-natured about our fretful schoolings on proper Middle East behavior, and also managed to keep out of jail while here. An excellent guest.

It was dark when the unmistakable lights of Dubai came into view. They were a shock to the system after being away in an older, slower, quieter culture. For just a moment, I didn't like Dubai. I liked the open roads, the solitary camel, the quiet beaches and being the only white faces...

When the bill came for our delivered dinner, that was another shock. We'd forgotten how much things cost.

However, home is home, and we were happy to be back in our bright little house once more.

Happy we'll be beyond the sea...

Our tired little family staggered back to the Barasti huts at about 12:30 AM and collapsed into bed. Though I had purchased permits for all of us to return to the beach to watch the babies hatch and the sun rise, only Colleen and I were willing to try to get back up at 3 AM, to be at the reserve at 3:45. We both set our cell phone alarms and went to bed fully clothed so as to roll out the door as quickly (and quietly!) as possible.

Neither of our alarms went off...

But, somehow, amazingly, Colleen woke up anyway. Late, we booked it out of the Barasti hut, disheveled and still half asleep. I was saying something along the lines of "Dark...we shouldn't be running..." when I saw and blurted, too late, "rocks!"


The pathway was not straight, and lined with medium-sized jagged rocks. Colleen ran right into the rocks at a spot where the path turned out, tripped, flew like supergirl and landed wham, flat out, right on top of more rocks. I thought something unprintable. Great, now I'd killed my Mother-in-law.


Good luck finding medical care out here.


Assessing the damage, we decided it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Though she was hobbling and would have some impressive bruises, she insisted she we press on. I was thinking about the long walk to the sands at the reserve, and resolved to go back if she was hurt too badly. We drove through the darkness as fast as we dared, and managed to get to the reserve on time after all.


There we were greeted by 2 other couples and some hot coffee. The coffee was an unbelievably good idea. The guide who made it for us had met me the night before and he beamed and nodded, "this is my friend, hello my friend."

He was shy about perhaps not making good coffee but it was quite good for 4 AM coffee, and we told him so. Our little group followed him out again to the beach. The moon had set and it was quite dark. But the stars, oh, the stars.

Colleen described it best later: It wasn't a night sky with stars. It was stars with bits of night sky. We sat in the dunes as before, and looking up you could get quite dizzy. I have never seen such a sky before, not even in my imagination. You actually had a sense of the curvature of the earth. The stars were so brilliant, so near...they were almost reachable.

Colleen was being her usual friendly self, chatting away with the other guests, and was immediately pegged as a teacher. Sympathy was expressed for her header, rocky encounter and the aftermath. I was somewhere in that realm between dreaming and drooling as I gazed skyward; stars upon stars, satellites, and shooting stars for wishes. Our guide kept addressing me as "my friend" and I kept managing not to hear him the first, sometimes second time.

What can I say, I was drowning in stars.

We saw a police cruiser boat zooming along the coast, lights blinking as it chased some unknown prey.

Then we got lucky. The second guide had found a mother turtle laying her eggs, and without the wailing Thomas, short of a Tsunami, I knew I would see this one. In due time we were allowed to approach her as she laboured with covering her eggs. Lit in the reddish light the stewards used, we crouched down behind her, so as to not alarm her too much.

First thumping one gigantic flipper, than the next, flipping and pushing the sands behind her, she would occasionally exhale a tired whoof, blowing and then continuing her exhaustive work. She'd already had to dig the body pit, a crater in the sand to accommodate her large size, then shoveled out an egg cavity using her real flippers as shovels, and laid 100 or more eggs.

By the time she got to this point I was feeling thoroughly sorry for her, out of her buoyant watery home and up on this beach, so heavy. She flipped plenty of sand over us as well as her eggs, as we sputtered and grinned. "This very good turtle," the guide explained "she hide these eggs from the fox, the fox think the eggs here so she pretend to bury them here." He pointed to one section of the nest, then another. Ah! All the work we were seeing was not even to truly bury her eggs. They were already buried...she was making false signs in the sand to try and fool the foxes who come down from the rocky cliff sides to dig and eat the eggs.

A lot of work for a sea creature.

