Oman
Clean breeze comes through green trees,
silence in the desert of peace.
Oman my beloved place and dearest land,
Your people are kind and willing to do whatever they must for your soft golden sand.
The truth will be always heard clear,
even if they don’t like it,
if they refuse it.
It has a strong sound even if it's but a whisper.
Let them say it’s hard; Rome wasn’t built in a day.
If nothing’s hard, nothing is easy;
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
The Creator fashioned the earth and the sky
in six days, so we celebrate the seventh.
I’ll walk on your lands, fly your skies
and dive in your seas to enjoy how beautiful you are.
I’ll never let you down, never stop raising you up
even if I have to travel I will, but not that far.
There is no country as beloved to me as you,
not America, or the Netherlands, no not even Scotland.
I’ll have no fun
until I see you shine like the sun.
I’ll fight any fool wants to take your sand;
fight him with my car, house, body and blood.
So live free forever,
Oman my dearest beloved land.
Qasim
Edited by
Kathleen Botka
En route from King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, to Muscat Airport, Oman, is only a few hours away. Traveling has been pleasant with minimal glitches and interruptions as far as planes, trains, buses, taxis, and tours. As scheduled, I land in Muscat at 7:55 PM. A place I had never heard of until a couple of months ago when I googled, ‘places to travel in September’.
Saudi Arabia appeared on my screen. The place appealed to me since I have been studying Arabic. Then, opening the map, the nearby countries Oman and Jordan, only a short flight away, looked interesting as well. Offloading the plane, I carry my luggage down the airstairs to our shuttle. Inside the Muscat airport, the tiny wheels of my suitcase jiggle on the glossy tile cracks, and I scout for the exit, making my way through the runway where drivers stand, some in clusters with names on white papers. My eyes dodge back and forth, my head bobbing up and down like an umpire. The men are all dressed the same in long white thobes with various colored embroidered caps and headscarves. In front, the large double sliding doors open to a galley lined with more drivers holding signs inscribed with the names of passengers. With a name like APRIL, there shouldn't be a mix-up with the Arab names of Mohammed, Faisel, or Ibrahim. My sneakers step at my usual pace, fast speed-reading the unfamiliar names. Then halt in front of a sign. The driver holding the sign stands up straight, thinking perhaps I was his pickup, A–L—I … no, not April.
I take a deep breath, tired and wondering if my driver might be running late. My shoulders droop as my backpack feels heavier and one strap slips down to my elbows, while my long robe and long pants drag beneath my heels. I make it to the end of the red carpet and banisters where an information desk awaits and a tall heavy man wearing a white thobe and cap stands in front. He asks.
Taxi?
No thank you, but can you help me call this number? I don’t know where my driver is. I say.
Sharing the piece of paper with the phone number highlighted and instructions in case my driver did not show. At home, the tour company emailed me the information which I printed out with all my other travel confirmations. Each is marked and clipped together according to the flights, tours, and hotels. The man calls the number.
No one answer. He says.
Tired and losing hope after waiting over 30 minutes. I relent.
Is there another exit where I could have missed the driver?
Only one exit. He says and points to where I came from.
Now I am getting antsy because tours usually begin early. I need a good sleep otherwise I’m a cranky mess throughout the day’s tour. Sleep and food. Two things that keep me in top form, like a marathon runner. I need rest and nutritional sustenance. Especially on a month-long trip I want to be ready to take in the experiences that come my way.
Ok. I will take a taxi. I say.
He leads me outside to a row of taxis. An older, shorter and thinner driver walks out of his car and grabs my luggage.
Is that all? He asks.
Looking behind me to find more luggage.
Yes, only one. I say. Everyone has been asking me that. Is that all you carry? Only one luggage?
While this is the most packing I have ever done. It has been three weeks into this trip and half of my clothes have not been worn. Whether I go away for a week or months I still carry only one small suitcase on the plane. In order to prevent the loss of my articles and avoid the wait around the conveyor with other frantic eyes.
Masar heir, good evening. I say.
Masar noor, response to good evening. You speak arabic? Says the driver.
La shwaya shwaya. No, little, little. I say.
Very good. Practice practice. He says.
In the car I lean against the door. While my brain cells are locking down one by one. I don’t have the energy to search my mind to speak Arabic. But I don’t want to lose any opportunity even if it's the same conversation to practice a language that I have only begun studying.
I am learning Egyptian Arabic. Can you understand me? I ask.
Aywa, Yes , we can all understand. He says.
So far this has been the case back in Jordan where my trip began, then Saudi Arabia and now Oman. I have been pleasantly surprised for one, they understand Egyptian Arabic but two, which is most surprising is that they understand ‘my’ Arabic.
The driver stops at the Encore Ramada hotel.
Shokran. Thank you
Afwan. You are welcome
I walk into the hotel with its tall ceiling and spiral stairway leading to the dining hall. There are two male receptionists both dressed in crisp thobes and matching caps embroidered in gray. I walk over to the slender man with a young face and no facial hair.
Masar hier.
