Beyond dates & deserts

Often, I do not dress specially for gods. I wear what I usually wear. He and I have a sartorial covenant; He forgives my quirks — and mules. But that one evening I decided not to push the hems. Getting ready to fly into Muscat, the capital of Oman, I was wrapping every inch of skin and every strand of hair.

Skin, hide under the white shirt. Hair, do not peep out of the pink scarf. No skin show. No hair show. As Plan B, I even packed an extra loose, full-sleeved, high-collared shirt in my handbag. The outfit strategised and detailed to step ‘covered’ into The Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque where ‘uncovered’ women are forbidden.

From the airport, I headed straight to the mosque where a woman rejigged my head scarf and smiled a go-ahead. I resembled a gift wrapped in pink, but in the prayer hall I forgot all about my hidden long tresses. Standing on the world’s second-largest handwoven carpet, I gaped at the eight-tonne chandelier with 1,222 lamps that dangled from the ceiling.

Nearly 600 Iranian women weavers hunched over the loom for four years to weave the 60 x 70 metre carpet that has 17 lakh knots. Not one joint in the carpet, each motif seamlessly melding into another. Built from 3,00,000 tonnes of Indian sandstone, the mosque was a gift to the nation from Sultan Qaboos, to mark his 30th year of reign. Wilting in the summer sun, I sat in a waiting room where Naema, a volunteer, talked of god and offered dates and Omani coffee.

Beyond the mosque, Oman has no sartorial canons. Men look handsome in collarless traditional disdasah, and women winsome with the hijab. There’s dress code for homes, though. The Omanis cannot paint their homes in strokes of lilac or turquoise, or wash it purple. There’s a royal white and beige colour card. Special permission is required to paint the house another colour! Vehicles are not colour coded, but a dirty car is heavily penalised. Drive around Oman and you will nary see a dirt-laden car nor ever witness a driver jump red lights. There’s something very genial about Oman. And its people.

That geniality prompted me to go back in time to see an Oman that existed much before Sultan Qaboos ushered modernism. The Bait Al Zubair Museum, a private museum housed in one of Oman’s architectural icons, was my best bet. Divided into four separate buildings, Zubair is one of the best collections of Omani artefacts that spans several centuries. Behind glass panes are displayed khanjars with rhinoceros horn hilt, its sheath embellished with silver thread; silver anklets, coral jewellery, old utensils, traditional dresses, old muskets and even an antique Indian wooden door…

My mind buzzing with Omani history, I walked into darkness. Literally. Into Al Dhalam (darkness in Arabic) Souk, also known as the Muttrah Souk, often touted as the oldest marketplace in the Arab world. In the beginning, Muttrah was built of mud and palm leaves, and it was so dark inside that traders carried lanterns even during daytime to find their way through the dim labyrinth of lanes. Muttrah is now the one-stop souk for all things Omani — from embroidered kummah to tasselled scarves, frankincense, dates, kohl, clothing, artefacts… Everything under the sun can be found in the souk, where dhows still throw anchor in the world’s largest natural harbour.

There is more to Oman than the desert. Deep valleys, mud houses, castles, forts, ancient caves and canals dot the land. Shark soup is a delicacy, frankincense is prized, and women safe even on a deserted street. It is also home to five of the seven species of sea turtles. To see the endangered Green Turtle in its natural habitat, I drove nearly six hours to Ras Al Jinz.

Imagine this...

When the sun dipped into the Sea of Oman, I slipped into flip-flops and walked the sandy shore to where a 160-kg mommy turtle was digging the sand with her colossal flippers. Oblivious of the curious crowd around her, she laid nearly 100 golf-sized white eggs. After covering the eggs with sand, the mommy turtle made a smart move. A few inches away, she built a fake nest to fend off predators. With her motherhood chores done, she waddled into the sea. Not too far, life was emerging out of white eggs. Tiny hatchlings raising their heads out of cracked eggs. Only one-two out of a 1,000 hatchlings survive the wrath of nature and the rage of predators. But over the years, Ras Al Jinz is getting safer for the turtles.

Another morning, I rubbed sleep off my eyes to hop into a boat for dolphin watching. The blue waters of Oman are home to whales, dolphins and turtles. I sat in the white boat and watched the dolphins jump, skip, bob, gambol in the morning sun. A pod of bouncy dolphins showing us the way. Four days whizzed past and I had still not soaked all of Oman.

In four balmy summer days, I tanned to the colour of kahwa, the Omani coffee. I, however, am not rubbing the tan off. I’m back home; the tan evoking vignettes of Oman — the chivalrous men, the dainty women, the ruby-red dates, the square garden of Sultan Qaboos Palace, the golden dome of the Grand Mosque, the aroma of shark soup and the sweetness of umali, a soufflé-like dessert.