Only 1 out of 1000 sea turtle eggs survives to adulthood. so it was a little sad, even while it was wonderful, to watch her.

The sky was lightening slowly, the turning stars disappearing. Seabirds began to wheel overhead, so we knew the baby turtles, 60 days after their eggs had been buried, were about to hatch and emerge. A few baby turtles dug their way out of the sand, little flippers going frantically as they tried so, so hard to make it over the shapes of the sand into the sea. The guides shone their lights into the babies' faces so they would follow them the correct direction down the beach, and made pathways in the sand so the babies would have an easier time of it.

The seabirds had their breakfast, but there were few babies that morning, so the skies soon emptied again. The mother turtle was still thumping her flippers as she shifted sands.

The sun was slowly making its liquid orange way up over the sea, and we could now see where other turtles had lumbered their way back to the water, the marks of their flippers not unlike tractor tracks. We could see our turtle more clearly as well, when we could tear our eyes away from the glamorous sunrise. She was patterned all over, subtly but attractively. I could see why anyone would want her enormous shell for decoration. Her eyes were fathomless black, and I wondered what she might have seen in her travels of the ocean.

A noise or movement in the cliffs alerted us to another sort of creature; a fox was about to join us. Bounding down onto the beach, the fox was both playful and very bold. Plume of a red tail waving joyfully behind, the fox scampered and searched on the beach, paying us little mind.

The sea turtle finally began to heave herself out of the nest, having concealed it to her satisfaction. Obeying the instincts that had commanded her to return to her birthplace, now she heaved her way, inch by laborious inch, back to the sea.

The fox ran to where she had been and dug and dug until finding some eggs, hers or another turtle's, I do not know, and had its breakfast as well. Clever fox. The turtle and the fox didn't even acknowledge one another's presence, as far as I could tell. I suppose nothing is personal in nature.


The fox also found a lone baby turtle, alive or dead we don't know, but the fox toyed with it like a cat does a mouse, throwing it up into the air and jumping; playing with its food. When a bird got too close the fox pursued it down nearly the entire length of the beach. When the fox returned darned if it wasn't looking looking entirely pleased with itself.

At last for the turtle, the final push to the sea, then into the waves. Still, the turtle didn't hurry, and pushed herself at the exact same cadence until the waves lifted her, she raised her head for a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the waves. Patient soul.

We had been on the beach for nearly 4 hours. Our guide had decided that my curly hair was beautiful and that I was quite the woman, what with jumping into sinkholes and eating crabs. He'd said that crabs were bad (they pinch and kill the baby turtles) and I had said, oh no, crabs are very good...for eating. This garnered me a laugh and more admiration.

Fishermen drove past in their boat, standing proudly in the prows, "Like you", our guide said to me, "No sit, stand, brave." On a par with Chuck Norris now, we crazy American women walked back to the car, fending off persistent invitations to Omani coffee and some hand holding. (Very risqué behavior! Had to put the kibosh on that one.) We were due for breakfast in the Dhow, and a very long drive home to Dubai.

Somewhere beyond the sea...

As we drove away from Sur, I heard Saleem's last question to me still ringing in my head. "When someone asks 'how are you?' is it correct to reply 'I am great!'?" he queried.


Sure, I said, that's a perfectly good answer.


"No." he said, almost fiercely, "it is not. People cannot be great. Only God is great."


I of course rolled over and showed my belly and made placating noises that of course he was right, but such a comment was not meant to imply that a person was anything more than feeling very well, thank you. He said that an Australian woman had said that to him and he'd been bothered by it ever since.


Who knew that even the most innocent remark could go astray like that? I vowed to watch my words even more closely.


Now heading down the coast with an evening rather than an afternoon start, I called the Turtle Beach Resort to make sure they knew we were coming. Though Mike had brought his mobile and I'd bought one for Colleen and Pat to use, mine was the only one that would work , and then only sporadically. However, it was only the third or fourth try that actually went through. Not bad. They assured us dinner started late and that we would not head out to the turtles before 8:30.