Maser noor.
The receptionist smiles.
Your name and passport..
I handed him my passport. He types, scrolls… types and types
Are you with Korban group?
No, I am with grayline or Tourradars.
He can’t find my name.
Are you sure it's not Korban.
Yes.
While he is typing and searching as I wait with glassy eyes, ready to crash. My knees begin to buckle and I lean into the counter placing my head over my arms. I try to remain composure and glance at the clock on the wall. 9:30 PM.
I found you. April Choi.
I pep up,
Yes, that is me.
One room and king size bed?
Yes. I say quickly. hoping that my urgency will lead me to a mattress soon.
He hands me a keycard and says,
There is a message from your driver. He is at the airport.
It's too late now. I say.
With no fight left in me as I grab hold of my luggage. Almost 10PM. On the third floor, the card key zips to open the door to my room. Always a good sign. I unpack my bags and pull out my shorts and new york t-shirt. Put on my bedroom slippers that I collected from the last place I stayed and take a shower. In bed, I take out my journal with two titles, 2024 the year of sincerity and Arabic. Three sentences scribble on my page and I am ready for bed.
Morning comes. It's 6 am and I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains. A brick wall with faint light creeping through the sides of the building. Hmmm, I splurged on this tour highlighted “luxury”? And questioned if I signed up for the right trip, yet you never know, luxury is relevant to where you are in the world or even back home. When in Rome? Breakfast is at 7 am. In bed, I do sit-ups, push-ups, and stretches. My massage therapist Emmit says.
Stretching is very important. And reminds me on every visit.
Now a year and half has passed and I can finally touch my toes. I haven't touched my toes in years. Amazing, I am nearly 60, and with effort, I can be flexible.
In the shower, the water warms up in seconds in the heat of the Middle East. In front of the elevator, the number 7 is lit up and I wait. The glass-covered elevator takes me down to the second floor for breakfast. No one is in the dining hall and I am 5 minutes early. The door opens and the short Asian host with a bright smile, yellow shirt and burgundy apron greets me.
Good morning mam. Your room number mam?
308? 309? I can’t remember all the hotel room numbers on this trip mixing up in my head.
It's ok mam.
Perhaps she gives me a pass because she senses my senility with my grays framing my face. And I am grateful for that.
Thanks.
On the counters, there is a nice spread of veggies and hummus and I am already good. I have become accustomed to the staple. In the 90s when I traveled around Russia, borscht, a lovely soup full of beets, was a daily encounter. After 2 weeks of borscht, I got tired of it.
No more borscht! I said.
But after a few days, borscht became a comfort food and I slurped borscht cooked in various ways. Borscht reminded my taste buds of where I was in the world enjoying the nuances in textures and flavors.
In the Arab world, hummus and babaganoush are either softer, saltier, bland, stiffer, or grittier. Today they are smooth with the right amount of salt. But when I look across the aisle my eyes grow wide, Ahhh finally! The cappuccino machine appears with a bright aura. I want to hug it! I haven't seen one since I began this trip in Jordan nor Saudi Arabia. Black tea was readily available but the coffee came in a kettle a bit watered down. While I imagine my son say,
That's a first world problem mom.
You're right I would say. Thinking about how he became socially conscious?
I sip one, two and three small cups of latte. When the receptionist/cashier now my waitress approaches me.
Anything else mam?
Can I have 2 lattes? Shokran.
You are welcome mam.
She brings my lovely small white cups of frothy lattes.
By the look of her features I guess she might be from Myanmar, Bhutan or Nepal?
Where are you from?
Nepal. Have you visited Nepal?
No. Perhaps someday.
Since traveling throughout the Gulf countries, I noticed that the majority of the service attendants were foreigners and spoke little Arabic but got by with English. I like to play, ‘guess their ancestry?’ Most have been from the Philippines, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, and Myanmar. I ask,
Oh, do you like living in Oman?
Yes I live behind the hotel. The city is clean.
I shake my head.
Anything else mam?
No thank you.
Unscrewing my thermos I pour the lattes in trying not to make a mess. A nice drink for the bus ride. Even in the heat I like hot coffee like ice cream in winter.
I have an hour before heading to the bus. I take my time and relax to savor my food and look at my surroundings. Overlooking the rails I can see the buses outside through the tall glass windows. The place is bright and airy. Other guests enter the dining area, southeast asian perhaps take their seats all dressed up in bright colored flowy dresses and pants. Their hairs are coiffed and their makeup glossy. I wonder if they are on the same tour.
8am I walk to the room marked 305. 305, 305 I remind myself. 10 minutes to departure, I head down to the lobby. A man approaches me in the same long white dress but his head is wrapped in a blue scarf.
Hi I am Mah-moud your tour guide. Are you Miss April?
Yes.
Everyone is on the bus. As he guides me he leans close to say,
I would like to talk to you about your taxi driver. The driver said he did not see you.
No one picked me up at the airport so I found my own taxi, I say.
I apologize mam, I will investigate what happened. He assures me.
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