Driving along the Arabian Sea, the road following the coast, tiny villages and their mosques appearing then disappearing as we made our way. We saw soccer goal nets whose former occupation had been that of fish net, rocks and sand, scrub brush. Fewer and fewer evidences of people. The road to the resort was winding and tricky in the dark. Turning off the pavement, we bounced along one of the now-familiar sorts of pebble and sand roads for several kilometers until lights shown ahead and we were there.

It was enchanting...Thomas went crazy for the palm shelters on the beach decorated with lights. "Is a Christmas TREE! Is Christmas TREES!!!" There was a large Dhow in the sand that made for an open air eating area, complete with pool tables and cushions to lounge upon. Checking in, we went to our Barasti huts to put down our bags.

The huts were wooden structures lined up along the beach in groups, with, as the name promised, palm thatching for roofs. Ours was a duplex, wooden floors (good for sand), basic beds and closet in two rooms. Colleen and Pat got the luxury edition which included a tiny TV and refrigerator. Electricity! Bonus! The washroom sported the most inexpensive toilet seat I have ever seen in my life. It was made, I am pretty sure, of the same plastic they use to manufacture sporks. Of course it was cracked and anyone who was so foolish as to sit upon it would have gotten their bum pinched in the break. Outside the waves murmured upon the shore.

Very Camp. Very cool.

I was the designated driver, so I sat back and watched the other adults make a beeline for bar services, the first since back in Dubai that we'd been around. It had been a good, but long day, and we still had hours to go. Dinner was simple; we served ourselves in the reddish glow of the Dhow lights; fish, chicken, rice, and ooh, french fries. Heaven help me, those tasted so darned good in the sea air. Then a new favorite for us, fruit salad flavor ice cream, and coffee. The coffee bit was important for the late night turtleing plans.

Bethy and Mike availed themselves of the pool table, and Thomas fell asleep in my arms. I cuddled him up in the cushions and carpets on deck and had some more coffee.

Time rolled by, as it does, and we were back out on the road, now hurrying in the dark, trying to follow the map. Our odometer didn't agree with the distances prescribed, but we eventually found our way to the Turtle Reserve at Ra’s Al Hadd. Again, the costs were minimal, yet we waited for our warden to come get our group in a modern and attractive museum-like building.

You have to have a permit (which we'd secured online ahead of time), and a guide, to go see the turtles. These amazing creatures return to the place of their birth, having traveled perhaps thousands and thousands of miles in the ocean, as far away as Australia even, to lay their eggs on the easternmost point of Oman. Unfortunately, in the past, tourists had engaged in such activities as chasing them with their cell phones to get a lousy photo, riding the turtles,(yes, they're huge, but come on!) moving flippers out of the way to get a better view of the egg-laying action...in other words, total chaos. And it was scaring the turtles away.

At the reserve, the Omanis decided enough was enough, and told us that if we took flash photographs they'd pitch our cameras into the sea. Reasonable. It was obvious that if anyone tried to molest the turtles in any fashion they'd also end up in the sea...or at least escorted back to the parking lot in an unfriendly manner. Thank goodness there would be no turtle riding for the evening.

Our group was called, and we were fortunate to get the guide recommended to us by the French fellows back at the sinkhole. He instructed us all to be very quiet, and not use lights, and so instructed our group of perhaps 20 followed him out into the dark.

It was a good walk to the beach, between two cliff heads of rock. From where we started we couldn't even hear the waves, and we shuffled along the hard sands of the pathway, Thomas peeking shyly from beneath his blanket out into the darkness. About 15 minutes of walking, the sands softened, and we could hear the sea in the velvety darkness. There was a good moon, and our eyes adjusted well to the low light. Our cameras, however, were useless on any setting. We were instructed to hunker down on the sand and wait. While we waited our guide told us all about the Sea Turtles there, the rare Green and Leatherbacks. These species are so ancient, they watched the dinosaurs evolve and then become extinct.

I felt pretty good about the kids and I always gathering up all the plastic bags we can find on the beach to throw them away properly. The Sea Turtles mistake the bags for jellyfish, eat them and die, a real shame for an endangered animal with a lifespan comparable to that of a human.

We waited, and waited...

Occasionally a figure would emerge from the darkness, one of the wardens in their long robes. Then the word came in, a turtle was just finishing laying her eggs, and as soon as she was done they would take our group to go see her burying them. We stood up and started sliding, lurching steps in the sand, trying to keep out of the huge depressions in the sand from the turtle nests that made it a sort of cratered moonscape.

Thomas had had enough, and started screaming. And screaming. Not conducive to turtle comfort, or that of the other guests, for that matter. I tried everything, but he'd had it. I ended up leaving the group, with one of the guides trailing anxiously, and going back to our waiting spot on the sands beyond the nesting area.

Our flustered escort guide tried to ask on his mobile what to do, then was trying to pass it to me as I was trying to get away from him so he could hear what the fellow on the other end was saying over Thomas' bawling. Finally we established that I didn't need to leave, but that I didn't want Thomas scaring the turtles either.

Earlier I'd been lying on a blanket we'd brought, on the sands, Thomas lying on top of my chest with the tail of the blanket wrapped around us while we were waiting and listening to our guide. Thomas wailed at the top of his lungs "Lie down cuddle-a MOMMY!!!" until I did so. His wails subsided to hiccoughs and eventual quiet, as long as I didn't make any moves that might indicate anything less than subservience to his will.

It was uncomfortable for the young guide with us, I am sure, to be squatting in the sands with a prone woman next to him. I felt ridiculous. We both made an effort to keep things casual with light conversation. The sand and night air were getting colder, and I was really glad we'd brought our flannel blanket.

The rest of the group got to see a huge mother turtle laboriously covering about a hundred or so of her eggs. When they returned to us, the two comments I heard most were "huge!" and "wow!" Bethy was even more excited that they'd gotten to see baby turtles on the beach, making their way to the ocean, their way guided and lit by the warden's special red lights.

The guides came over and told us that since we had the children (Bethy was exhausted, Thomas was completely out and getting heavier by the minute) they would send a ride for us. Sure enough, down the track came a vehicle, dousing its lights well before the beach. We boarded gratefully, leaving the others to walk back in the darkness.

Mike felt awful that I hadn't gotten to see a turtle. But don't worry. I made it back to that beach...

To be continued...

Hemingway, Eichman, Stranger in a Strange Land, Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs Invasion, Lawrence of Arabia...

Now, you didn't really think I'd make you wait to find out if Mike and I failed in Universal Directive #1: Don't end up in a Middle Eastern jail, did you? That would have been unkind.

No worries, thus far we have escaped that fate, and can only hope our luck holds.

The Omani who struck up a conversation with us was an extremely friendly fellow, named Saleem. He invited us back to his home to meet his wife and daughter, and to partake in eating the Kingfish he'd just purchased from the fish market. (Ah! So that was the smell! Sur is famous for its fish.)

We looked at each other, decided "why not?" and went for it. For whatever reason it was suggested that I ride with Saleem, though I brought Pat along for the ride too, thinking that it would reflect poorly upon us if I agreed to ride alone with a new acquaintance and no male escort. So he rode in the front and I in the back...and it turned out that Saleem is a police officer for the Royal Oman Police force.


He was tickled to death to have us, and as we drove he pulled from the glove compartment a thank-you note another guest of his had written him, a Brit who had stayed with him and his family for several days. I tried to be sneaky and photograph the card without his knowing, so I could have his and his family's names (ostensibly) spelled correctly, but he turned around and busted me at it.


We corrected the misperception that we are British (this is always the assumption of persons for whom English is not their first language...the Brits and the Aussies, however, tell me the American accent can be heard a mile off, and don't mind telling me how awful they find our way of speaking. Whatever, dudes.) and he was pleased to show us what a good woman his wife Zuleikha is by calling her on his mobile and her not only agreeing to have us as guests but also wishing to cook for us herself. He'd shown us the thick pieces of Kingfish and they did look good.

He also educated Pat and I as to his preference for women who were neither fat nor thin, and enumerated fiercely the benefits of eating moderately. You can imagine; he was quite what Thomas would call a chatterbox. We were enjoying his company immensely.

As we pulled up to his home, he apologized for it. This was his rental while he was having a house built near the fort, and it was the location he could find, but should not reflect on their true social standing. He didn't say it exactly this way, of course, but that was the gist of it.


Their house was on a sandy dusty little road, kids playing outside. The blue and white metal doors opened to reveal a unbelievably beautiful little girl with huge brown eyes and long wavy black hair, perhaps Bethy's age, sitting and working on some drawings in a sort of outdoor foyer. Further on, there was an open courtyard, with the older fashion open-to-the-outside kitchen area to the right, a bathroom with sink, also open to the courtyard, and to the left, the main house, and at the entrance to the main house, the majlis. This is the area where entertaining guests is done, with the understanding that we would go no further into the house, as according to tradition.

We removed our shoes and lowered ourselves to sit upon the rugs, being careful not to point the bottoms of our feet in our host's direction. (A terrible insult). His wife came to be introduced, bringing us coffee and dates. She was, as he had made sure to inform us, a larger woman, and I envied her practiced grace as she sat down or got up from the rugs.

The coffee was served in small cups, with the squishy dates for sweetness. Speaking for myself, it was a challenge to eat sitting down and try not to use the left hand and yet, if you're holding a scalding hot cup, how to you hold the date too? I stuck it between the fingers of my right hand and hoped for the best.


First it was established as to our family relationships, our levels of education, and where we were from. As conversation progressed, and we fumbled with the hot cups and shook away flies from our dates before bites, we talked of many things. They had, I believe, 3 children, (two of which were young adults and away at school) a very small number for an Arab family. Saleem, it transpired, prided himself on his modern thinking and family. "Why should we have so many children?!" He said with emphasis and near-disdain. This was a radical change from the attitude we've encountered again and again. People ask when we will have more children, and we either joke about it, or, my preferred method, say we will have more if God wills it, Inshallah, which may not be my personal philosophy, but is certainly that of most peoples in the area.

Their older daughter was in school for nursing, and he made sure to drive home the point of his Western preferences by talking about the US movies he adored, chiefly among them Titanic and the Rocky and Rambo flicks. He told Pat that he looked like the Captain of the Titanic, and in fact called him Captain in good humor more than once.


They also love Jackie Chan, though made sure we knew that they knew the camera angles were skewed to make the stunts look riskier than they are. I defended Jackie Chan's honor, pointing out that he was the same age as our host but does all his own stunts, and that I would not be jumping off buildings. Colleen then just had to bring out her camera and share the footage of me jumping off the limestone shelf into the sinkhole. Ah well. I was pleased that movies are at least the one uniquely American export we can be sure of.


A bowl of water arrived, with which to cleanse our fingertips and then came fruits. We continued learning about one another and to drink the coffee. Conversation progressed to George Bush, and Saleem blamed all of the world's woes solidly on W. Now, I'm not exactly the man's biggest fan or anything, but one can hardly blame the world's financial crisis on the guy. I suggested perhaps the financial status was a symptom of globalisation...? We talked politics for awhile, and about American real estate laws and legal culpability (imagine this discussion in a language not your own...I was impressed with his linguistic abilities!).

Saleem found out that I was interested in picking up bits of languages and had far too good of a time dictating to me how to pronounce sayings as I tried to write them down correctly in my notebook.

Zuleikha very thoughtfully educated us as to the proper custom of either holding your coffee cup out for more or holding it out and waggling it back and forth (after at least 3 cups, mind!) to signify that you are done. Both she and Saleem had said that her English wasn't good, but I found her quite able to follow the conversation. Hours of conversation went by, and we could smell the fish cooking across the courtyard. We Westerners are not terribly used to sitting on the ground for extended periods of time, particularly without stretching our legs out in front of us, so it was an interesting challenge.

The kids, in the meantime, were playing mostly nicely. The "mostly" designation has to be put in there because Bethy might not have been being the perfect guest. Thomas was being pretty good, playing some with the toys procured for his enjoyment, but the majority of his concentration was based on the soapy runoff water from the washroom. As he is apparently part Laborador Retriever (like his Mom, poor fellow) it is impossible to keep him out of the water, so we gave that one up as a lost cause and merely hoped he wouldn't drink it. It was a relief to have an excuse to get up now and then to check their progress and make sure no one was climbing into the pit of the squat potty.

A sheet of plastic was brought by the house maid to be placed on the carpets in the middle of where we were sitting as a sort of floor tablecloth. The fragrant and delicious fish arrived in due course, and I leaned over to whisper to Colleen to take small portions since I had read we would be expected to take several helpings. However, we hadn't counted upon Zuleikha, who piled our plates with huge domed mounds of fragrant rice that filled the entire dish. To this we were to add the flat bread, fish, salad...we were in trouble. Now we were sitting on the floor, (legs in that realm of prickly numbness) eating with our right hand, (though Zuleikha brought out silverware, price tags from the store still attached, we tried to be civilised and eat as our hosts did) and for me at least, this resulted in spilling a goodly amount of rice on myself and the rug next to me every time I moved. Thomas had given our hosts a good laugh by insisting that the sweet juice box sort of drink they found for him was camel milk, and they were pleased that he likes camel's milk. Unfortunately they also brought out a large container of the yogurt milk Laban and at some point Thomas conspired to knock it over, creating a horrible mess.

One thing the Arab States seems somewhat short of is paper products. Generally a box of Kleenex accompanies meals as opposed to napkins; not so great for mopping up real messes. However, amongst the boxes awaiting the completion of their new house. I'd spied a roll of paper towels. They weren't at the Brawny level of thickness, but a great improvement upon kleenex.

I had to go out to the car to get a change of clothes for Bethy who was playing and forgot to take a potty break, (Zuleikha offered me Pampers for her, so thoughtful) and intending to greet the kids playing outside I said "Marhaba! Marhaba!" expansively to them. They smirked, shook their heads, then outright laughed at me. Too late I realised I'd said "welcome" instead of "hello". (At least I HOPE that's what it sounded like.) Whoops.

Back inside, properly humiliated, I asked about their marriage...how had Saleem and Zuleikha come to be together? They were cousins, it turned out (researching this further I found that according to at least one guidebook 80% of marriages in Oman are between cousins)and had known each other from childhood.

We had a few uncomfortable moments when Saleem expressed his opinions on mixed marriages, which were, let's just say, not the most open minded I'd ever heard. He also expressed disdain for the Chinese and their products, and various and sundry other racist comments. It gave me no small pleasure, when he was explaining to Mike how our kids are attractive because they come from us instead of if Mike had married a black woman, to point out that President Obama is of mixed heritage. What can I say? I live for moments like that. Giving people something to think about.

Then, I asked the question that had been niggling at me. Why was it so bad for people to have their photographs taken, especially women?

Saleem gave me a nearly exasperated look. He said quite a bit, but the main part of it was that "this woman is my wife, why should you have a picture of her, why should you want a photograph of her?" He'd been doing a goodly amount of humorous posturing and teasing all throughout our visit, so I felt comfortable asking, but not pressing.

Saleem got out his Royal Oman Police uniform and held it up and modelled the hat for us. Very military looking, impressive. I would have been a lot more intimidated had we met him in his work gear. We were talking about work, and Pat, who is retired from Boeing, pulled out a company pen and gifted it to our host. It was a perfect gesture.

After we had eaten and talked ourselves to exhaustion, and the glasses of water that signify the end of a meal had arrived, we made motions to leave. Oh, no, now we needed to have tea. The sun was getting lower and we still needed to drive to Ras al Hadd before it got too late: we had dinner and a 9:30 PM date with the sea turtles.

Zuleikha had a variety of teas for us to try; I had "milk tea", to their approval. It was so delicious I asked how to make it:

Omani Milk Tea

Take Lipton Tea bags (what else?) open them and boil the tea leaves in a saucepan of water. When it looks tea-ish, take it off the heat and let it rest a moment, then add milk. Bring it back to boiling for a minute, then remove it again and dump in some sugar. Boil a third time, strain, and drink hot enough to sear your taste buds shut. If you want to be authentic, that is.

After group photographs, we couldn't say no to going to the site where they were having their house built. After the rental house, I could see why they wanted us to see it. It was expansive and expensive. Saleem was especially proud of the "European" design, especially the kitchen and bathrooms (no Chinese made! he assured me repeatedly, showing me everything from toilets to tiles and bringing a shower head still in the package, waiting to be installed) and Zuleikha showed us "her" this and "her" that. Their pride was deserved; it will be a beautiful house when it is done. Then we REALLY had to go!

They said they were sorry that we could only stay for such a short time. (5 hours and counting) but that also between friends, hours can be counted like years, so they would be content.

Bethy went with the trend and presented their daughter Fatima with one of her scented sparkle pens, then upon seeing how excited her new friend was with the gift, had us reverse, drive back into the driveway and give her the rest of the pen set. We were very proud of her.

An experience unlike any other. We felt very fortunate.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea...

This next bit of the blog describes the events preceding our spending 5 hours in the company of the Royal Oman Police. It was the sort of invitation we couldn't say no to...but I get ahead of myself...



The day started out innocently enough: walking on the beach, breakfast (chicken hot dogs and beans and eggs are a common offering) and setting out in Bird Car to do the things we'd highlighted in the guide book.

First I'd really wanted to take the ferry boat ride to Ayajh, a tiny ancient village with a lighthouse. I thought the kids would get a kick out of a ferry ride. We drove around the harbor dhow building area, and couldn't see anything that looked like a ferry, so I got out to ask some of the locals. Their English was better than my Arabic, but that wasn't saying much. Actually, it was saying pretty much nothing, and lots of it, though the two fishermen I talked to tried so, so very hard to help. It was really causing them pain not to be able to assist us. Finally one ran and got another acquaintance of theirs, a gentleman in pristine white robes and distinctive Omani hat, whose English was good. I'd tried boat and car-boat in Arabic, and plenty of English, and finally we figured out there was no ferry boat. He gave us alternative driving directions to the lighthouse and everybody smiled a lot.

The village was delightful, as the guide book probably said (though we weren't trusting it too much any more). Nearly untouched by the modern world, with exotic details that remind you this was a sea-going town, influenced by the cultures it encountered. The lighthouse was everything a lighthouse should be, a cream beacon on the shore, waves crashing. There's something utterly romantic about a lighthouse, and the idea of going to sea. Sur was the major port in Oman for trade with East Africa until about 1900. Imagine what that must have been like, to stand on the shores and watch the dhows sail away, to await boatloads of cargo from Africa...

Back in Sur, I had made it a goal to photograph one of the social centers for the men in the area: the Arabic coffee shop. These little neighborhood gathering places of the small strong cup were everywhere, and congregating about you saw men in Omani dress, the same long flowing tunic dishdash as in the UAE, but instead of the Guthra headdress (white, or white with red checks and tied with the black rope called an Egal) the men wear only the round Muslim prayer hat that usually goes underneath the Guthra, which I believe is called a Ghafiyah. The Ghafiyahs are quite elaborately embroidered, really striking:

Mike being a super good sport back in Muscat modeling a Ghafiyah.

Here is my sneaky shot of one of the coffee shops:

We visited the magnificent four-towered Sinesia Fort built on a hill overlooking the town and the sea. We parked and pretty soon a car came dustily up the sand and pebble road, disgorging a docent who unlocked the fort and took us all around.

Inside there was a prison (see Thomas escaping, top of this post), a mosque, and cannons. (you can see the one aimed at us if you click the photo below.)

Our intention was to then go the the Bilad Fort, and we found it, following the guidebook's instructions to "turn at the elaborately kitch villa". (These are the sort of official directions one gets. Even in Dubai. "By the Emarat petrol station," "past the Spinneys grocer" and so forth).

The villa was elaborately kitsch, and we found the fort next to a grove of date palms. There was a horrible, horrible smell in the air where we parked. There was nothing we could see to account for the stench. We could see some barrels in the shadows of one of the buildings, and wondered if we were next to a slaughterhouse or something. The odor was unbearable, and we hurried away from it to the entrance of the fort.

There we found the fort padlocked shut. As we stood there, wondering if another docent was going to show up, a local man strode up and began to make conversation with us. He had no idea why the fort was closed, gave the padlock a good tug or two for us...

It was shortly thereafter that I found myself riding in the back seat of a policeman's car...